The Other Side of the River, page 1
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2021 by Alda P. Dobbs
Cover and internal design © 2021 by Sourcebooks
Cover illustration © John Jay Cabuay
Cover design by Maryn Arreguin/Sourcebooks
Internal design by Michelle Mayhall/Sourcebooks
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Young Readers, an imprint of Sourcebooks Kids
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567–4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Cataloging-in-Publication data for the hardcover edition is on file with the Library of Congress.
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Note from the Author
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
For my mother. Thank you for teaching me to love my culture, my language, and all people.
AND FOR ALL IMMIGRANTS WHO ARE FORCED TO ABANDON THEIR HOME IN PURSUIT OF A BETTER TOMORROW.
“El que persevera alcanza.”
—Dicho Mexicano
“One who perseveres reaches.”
—Mexican Proverb
Prologue
Thousands of us—the poorest of the poor, the underdogs—choked the narrow bridge and begged for our lives to the gatekeepers, and despite the sun glistening over the smooth river below us, everyone, including me, believed it was the end of our lives.
The Federales, mounted on their horses, raised dust as they galloped downhill toward us. Their chase across the desert, full of violence and destruction, was ending here in Piedras Negras at the edge of the Río Bravo. Their fury and rage would soon be upon us, and our lives now lay in their hands.
A blur of people pushed and shoved around me. With my back against them, I gripped the bridge’s iron rail. My little sister, Amelia, was beside me, and my baby brother, Luisito, was in my arms. I pressed them close to my body, hoping it’d be enough to keep them alive. Terrifying screams ripped through the crowd until the thin gap between the tall swinging gates grew wider and wider, making the other side of the river clearer and clearer. My eyes narrowed on the open gate, on our passage to freedom, on our escape from death, and I ran.
For as long as I lived, I’d never forget the smiles on the American soldiers’ red faces as they guided a parade of terrified, broken people into their land. Later that day we found out that after thousands of refugees had crossed the bridge, the Americans had to shut the gates once again, perhaps to keep the revolution from spilling over. My heart ached for the people who hadn’t made it across, who, despite their long journey, had remained on the other side of the Río Bravo. Their fates lay in the hands of the Federales.
My siblings and I had made it across, and when Abuelita found us standing under the American flag, I counted my blessings for having crossed. But still, Papa and my cousin Pablo were not with us, Mama was dead, and the revolution in Mexico still raged.
A strange thing happens when a country fights itself. There are no winners or losers. One side may claim victory, but in the end, it’s a loss for everyone. It’s like two parts of a single body fighting each other. If the head claimed victory over the feet and destroyed them, then the body could no longer walk to explore better places.If the feet destroyed the head, then the body could no longer think nor plan for a better future.
My country had been fighting itself for three years, and there seemed to be no end in sight. My family and I had fled before the deep rift that tore our homeland apart swallowed us whole. And as I stood under a new flag with my bare feet grasping a new soil, I wondered about this new land. Had it ever fought itself too? How had it survived? Was it strong enough and able to provide the safety my family and I had walked across the desert for?
All I knew was that I was grateful this new land had opened its gates when we’d most needed it.
October 1913
Fort Duncan, Texas
One
An Eagle’s Pass
It was early, dark still, when crashing sounds startled me awake. I sat up amid the darkness, tense, ready to run. My heart thrashed inside me. Had I heard a cannon blast?
“It’s okay, m’ija,” Abuelita whispered. “It’s thunder. We’re in a new place, a safe place. Go back to sleep.”
My eyes adjusted to the darkness and to the sudden lightning that flashed through the narrow gaps of our tent. We were in a new place, a new home. We were on the banks of the Río Bravo and right in the middle of a refugee camp.
My stomach soon awoke, and the nausea rising from its emptiness made me swallow hard. It was our third day in America, and despite having escaped the revolution in Mexico, hunger still had a tight grip on us.
We’d heard the American soldiers were scrambling to find ways to feed us. There were nearly seven thousand people who had crossed the border bridge the day the Federales came to Piedras Negras. Many of us had run across with nothing but the ragged clothes on our backs. Those who’d managed to bring a little bit of food, like cactus pads or stale tortillas, had since eaten every last bit.
We’d been told we’d get food, but no one knew when.
I made out Abuelita’s figure as she sat on a wooden crate near the tent’s entrance. She squeezed at her elbows, her shoulders, and every joint that complained about the cool, moist air.
