“Stare long enough and it’s like one is staring at beads of fire on an abacus,” a fellow engineer had said when showing Austin around.
• • •
AUSTIN HEARD ABOUT THE work on a trip from Mazatlán to Hermosillo. In 1927 the companies had begun to send out labor agents wearing placards—to the city, the coast towns, the farmlands, to the places they knew—to find the immigrants and migrant workers, the Yaquis and the farmers, all willing and in desperate need of work. The placards read: “Electricity. Running Water.” The men walked back and forth in the train depots passing out flyers.
They built a home there in the land of Cananea, in 1930. In the two-room barracks house. A shack of raw wood really, filled with splinters. He’d sanded it down, but the splinters were endless—on the porch, along the beams of the slotted wooden railing, the stairs. The children always with a fresh white bandage wrapped around a thumb, a heel. The interior was shadowy and dim. A meager light came from the small saltbox windows in the morning hours, a light that grew stronger, more persistent as the day wore on. They got to keeping the door open—Julia’s idea. It lets in the most light, she’d said once to his concern about danger.
“No one comes around,” she’d told him in response.
“True.” He couldn’t argue with that, but in her voice, the “no one” echoed. She’d missed her family, her first home, and in this open space, during those long hours and the lingering weeks, there was time for the stillness that allows loneliness to enter, reflection too—enough to absorb the distances; the ties to what was once home stretched far and thin, nearly severed.
• • •
SHE WROTE LETTERS. She wrote every day. Sometimes two in a day—letters to her sister, her mother.
“What do you write from one day to the next? You know they both read them anyway so there’s no need to write to each one separately.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised the thoughts that flit through my mind when you’re off digging for gold.”
“It’s copper, my dear Julia, copper. The best conductor of a little something called electricity.”
“Yes. I know, I know.”
He made her a desk. Two planks, smooth and sanded, balanced across bases of wooden milk crates. She liked to write with the door open so that, in the periphery, she could see first the shaded gray of the porch and then the way it gave onto the whiteness of the Sonoran afternoons.
We deliver ourselves through letters. He understood that soon enough. She was writing herself out of Cananea, out of Mexico. After she and the children had left and he’d been there on his own, six months, seven, he walked around in what he could only decide was her discarded solitude, like a garment tattered from overuse. He couldn’t deny her that loneliness—he gone for sometimes up to two weeks, required, as the foreman, to stay at the works full through, the children at the company’s school all day. Some weeks he was let out days early due to an equipment problem, lack of labor, but he never knew before leaving just when he’d be back and so the good-byes now linger in his mind as stagings, intimations of the larger, future parting even if he was only a mile away. He was always stunned and awkward with her tears. She, tense, tight, hands wringing. They seemed to be both standing in awe, overwhelmed by the chasm of sorrow that seemed to crack open within her.
“A letter travels so easily. Why can’t we?” she’d said one night. This, after he’d been home for a few days. That week’s inevitable parting upon them, the night darkening as the horizon disappeared into black, and with the burning copper and the stars out all simultaneous, one couldn’t distinguish between land and sky, sky and land.
“I wrote a letter today,” she’d begin in the silence after dinner. He’d come to wait for it, the day ending with its horizon in bands of blue, apricot, pale yellow deepening into blackness.
“To whom?”
“My sister.” He knew the answer.
She sat, bending forward, her torso pressed into her thighs so that her chin was nearly propped on her knees, her forearms clasped around her shins. The yellow light of the porch illuminated the rectangle of her letter. She clasped it between both hands, and, held that way, he could make out her fine script.
It was their routine. The pauses between each letter reading a way to extend the pleasure of this small ritual, these habits of their domesticity—this, her eventual, evening reading, letters she had written and was about to send, letters to her sister who was trying to plead their case, trying to get the entire family, Austin included, reinstated.
Silence.
“And are we going to hear it?”
Cananea
September 9, 1930
Dear sister Catherine,
We are in what they call here the Desierto, which is not desert as we know it, but more a wilderness, and is it ever quiet, especially with the children gone during the school hours. If you could only know this silence. And there is nothing around. No neighbors, mostly officials, that is all. Not the neighborly kind either. The only entertainment is when we receive a letter so do please keep them coming. We so love to hear news of home and all your doings. All I have while Austin is at the works and while the children are at school are the cars that go by or any that happen to stop in front of the house.
Now that we are somewhat settled (after all our travels), with Austin as a foreman here at the mine—he does work ever so hard and they don’t ask too many questions here which is a relief—I can begin to make a case on our behalf, and work toward reinstatement. I shall write again regarding our efforts.
Your loving sister,
Julia
Cananea
September 28, 1930
Dearest Mother,
It’s now what they call the dry season here and is it ever dry with enough dust to keep me always sweeping. It seems that I can’t ever sweep enough. How I do miss grass. It’s never something one thinks about missing, is it? Well, you’ll laugh to know that I’m sitting here and right outside the front door is a cactus.
