Nilda

by Nicholasa Mohr

  “Well,” Benji said seriously, “I know just where to sit so we can see the whole thing. But you and Petra have to follow me fast, or somebody else will sit there. Now, when Don Justicio makes his speech, he says the same thing every time and then he does it. Well, when he starts his speech, I’ll tap you and you tap Petra, because they grab him fast since everybody is usually ready for Don Justicio, okay?”

  “Right! I’ll be ready, Benji,” Nilda nodded.

  “Hey, how are we gonna tell Petra in front of Marge?”

  “Let’s have a game of hide-and-go-seek, Benji. You be It. I’ll watch where Petra hides and tell you, then I’ll go with Marge. You can find Petra and tell her our plan, okay?”

  “Sounds good. Only, you know how Papi feels about my playing games. What if he sees us? Man, then I’ll be in trouble for sure.”

  “Don’t worry, Benji. I’ll look out for them; I won’t hide far. When I see them coming out of the building, I’ll yell ‘Ungawa Ungawa,’ like in the Tarzan movies. That’s what Tarzan yells all the time when he’s in trouble. All right, Benji?”

  “Okay, Nilda.”

  The door flung open; Petra and Marge walked in. Nilda saw that they had on their good Sunday clothes, almost brand-new. She had not gotten anything this year and wore the same coat for school and Sunday. Remembering she had a torn pocket where the lining was showing, Nilda slowly covered the spot with her hand.

  Marge had dozens of curls that looked like tiny bedsprings all over her head; several came down over her forehead, partially covering her eyes. Small red bows were pinned at either side of her head to match her red knee socks. Petra wore her hair in two neat braids tied with blue ribbons. Both sisters had fair complexions and blonde hair; however, Marge had an abundance of thick hair, very golden in color. Her family was very proud of Marge’s hair and looks. “She’s the picture of Shirley Temple,” their mother would say. Marge always wore the latest Shirley-Temple-style clothes. Nilda had heard their mother discussing Marge with a neighbor once. “She even has dimples like Shirley Temple,” she had said. “People mistake her for Shirley Temple sometimes. They just stare at her.”

  Nilda remembered waiting for the two girls one day to go out to play. She had watched as Marge was getting her hair combed. With painstaking effort, their mother undid one of the many lumps of hair that had been wrapped up and knotted in a long thin piece of white rag. Then, taking the lump of hair and wetting it with a green sticky solution, she twisted it around her finger with a comb, jerking it loose. It would separate into one tiny, short blonde curl. With a smile and a chuckle of satisfaction, their mother would continue to make another curl. Boy, Nilda thought, it seemed to take forever to get out to play that day. She had been grateful that Petra always wore two plain braids. Petra was two years older than Marge and one year older than Nilda. She was easygoing by nature, never asserting her authority as the oldest in the group.

  “Hi!” said Petra. “Is there going to be a party and a service tonight, Benji?”

  “Oh, yeah. Papi said now we need it so that we can fight the devil and sin that cause wars.”

  “My papá knew we were going to have the war,” Nilda announced. “You see, they are just puppets of Hitler and Mussolini and Fascism.”

  All three children turned and, with confused expressions, looked at Nilda. After a short silence, Petra asked, “Fascism? What is that?”

  “Well,” Nilda said, “that’s when they kill people. Like they don’t let you be free. And they also kill little kids.”

  “Oh,” Marge said, “that’s their religion.”

  “No!” answered Nilda. “It’s not a religion.”

  “Well, I never heard of it. My father never mentioned it to us,” Marge said.

  Nilda looked around her. All three of them were waiting for her to speak. “Look,” she went on, “when you want to be free, okay? And you do what they want, or else!”

  “My father says we do what he wants, or else!” Marge said quickly. Petra and Benji giggled.

  “Your father is not gonna kill you and drop bombs and destroy whole villages, now is he?” Nilda yelled furiously. “Just like Hitler and the Japs who bombed the whole U.S. Navy? You gotta know that, I hope, for your own sakes!”

  A door opened from the back of the hallway, and a voice yelled, “Hey, shut up. Get out of the hall and go play outside. Stop that God damn racket.” They all heard a loud slam as the door shut.

