Page 68 of In a Far-Off Land
Oscar wasn’t sure it was the Lord Padre should be thanking, but he cut a length of twine and set about tying a fragile rose stem to a stake.
“I suppose you’re looking for Roman and Angel,” Padre said, handing him another length of twine. “They’re not here.”
Oscar’s throat tightened. Did Padre know what he had done? Probably. He was much like the all-seeing God he represented. “Do you... did you—”
“All will be well, Oscar,” Padre interrupted, propping up a vine heavily laden with blooms while Oscar tied it securely. “You will both cool down and, by tomorrow, forgive each other.”
They finished the roses in silence, and Oscar handed the ball of twine and knife back to Padre. “Thank you, Padre. And if you see Roman, tell him...” That he was sorry. To come home. Not to get into trouble. “Tell him Mamá is worried.”
“Oscar—” The priest put a hand on his arm.
“Yes, Padre?” The wind blew harder, almost taking his hat, and he pulled it tighter on his forehead.
The priest’s wispy hair lifted, showing lines of concern on his forehead. “Oscar—” he looked down at the ball of twine—“I hear a great deal of what goes on in thecolonia. Much of it in the confessional. As you know, I cannot break the seal of confession, but...” He glanced up, then plunged ahead. “I can tell you this. You are not the only one hiding something in thecolonia. I know you are worried about Roman and Angel, but there is another worry here very close to you.”
Oscar didn’t follow. A worry, here, very close? “Meaning what?”
Padre shook his head. “I can say no more.”
Frustration welled in Oscar. Whose confession? His brothers? Mamá? “But you know something.”
Padre nodded. “Only that the human heart hides a great deal. Even those closest to us keep secrets.”
Oscar cranked the Ford and jumped in. He’d had enough of riddles. He didn’t need more puzzles to solve from Padre Ramirez. He’d go home. Maybe Angel had been able to convince Roman to return by now. They would talk and he would tell him how sorry he was. He turned onto Main Street and came within a few blocks of La Placita. Something was happening. He eased up on the accelerator lever. On the street just past the plaza and the statue of Fray Junípero Serra, half a dozen black cars were parked at angles. Groups of bystanders gathered in bunches. Others faced a line of uniformed men holding billy clubs.
Oscar pulled the Ford over and parked, then jumped out and ran toward La Placita. He slowed as he approached a group of old men. “What is it?”
“A raid.” The speaker’s face was drawn with worry. “Everyone in the plaza is being questioned.”
Oscar peered past the black suits. Men and boys from thecoloniasat in groups on the ground.Policíastood, looking at lists and calling names. A police van with an open back held half a dozen of his neighbors. A man with a megaphone called out from the center of the plaza, speaking in English. “Please remain seated. All those detained will be questioned. Do not attempt to cross the line.”
Oscar’s palms went clammy and his heart hammered. No. They wouldn’t be here. He had told Roman and Angel to stay out of the plaza for just this reason.
A hand grabbed at his shirt, and he turned to find Señora Cruzfrom Queen of the Angels. Her voice held panic, her eyes wild. “My son. Oscar, they took my son.”
“Señora Cruz—”
“And Angel, he was here. He tried to talk to the police, but they put him in one of the vans.”
Oscar’s blood surged. “Angel? What about Roman—did you see him?”
The old woman went on about unions and birth certificates. She was crying now. He helped Señora Cruz to a bench and veered around the crowds. Were they here? Or had they been taken? A police officer stepped up to him, a billy club in his hand. “Get back. Anybody crossing the line will be arrested. That means you, big guy.”
Oscar stepped back, his heart a clenched fist in his chest. She could be wrong. Señora Cruz had terrible eyesight. Roman and Angel could be anywhere—at thesociedadeswith Alonso and Raul, or even at home. He’d probably find them eating tortillas and arguing. He ran back to the Ford, his mind bringing forth only one prayer,Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia...
They would be there, at home. They had to be.
——————
Oscar sat in the corner of thesociedades, a two-bit pint of tequila in front of him along with a wet newspaper.
LA PLACITA ALIENS AWAIT DEPORTATION—As part of the biggest drive in the history of California, an army of police and border patrol officials surrounded the plaza known as La Placita today in downtown Los Angeles. Their goal: to round up illegal aliens, communists, and agitators. Those not able to furnishproof of their right to be in California were transported to the repatriation facility on Alameda Street. Federal operatives report a bus will take the deportables across the Mexican border within twenty-four hours.
When Roman and Angel weren’t at home with Mamá, Oscar had gone straight to the repatriation center. It was crowded with wives, mothers, and fathers—all trying to get answers about the raid on the plaza. The federal officers had taken at least fifty men for questioning. Most were Mexican. A few were Japanese and Chinese. The charges were various: illegal residency, unionizing, criminal behavior. Roman and Angel were on the list as agitators, whatever that meant.
Oscar panicked and telephoned Max at the Garden of Allah. He showed up in his suit and tie half an hour later. Hisamericanoaccent and light skin got them to a border officer, a shrunken man in a threadbare suit. “Dominguez. Yes. Angel and Roman, illegal aliens.” He checked his notes. “On the bus tomorrow night.”
Max stayed polite, as if this were all a misunderstanding. “They are citizens of this country, born not two miles from where we sit.”
