“They sailed down the coast of Argentina, hoping to find a way to the other side of the continent. When they were at the very bottom of South America, they found a narrow pass where they could cross. It is a place that is now called the Strait of Magellan. As they slowly tried to squeeze their ship through the passage, a storm came out of nowhere, and large waves began pushing and pulling at the ship. One minute, Enrique was standing on the ship, his eyes wide and afraid, and, the next, he found himself flying through the air and landing in the freezing cold water. He swallowed a mouthful of water and coughed, and then he saw that he was not far from land. He took a deep breath and swam as hard as he could.
“When he pulled himself up onto the rocks, he turned around and saw that some of the other men were in the water, and they were swimming over to him. It was a cold night, and those who had survived built a fire. It was December, and it was almost 500 years ago, and they were in Chile. The next morning, they woke up to a bright sun and found the ship floating happily in the water. It had been only slightly damaged—some men had even managed to stay on board. The explorers then continued, sailing up the coast of Chile, and then across the biggest ocean of all, the Pacific Ocean. The temperature grew warmer, and the smell of the air reminded Enrique of home. Soon, they began sailing by tiny islands, and Ferdinand Magellan called Enrique to his cabin.
“‘According to your papers, you are from the biggest island in the Philippines,’ Ferdinand Magellan said. ‘Is that right?’ Enrique nodded. ‘Tomorrow we will be arriving at that very place. You will be the first person to ever have sailed around the world. And, tomorrow, you will be a free man again—free to go home to your family.’ Enrique could not think of a single thing to say. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, finally.
“Sure enough, the next day, the ship put its anchor down, and a crew of men went over on a rowboat to buy some food and trade some goods. Enrique said goodbye to Ferdinand Magellan and the other sailors, and he got into the rowboat. As soon as they reached land, Enrique began walking home. It was a shorter walk than he remembered, and soon he could see his house in the distance. ‘Mama,’ he yelled, and he began to run. His mother was in the kitchen. She was preparing lunch—everyone else was outside, working in the fields. She hurried outside, and there he was, running, running, running, and then finally collapsing into her waiting arms. ‘I sailed around the world,’ said Enrique. ‘Come inside—’ said his mother, ‘you must be hungry.’ ”
TWENTY-SEVEN
The girls clapped at the happy ending, and Ernesto took a comical bow.
“And now,” he said, “I’d like to introduce you to our new friend, Javier. He’s going to read you a story.”
It was an impossible act to follow, but I bravely got up in front of the girls and read them a book about a little duck that gets lost in the city.
“You’re going too fast,” said one of the girls. She had long, tight braids on either side of her head. I slowed down.
“Those who are on that side can’t see any of the pictures,” she said, moments later.
I finished the story, and Ernesto told the girls they could pick out some books to borrow or just read on the pillows. I went over to the pigtailed girl and asked her name.
“Maca,” she said.
“Maca,” I said, “how would you like to be in my play?”
She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a book.
“That’s fine,” she said, “but I’m pretty busy right now reading this book.”
The lunch bell rang, and the Field Mice’s teacher appeared to take her charges to the dining hall.
“Field Mice,” she called out. “Don’t forget to clean up!”
The girls ran around in a frenzy, tidying things up. They hurried out the door, and Ernesto fell into his chair. He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. Then he found a glass of water on his desk and took a long drink.
We went to the dining hall. The lineup had dwindled down to a few latecomers, and, before long, we had trays full of pasta primavera and three-bean salad. I ate with my head down, like Ernesto. I took my tray to the wash station and walked with Ernesto back to the library to pick up some materials. This was to be my first interview with Uncle Peter, and I didn’t want to be late.
I didn’t have to wait long outside the office before the boy sitting at the desk told me that Uncle Peter was ready for me. There was sunlight streaming in through the oversized window, and Uncle Peter was rifling through a stack of papers.
“I don’t have much time for this,” he said briskly, “so we’ll be doing a short session—just something for you to get started on the script.”
I produced a slim tape recorder that I had found in the Library Staff Only room and a small notebook.
“I hope you don’t mind,” I said. “I don’t write fast enough.”
Uncle Peter looked at the tape recorder warily.
“What if I give you the tapes as soon as I am done writing up the play?” I said.
Uncle Peter thought for a moment and then waved his hand impatiently. “That’s fine,” he said. I loaded a tape into the deck and turned it on.
“Let’s start at the beginning,” I said. “You were born in Germany?”
Uncle Peter went on a rambling narrative about growing up in the quaint town of Troisdorf, including a lengthy description of his mother and their close relationship. I asked easy questions and listened attentively—Julio had insisted that I needed to get Uncle Peter to like me, and I’ve found that people tend to like those who will listen to them talk about themselves. Uncle Peter had joined the army at a young age, where he sustained an injury that gave him a glass eye and an honorable discharge. He later began working as a youth leader at the Evangelical Church. “It was at the Church that I first discovered my ability to touch people,” he said.
I frowned.
