An Occasion for Drawing on a Postcard
A member of the staff of the YMCA had given me his last sheets of paper so I could write letters for my buddies and students.
At that point, six men I did not know entered through a door on the other side of the room and caught my attention. When I noticed that they were asking for paper, I invited them over to use what I had at my table. They did not seem to understand what I was saying, and the more I spoke to them in Spanish, the more confused they appeared. For some reason, I felt they were making fun of me when they laughed, especially since they were not responding or treating me seriously. I then spoke to them roughly and “with the language of the soldier.” They still refused to pay much attention, but I was glad to have told them off. I continued writing without thinking much about them, and my blood pressure began to come down little by little.
I had practically forgotten the incident when one of the men approached me and courteously asked me in English, “Have you any writing paper left, please?” I insisted on answering in Spanish, “Did I not just ask you a while ago? Why did you ignore me?” He replied in a serious tone, “We don’t speak Spanish.”
“What are you then?”
“Indians.”
“You can’t be more Indian than I am. What kind of Indians are you?”
“Oklahomans.”
“Well, I’m of the Texas kind, but we’re the same, right? What is sad and even embarrassing is that we should have to resort to the language of the last conqueror in order to communicate. It pleases me to see that you still preserve some of the indigenous language.”
I gave them paper and envelopes and we had a long conversation. I learned that they too hope for a better future for their people and rightfully expect to be treated better.
Many of the men are very rich and educated. They were required to fight for the stars and stripes without being recognized as citizens of the United States. They belong to the Second Division in our brigade. I had already heard that they acted like tigers in combat. They tell me—and the Indian people are not self-serving in saying it—that many of their buddies have fallen in battle, and that they discharged their duty the same as other men, white or black.
The conversation impressed me so much, and I am glad that we have been faithful to our duty. To record this thought, I picked up a pencil and compass and traced a circle, which I painted blue. The blue field represents an unconditionally defeated Germany waiting for the terms of peace. On this field, I have linked a T and an O to represent the great army of occupation and the courageous Indians from Oklahoma and the Indians from Texas (Mexican American). We feel a deep sense of pride to be in these lands that were taken from the blind despots who ignored the voice of justice. I have placed our coat of arms over the field so no one forgets that we came to defend mankind and democracy. The T and O denote the 90th Division, which is also known as the Texas and Oklahoma Division. I have made liberal use of our national colors, as if I was hearing the words from Over There, “the red, white, and blue,” the colors we came to defend with our blood.
We have given our all in the fight against Germany, just like we will devote ourselves to addressing all the hardships brought on by the German war.
I am proud to see each one of my Mexican brothers show off the uniform of our victorious army. I see them as giants in their humble appearance. They are bigger and more genuine than all the warriors of the distant past who clashed in bloody conflict on these same battlefields.
The years will pass, they will become centuries, but over time people in these mountains and valleys will likely remember the silhouetted images of the Mexican Americans and the Indians from Oklahoma as the spirit of the indigenous people of America demanding justice in their first crusade in the Old World.
I used all of today’s drawings to make a postcard.
Wednesday, April 9
This was a quiet day. My friends Barrera and Gómez are going to Paris. The reports from the soldiers who have been visiting the city of light are interesting. While some soldiers say it is very beautiful, most of them disagree and say that our cities in America are better by far. No one believes they have seen anything worthwhile. The truth of the matter is that they are not prepared to appreciate a great city. They discover what they expect to find. The soldiers who say that Paris is the most corrupt city they have ever seen may have been seeking vice and finding it. The soldiers who know nothing of the history, language, and customs of the ruling and educated classes must have felt they were in a desert. Some of them are so uninformed they cannot accept that their ignorance is the sole reason for their mistaken conclusions.
We received the best news of all today. Our division will be leaving for America on May 23. Colonel Conrad telegraphed the message from Koblenz. My class is going well. I sent souvenirs to my little friend Roberto, and to my loved ones as well.
Thursday, April 10
The days seem long. Everything is depressing and we are eagerly waiting for the wonderful day of our departure. Nothing else concerns us more. Even material for my diary seems to be running out. Nothing interests me, everything seems insignificant and unimportant. I follow the same routine every day, and this makes life monotonous.
A lot of planes have been flying over the area. I have not had much time to study and have had more chores than usual. I received a letter from my brother José that he wrote with his new “Oliver.” Good. I did not go anywhere and continue to accept my lot indoors.
Friday, April 11
The morning brought a rainstorm, and we did not have reveille. I went to class and grew concerned that my friends are so bored they have lost much hope and give themselves to hopeless pleasures. They do not seem to understand the seriousness of their condition as illiterates, even as they are about to return home, and they are incapable of understanding that they have lost an opportunity to learn. They are returning to civilian life and leaving behind the hardships the sweep of destiny brought upon us. We are not worried by what the future has in store for us. We will soon see our brothers in the clutches of the “German” from Texas. This time, they will not have a rifle to defend themselves as they did in Europe. I tell them to continue studying. They promise to do it, but I fear that they will not and that our sacrifice, if they understand it at all, will be of little use.
