The first time the soldiers came, I was not tall enough to use the stove. Papá was away at work and mamá said the tortillas couldn’t wait. The door was so heavy for me then, and it scraped against the floor, but I was strong. The two soldiers were tall and the bullets strung across their chests reflected the sun into my eyes. The one in the back was carrying a package and the one with the sombrero had a rifle that looked twice my height. They looked scary, but abuelita always said they would never hurt me. They needed to look that way so the bad guys would get scared and leave me alone.
“We are looking for the strongest man in the world.”
I beamed. “Papá can lift a whole sack of flour over his head! And he can carry two buckets of water from the well at the same time!”
“Where is your papá?”
“En el centro. He works there.”
They left without another word and I threw myself against the door to close it. When I ran back into the kitchen, mamá asked who it was. I told her about the bullets and the package. “They were looking for papá. I told them he isn’t home.”
The second time the soldiers came, papá was out of town for work. Abuelita was the one who opened the door, the stone-faced soldier faltering a little. The shorter one behind him carried the same package as the last one. She greeted them like old friends the same way she did with everyone from our neighbors to the peddlers that came in the Summer to the charlatans she passed by in the center. They greeted her with respect.
“Hola, doña. We are looking for the strongest man in the world. The military has awarded him a medal for his marksmanship.”
She shook her head. “My son is no marksman. You are at the wrong house.”
“Our records say he lived here.”
“Perhaps he moved away.”
“And your husband?”
“No longer with us.”
She closed the door. I tugged on her skirt. “¿Tita? When is papá coming home? And why are the soldiers looking for him?”
She smiled, a weary smile. A smile whose wrinkles betrayed so much pain and sorrow but the kind I couldn’t comprehend yet. A smile of betrayal. A smile of love. She took my hand and led me to her bedroom, sat on the bed, lifted me onto her lap, and reached over to the bowl on her nightstand full of caramel drops in gleaming wrappers. Her fingers were long and spindly like the needles she used to knit, worn through like a stepping stone wears off with the imprint of a shoe. Mamá didn’t like it when she gave me sweets before dinner but we both promised not to tell.
“Let me tell you a story, mija. A long time ago, when the war had just begun, Dios sent an angel to a little boy in his sleep. The angel told him he would protect him because all the soldiers were away and he wasn’t old enough to fight yet. The boy was sad, but he understood he had to grow up first. When the war came to his town, the boy had grown up enough that he knew he was ready to fight but his mamá and papá were not happy with this. They wanted to hide him from the army by pretending he was a girl, but he couldn’t bear it. He told his parents he would fight like the other men.”
I giggled. The thought of my papa dressed like me, with ribbons in his big mustache instead of my braids made me giddy.
“The boy went off to the war, his angel following him and protecting him from his enemies. By the grace of God, he was able to be brave and strong and protected his town. When he returned, he was welcomed as a hero. The army wanted to give him medals and money and land, but he refused. The safety of his family was enough for him.”
“And then he married mamá!” I shouted. She patted my head.
“That boy fought very hard for you, mija. And your papá is working very hard for you too. He is coming home soon.”
Papá did not come home, his coworker brought back only his hat. It was the only time I was hated Abuelita’s stories.
The third time the soldiers came, Mamá refused to open the door. She had done nothing but weep and sew for months after Papá went back to Dios and she could not face our neighbors anymore. Now I was the one who made the tortillas and took care of Abuelita, who could no longer stand.
“We are searching for the strongest man in the world.”
I tried to shut the door. “He is not here. There is no man here.”
“But he must be,” his boot blocked the door. “We have searched all over the city. His comrades told us he lives here.”
“Leave.”
I shoved him back and latched the door, ignoring his attempts to call me back. Abuelita looked sad when I returned to the kitchen, those wrinkles I loved so much full of emotions known only to her. She seemed so small in her wheelchair, the same chair she’d used yesterday day and the same one she’d use tomorrow. Its woven wicker rounded her head like the frescos of the saints in the church. Its wheels became her wings like the angels that were embroidered on her pillow.
“Will you do me a favor, mija?”
“Anything.”
“Go to their Commander tomorrow and tell him not to send them again.”
The fourth time the soldiers came was the night Juan asked me to marry him. I heard the pounding on the door and knew it was them. Juan said he would deal with it, but I had had enough. I would not tolerate them ruining our lives another day.
“We are looking for-”
“I know who you are looking for!” Mamá always told me it was not lady-like to shout, but I was angry and did not care. “How many times must I tell you he is not here?”
“Please, señora. If you would let us explain. Los veteranos are dying and we have for him-”
“Enough! I told you not to come back! How much longer will you torment my poor Mamá who lost her husband? My abuelita who lost her son? Give to me what you have brought and I will make sure el Diablo receives it when Dios calls me back to Him!” The soldiers left the package by the door and ran like dogs with their tails between their legs.
Abuelita was not at the table when I returned. I found her in the garden next to the flowers she had been growing since I was small. Even though they had fallen into neglect as she had gotten older, they still bloomed each year. She rubbed an old bruise on her hand.
“Did I ever tell you how I got this, mija?” I shook my head. “It was during the guerra. A stray bullet. I would have died if not for one of my comrades who dragged me to safety. A handsome and strong man.”
“Abuelo Pancho.” I took a seat beside her. “Was he popular with the other soldaderas?”
“Oh certainly. But he never paid them any mind,” she chuckled. “¿Mija? Would you fetch the box the soldiers brought?”
The box was heavier than it looked and it rattled with metal on the inside. Bony fingers pulled the parchment paper and twine away and revealed a stunning leather box with the military’s insignia emblazoned in gold. Inside were medals and plaques honoring service, a man’s name I did not recognize engraved into each one. “These aren’t abuelo’s.”
“No, they are mine,” she pulled a medal for marksmanship from the box. “Many women dressed themselves like men to join the war. I suppose I would be one of them, but I am no woman.”
“¿Tita?”
She shook her head. “My parents did not understand, but they knew Dios had a plan for me. Your abuelo, too. He kept my secret without question and loved me all the same even though we could not marry. It was not safe for us when the war ended but I am nearing my return to Dios and I’d like to leave this world as He made me.”
I took the medal from her hand and traced the letters with my hand. “Thank you for your service, Abuelo.”
The soldiers only returned once more to deliver flowers for the funeral. Juan was the one to receive them as my swollen belly would not let me stand. Our little son, our first blessing from Dios, came waddling in past him with his ill-fitting black jacket and short hair tarnished and tousled with dirt. Mamá had tried her best to make him look nice but he had insisted we cut the braids off whole.
“¿Que paso, mi soldadito? Do you not like the suit?”
“The other boys are making fun of me again. They say I am a girl.”
I pulled him into my lap. “Let me tell you a story, mijo. A story about your abuelito who was the strongest man in the world, and he was just like you.”