America Libre

by Raul Ramos y Sanchez

  “Bending the truth is a staple of politics, Mano. Do you think any government could operate without lying? Let’s take the most honest nation on earth today—the United States. The U.S. went to war in Vietnam over a fabricated incident in the Gulf of Tonkin. And what about Iraq? Has anyone yet found the weapons of mass destruction used to justify that invasion? History is full of half-truths governments have used to rouse their people into fighting.”

  “You’re saying it’s necessary for a government to lie?”

  “Plato said lying is a privilege that should be reserved only for those who govern—and that was over two thousand years ago,” Ramon said, grinning. “Look at it this way. It’s impossible to maintain security without withholding the truth. If we revealed our location to the baldies, we’d be in jail before dark, or dead by morning. Every government faces the same challenge. They must keep secrets. Once you’re maintaining secrets, the next logical step is to misdirect the enemy with false information. We’ve done that, too, through Nesto. Once you’ve accepted that kind of truth-bending, it becomes easier to justify feeding your people half-truths.”

  “It still seems wrong.”

  “That’s why it’s important for citizens to question their governments. Each person has to think critically about the real motives behind the patriotic rhetoric of any government. Flag-waving is usually used to distract you from the real motives of the people in power. It’s also a highly effective motivator.”

  “Are you saying it’s wrong to be patriotic?”

  “People are driven to act by emotions, Mano. A well-reasoned argument may get a person to nod her head in agreement, but very little else. To get a person to act, you need to create strong emotions—fear, anger, hate, even love. Every smart leader knows you can’t motivate a person into action through intellectual arguments alone. That’s why they often resort to emotional patriotic appeals, which by their very nature are overly simplistic and usually shortsighted.”

  “So you agree with Marcha? You think that lying is not only acceptable, it’s actually necessary?”

  “Yes, put very simply, that’s correct, Mano.”

  “That’s dishonest, Ramon.”

  “Perhaps. But Marcha was expressing an idealized version of reality. Don’t you think Thomas Jefferson idealized reality when he was drafting the Declaration of Independence? Jefferson wrote, ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident. That all men are created equal.’ Yet Jefferson was not only a slave-holder, he kept in bondage the very children he fathered with his slave Sally Hemings. That, however, did not stop him from creating the most beautiful and important words ever written on human freedom. Does the fact that Jefferson was a hypocrite make his ideals any less worthy?”

  “Are you a hypocrite, Ramon?”

  “There are worse things I could be called.”

  “What could be worse than being a hypocrite?”

  Ramon paused before answering. “Being apathetic. Not fighting for those less fortunate. Ignoring the struggle of our people.”

  Mano considered Ramon’s words. His motives were worthy. But there was a part of Mano that felt the right motives were not enough to justify doing something he knew was wrong.

  “There has to be a better way, Ramon.”

  Ramon yawned. “That’s not a problem we’ll solve tonight, amigo,” he said, rising from the chair. “These old bones need some rest.”

  “Mind if I stay? I’ve been wanting to check out the Tolstoy books you suggested.”

  “You’re always welcome, Mano. Stay as long as you like,” Ramon said before leaving.

  Mano was into the second chapter of War and Peace when the room’s heavy door opened and Jo stepped inside.

  “I thought you might be here,” she said, her face pale and strained. “Have you been listening to the news?”

  “No,” Mano said, raising Tolstoy’s novel as an explanation.

  “Some BBC reports have been coming out of North Dakota that have me worried.”

  “What kind of reports?”

  “Apparently the government has been covering it up for months, but the story broke today,” she said anxiously. “There were over seven thousand deaths in the Relocation Communities last winter.”

  Mano rose to his feet. “Rosa and the children?”

  “I don’t know. The BBC reported the number of dead by Community, but they don’t have individual names. One of the hardest hit was Community Number Eight. They had more than two thousand deaths.”

  “That’s where…” Mano’s voice trailed off, unable to say the words aloud.