  Benji looked at Nilda and whispered, “I get it now.”

  “Me too,” said Petra.

  “Let’s play a game of hide-and-go-seek,” Benji said. No one answered him or moved. “Come on, Nilda, let’s play.” Going over to her, he whispered in her ear, “Our plan, Nilda, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah, let’s get out of this dumb hallway. Let’s go out and choose who’s gonna be It,” Nilda said, and ran out of the building with the other children following her. Outside, they gathered in a circle. “Eeny meeny miney moe, catch a monkey by the toe. My teacher said to pick this one.” Nilda did this very quickly, pointing to Benji. “You’re It, Benji,” Nilda yelled. “Come on, let’s hide.”

  “Remember Papi, Nilda,” Benji said nervously.

  “Oh, yeah. We have to stay close to the lamppost because Benji’s father might catch him playing,” Nilda explained. “Now, when I yell ‘Ungawa’ like Tarzan in the movies, you have to come out fast and act like we were just talking. Let’s go. Go on, Benji, start counting.”

  Benji started counting and, as everyone ran, Nilda waited, whispering to Benji, “Benji, Petra went behind that big black car across the street. I’m gonna follow Marge. You tell Petra our plan.”

  The game continued until Nilda was It. As she leaned forward against the lamppost, her hands covering her eyes, counting, “… fourteen, fifteen, sixt …” she heard voices; people were coming out of the building. Quickly she yelled, “Ungaawaa, Ungaawaa!” Benji came running; Marge and Petra followed. Breathless, they walked up to the stoop steps to join the people who were assembling.

  All of Benji’s brothers and sisters were there with his grandmother, his mother, his mother’s younger sister, who held on to two small children and her husband, who carried an infant in his arms. The men all wore dark suits and coats. The women had on very plain clothes and, except for Benji’s mother, no make-up. Benji’s mother was dark-skinned, and Nilda noticed that whenever his mother went to church she covered her face with powder. The powder was very light in tone; bits of it settled in the creases and wrinkles of her face, giving her an ashen look. Nilda thought, She looks like she’s got a mask on, and remembered the white flour she put on her own face for Halloween.

  The older kids and grown-ups held small black Bibles. Whenever Nilda asked a question about their religion, they always quoted from the Bible.

  “When are we leaving?” someone asked.

  “We have to wait for Don Wilfredo to come down,” someone else answered.

  After a short while Benji’s father came down. He was dressed in a black suit, black coat and wore a wide-brimmed black fedora on his head. He was a small man, fair in complexion, so thin that the brim of his fedora was as wide as his shoulders. Slowly raising his arms, he said, “This day when our Lord has sent us fire, doom and destruction … let us go directly to the house of God.” Looking around him, he continued solemnly, “Let us pray as we walk, and think of Him. El Señor nos protege.”

  “Aleluya!” people responded.

  “Amen.”

  “El Señor es poderoso.”

  Don Wilfredo slowly dropped his arms and started to walk. The large group of people followed as he led the way. Nilda walked close to Benji with Petra and Marge. Man! This looks like a parade, she thought.

  December 7, 1941

  Evening

  As they marched to the storefront church, Nilda saw the people they passed on the street point and stare at the group. They continued marching silently. Nilda wanted to say something, but since no one spoke, she remained si
lent. They finally arrived at the church. The large storefront window had the words

  LA ROCA DE SAN SEBASTIÁN, INC.

  printed on it in large black letters. Just below them, in smaller black print, were the words

  IGLESIA PENTECOSTAL

  Underneath the words was a painted scene of San Sebastián in a white tunic, with long blond hair down to his shoulders, a blond beard and a golden halo painted over his head. He stood barefoot on top of a large boulder on a mountain of green grass. He looks just like the statue of Jesus in St. Cecilia’s, thought Nilda.

  The entire window was covered by the painted scene, so that it was not possible to see inside the church too clearly. The large room was brightly lit and some people were already seated. As they entered, Benji whispered to Nilda, “Follow me. Hurry up.” Nilda, Petra and Marge trailed along as Benji went over to the second row. He sat in the first seat near the aisle. Then Nilda, Petra and Marge sat down next to each other. Benji looked at Nilda and nudged her with his elbow. “This is just right,” he said, laughing. Nilda laughed and nudged Petra who began to giggle.

