The Sacrificial Circumcision of the Bronx

by Arthur Nersesian

“They can’t kill all of us. Mexico is about to go into the fight of its life!” she shouted. “These blackguards are trying to steal the country from my people. There’s no way I’m just going to sit here quietly while this is happening. I’m leaving tonight!”

  He told her that she couldn’t go without seeing him one last time.

  “We’re all boarding a train at 9:35 this evening,” she said. “If you want to come, you better head over here now.”

  The commuter train from Princeton to Philly left six minutes past every hour and took roughly ninety minutes. He barely made the next train.

  He arrived in Philadelphia at 8 p.m., dashed several blocks to the University of Pennsylvania, and headed across the sprawling campus. Men were not allowed up inside the women’s dorm, so, trying to catch his breath, he called from the reception desk downstairs. When Millie came down, she led him into a dark alcove; once alone, she threw her arms around him and gave him a passionate kiss.

  “Please don’t do this,” he pleaded.

  “I don’t expect you to understand,” she whispered. “But this is my own … escape.” It was as though she were drunk with the possibility of a new life awaiting her.

  “Whatever does that mean?”

  “It means when I’m visiting you at Princeton or even when I’m here at the campus, everyone looks at me as this proud, smart, annoying girl, but that’s only because I’ve done such a great job hiding my true self behind this pale face.”

  “But what does that have to do with you now?”

  “I was raised in Mexico City. I didn’t know a word of English until I was six. Heck, my mother’s father fought against the gringos when this country stole the northern half of our land more than fifty years ago.”

  “Look, fifty years ago my family were Jews living in Prussia,” Paul replied.

  “All I’m saying is that I’m stuck outside my country, trapped in a petticoat and a social strata. Your mother was right when she said I was living on my father’s blood money. And this is my chance to make amends.”

  She’s going to get herself killed, Paul thought, and kissed her hard on the lips.

  “Unacceptable! Unacceptable!” one of the university matrons shouted over to them, clapping her hands loudly.

  “I still have to pack my bags,” Millie said. She kissed him again and dashed back upstairs.

  Paul paced tensely in the reception area. Some from Millie’s committee had already come down with their steamer trunks and suitcases. A taxi sedan had arrived and was waiting out front. Once they all squeezed in with their luggage, there was no room left, so Paul stood on the running board, hanging on the side. Despite the wind as they drove, he kept shouting to Millie through the window, “Please reconsider! This is a dangerous idea!!”

  They finally arrived at the huge marble-columned station where redcaps with large wooden hand trucks grabbed their trunks and heavy leather bags. They met up with others who had come from various points nearby. After exchanging greetings they all headed to the gated ticket windows. Paul waited until he was alone with Millie, then dropped to one knee and said, “Marry me!”

  “What?!”

  “Be my wife!”

  The surprise in her eyes melted to a slightly amused sadness. “I’ll do it if you come with me.”

  “That would defeat the whole point.”

  “Which is to keep me here.”

  “To keep you safe,” he clarified. “Is there something wrong with that?”

  “No, but I do love you, Paul,” she said. “And one of the reasons I love you is because I know that if we were in Mexico City and you heard that America had been taken over by a tyrant, you’d come back up here to oppose him.”

  Not if I were a woman, he thought.

  One of the fellows on the LAST SCaM committee, a skinny young man named Victor Gonzalez, handed her a train ticket and the group walked over to their track. The first leg of the trip was an express train which would take them as far as St. Louis. Paul walked alongside Millie and a redcap valet to the door of the train.

  “I’ll write you at every opportunity,” she said.

  Paul boarded the locomotive with her. The entire committee had bought sleeping berths in first class.

  “Where can I write to you?” he asked nervously.

  She proceeded to scribble down her family address in Mexico City, as well as the addresses of three friends living in the countryside. “I’ll write you as soon as I get down there, but if you don’t hear from me, one of these people should know where I am.”