“Abuelita,” I whispered. “Do you need me to rub your hands?”
“No, m’ija. I’m fine,” Abuelita said. “I want you to rest and be ready for work at sunrise. We’re in America, and we can’t let tomorrow go to waste.”
I lay back on the dirt floor and curled into a ball with my bare feet tucked under my skirt. Next to me Amelia and Luisito slept, and outside, the rain poured. I reached into my skirt’s pocket and pulled out my black rock, my baby diamond—the only thing I had left of Papa.
My black rock was a small piece of coal from when Papa worked at the mine, and every time I squeezed it, his words rang inside me just as clear as the day he gave it to me: “When life’s problems squeeze you hard, you grow stronger. You grow up to shine like a diamond.”
The harsh wind continued to lash against the canvas walls of our tent; I lay still despite the deep hunger nagging fiercely at my gut. I tried to clear my mind just like Abuelita had said to do when you wanted to listen to nature. On this night, I intended to listen to the wind. Perhaps it brought news of Papa and his whereabouts in Mexico. The wind knew of the sacrifice Papa had made seven months ago. It knew Papa detested the Federales and had refused to join them at first. The wind saw when the Federales put him in front of a firing squad for his defiance. It had heard my screams and felt my pain the moment I saw him blindfolded with rifles aiming at him. The soldiers pulled me away, and Papa agreed to join the hated Federales to spare me the pain of seeing him killed. The wind knew it all.
So I remained still. I wanted the wind to tell me Papa was safe fighting for the Federales or that he had managed to escape them
***
Morning sunshine poured through the tent’s narrow slits, and voices heavy with concern broke the morning silence, just as they had the past two mornings. They were from people stopping by, giving us names, and asking if we’d heard of their missing mothers, fathers, sons, or daughters. The refugee camp had become a grapevine of information for people seeking loved ones. Abuelita always gave the same response: “No, lo siento.”
This morning I heard Abuelita say, “Ay, Dios,” and she gasped. I rushed to the tent’s entrance, fearing Abuelita had bad news about Papa.
Abuelita, with a hand over her heart, spoke to a man whose tent was nearby.
“Cuándo?” Abuelita asked him.
“Last night,” said the man. “They pulled a large pine box out of the tent, with the dead woman inside. I was told it was smallpox.”
“And what about her children? Are they well?” Abuelita asked.
The man shrugged his shoulders. “The gringos aren’t letting anyone come near the area. They have everyone there in cuarentena.”
Cuarentena referred to the forty days sick people were required to remain home. In the camp, that word brought fear of sickness, fear of being sent back to Mexico, back to the revolution, and a fear of death.
The man left, but Abuelita’s shocked look remained.
“I don’t know what’s going to kill us first,” she said, “hunger or smallpox.”
“Maybe I’ll find work today and can buy us some food,” I said. “Can you give your blessing?” I bowed my head, and Abuelita made the sign of the cross over me, whispering a blessing.
“Abuelita,” I said, “I heard last night that a group of people here at the camp want to go back into Mexico and retake Piedras Negras. I think everyone here is too hungry and scared of smallpox.”
Abuelita put an arm around me. “Mira,” she said and raised a bulgy finger toward the river, pointing at Mexico. “The revolution is across the Río Bravo. It’s behind us. But our battles with hunger and now smallpox—those are still with us. Don’t get any wild ideas about joining that group. We need you here with us.”
I reached for the ends of the purple scarf around my neck. Often, when I touched my scarf, I thought of Marietta—a captain of the rebel forces and the toughest woman I’d ever met. After Abuelita, my siblings, and I had fled our village in Mexico, Luisito had become very sick, and Marietta helped save him. She took our family to a rebel camp, and thanks to her, we were spared from death. Yet, as much as I wanted to cross over and join Marietta’s cause, and as much as the hunger twisted my stomach and made it want to eat itself, I still had a promise to keep. A promise I’d made to Papa to keep our family safe.
I thought about my dreams too, but at this point, neither side of the river seemed to offer a good chance of making them come true.
“I’ll stay put,” I said to Abuelita.
I walked away, thankful Amelia and Luisito were still asleep. I hated to see them awake and hungry.
