The day was ending, and Bernabé was too fatigued to continue running. His lungs felt as if they were about to rupture, and he was forced to stop abruptly, gasping through his open mouth. The plaza was behind him, but he didn’t know what to do next, so he followed three men who were leaving the city, heading in a northern direction toward the Volcán de Guazapa. As he followed, Bernabé tripped over his torn cassock several times, each time hurting his broken hand. He tried to tear off the long garment, but it was impossible for him to undo the front buttons with only one hand.
As they moved closer to the volcano, Bernabé realized that there were others besides him heading up the same path. Without asking, he knew that they were going up into the mountains, to the guerrillas’ stronghold. He saw the crowd growing. People appeared from everywhere, trickling into the group from behind trees, from under shaded awnings, from the entrances of houses and huts. There were people of all shapes and ages. Men walked side by side with grandmothers. Children and adolescents as well as old men mingled with the crowd. Young women, many of them pregnant, others with babies and older children at their side, walked, taking short, rapid steps.
Bernabé saw that they were mostly field workers, men and women with hardened hands and leathery faces. As he looked around him, he saw people whose eyes were small from squinting in the harsh sunlight. Their lips had tightened against pain and humiliation, against suffering. Most of them were dressed in tattered clothing. The women covered their heads with faded shawls, and the men wore ragged trousers and threadbare shirts, their heads covered with frayed sombreros, yellowed and stained by years of sweat. Their feet, some clad in rough sandals, others bare and toughened, pounded the volcanic earth which rose in dusty gusts. The evening air was tinted with hues of yellow and gold, and the shadows of those men and women lengthened in the setting sun.
Bernabé was bewildered by what was happening to him. He looked at the unknown faces swirling around him, trying to understand the events of that day. He was afraid, but not knowing what to do, he continued walking as if in a daze, caught in the press of bodies that pushed him forward.
The crowd continued its trek up the skirt of the volcano, but came to a sudden stop when another group, armed men and women, appeared from behind a ridge in the mountain. They rushed forward embracing as many of the newcomers as possible. Bernabé suddenly found himself surrounded by a cluster of smiling, laughing, jubilant men, women and children. He felt as if he had stumbled onto a carnival or a fiesta; there was handshaking, hugging, and back-slapping. He turned in circles, looking in every direction, thinking that perhaps he was the only stranger among them, when unexpectedly two arms encircled him from behind. Bernabé turned and looked into a face that seemed friendly. He returned the warmth of the embrace.
“Me llamo Nestor Solís.”
“Yo soy Bernabé Delcano.”
Nestor Solís was more or less Bernabé’s age. He was dressed in faded pants, and a coarse white shirt that was half-buttoned, exposing his bronzed chest. He wore heavy boots. A straw sombrero shaded his eyes. Like his compañeros, he was armed with a weapon which he wore strapped across his chest. As he spoke, Nestor’s eyes were bright with exhilaration at the wave of new recruits joining the ranks of the guerrillas. When he smiled, Bernabé saw that several of Nestor’s front teeth were missing.
“Are you a priest?” Nestor asked.
“No, not yet, and I suppose I never will be now.”
Bernabé heard his words and he was shocked by what he had uttered. The thought of not returning had not crossed his mind. When he spoke again, his words were hesitant.
“I, well, I think God has other plans for me. I suppose. Someone else will have to be a priest in my place. Maybe I’ll have to stay with you.” As he said these words, Bernabé lifted his arm in a broad curve to include the guerrilla force. Even though he had used his able arm, the motion had caused him to flinch.
“You’re hurt. Is it bad?”
“No, Señor. It’ll soon pass.”
Bernabé lied, for his hand was hurting more than ever. He momentarily forgot his pain, though, when an armed, powerfully built man called for the attention of the crowd.
“¡Bienvenidos, compañeros y compañeras! Soy el Capitán Gato. I’m here to welcome all of you, and to let you know that you’re safe. Up there, beyond that mountain, you’ll find shelter and protection. You might want to return to where you came from but, on the other hand, you might want to join us. You’ll have time to find out for yourselves.”
He paused, as if expecting someone to ask a question, but there was silence, interrupted only by the sound of wind sliding off the volcano’s side. Capitán Gato had more to say to the crowd.
“We’re still a long way from the end of our road. We must march past Presa Embalse, then up the mountains of Chalatenango to where our other brothers and sisters are waiting for us. It’s going to be difficult, so you need to help one another.”
After a brief rest, the exodus of men, women, and children resumed the journey. Nestor kept close to Bernabé as they moved forward. He pointed out the trails used by the guerrillas and explained what he knew of life in the mountains.
“Listen, compañero, don’t assume that I know everything just because I can show you a thing or two. In fact, I haven’t been up here for too long. I’m really a campesino. I was born on a small piece of land where I lived all my life with my mother, my father and my two sisters. The two girls are younger than I am.”