“I traveled around—oh, that beautiful German countryside!—playing my guitar and spreading the Lord’s word. Every time I stopped somewhere, I would pick up a handful of followers. I was like a magnet, and these people were iron filings. They could not stay away—I was a father to them all.”
“And your own father?” I said. “I don’t think you’ve mentioned him yet.”
Uncle Peter looked at the clock. “Ach,” he said, “you’ve taken enough of my time.”
I thanked him and went out into the bright afternoon. A group of young boys appeared from around the corner, kicking a soccer ball and yelling about what the teams would be. They seemed to be Claudio’s age, but they ran past me before I had time to try to identify him.
This near-encounter generated some anxiety—I needed to find Claudio and let him know I was here to help. I walked down the road until I encountered a passing guard, and I told him I needed to find Greta, the orchestra director. He looked at me blankly.
“Uncle Peter has asked me to speak to her,” I said importantly. The guard took a step back and had a brief conversation into his walkie-talkie.
“She’s out in the field,” said the guard. “Picking green beans.”
He gave me directions on how to get to there and then continued on his way. The fields were not far from the main road—I soon found myself lost in long rows of carefully weeded crops and apple trees heavy with immature fruit. I shielded my eyes from the sun and watched a large group of colonists harvest tomatoes. I looked around and tried to pick out where the green beans might be. A passing colonist pointed me in the right direction, and I finally found Greta hiding beneath an oversized floppy hat and a long-sleeved dress. I reached into her basket and pulled out a handful of green beans.
“These look delicious,” I said.
“Put it back,” Greta said sternly. “We are having our baskets to weigh. If I don’t do enough, there is more picking.”
I apologized and dropped the beans back into their basket. “When is your next rehearsal?”
“Today, in the night.”
“I would li
ke to come by to tell the children about the play.”
“We have to practice.”
“Uncle Peter asked me,” I said. I was quickly finding that invoking Uncle Peter’s name any time I was met with resistance worked wonders.
“You can come in the first part.” She gave me directions on how to get to the rehearsal room and told me to be there at seven o’clock sharp. Then she turned her back to me and continued picking beans.
I returned to the library and went into the Library Staff Only room to work on converting the tape into the beginning of a play. Ernesto occasionally came by to listen, and he would invariably chuckle and point out discrepancies between what his wife had told him and what Uncle Peter had told me. When I got to the part about how Uncle Peter had injured his eye at war—hence the glass eye—Ernesto threw his hands up in the air and turned to leave the room. I paused the tape player.
“All right,” I said. “Let’s hear it.”
“Hear what?”
“The real story of how Uncle Peter got his glass eye.”
He shook his head. “I’m not sure you’re ready.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
It took me several tries to find the building. By the time I walked into the rehearsal room, it was well past seven o’clock. I paused outside the door, listening to the strains of a familiar but hard-to-place melody. The band came to a sudden halt.
“Trumpets,” Greta said firmly, “is not good. This is too loud, and not together.” She loudly hummed the melody they were supposed to be playing. I nudged the door open and peeked my head through. Greta turned to look at me. All the musicians followed her gaze.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said. “I got lost. Please, continue with your rehearsal. I’ll sit here quietly and watch.”
“Quietly,” Greta said, frowning.
I lifted a chair from a tall stack and unfolded it. Greta had the band take it from the very beginning—after only a couple of measures, she rapped her baton against the music stand and began pleading with the flutes to stick to the tempo of the piece.
I looked over at the clarinets and immediately spotted Claudio. He was small for his age and wore glasses. He looked like his mother. He was focused intently on Greta and on the sheet music that crowded the stand he was sharing with a fellow clarinetist. Greta gave the band a few minutes to drain their spit valves and rest their mouths. I got up and walked over to her.
“They sound wonderful,” I said.
“This band is very terrible.”
“I can see them improving even in the little time I have sat here.”
Greta looked at me suspiciously.
“I need three of your boys to play a very small part in my play. They will be on stage for just a few minutes, and then they will return to the band.”
“You can take all of my three trumpets,” she said. “They are hurting my ears.”
I looked over to see if the trumpeters had heard Greta. They were not paying any attention to us.
“I need smaller boys,” I said. “For the costumes that I have. How about that one, that one, and that one.”
“That one is the good clarinet.”
“You have taught him well. That is exactly why we need him on stage. It will make Uncle Peter so very happy. He likes him a lot.” I looked at Greta meaningfully.
She looked away. “Go talk with them now,” she said. “Then leave. We need to make rehearsal.”
I went to sit down. Greta got the band’s attention and told the three boys to come over and talk to me. They came over, and I briefly explained that I would need them for the play. I did not offer much detail as to the roles they would be playing, and they seemed moderately interested.
“You can go now,” I said.
Greta was focused on the band—I grabbed Claudio’s arm and motioned for him to hold on a second. The two other boys left. I turned him by his arm so that his back was facing the band and they would not be able to look at his face.
“What?” Claudio said, looking scared. He was nothing like the happy, confident boy that his mother had described.
“Claudio, my name is Javier,” I said. I tried to look as trustworthy and inoffensive as possible.
