Nilda
ALSO BY NICHOLASA MOHR
A Matter of Pride and Other Stories
In Nueva York
Rituals of Survival: A Woman’s Portfolio
Nilda
NICHOLASA MOHR
FOREWORD BY ALMA FLOR ADA
Nilda is made possible through grants from the City of Houston through the Houston Arts Alliance.
Piñata Books are full of surprises!
Arte Público Press
University of Houston
452 Cullen Performance Hall
Houston, Texas 77204-2004
Cover design by Pilar Espino
Cover photo and photographs of Nicholasa Mohr’s
illustrations are printed courtesy of Yolanda Maldonado
We are grateful for her support of this project
The lines on pages vi and vii are from “Ballad of the Little Square,” reprinted from The Selected Poems of Federico Garcia Lorca, poem translated by Stephen Spender and J. L. Gili. Copyright © 1955 New Directions Publishing Corporation. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation.
Mohr, Nicholasa
Nilda / by Nicholasa Mohr
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-55885-696-7 (alk. paper)
The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.
© 2011 by Nicholasa Mohr
Printed in the United States of America
March 2011–April 2011
Versa Press, Inc., East Peoria, IL
12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Dedicated, with love, to the children of El Barrio—and of the many barrios all over the world.
THE CHILDREN
Why do you go so far
from the little square?
MYSELF
I go in search of magicians
and of princesses!
THE CHILDREN
Who showed you the path
of the poets?
MYSELF
The fountain and the stream
of the antique song.
THE CHILDREN
Do you go far, very far
from the sea and the earth?
MYSELF
My heart of silk
is filled with lights,
with lost bells,
with lilies and bees.
I will go very far,
farther than those hills,
farther than the seas,
close to the stars,
to beg Christ the Lord
to give back the soul I had
of old, when I was a child,
ripened with legends,
with a feathered cap
and a wooden sword.
THE CHILDREN
You leave us singing
in the little square,
clear streams,
serene fountain!
—Federico García Lorca
Contents
Foreword
Preface
Nilda
July 1941
August 1941
Early September 1941
Late September 1941
October 1941
Early November 1941
Mid-November 1941
Late November 1941
December 6, 1941
December 7, 1941
December 7, 1941 Late Afternoon
December 7, 1941 Evening
January 1942
Late January 1942
May 1942
July 1942
April 1943
April 1943 The Same Night
August 1943
December 1943
January 1944
February 1944
June 1944
Early December 1944
April 1945
May 1945
May 1945 A few days later
Foreword
Drawing on her personal experiences of growing up in New York during the Second World War period, Nicholasa Mohr has created one of the fundamental Latino novels for young adults.
Although the Spanish-speaking world has a very strong literary legacy, a body of Hispanic literature for children and young adults in the United States was almost nonexistent for many years. And, for a number of reasons, a catalog of Hispanic children’s literature grew slowly. One significant factor was the language. There were not many avenues in the United States to publish books in Spanish. There was also very little inclination on the part of publishers to produce books in English about Latino topics.
Mohr’s work is commendable because she was one of the first to write about Latinos in the United States. As one of the earliest books depicting the lives of young Latinos, Nilda was very relevant at the time of its publication in 1974; it was a precursor for all Latino young adult novels that followed in its footsteps.
Today, Nilda continues to be a significant book for its literary merits: the strength of the narrative, the highly descriptive background and the realistic characters, particularly the unforgettable Nilda. This engaging story has met the highest test: once started, readers will feel compelled to finish it, and they will soon realize that it has become a part of their own lives.
The world in which we follow Nilda is one of hardship and scarcity, of free summer camps more akin to reform school than summer joy. It is also a world of confusing beliefs, of untold secrets and half-learned truths; it is a world where justice seems to have no presence and institutions that should offer support abuse their power and demean the persons they are supposed to protect. But though the outside world is harsh, Nilda is fortunate to be surrounded by a large and loving—if somewhat eccentric—family that encourages her artistic abilities. Her friends, too, are a source of joy and fun as they engage in typical childhood mischief.
Today’s reader will feel that while the novel’s setting has undergone significant changes, many of the social issues persist. The pivotal themes have been masterfully presented and remain relevant to this day: coming of age, finding a place within one’s own family, sorting out contradictory feelings and accepting in those around us their limitations as well as their strengths. This novel is very powerful.
Arte Público Press’ decision to introduce a new edition of Nilda is a testament to its quality and importance in American literature.
Alma Flor Ada
University of San Francisco
Preface
In 1972, I was a working visual artist when Ellen Rudin, Vice President and Editor in Chief of Harper & Row children’s books, asked to see my portfolio. She needed an artist to design a book jacket featuring multicultural poetry. Although she liked my portfolio, it did not suit her project. When I asked Ellen for her opinion of my written childhood recollections, she graciously agreed to look at my writing.