Now, to business. I have been corresponding with Senator Tierney, who, in all these years that we have been trying to return back home, is the first human I have encountered. Every one of the officials have said they could do nothing without the permission of the Immigration Department. And now to finally have some clear directions as to how to proceed with efforts to get reinstated. As you know, due to the Cable Act, I now qualify for a visa and will need to go to the Consulate here in Nogales, who in the past has not been helpful and quite unfriendly, and suspicious of Austin. But they tell us that if the children and I receive a visa and return to the U.S. we will have a better chance of getting Austin reinstated. By then, I will be an American citizen again, you see, and can work all that much more, with more power to get him home with us. Of course, the authorities will realize the humane aspect of this. How can they possibly let a young mother and her three children live away from husband and father at a time like this? No. I am an optimist and do believe we will succeed on every front.
Your loving daughter,
Julia
Cananea
November 3, 1931
My dear Catherine:
The children are learning Spanish. How strange, Catherine, to hear these words come out of their little voices. “Mas, mas,” they ask when wanting more food. How ever are these my children, I wonder? There are no other Russians here so I’m afraid Austin is quite lonely—that is, there is no one for him to speak to in his native language as we had when in Constantinople and then more so in Paris. How much he misses his countrymen. Even me, I cannot give that to him, knowing only a few words of Russian, but we try to keep up with the traditions, give the children some sense of Austin’s culture. But you should see him—with his dark black hair and his skin darkened so by this sun, he looks just like one of the Mexicans. I call him an Indio. He fits right in.
Your loving sister,
Julia
Cananea
November 22, 1932
Dearest Mother:
We received your letter today and what a joy it is always to see your fine print. I have come to recognize it like I would your very face. The man at the company store teases me so and I believe if it were not for his kindness, I may not get even half of your letters as the mailman, who comes delivering the mail on the burros, is not diligent and often a letter disappears.
Your loving daughter,
Julia
Cananea
January 12, 1933
Dear Catherine:
I want to thank you for writing such clear, succinct letters to the Senators. You should be proud—and tell mother this—that you are communicating with such esteemed men in public office. I do believe Senator Tierney, though I have never met him, is a good man who genuinely feels for our situation, and, as his letters have illustrated, is working hard to secure a way for me and the children, and God willing, Austin, to travel back to all of you. It is what I pray for most.
Your loving sister,
Julia
Cananea
March 15, 1933
Dear sister Catherine:
I do believe it won’t be much longer and the Consul tells us that too. So we will settle for the time being and wait for word. The consul says to return in a few months’ time, but I wonder if that means one to two months or several months. A funny phrase, that—“a few months’ time,” vague, sitting on either side of hope, either soon or not soon enough.
Just yesterday (Sun.) we went to a neighboring town where the company held a carnival. The children were overwhelmed with such excitement. Poor dears, they never have seen such color, brightness, toys and games. The border runs through this town, cuts it right in half. So close. You can see the other side, almost throw yourself over it, really.
Your loving sister,
Julia
Cananea
April 2, 1933
Dearest Mother:
I do wonder if you’ve had any word from Senator Tierney. They’ve given us such hope here thinking that if the children and I can come home, we’ll have more of an argument and case to plead on Austin’s behalf. He is just about the most hardworking, kindest man, and it’s absolutely silly of them to think he’d do any harm. Oh just thinking of it makes me furious. And they’ve got us so worried here at the Nogales Consulate, with all their questions and suspicions. There is never any rest from thinking they will take Austin away. It stays with us always. Oh, but they must let him in. How can they not? Where would he go and what would happen to him? But I do hope what they say here is true. Perhaps I’ll get a letter from you with news before this one reaches you. We are just now preparing for the rainy season and as much as I’ve complained about the dust—from the dirt yes, but also from the copper smelter which is a very particular kind of dust, lighter than dirt dust, more of a resin that is light and diffuse and enwraps everything in a bronze cloud—I’ll be writing you mud-stained letters with raw hands from all the washing I’ll be doing.
Your loving daughter,
Julia
Cananea
May 1, 1934
My dear Mother and sister Catherine:
Well, what I’ve long awaited to write you news of has finally become a reality. Dearest sister and mother, the children and I have been granted a visa and very soon—I’m so delighted to tell you I can hardly write fast enough—we’ll be reunited with you. I’m due to secure our visas at the Consulate in Nogales. From there, we’ll then take the Mexico Central Line and change in Chicago for the New York line. You can expect us sometime in late June. I’ll post a telegram from the railroad when in Chicago.
I only hope Austin will be safe and well here without us.
Your loving daughter and sister,
Julia
This is what Austin came to know: the evening readings of her letters were a buffer. They were a way for her to share (indirectly) her longing to be home, though she was not aware of it when she read openly as if she were speaking to her sister one-on-one, those words between women, words not meant for his ears. And he’d found it so endearing, the innocent way she’d read to him, her soft, warm voice filling the night, all the while he listening, aware of the significance of each line.