I passed rows and rows of the same canvas tents that dominated the camp. Their dull color matched the mood on people’s faces, mostly women and children, who sat outside desperate for food. At the end of the city of tents lay an open field where hundreds of people huddled in small groups. These were the refugees who had reached the camp after all the tents had been taken up. They lay out in the open without even a shrub to provide shelter from the wind and rain.
I walked up the dirt road, away from the camp, rubbing the chill off my arms. Other lonesome souls trekked far ahead and far behind me, all of us with our heads bowed against the wind.
Our camp had been set in the outskirts of a town with an English name that everyone pronounced as igle pas. Like Piedras Negras across the river, I’d been told this town’s name also had a meaning. It meant el paso del águila—the eagle’s pass. The Mexican flag carried a proud eagle on its center, and I wondered if we were the eagles who’d stepped into this new territory.
When I reached the center of the town, the fast and colorful automobiles didn’t impress me like on the first day I’d come there. They now seemed loud and annoying. I had walked most of the streets in town, and none were paved with gold or sprinkled with diamonds like I’d once imagined. They were dull and muddy and made from packed earth like the ones back home.
By midday, I had knocked on at least fifty doors, and my knuckles stung. I offered to chop firewood, herd sheep, milk cows, clean stables, or scrub floors, but everyone shook their head and said the same thing. “No hay trabajo. There’s no work.”
I stopped before heading back to the camp and took a moment to stare out at the wide, gray river. Federales guarded the Mexican side with rifles, each standing about fifty steps from each other along the river.
I loosened my scarf and filled my lungs with the air sweeping in from Mexico. It didn’t ease my mind nor my hunger pains, which had grown into ferocious growls that jabbed at my gut and spread queasiness all over me. The Americanos had opened their gates and provided shelter, but the food wasn’t coming. No one knew when or if we’d be fed. And if the smallpox became worse, would we all be sent back to Mexico? It’d been three days since our brush with death at the bridge, and things were once again dire.
I glanced at the ground, and something shiny stood out. I picked it up. It was a smooth, bright green wrapper with a strong smell of spring within its folds—a soap wrapper. I stared at the words on it, and my heart leaped when I recognized a few letters from my name. I folded it and tucked it next to my baby diamond.
I hadn’t found work, but I had found something that reminded me that my dream to one day read and write still burned within me.
I heard the wind again. Was it talking to me in a different language, in one I was yet to learn? Was it whispering things from a different place or a different time? Telling me of future encounters or friendships to come?
I hushed my mind once more, took a deep breath, and let the wind speak to me. And though I couldn’t understand it, I clung to the sense of peace and hope it brought.
Two
Bare Feet
Abuelita sat on a crate outside our tent while Amelia, sitting cross-legged next to her, poked at the ground with a stick. Our neighbor, Doña Juanita, stood near them. She carried a sleeping Luisito over her shoulder.
Abuelita called Doña Juanita a godsend. She had nursed Luisito since our arrival at the camp, and thanks to her, Luisito’s cheeks had turned rosy again. She seemed to enjoy feeding and caring for Luisito, and Abuelita said it probably soothed her sorrow of having recently lost her husband and infant son.
As soon as Amelia saw me, she waved her short stick in the air at me. “Did you find any work?”
Her question caused neighbors to stop what they were doing or peep out of their tents. When I shook my head, everyone went back to their business. Abuelita frowned and continued talking with Doña Juanita.
“Sit here,” said Amelia. She used her hand to sweep a spot next to her. My knees trembled as I sat.
“We got to eat a little,” whispered Amelia, as if sharing a secret. “Doña Juanita gave us two tiny pieces of cacti. She said they were her last.” Amelia’s small fingers reached into the hem of her skirt. “I saved you some.”
Amelia placed a dry piece of cacti no bigger than a fingernail on my palm. I fought hard to keep my hand from shaking and quickly popped the parched cacti into my mouth.
“Do you like it?” asked Amelia, wide-eyed.
I nodded and forced the green stalk down my dry throat. It dropped into the pit of my stomach like a single raindrop falling into the open desert.
“I found something,” I said, reaching into my pocket.
“A diamond?” asked Amelia. “Are the streets covered with them?”
“No,” I said, handing Amelia the wrapper. “The streets here are the same as back home. I think it’s a soap wrapper. I remember seeing them in the store back in Esperanzas.”
Amelia unfolded the wrapper and ran her small hand across its smooth surface. “Why didn’t we ever buy any?”