Weeks earlier, my art agent, together with a collector, asked me to write fifty pages about growing up Latina in New York City. They were interested because my recent artwork included graffiti about injustice, violence and prejudice. He reminded me that there were few books about growing up Latina and assured me they would find a writer who could convert my words into professional prose. Reluctantly, I agreed.
Writing came easily for me. My older brother Vincent taught me to read and write when I was four years old. Consequently, assisting others with documents, reviews, essays and letters were tasks I’d undertaken ever since childhood. But writing about my life was tougher than I imagined because traumatic childhood events began to surface. But I persisted, transferring the same resolve I utilized in my artwork over to my writing. I discovered that the creative process was the same regardless of the discipline. Finally, by approaching fiction in the same way that I did visual ar
t, I was able to complete those fifty pages.
I soon sat dumbfounded as I listened to my agent reprimand me and insist I get beyond childish memories because such sentimental recollections would never sell. Both he and my collector acknowledged my flair for words, but importuned that I write about factual issues: gang wars, police brutality, prostitution and other real-life problems in the Puerto Rican community. They urged me to try again.
My humiliation was overwhelming. I’d written with honesty and integrity of all that I knew to be valuable and noble without whitewashing only to be ignorantly mistreated yet again by those outside my own community. My agent did very well by me both economically and professionally and so I gathered my will power. I reminded him that I was married with two young sons living a quiet life in the suburbs. I’d never been in a gang or arrested and suggested they look for their candidate inside a women’s prison. He ignored my words, urging me to try again. Ultimately, I placated him and said I’d reconsider.
Back home I hugged my children, thanked my husband for his support and shoved my rejected manuscript inside a drawer. I had forgotten all about Harper & Row when two weeks later I received Ellen’s letter requesting I write a novel for young adults based on those fifty pages. Terms for a contract and an advance were included. That summer I was accepted at The MacDowell Colony—a retreat for creative artists in Peterborough, New Hampshire. There, in the quiet woods, I wrote the first ninety pages of Nilda. I finished the book that fall.
It was launched with great success in 1974, and my writing career began in earnest.
I wish to express my thanks to Arte Público Press and specifically to Nicolás Kanellos and Marina Tristán for the release of this new edition of Nilda.
Nicholasa Mohr
New York City
December 20, 2010
Nilda
July 1941
Summers in New York City’s Barrio were unbearable. Even when there was a cool spell, it seemed a long time before the dry fresh air could find a way past the concrete and asphalt, into the crowded buildings which had become blazing furnaces. As Nilda played outside, she could smell the heat mingled with the odors coming from the tenements and sidewalks. Tiny beads of moisture settled in her nostrils, making it hard to breathe.
She was playing on the sidewalk where she had discovered a small patch of shadow. The side wall of the stoop steps of her building created this small island of comfort which now became her turf. With a small piece of white chalk, she began to draw pictures on the sidewalk. Getting even with her friends, she decided to scribble who loved who and which one stank. Pausing, she impulsively reached out to touch the unshaded concrete and jumped back, sticking her finger in her mouth to let the saliva take out the sting of the burn. She looked up and saw two of her friends.
“Man, it’s hotter here than in my house,” said Petra.
She was with her younger sister, Marge, who nodded in agreement. Nilda moved over and the two girls sat beside her, sharing the patch of shade.
“Paco is going to camp, lucky thing,” said Petra.
“I wish I could go,” said Marge.
“I’m going,” said Nilda. “My mother got me a place in a camp someplace in the country.”
“Is that the Catholic camp?” asked Petra. “Because if it is I sure won’t go there. They beat you up there.”
“They do not!” Nilda screamed. She had heard this before. Shrugging her shoulders, she said, “You never even been there.”
“But I know some kids who did go and they told me some stories, you know. They said—”
“Don’t tell me no lies,” Nilda interrupted. “Where is the place they went to?”
“In the country,” Petra answered. “Upstate or someplace like that.”
“Well there! This place where I’m going is in New Jersey, very far away, so you don’t even know what you’re talking about!”
“Oh, I think it was New Jersey.”
“Aw shut up, stupid. You are so dumb you don’t know your ass from your elbow! Talking a lot of garbage.” Nilda stopped talking and looked around her.
Up to that moment the block had been very quiet; people had been trying to keep off the hot street as much as possible. Now small groups of people were gathering about. The focus was on several men being led by Jacinto the grocer. For days everyone had been hoping that they would open up the fire hydrant. Jacinto was the only one who had the kind of wrench that could open the hydrant. He was afraid of the fine he might receive from the police, and he had refused to listen to everyone’s pleas. “You gonna pay the fine?” he had responded. “You know they’re gonna get me because I got the store.”
