My Brigadista Year

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p; He studied the paper and then carefully took up a pencil. He worked with his eyes squeezed in concentration. His mouth was open and his tongue went back and forth across his lips as though willing his fingers to push the pencil across the page. His first attempts looped and straggled like drunken snakes. One attempt even left the page entirely and ended up marking the tabletop.

“Maybe we should wait until you’ve learned your letters.”

“No.” He shook his head. “No. I can do it.” I tore a fresh piece of paper from the back of the diary, and he began again.

Within the hour, he could copy his name well enough that I could read each letter. We called Veronica in. “Oh!” she said with that expression I’d often seen on my mother’s face when confronted with her child’s small triumph. “I see the maestra has written your name.”

“No!” Rafael cried. “It was me! Can you believe that? I did it myself.”

“But this is wonderful!” she said and kissed his beaming cheek. “You are such a clever boy!”

“He’s very clever,” I said. “And he worked very hard. I think he has earned his own notebook and pencil.” I got a spare notebook from my gear and handed it to him along with one of the pencils.

“For me?”

“Yes. But now you must come to class every night. Those are not toys for you to play with. You have to be a real student.”

He looked at his mother. “Truly? Every night with you and Papi and the Acostas?”

“Of course,” she said. “If you have a notebook and pencil, you have to be a serious learner.”

Afterward, I went out and helped him in the tobacco patch. The work had to be done.

“Where did Luis go?” I asked Veronica when we came into the house.

“He had some business in the town,” she said.

It was nearly dark when he returned. He had bought a heavy metal bolt. Without a word he fastened it to the inside of the front door.

That night, with the help of Daniel and the others, we rearranged the house. The two mattresses now lay across the kitchen floor, and the kitchen table, with stools around it, stood in what had been the bedroom. The lantern hung over the table, and my hammock and blanket were neatly folded in a corner with my rucksack on top.

Before we began the nightly lesson, Veronica asked for the loan of my blanket, which she hung over the tiny back window before she lit the lantern. Then she draped another blanket over the light curtain that hung from the doorway between the two rooms.

“Bandidos?” Dunia asked.

“No word of them,” said Luis. “But it’s better to be careful, yes?”

It was a hot night and stultifying in that airless room. Everyone was sweating, but again, no one complained.

A week came and went. We continued to work in the back room, but with each passing day, the fears eased. Rafael was a happy addition to the class. He learned so quickly, and no one wanted to be left behind by a six-year-old. Luis and Nancy took the first exam and both got a perfect score. I planned to go to the Sunday meeting and share this good news, but a farmer from that area stopped by with the message that there was to be no meeting that week.

The following Sunday, however, we met as usual. The runaways had been spotted far away from our area, so the militia felt that the immediate danger had passed. I was able to go to our meeting and tell about Dunia’s triumph, as well as get some hints about how to help the others move forward through their first exams. I was proud of my little class. I told them how Rafael was inspiring everyone with his excitement and the way he caught on quickly to everything.

To add to my delight, there was a letter from my father. He said they had been glad to get four letters from me on one day. Everyone was well, they missed me, and was I all right? Because, if not, there was no shame if I wanted to come home.

On the back of Papi’s letter, my little brother, Roberto, had written his own, which I was able to make out despite the smudges and strange spelling.

Dear Lora,

I am fine. How are you? I am proud to tell everyone that my sister is a Conrado Benítez Brigadista. I am also happy to say we are going to have a long vacation from school so our teachers can join the campaign. Silvio wants to join, but Mama cried, so he gave it up. I want to join, too, but Papi says they do not want seven-year-olds who cannot write a single sentence without misspelling three words. Come home soon. I miss you.

Love,

Your brother, Roberto Díaz Llera

Several others had gotten letters, too. We all read our letters out loud, so that those who received no mail could pretend that they had had news from home as well. When I read Roberto’s news that his school was to be closed, Esteban interrupted me.