  “A person’s life is defined by the caution of their choices,” he said in an effort to sound authoritative. “This could be the worst decision you will ever make.”

  “Despite what you might think, I’m not trying to be a hero and I have no desire to die, but I love my country and I have to do this.”

  He remained with her on the train until the conductor called out, “All aboard!”

  She walked with him to the Dutch door at the end of the car and watched as he stepped down onto the sunken platform. The conductor lifted the wooden step and jumped on board. As the train started pulling out of the station, Millicent waved.

  Paul stood alone on the platform until the locomotive slowly vanished into the night.

  5

  Paul took the next train back to Princeton and returned to his dorm room just past 3 that morning. Unable to sleep, he skipped his French and Spanish classes and remained listlessly in bed. As he eventually began his daily routines, he once again felt strangely captive. It was as if he were sealed in some kind of long, narrow tunnel, wanting to get through it quickly and out the other side. Without her, all alone, he felt as though he were drowning.

  Roughly a week later, he got the first postcard from Millicent, sent from St. Louis. She explained that they were about to board a second train that would take them to Galveston, Texas. She had to be in Mexico by now, he thought. A second postcard came two days later from Texas saying they were about to cross the Rio Grande.

  Two and a half weeks later, a letter arrived detailing how it was too dangerous to go to Mexico City, so they were instead heading west to Baja. Apparently, several revolutionary organizations had formed their own governments in the area and Millie’s group felt it could have the greatest impact there.

  October went by without a single postcard. The Mexican postal service wasn’t very efficient, and Paul figured that the political turmoil must have further delayed the delivery of foreign correspondence. Hard as he tried to invest himself in schoolwork, Paul found himself suffering from repeated attacks of vertigo. He would usually just lay in bed trying not to imagine the worst: short, fat, oily soldiers with large, dirty sombreros taking turns violating Millie as she spat out blood and noble slogans.

  The only ideas distracting him came from The Physical Sciences, the primary text for his Introduction to Physics class that he was taking to fulfill his science requirements. Reading the principles of physics from Galileo and Newton, he found himself mesmerized as if he was engrossed in a mystery novel.

  Finally, on November 3, he received another post from Millicent. The letter had been given to a friend who was heading into Texas. It began: My beloved Pablo, I’m assumingyou didn’t get any of my other letters as I haven’t received any from you … It went on to explain that her committee had broken up. Two men had joined Pancho Villa’s contingent in the northeast; four others had joined Señor Zapata in Chiapas; but she and one other were still in Baja in a commune run by the Mexican revolutionary Ricardo Flores Magón. Despite these different factions, Madero was still generally regarded as the new hope for Mexico.

  You’ll be happy to hear that Señor Flores is a pacifist. Hedoesn’t even have a military attachment. He’s simply trying to lead by example. The other day a calvary of federal soldiers galloped through, almost daring us to provoke them. We’ve been wearing clothes we bought here, trying to blend in with the locals, but we spend our days heading down the peninsula trying to famil
iarize the peasants with the issues of the impending revolution …

  The letter had been sent from somewhere called Cór-dova. As November progressed, stories about the brewing troubles in Mexico began appearing in the New York Times.

  Bella called to invite Paul up to New York for Thanksgiving, saying she missed her eldest boy and wanted to hear how he was doing. He ended the short conversation without uttering a single word about Millie, knowing that nothing would bring his mother greater pleasure than hearing of the girl’s reckless voyage.

  Opening the New York Times on November 20, Paul saw the headline: TROUBLES IN MEXICO! CALL TO ARMS! While still a fugitive from the law, Madero had announced from Texas that it was time for the people of Mexico to revolt against the tyrant who was holding their country hostage. Paul feared this would end with widespread bloodshed.

  During the early train ride the next day for Thanksgiving, Paul felt on edge. When he finally arrived in New York City, he briskly walked the fifteen or so blocks from Penn Station to the family brownstone on 46th Street, near Fifth Avenue.