The intense heat had gone on for many days. Nilda knew now, just by looking at Jacinto and the group with him, that they were about to open the hydrant. All three girls jumped up in unison. Like an ant colony with antennae, it seemed, the entire block was informed immediately. People started to come out of the tenements or looked out of the windows asking, “Are they going to open it?” “Look, there’s Jacinto; they’re going to do it.” “¡Mira! ¡Mira! There they go!” Their sluggishness seemed to fade, and with renewed vigor people appeared in the street. Nilda turned and ran into her building. She was anxious to tell whoever was home what was about to happen and to get into her bathing suit. She climbed the four flights of stairs, racing all the way. Pushing open the door, she yelled, “They are doing it; they’re going to open the hydrant! Hurry up before the cops come.”
“I know. I see, I see,” said her mother.
“Mamá, I want my bathing suit.”
“I got your bathing suit and a towel right there on the kitchen table. Now I’m going down,” she said.
Her mother and Aunt Delia started out the door. Nilda ran after them.
“Mamá, where’s Paul and Frankie?”
“They’re out, but they will probably be back soon enough to see the water,” her mother said.
Downstairs everybody was waiting and watching as Jacinto and some of the other men started to turn the large wrench which gripped the round cap on the side of the hydrant. It got quieter and quieter with each turn. As they removed the cap, complete stillness followed. A small stream of water dripped out of the round dark opening and a hushed sigh traveled the length and width of the onlooking crowd. Quickly, Jacinto turned the knob at the top of the hydrant with the wrench. Suddenly with a burst, tons of water came gushing forth, cascading onto the hot melting black tar of the street like a magical waterfall. People plunged right into the onrushing water with their clothes on, arms outstretched, mouths open, drinking in the cool liquid. Laughing and screaming, they pushed each other out of the way to get nearer the water, their clothes sticking to bosoms and bellies, buttocks, arms and muscles all glistening with wetness.
Young women who were too shy to jump in were grabbed by the young men and pushed in. Their cries of protest resounded with happiness and relief as they ran laughing and jumping, covered completely with the cool water.
As automobiles turned into the street and passed in front of the hydrant, the young boys tried to get the drivers wet. When a driver forgot to close his windows and got soaked, the crowd would laugh and clap, ignoring his angry cursing and cries of protest.
The children skipped around, hopping and weaving in and around the adults. Some had bathing suits and some wore their clothes. The very small children had underpants or were naked. Except for the very old, who sat and watched with joy and amusement, everybody got drenched. Nilda yelled, “Come on!” and ran in and out of the spray with her friends. At times she would stay put in the water long enough to let the spray embrace her until she could feel the wonder of a chill traveling all over her body, a sensation she had forgotten in the long weeks of the heat. She was caught up in this mood of elation until she heard a low whining sound. In a few seconds everyone heard the clear sounds of the siren. The police patrol car turned the corner. She saw the car heading toward the hydrant. “¡La jara!” someone yelled. “¡L
a policía!” “The cops are here, man!” Swiftly, people began to scatter, backing up and running from the water.
Nilda stood among the people lined up against the steps of the tenements and in front of the small shops. The water gushed forth onto an empty street. She saw the two tall white men in uniform step out and look around. Everyone was silent, watching and waiting. One policeman held a large wrench, the other had one hand placed on his gun holster and the other hand wrapped around his nightstick. They looked menacingly at the groups of people that lined both sides of the street, and slowly walked over to the hydrant. “Okay. Now, who’s responsible for this?” There was a dead silence. The two policemen shook their heads and began to close the hydrant. Round and round they turned the wrench and finally it was closed. Shut tight. Quiet grumbling and whispered protests emanated from the onlooking crowd.
“God damn you people,” yelled one policeman. “You got no sense of responsibility. What if there’s a fire?”
Someone responded from way back, “Coño, leave the water on, man. It’s too hot here! Have a heart.” Everybody clapped.
“Shit. God damn you bastards, coming here making trouble. Bunch of animals. Listen, don’t pull that shit again. You’re acting against the law. If this happens again, one more time, I’m going to arrest all your asses! The whole God damned bunch of you spics.”
“Animals!” the other policeman added. Turning around and looking directly at the people, they waited, as if daring a response. Then the two policemen walked over to Jacinto’s grocery. Some of the children followed. Nilda was with her friends.
“You coming, Nilda? Let’s see what happens. Come on,” said little Benji.
“No, I’m staying. I’ll see you later, Benji.” She did not want to be near the policemen; she wanted them to disappear.
A few minutes later they walked out of Jacinto’s grocery. Each policeman had his own particular defiant swagger as he walked over to the patrol car and got in.
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