  “We don’t know anything for certain, Mano. Your family may be fine.”

  Mano stood motionless, his eyes vacant. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat and dull. “You don’t understand, Jo—I thought I’d finally found it. Since the day all this killing started, all I wanted was to find a place where my family would finally be out of danger. That was the only thing that kept me going sometimes. But it’s gone, Jo. That place is gone now.”

  A wave of remorse engulfed Jo. “This is my fault,” she said as a line of tears began a slow descent down her cheeks.

  Her tears tore into Mano’s heart as deeply as the news of his family. He met her gaze, eyes alive once again. “You only did what you thought was right,” he said gently. “I don’t blame you.”

  “You’re a good man, Mano—and I took advantage of that,” she said, her lips trembling. “I talked you into sending your family away without really questioning why I did it—or what might happen to them. That was a horrible thing to do.”

  “Don’t do this to yourself, Jo. You couldn’t have known this would happen.”

  Jo shook her head. “No. You trusted me and I deceived you. I even tried to hide it from myself. But the truth is that I asked you to send them away because I—”

  Before she could finish, Mano embraced her.

  For a long time, they clung to each other tightly. Holding Jo, Mano found a solace missing since the parting from his family. He let himself bask in the warmth of her touch. Jo’s body was supple and yielding; her hands caressed his back. Close against him, the pressure of her firm breasts on his chest, Mano felt the passion rising in his loins. He’d fought back fantasies of making love to Jo. Now the moment that had tortured and tantalized him for so long was finally here.

  He wanted Jo. But he wanted to rejoin his family even more.

  Rosa might still be alive and he could not betray her.

  Mano tenderly lifted Jo’s face toward his own. “It’s time to go,” he said softly. “People are depending on us.”

  As news of the deaths at the Relocation Communities spread, the consequences of the Brenner team’s attempts to cover up the tragedy would reverberate around the world.

  Following the BBC reports of massive fatalities at the camps in North Dakota, the United Nations passed an unprecedented resolution. It called for an investigation into charges of genocide by the United States. France and Germany, long estranged from the U.S., led a Security Council coalition leveling the accusations. Within days, teams of investigators from the U.N. and the International Red Cross descended on North Dakota, demanding to inspect the camps.

  The response of many Americans was outrage. The U.S. had been charged with committing one of history’s most heinous crimes—by an organization on its own soil. Political momentum gathered behind a movement once supported only by the far right: withdrawal from the United Nations.

  Congressman Melvin Bates once again stepped into the political maelstrom, proposing a House resolution that would end U.S. participation in the United Nations. Some pundits said Bates, a man addicted to media attention, was grandstanding. Others claimed he was desperately attempting to retain the eroding support of followers disillusioned by the mounting failures of the Quarantine and Relocation Act. The U.N. issue became another hotly debated topic in a nation already racked with discord.

  Tensions outside U.S. borders were escalating as well. The often stormy re
lations between the United States and Latin America were at an all-time low. Under the Quarantine and Relocation Act, not just illegal immigrants were being deported. Green-card-carrying legal residents from Latin America were also banished. The millions of deportees were creating economic havoc in their countries of origin, swamping job markets and depriving these nations of the hard currency their U.S. workers often sent home to their families. A resolution of protest was filed against this new U.S. policy at the Organization of American States.

  The widening rift between the U.S. and the European Union was now nearing the breaking point. America’s succession of military incursions into Islamic nations was the cause of constant turmoil among the fast-growing Muslim populations of Western Europe. Many pundits claimed the E.U.’s leaders secretly hoped America’s domestic problems would slow its military adventures overseas.

  Meanwhile, the American government had ceased all attempts at maintaining control within the Quarantine Zones. Once used as holding areas for Hispanics awaiting relocation, the zones had become insurgent bastions. “The Strategy Backfires,” read a Newsweek cover featuring a photo of armed insurgents guarding the wall inside San Antonio’s Quarantine Zone. The magazine reported that internees in South Texas were defiantly calling the QZ El Nuevo Alamo—the New Alamo.