  Upon greeting the maid Maria, he learned that his mother had been in a foul mood all day. Paul took a stiff belt of Scotch and listened as Bella bossed the help around. He couldn’t stop wondering if the federales garrisoned in the small Mexican village of Córdova had noticed the young students arriving from abroad.

  He retreated into the study and located some paper and a fountain pen. He started writing Millie a passionate letter about his constant fears and boundless love for her. Before he got very far, however, he was interrupted by joyous shrieks. Mr. Robert had just arrived home from Yale. His mother squealed in delight, and showered her son with kisses. Paul could hear Robert giggling boyishly in response. Though Bella had been told the story numerous times, she made Robert once again relay the heroic events in which, despite his having to resign, he raised an unprecedented amount of money for the Yale swimming team.

  When Paul’s sister Edna arrived, Bella’s mood shifted. She started bellowing about how her favorite charity, the Madison House in Lower Manhattan, was misusing her funds.

  “You should’ve donated the money to Lillian Wald instead,” Edna said.

  “Paul, come on down and say hi to your brother,” Bella called out, ignoring her daughter’s comment. Paul quit trying to write and joined them.

  When their father showed up late, Bella berated him for making them all wait while the dinner grew cold. Emanuel didn’t sound contrite enough, so his wife went on about how he was a lazy ne’er-do-well, spending his days just laying about the house.

  “You were the one who forced him to retire,” Paul muttered softly to himself.

  Robert sat with a frozen smile on his face, waiting for his mother’s tantrum to pass.

  Bella looked angrily around the room and, seeing Paul glaring at her, she said, “Please tell me you broke up with that mustached shiksa.” Robert snickered.

  “First of all, she’s Jewish. Secondly, save your rancor for those who are afraid to defend themselves.”

  “Hey, Princeton boy,” she replied, “don’t forget who pays for you to learn how to recite French poetry!”

  “Well, you can keep your damned tuition,” he lashed back. “Cause I’m done with that … that finishing school for robber barrons!”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it!”

  As Paul furiously headed for the front door, he heard Robert saying to his mother, “Let him just simmer down.”

  True to his word, when Paul got back to Princeton, he waited until Monday, then went to see the dean of Student Affairs and applied for a multisemester leave of absence that wouldn’t affect his grades. Next he returned to his dorm room and packed his bags. He was about to call Bella, but instead dialed Robert. The phone rang until someone in the hallway of his brother’s dormitory answered and said Robert wasn’t around.

  Paul kept calling over the next four hours until he finally got ahold of Robert. As soon as his brother said hello, Paul explained that he had just withdrawn from classes.

  “Please say you’re joshing.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Mother was just having some fun, but this is downright spiteful.”

  “I didn’t do it out of spite.”

  “The semester’s almost over, and then you only have one more year to go!”

  “Robert, I have no choice. Millicent’s down in Mexico and I’m sure she’s in distress.”

  “Oh my,” Robert said. “So what are you hoping to do, go down and rescue her?”

  “I suppose.” It sounded melodramatic even to Paul.

  “But you’re not seriously planning on fighting the government of Mexico, are you?”

  “No, of course not, I just want to protect Millie.”

  “Paul, you’re handsome, rich, and young. You don’t have to get yourself shot in another country to save some wetback mistress. Hell, you can sleep with Maria—I know you fancy her.”

  “Damn you, Robert!”

  “I’m sorry, Paul, but this is just crazy.”

  “Look, it’s one of those things that if I don’t do, I’ll spend the rest of my life regretting.”

  “And how about if you get yourself killed? Do you have any idea how angry Mom would be if that happened?”

  Paul smiled, but then realized that Robert was serious.

  Robert wasn’t afraid of his older brother’s death, only concerned about upsetting their mother. Paul replied that he simply had no choice.

  “So you’re really going through with it?”

  “I am, and I hope you’ll learn from this.”