  “What’s so funny, everybody?” asked Marge.

  “Nothing,” said Petra, laughing.

  “If nothing is funny, then why are you all laughing? Let me know too,” she insisted.

  “Shh,” Nilda said, raising her finger and frowning at Marge. “Be quiet.” Marge settled back, sulking. Some of Benji’s family began to seat themselves next to the children.

  More people came into the church, greeting one another. “Buenos días. What a sad day today.”

  “Amen.”

  “Good day. Aleluya!”

  “What a tragedy.”

  All the seats were beginning to fill up. “Hi, Benji,” said one boy. “What are you doing sitting way up here? Wanna sit back with us?”

  “No, it’s okay. I gotta stay here,” Benji answered, looking away, avoiding the boy.

  “What’s your father do in the church again, Benji?” Nilda asked. She knew his father had an important position.

  “He’s the sexton. He takes care of seeing that the church is taken care of; like it should have enough chairs and tables, lights and all that. He was working here all day for the service tonight.”

  “Oh,” said Nilda, impressed.

  Women carrying shopping bags walked up to a long table which was to the right of the small center platform. They began to take out bowls and pots of food, setting them on the table. There were jars of juice and maví. Nilda loved maví; it had a tangy taste. Paper plates, cups and napkins were set down next to metal forks and knives.

  On the other side of the platform was a piano, a drum set, maracas, two tambourines, the back of a banjo head, rhythm sticks and a güiro. There were rows of wooden folding chairs, going from the back of the room right up to the pulpit on the platform. An open space was left in the center, creating an aisle.

  The minister walked up to the pulpit. He was a short plump man with a dark brown complexion. He wore his tight curly hair short; it was greying at the temples and thinning at the top. One of his front teeth was capped in shiny gold and reflected the lights as he smiled, greeting the people. “Aleluya, brother,” he said. “Amen.”

  The musicians appeared and walked up to the platform, taking their places by the instruments. A very fat woman sat down at the piano. She had a fair pink complexion and looked flushed as she thumbed through the music sheets. The rest of the musicians were men, and each one took up an instrument. Another man followed, holding a guitar, and took his place next to the drums.

  Raising his arms, the minister looked at the congregation. He looked to the left and to the right with his arms outstretched. The church was full; every seat was occupied and there were some latecomers standing in the rear. It got very quiet. He then raised his right hand, holding it above his head and pointing up with his forefinger. The minister began the sermon, speaking in Spanish. “What is the message? Eh? Today we have a sign from the Lord. Our Savior, El Señor.”

  “Amen,” people called out.

  “Aleluya.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I was gonna talk about sin and the devil and little things like that. Oh, yeah! I say little things like that because … NOW! … I say NOW! The Lord Jesus has spoken to us of war and enemies. God is patient with His children. Until finally, we go too far! Our country is in danger. And we? What do we do? Live in sin. Tomorrow I’ll think about Jesus. Today I’ll gamble and drink; tomorrow I’ll think about Jesus. Today I’ll covet my neighbor’s wife; tomorrow I’ll think about Jesus.” With that the minister leaped out from behind the pulpit and pointed to one of the congregation. “You!” Then he pointed to another. “You!” And another. “You!” … “You! What have you done? Come on now. Have you thought of Jesus every moment? Have you thought of our country and God?”

  “Amen!”

  “Aleluya.”

  “Help me, oh, Lord.”

  “El Señor, help me!” people began to shout.

  The minister waited a moment and went on. “What have you been thinking, brothers and sisters? Commit yourselves to Jesus. The Bible tells us, the Bible warns us. Oh, yes it does. Devastation! Destruction! Fire, doom and damnation. That’s no news. No, sir. Are we gonna be surprised?”

  “No. Jesus help us sinners.”

  “Aleluya.” Everyone was yelling out.