  U.S. military efforts were now focused on stemming the tide of insurgent raids into vacated areas adjacent to the QZs across the Southwest.

  THE QUARANTINE AND

  RELOCATION ACT:

  Month 19, Day 5

  Community Number Eight’s fluorescent mess hall lights flickered back to life, flooding the crowded room with a cold, harsh light. Rising to her feet near a primordial 16mm projector, the female missionary addressed the audience. “On behalf of the First Apostolic Church, I want to thank you for attending tonight’s film. We certainly hope you enjoyed it,” she said, primly smoothing out her dress.

  After a smattering of polite applause, the crowd began clearing the room.

  Rosa looked around warily as she shepherded Pedro out of the mess hall. Although the film was a welcome break in their bleak existence, Rosa had been hesitant to attend the missionary’s showing of The Ten Commandments. Trouble seemed to be looming, despite the easing of the camp’s severe food rationing.

  Last week, foreigners had visited the camp. Through an interpreter, one of them had asked her questions about living conditions. Rosa had answered cautiously, suspicious of a ploy by the authorities to uncover troublemakers. Perhaps this missionary was part of a similar scheme.

  Rosa watched anxiously as the missionary addressed each family on their way out of the mess hall. There was something contradictory about the tall blonde. Her drab outfit and outmoded glasses seemed almost deliberately unattractive.

  As Rosa got nearer the exit, her heart fluttered. The missionary was casting sidelong glances in her direction. Is she another spy like Maria Prado, trying to find Mano? One thing was certain. There would be no way to avoid her. The woman had planted herself near the doorway and was speaking to everyone as they exited.

  “How do you do? I’m Emily Barnett,” the missionary said, extending her hand to Rosa.

  “I’m Rosa Suarez,” she said coolly. “This is my son, Pedro.” As she took the woman’s hand, Rosa was startled by a sensation in her palm. The missionary had covertly handed her a folded piece of paper.

  “I’ll be visiting with families individually, Mrs. Suarez. Perhaps we can spend some time together.”

  “I’m… I’m not sure that would be a good idea,” Rosa replied, keeping the note out of sight.

  “Please think it over. I’m staying in the guest cabin at the south end of the camp.”

  After donning the Army surplus coats Rosa and Pedro had been issued the previous week, the two returned to their dormitory. Once she’d put her son to bed, Rosa slipped into the communal restroom and examined the note in one of the stalls.

  Querida,

  Josefina Herrera is delivering this note.

  Talk to her. She is there to help you.

  I am well. My love to you and the children.

  —Mano

  Rosa’s hands trembled as she read the small note. It was Mano’s handwriting. A warm flush of joy rose in her chest. He was still alive.

  It was the first good news Rosa had received since arriving at the Relocation Community nearly a year ago. She felt light and giddy. She wanted to yell in triumph. Then the doubts crept in.

  Was this woman really Josefina Herrera? Having never met Jo, Rosa could not be certain. She would need to meet with the woman again. There had to be some way to confirm her identity.

  Maria Prado was unable to sleep once again, tossing beside her husband as she relived moments from her CIA career.

  It was a melancholy reverie.

  She’d had a promising future. Then it had all ended, her career severed with the swiftness of a guillotine—all because a few Hispanic extremists had terrified the nation with their mindless rebellion.

  The mugshots of the many Hispanic radicals she’d investigated passed fleetingly through her half-awake mind—a gallery of rogues that tormented her frequently. Then a face drifted into Maria’s hazy consciousness that brought her suddenly upright—Josefina Herrera’s.

  Herrera bore an uncanny resemblance to the missionary who’d hosted the film earlier that evening. If you stripped away the glasses and the dowdy clothes, the woman looked very much like the striking blonde on the podium at the rally in East Los Angeles. Was it really her?