After a week at the mine, sometimes two, he’d return to the barracks, to their home now empty and disordered. He washed with the soap Julia made him, dry and cracked from disuse during his days away. Other nights, before dark he walked the half mile to the company’s store, where the Yaqui miners sat in a row under the shaded overhead, chewing sugar and molasses cakes.
“Another letter for you, Voronkov,” the storekeeper said on this night close to eleven months from their departure.
“Is that right?”
Silence.
“Tobacco. And that paper back there please.”
The sun was setting and Austin walked the route he took from the company store to his barracks house, a route he knew by sensation alone, the temperature dropping on his right and the late day sun, still hot and brittle, on his left. He passed the other barracks houses and nodded to the few workers seated on the front porch, knowing he would hear the flurry of whispers as he reached his fifth step past them. He did not speak to many, only out of necessity and then it was rare—work, when at the store, a few sentences only, “Paper please,” “Pack of Faros,” “Yes,” “Thank you.” He was not empty-handed on this particular walk. He held an envelope in one hand and a package of paper beneath his arm. In his habit, he had not yet opened the letter, rather enjoyed the press of it in his palm, the envelope still sealed like a secret and its scent fresh from the canvas mailbag, allowing the walk to delay the reading so that he could look forward to absorbing her words alone and free from the eyes of others.
How thirsty he was, he realized upon entering the front door, the screen banging behind him as he walked into the room, which, because he kept the shutters closed all day, still held the early morning air, air not touched by the heat. His step on the floorboards caused the unavoidable creaks and pops in concert with the shutters tapping and closing in the breeze, a racket that caused him to drop his bag of purchases (tomato, can of beans, cigarettes) on the table and cross the room to secure the shutter as the yellow-gold light from the end of the day filled the floorboards in their isolated parallel lines. He cleared his throat and hummed as he set out the can with a little bang of confirmation, the tomato already bruised and soft on one unfortunate side, and the pack of Faros, which fell from his hand with a light clicking sound as it hit the table. Then, he turned on the radio he’d made himself—copper wire and magnets. Loud at first and then softening as Austin lowered the volume with the crude knob (a button attached to a thimble), which required the lightest of touches to maneuver.
He took the letter and his Faros and sat on the porch railing in near darkness, the faintest lip of white edging the horizon like a baseboard. He smoked one cigarette to completion and then tore open the letter, this one handwritten on thin, newsprint pages, the palest of gray pinks.
Connecticut, 1934
Dear Austin,
. . . You are in our thoughts and prayers constantly. In your loneliest moments, know I have them too, that I long for you to be with me, dear, and oh the children, they long for you as you long for them. If I had the money, I would take the train all the way back to you, though I know, it’s as you say—if you can hardly support yourself, how would you be able to support a wife and three children, and you are right—they shall grow up as Americans. After this, after everything, that is the least we can come out of from this dreadful situation. I do hope you are eating well, that you are occupied and that you stay strong in mind and body. I write to the senators and congressman almost weekly. . . .
He folded up the letter. Eating well. Eat? Was he hungry? Some days he could not tell. Of course he was, he had felt m
oments when his stomach growled. He would make something—the beans, slice the tomato. Still, he sat, the letter folded and tucked into the front pocket of his shirt. He took another cigarette from his pack, smoking, the sound of his exhale loud as any voice. Write to the congressman weekly. He could see her poised over her desk as she’d been here, the frown of concentration, the indents, half wrinkle, and perhaps she sat with hand on her chin, wondering at how best to make these men in power understand, to write the human element of the story and not just the facts—black and white, with dates and accounts, countries and borders. What did it all mean? Nothing.
Inside, he placed the letter with all the others in a crate under the bed. A whole pile of them—some in pencil, others in her tight script, and still more typed front and back so that it was difficult to read, the print from one side showing through beneath the other as if she couldn’t quite say enough and so her words fell over and under each other, tripping almost in a hurry to say, I miss, I miss. It was as if the words, like the ones she’d sent from Cananea home, now did an about-face and started pouring out in the other direction, as if she’d suddenly realized—horrified—that home was not where she was now, but with him and she’d maybe regretted the leaving now that it was taking so long for him to come.
It was now close to a year.
Cananea, 1935
Dear Julia,
I can imagine what a surprise it still is to your mother and sister to have you back—their long lost Julia, “my Julia,” and in addition three children they’ve never seen before. I am quite happy they are out of this wilderness. It is not the place to raise children. However, I am lonesome without you all, my dear family. I miss you to the point of it being unbearable. I only hope the children aren’t too much trouble for you. Children need a father. Then, they are good. Aussie—he’s as you state. Too boisterous, yes. Really, he is one restless fellow. I just remember that I was not a penny worth better when of his age, but I do love him. If he’s too much mischief, please correct him and sometime overlook him and suggest to him right manners. Oh, that rolling ball Leon. He is a real pet of mine. All the fun I had with him. While, Vera, my dearest baby girl. I know that she loves her daddy greatly. Well, tell her dear to be happy and that I will be soon with her. . . .
The Invention of Exile Page 16