  Walking back to the pulpit, the minister looked at the congregation and said in a softer tone, “Let me read from the Bible, from Jeremiah, chapter twenty-one.” Pausing, he began to read from the large Bible placed in front of him. “The word which came unto Jeremiah from the Lord, when King Zedekiah sent unto him.…”

  Nilda listened as the minister spoke, enjoying the way he preached. She liked their services. This was more fun than Mass at St. Cecilia’s. Nilda wondered when that man Don Justicio was coming. She wanted to ask Benji about it, but she looked at Benji and saw he was quietly concentrating on what the minister said.

  “… But I will punish you according to the fruit of your doings, saith the Lord, and I will kindle a fire in the forest thereof, and it shall devour all things round about it.” Closing the book and picking up his arms, he paused awhile, then shouted, “Oh, Lord, save us. Have pity on us. We commit ourselves to You, dear Master, Jesus.” Turning to the musicians, he clapped his hands briskly and said, “Let’s have a chorus.”

  Immediately, Nilda heard the drums and all the percussion start. A Latin beat sounded, quick in tempo, with a loud African rhythm. Then the piano and the guitar began playing the melody.

  The minister began to sing, “Adore, adore Jesus. We shall be saved.” Everybody joined in singing, and they clapped their hands. People were swaying in their seats, clapping and singing on, “Be not afraid. We will go to heaven.”

  Nilda started tapping her feet, following the rhythm. This is great, she thought. Except for the words, it sounds just like regular music. It was the same kind of music she heard on the Spanish radio stations, at parties in her own home and in her neighborhood. She began to rock back and forth in her seat, tapping her feet with the rhythm.

  The minister was on the platform, clapping his hands and singing.

  “Amen, Jesus loves me.” People were standing, rocking and swaying as they sang chorus after chorus.

  “Save me, Jesus.”

  “I love You, Lord,” voices called out.

  “Come on. Come on,” the minister shouted. “Let Him enter into our bodies. Sisters, brothers, we shall be saved!”

  Nilda heard a shriek. A woman stood up; she was shaking all over. The minister raised his hand toward the musicians and they lowered the sound of the music, slowly stopping altogether.

  “¡Ayyyyyy! ¡Ay … ayyyyyy!” the woman shouted. The minister rushed over to her. Benji’s father took the woman by one arm and the minister held her by the other arm. “Eeeeeeeee,” the woman yelled. They brought her up to the platform. She swooned and shrieked.

  “He is entering her bod
y,” the minister said. “Kneel, sister, kneel. Let Him in, sister, let Him in. Amen.”

  The woman was crying and shaking. “No more, Jesus. I will sin no more. I was a sinner; drinking, and going to bed with any man who asked me. Oh, Lord! Now I don’t need men. I don’t need sin. I got You, Jesus.”

  “Aleluya, sister.”

  The woman was kneeling, and every few seconds she would jerk her body and scream.

  “The Lord is in her body,” the minister said. “Look. Look at her, everyone. He is sending His message through her body! He has penetrated her soul!”

  Another scream was heard and several people in back were jumping around. “Come on up here, brothers, sisters. Let the Lord get into your bodies. Commit yourselves to Jesus.”

  “Kneel, children of God, brother, sister, kneel.” Some kneeled, others fell on the floor shaking, crying. Everyone was shouting.

  Nilda watched wide-eyed and began to giggle softly. Benji looked at her and whispered, “That’s when the Lord gets into them,” covering his mouth and suppressing laughter. Nilda and Benji were trying hard not to laugh out loud.

  Petra looked at them and said, “They all look like they’re having fits.” Benji tried to tell her something but kept giggling instead.

  “The Lord is supposed to be in their bodies,” Nilda said, looking at Petra and Marge, trying not to giggle. Marge looked terrified; she had never been inside this church before. Petra had attended only a short service once last year. Nilda had gotten used to the ceremony; she had come often with Benji. They usually sat in the back by the door with the other kids, sneaking out to play during the service. Today, however, they sat up front, looking forward to something else.

  The music started again; this time they played a slow bolero rhythm with a soft melody that sounded familiar to Nilda. After a while she recognized it. It was a marching tune they played in school. The congregation had composed themselves and stood up with their hands over their hearts, singing in English, “Three cheers for the red, white and blue.…” They sang the second chorus in Spanish.