  The outline of a plan began forming in Maria’s mind. If it really was Josefina Herrera, and Maria could unmask her, it would prove, beyond any doubt, Maria’s loyalty to the U.S. And if she could turn in one of the insurgents’ top leaders, she and her family might be released from this wretched place.

  Tomorrow morning, she’d find out more about this “missionary.”

  Arriving in the early morning frost, Rosa knocked hesitantly on the guest cabin’s wind-worn door. She’d slept little, weighing the risks of visiting this woman whose cabin was next to the guard station. In the end, the chance for news of Mano had swept aside her qualms.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Suarez. How good to see you,” the blonde said warmly after opening the door. “Won’t you please come in?”

  “Good morning—”

  Before Rosa could say more, the woman raised her index finger to her lips, pointed to her ear, and waved her hand around the room. Rosa immediately understood her message. The room was bugged.

  “I walk every morning. Good for the figure, you know. Would you care to join me?” the blonde asked, reaching for her coat.

  “Yes… all right.”

  The two women left the cabin, wordlessly following the frosty trail along the edge of the camp. Patches of morning fog hung over the flat plain that receded into the distant horizon.

  “Who are you?” Rosa asked once she was sure they were out of earshot.

  “I’m Josefina Herrera. I’m here because Mano is worried about you and the children. We got the news last week about all the deaths in the camps.”

  Rosa was still uncertain. This woman certainly fit the description of Jo reported by Nana Jimenez. But Rosa’s experience with Maria Prado had made her leery.

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “Mano warned me that you’d be cautious,” Jo said, smiling. “He told me your younger sister named her first kitten Felix. Then it turned out Felix was a girl.”

  Rosa looked into the woman’s ice-blue eyes, still not certain she could believe her.

  “Mano said you two met at his cousin’s wedding,” Jo continued.

  Rosa gazed back, saying nothing.

  “You were your cousin’s bridesmaid,” Jo added. “Mano asked you to dance and you said no. It wasn’t until you were properly introduced by his aunt that you agreed to dance with him.”

  Rosa remained impassive.

  “OK, here’s my last card, Rosa: your first dance with Mano was t
o ‘Loving Feeling’ by the Righteous Brothers. That’s it,” Jo said with a grin. “If you don’t believe me, I’m going back to Los Angeles.”

  Rosa’s expression at last softened, then hardened again. “You have a lot of nerve showing your face here,” she said coldly.

  “Yes, I do, Rosa. If I’m caught, I’ll probably be executed.”

  Rosa lowered her eyes in shame. “I’m sorry. I should have realized you’re here trying to help.”

  “There’s no need to apologize, Rosa. I can’t begin to imagine how much you’ve suffered.”

  “How is Mano?”

  “He misses you and the children very much, Rosa. When he heard how many in this camp had died, he was ready to come here himself. It took a lot of arguing, but I finally convinced him there was much less of a chance that I’d get caught.”

  “Thank God you did. Once his mind is made up, it’s hard to change.”

  “He’s as strong as two mules… and just as stubborn.”

  The women shared a soft, knowing laugh.

  “You’ve brought me good news, Josefina. I’m happy to know Mano is still alive. It’s been so long since I heard from him, I was starting to lose hope.”

  “I want to take back good news to Mano. But yesterday I only saw Pedro,” Jo said, unable to put the dreadful thought into words.

  “Elena died last November,” Rosa said, her voice quaking. “It was a virus. She didn’t suffer, thank God.”

  The words staggered Jo. “I’m sorry, Rosa. I’m so sorry,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “I would give anything… anything… to bring your child back. It’s my fault, Rosa. I told Mano you and the children would be safer here… and I was wrong.”

  Jo covered her face with her hands and wept. News of Elena’s death laid bare her ruthless zeal. Worse still, she knew the news would devastate Mano. The thought of hurting him deepened her pain.