  “What exactly am I supposed to learn, Paul?”

  “That you shouldn’t be afraid to fight for something you believe in.”

  Paul heard a sound that could’ve been a snort or a chuckle. He wasn’t sure if Robert was indignant or amused.

  “Good luck,” Robert finally remarked.

  Paul hung up the earpiece on the cradle of the candlestick phone. Trying to stand, he found that his left leg and right arm had fallen asleep—like he had pinched a nerve. After several minutes of nervously shaking his body, his circulation returned to normal.

  He gave away many of his possessions and put the rest in storage, then packed a single rucksack of necessities. He headed straight to the train station and mapped out as direct a route as he could to the tiny Mexican village of Cór-dova. The trip was six days of continuous travel with four connecting trains. The food was awful, but Paul enjoyed watching as the passengers, climate, and landscapes slowly changed while they moved southwest. He also became friendly with most of the Negro Pullman workers on the trains. It was the first time he had traveled out west. The wide-open ranges and the soaring mountains stretched his imagination, but the endless rolling desert filled him with an inexplicable déjà vu.

  As Paul’s train eventually approached the Mexican border, he changed into a new suit to extinguish any suspicion that he was aligned with the revolutionaries. He didn’t have a passport, but when the two federal soldiers marched slowly down the aisle, Paul handed over his Princeton University ID. One of them looked it over and handed it back to him.

  The train stopped three more times, and each time a different pair of menacing soldiers walked down the aisles of his train, carefully checking the identity of foreigners and asking what business they had in Mexico.

  “Just vacationing,” he always replied with a tight smile.

  When Paul eventually descended from his final train in Mexico, he felt a painful crick in his neck; it seemed as if an invisible force was pinning his head in place. He assumed it had something to do with the pinched nerve he had suffered earlier, so he simply trudged along in discomfort.

  6

  Following a full day of travel on a mule-drawn carriage, Paul finally arrived at the small village of Córdova in the state of Sonora. Millicent’s last mailing address turned out to be a home full of peasants.

  “Are any students from America staying h
ere?” he asked one of the men in his passable Spanish.

  Paul was directed to Victor Gonzalez, one of the original committee members, who said that Millie was running the canteen attached to a small brigade roughly fifty miles to the east. It was headed by Colonel Ceasar Octavio-Noriega, a short man with a bushy white mustache.

  Paul was able to catch a ride there the next day. As rebel soldiers stopped the wagon upon his arrival, Millie came racing up with her arms spread wide.

  “Paul!”

  He kissed her hard on the mouth and squeezed her tightly.

  That night, over soggy corn-flour burritos with rice and beans that tasted like they had been refried one too many times, she filled him in: Things had not been going well. When Madero escaped his captors and made his formal call to arms, he expected to find a trained army of sympathizers waiting to assist him when he crossed the Rio Grande. A small crowd was gathered there, but the ragtag group hardly constituted an army. Madero was forced to retreat back up to Texas. In Mexico, there were some minor skirmishes, but the expected uprising fizzled. Nonetheless, word spread and various insurgent leaders started joining together. Peasants began to grasp the significance of the fight and joined the insurrection. In the state of Chihuahua, Madero supporter Pascual Orozco took over the town of Guerrero. At the end of the November, Francisco “Pancho” Villa captured San Andrés. Back in Sonora, another revolutionary, José María Maytorena, organized a series of small bands which soon infested the north. From the southern state of Morelos, the great Emiliano Zapata sent a delegate to Madero to discuss cooperation in fighting the Díaz regime.

  “I can’t believe you came all the way down here,” Millie said excitedly to Paul.

  “Believe me, I didn’t want to,” he replied, putting his bag down.

  With a wide smile and a beautiful tan, Millie looked like someone else. She led him around the camp proudly showing him off to her various friends and colleagues.

  “Who is this?” Colonel Octavio-Noriega asked suspiciously.

  “My fiancé,” Millie replied.