Lieutenant Klebold is now a captain. Good for him, he knows how to make use of opportunities. His service record shows how much the humble soldiers have done for him. We do not think he will forget and wish him the best. He is going to Paris tomorrow to show off his stripes, to rest, and enjoy the life of leisure for a few days.
Marks had to go to the hospital today. Poor fellow, we fear for his health!
Zeltingen, Germany
April 11, 1919
Marce:
I hope all of you are doing well.
I know that by the time you receive this letter, others will already have reached you. I realize now that the reason you had not written was because you were ill. That’s what I thought.
I can see that you need me, but a discharge will not make things better for me because I would be there without work or money. I don’t know how you asked for my military discharge. Everyone has a right to request it for a family member. The trick is to get the government to agree simply because you ask for it. You obviously need a good reason. I fear some crafty devil convinced you that my discharge could be secured quickly. Don’t be fooled by the many deceitful people who are around. I also noticed that you sent the letter “special delivery.” I don’t know why you went to that expense. The postage does not matter at all. It got here just like the others.
Do not make the usual $20 payment on the house. Remember that the understanding was for $10. That will probably help. I will settle with the old man when I get there. I wrote Washington today to arrange the final payment.
I look forward to seeing you soon.
LUZ
TO MY LITTLE ONES
The time is 3:20 p.m. and it’s been cloudy and drizzly almost the entire morning. This is April and we are in full spring. The “railroad station street” is across from our office. The Moselbahn railroad runs between the street and the side of the Moselle River. The window to our office faces south. No houses appear across the river, only the Eifel Mountains that are covered with tall trees. A road runs on the other side of the river, alongside many vineyards and gardens that the local Germans tend. The cold front ended a few days ago and everything is beginning to look beautiful.
New leaves are beginning to appear on the trees, and many have already flowered. The German people really love exquisite flowers, and they maintain manicured gardens. The warm weather has encouraged them to take out the many plants they had kept in their basements and greenhouses. A large number of birds are showing up. I cannot tell where they come from, perhaps from the south or the nearby woods where they spent the cold days of winter. I do not recognize most of them, but they are beautiful. Their feathers are different from the birds’ feathers in America. People from here do not know of mockingbirds, cardinals, or orioles. A finch that sleeps near our window always announces the good and pleasant days with song. The owner of the house tells us the bird has been sleeping in the same tree for years. The little bird had already sung a lot by the time the bugle called us to do our soldierly duty.
Children from a nearby school march by our street every Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday during Lent. The school is an official one, but the teachers and students are Catholics. I have visited the school and know the four male and female teachers. They usually pass by at quarter of twelve.
Their locomotives, boxcars, and passenger cars are very different from ours. They are not as fast and big, and they are even ugly when compared to the ones we see in America. Some small, nice-looking steamboats occasionally travel upstream, almost always with several small barges in tow. The boats drop off the barges at the towns along the way. They are loaded with large wine caskets. The barges are then set free to move downstream to towns where the wine is consumed.
I always thought that our humble, working Mexican people were the most backward in the world. Others have described us this way for so long we have even come to believe it ourselves. As you can see, this expedition has served us well, even if it was only to see and compare with our own eyes, and repeat what our aunts have said, “seeing is believing.” We have seen backward people in the northern part of the United States, in England, France, Belgium, Luxembourg and, now, Germany. I now know that the heavy and eternally squeaking, two-wheeled cart pulled by horribly treated oxen is not the absolute low point of civilization. In Germany as well as in France, people use the few cows that are left, whether milk-producing or not, to pull their carts and plows. We have often seen dogs and horse-cattle combinations pull their carts, and it is not unusual to see men, women, and children do this work. The strange thing is that they do not use pack mules. It seems that these humble people would rather use cows to produce milk, calves, meat, and leather, and as beasts of burden, all rolled into one. I thought all this had resulted from the war and its hardships but we have also seen how their artists have long immortalized these same scenes.
One of the typical tasks performed around here is carrying cow dung up the mountains to the vineyards. This is how they fertilize the soil-washed ground below the vine, which is the life of these people. Every day, long caravans of men, women, and children carry baskets on their backs filled with the rich bovine treasure that has been collected during the winter and carefully kept in covered holes. Imagine this sight!
I am intrigued by the possibility that this place may have originated racial prejudice, the fuse that will no doubt set the globe on fire during the next world war. They tell their children of their racial superiority over all the other races on earth much like they would teach the ABCs.
May God remind us what the war made patently clear—“weapons are the great equalizers.” We will have peace as long as we do not forget this lesson. Otherwise, we will have to pick up the rifle again.
With love, your father,
LUZ