Bernabé was listening to Nestor with interest. He glanced at him as they walked. When Nestor stopped talking, Bernabé questioned him. “Why did you join the guerrillas if you’re a campesino?”
Nestor licked his lips as he concentrated on his answer. “Not so long ago, just last January, one evening when we were eating our dinner, four soldiers broke into our house. It happened so suddenly that none of us could do anything. My father’s ankle had been broken in an accident he had with the mule, so he couldn’t even stand up. When I tried to defend my mother and my sisters, I got smashed in the mouth with a rifle butt.”
Nestor was again quiet; he seemed to be brooding. Bernabé decided not to ask any more questions, but his companion suddenly began to speak again.
“They wanted something to drink, so my mother gave them water. Then they said they were hungry, so we shared what we were eating.”
When Nestor paused, Bernabé looked at him and saw that the vein in his neck had swollen, and that he was swallowing rapidly. Not knowing what to say, Bernabé kept quiet.
“Then one of the pigs began to laugh, and he said that he was hungry, but not for the maize we were eating. He was looking at my sisters, and I knew what he was saying. I’ll tell you, compañero, I hope you never feel what I felt at that moment. I was afraid, but at the same time I felt rage pulling at my hair.”
“I jumped at the pig, and grabbed his filthy throat. Then everything went black. One of them hit me on the head with a rifle. But the blackness lasted just a few minutes, because when I opened my eyes I saw that my father had crawled to one of the mierdas and had taken hold of his ankle. The animal shot my father in the head. When my mother tried to reach my father, the soldier shoved her so hard that she fell to the floor.”
“Por favor, compañero, don’t tell me any more. Let’s just keep quiet while we’re walking.”
“No, no, I need to tell you what hapened. ¡Esos marranos! It was easy for them. While one aimed his gun at me and my mother, the others did what they wanted with my sisters. They forced them to take their clothes off in front of us. They were laughing and making filthy noises with their teeth. The girls fought. They kicked and scratched, but that only excited the shit eaters more. They took turns making my sisters kneel down in front of them. They forced them to suck their pinga, all the time yelling ‘¡Más! ¡más!’”
“Then they took the next step. They raped them. When the filthy pigs were tired, like animals, they went over to the table and ate what was there. Then they left.”
Nestor began to choke, but he regained his voice in a few moments. “Sometimes I feel bad because I left my mother and sisters to come here, but I couldn’t think of any other way to make those animals pay for what they did to us. Here I have the opportunity to look for the pigs. Each time the compañeros capture a handful, I am the first one who looks at them. You think it’s impossible for me to find those soldiers, don’t you? Well, compañero, I’ll tell you, you’re wrong. I remember that one of them had a scar that crossed his face from his ear to his nose. I’ll recognize that one’s face even at midnight! Sooner or later he’ll show up.”
In the two days it took the group to arrive at the guerrilla headquarters in the Chalatenango mountains, Nestor and Bernabé continued talking. Travel had been slow because of the number of the group and the scarcity of food, but when they arrived they were happy in spite of their fatigue and hunger. As they walked through the center of a small, makeshift village, Bernabé was surprised by the dwellings he saw. Houses, sheds and shelters had been carved out of the lush mountain forest, and even though the shacks were tiny, they were sturdy, and they provided shelter and safety.
Bernabé now felt less pain in his hand. Still wearing his torn, mud-caked cassock, he walked with the rest of the group as they were noisily welcomed by the guerrillas who had been expecting them. Men and women waved their hands, calling out, “¡Bienvenidos, bienvenidos!” There were women outside of each hut, their cooking gear in place. Bernabé, who was famished, saw griddles placed over inviting fires with pupusas and other appetizing foods piled on them. He noticed with even more interest that the women were armed, and that each woman had a weapon which was leaning carefully against a rusty tub, or a tree stump, or some other place nearby. He also saw that each woman, regardless of age was wearing a bandolier stuffed with ammunition.
Bernabé thought of his mother, and he tried to imagine her dressed like those women. To his surprise he found it easy to picture her among the other women.
“You would be right there, Madre, welcoming me and the other new people. Your legs would be spread apart, planted in the dirt. You’d be wearing one of those big sombreros, and you’d like the ammunition belt that everyone wears here. Your arms would be folded over your chest as if to let everyone know that you were capable of being a dangerous person. Sí, mamá. You would be a good guerrilla!”
He caught himself smiling at his thoughts. But when he looked around, he felt confusion and fear gripping him. When night approached, Bernabé was shown where he was to sleep. There, a young man pointed to the cot that would be for his use. He told Bernabé that he would be leaving soon but that in the meantime he would be happy to help him. Bernabé welcomed the man’s friendliness, and asked him his name.
“Arturo Escutia,” was the brief response.
The following morning, when Bernabé awoke, he noticed that the young man was gone. He wondered why Arturo Escutia had not asked him for his own name, then did not give the young man another thought.