“I’m a friend of your mother’s. She sent me to get you out of here.”
I stopped for a moment to let this sink in. Claudio did not say a word.
“I asked your mother what I could say to make you believe that she had sent me. She said I should mention that your Papo needs someone to cover his ears.”
“Papo,” the boy whispered. He looked like he might start to cry.
“Now, listen,” I said. “You can’t tell anyone about this. Not a single person. If people find out I’m here to help you get out, they will do very bad things to me—and to you. I’m going to try to get us out of here soon, but it’ll take me some time. I need you to be patient and to do exactly what I tell you to do. We’re going to get out—I promise.”
Claudio looked wary. This was a lot of information to process. I told him to get back to the band and to try to act normal. He nodded and began to turn around.
“One more thing,” I said. “Are you a Sprinter?”
Claudio shook his head. “I don’t want to be a Sprinter,” he said. “One of the boys said that Uncle Peter does things to the Sprinters in his room at night.”
I looked at him seriously. “I’m not going to let anyone do anything to you.”
Claudio looked down. He had a look on his face like he wished he could believe me. He returned to his seat and picked up his clarinet. He flexed his fingers and joined the rest of the band in mid-song.
TWENTY-NINE
I woke up early the next morning. After a shower, I went for a walk. I left the main core of the Colony and took a narrow path which cut across empty fields. I walked the perimeter for a while, examining the unscalable fence and looking for gaps. There were none. I went a little further and came across a large, white clapboard church. It sagged in places, but the stained glass windows were all intact. There were three steps leading up to the door. I tried it—but it was locked.
I walked back, taking the long way past Uncle Peter’s office. I went around the back of the building and found what I was looking for—a window into his office, just out of reach.
The kitchen was in full swing when I arrived. Anita grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the kitchen and into an underground root cellar. It was cool and dimly lit, and I followed Anita closely. She pointed at a barrel of potatoes and handed me a wooden crate.
“Fill the crate with potatoes,” she said, “Then scrub them, and slice them thin as you can.”
It took some time to get the hard-caked dirt off the potatoes. Then I got to work slicing them.
When the breakfast bell rang, I went out to the oatmeal station. Greta was the first in line. She came by and held out her bowl.
“We made omelettes today,” I said.
She did not say a word.
“With potatoes and peppers and basil. Just down that way on the end of that table.”
“Oatmeal,” she said, “is for good strong bowel.”
Ernesto was in line behind her. He winked at me over her head. I gave her a large serving and urged her one more time to try the omelette.
“And for you, sir?”
“Don’t you look like a man who’s been up for hours,” Ernesto said, holding his bowl out.
I looked around—all the older colonists were in my oatmeal line, and the younger ones were clamoring for omelets. Beside the oatmeal, we kept large bowls of dried fruit and nuts. I watched Ernesto spoon some chopped hazelnuts and dried apricots into his bowl.
When everyone had their breakfast, I went back into the kitchen and served myself a portion of omelet and a small bowl of oatmeal. I was middle-aged.
Ernesto was cleaning out the chicken coop when I arrived.
“They look like they’re ready for their walk,” I said.
Ernesto agreed and handed me my worm stick. We
set out again, this time on a longer walk down to the river. The chickens clambered after us, clucking quietly to themselves and occasionally in conversation.
“Where was I?” Ernesto said.
“Your wife Angela was on a train with Uncle Peter and his followers. They had just reached the port of Seville.”
“I was born in Seville at the turn of the century, in a very small house. My mother gave birth to seven girls, and then to me. I left home as soon as I could—I was sixteen—and began working as a longshoreman. It was easy enough, and I enjoyed the uncomplicated way that a group of men relate to each other. I married a woman who worked at a factory by the docks, but she died giving birth to our only child. The child died a few months later, and I more or less shut down for a decade.
“One day, long after I had given up on ever loving or being loved again, a group of Germans arrived on a train. They were to board a vessel bound for South America. We were still working on some repairs to the ship, and the group stayed in a small inn near the docks. One of the women came by every day to watch us work—that was Angela. The other longshoremen yelled things out, catcalls and vulgar propositions, and I told them to leave her be, and couldn’t they see how sad she looked? I had picked up bits and pieces of several languages while at the docks, and, one day, I approached Angela and asked in broken German if she would join me for a drink. She agreed, and, by the time the sun came up the next morning, we were in love.
“Two weeks later the ship was ready to sail, and Angela insisted that I come with her. I would have gone anywhere for her. It wasn’t until we were on the open seas that I began speaking to her fellow travelers. Everyone seemed to be crazy in one way or another but none more so than the leader.”
THIRTY
By this time, we had returned from our walk and put the chickens back in their coop. Ernesto settled down to some librarian duties, and I volunteered to sweep. As I carefully built up piles of dust, I thought about the brief moments Elena and I had spent together—they were not many, and I was not sure we loved each other, but it seemed possible that we might someday, and that was enough for me. Ernesto and Angela had loved each other quickly, and perhaps we could, too.
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