Useful Fools by C.A. Schmidt

Author:C.A. Schmidt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2010-03-01T00:00:00+00:00

The crowd started to sing and Rodolfo joined in, his voice high and clear.

Everything is an illusion, everything but power.

Rifles in hand, we storm heaven’s tower.

A shiver crept along Alonso’s scalp. Trapped by the high walls, the anthem rang like church bells.

The song ended, and a prisoner stepped forward. “Long live Chairman Gonzalo, leader of the Party of the Revolution,” the prisoner shouted. “For his masterful leadership and his position as the continuation of Marx, Lenin, and Chairman Mao Tse-tung!” He was out of breath when he finally finished. The two lines of prisoners took up the chant and shouted it back, pumping their fists in the air. When they were finished another man began to shout, and once again his comrades chanted back at him.

The chants dragged on and on. Everyone seemed to want a turn. Alonso was yawning when the prisoners finally broke ranks and the visitors surged toward them. A moment of chaos ensued, a confused tangle of outstretched arms. Then, with embraces and cries of delight, the mass sorted itself out into families.

“This way,” Rodolfo said, pushing through the crowd. At the edge of the exercise yard, a man in wire-framed glasses sat at a table. Chairman Mao ballooned, fat-faced and solemn, on the wall behind him.

Rodolfo pulled two bags of rice from his backpack. He handed them to the man, who tossed them into a basket beside the table. Then, with a smile, the man wrote Rodolfo’s name on a list. Rodolfo stepped away and others approached. An old lady in a black dress handed over a bag of sugar. Two women hefted a sack of potatoes. A blushing little boy placed a pouch of powdered milk on the table.

They all gave something. And they all looked poor. Like maybe that powdered milk was all they had.

Rodolfo went off to find his uncle. Señor Ernesto was standing in the middle of the courtyard, talking to a young man. When he saw Rodolfo he broke off and held open his arms.

He looked just like Rodolfo’s mother, broad-chested and moon-faced, but thinner than Alonso remembered. He hugged Rodolfo for a long time. Then he pushed his nephew back, gripping Rodolfo’s shoulders. “We carry our lives in our fingertips, hijo. ¿Ya?”

Rodolfo nodded. “Our lives belong to the Party,” he replied in a husky whisper.

“Is your mother okay?”

Rodolfo shrugged. “Comrade Micaela is with her.”

Alonso looked away, blinking. The Senderistas already knew about Mariela. Even here in prison, they knew. The Party has a thousand eyes and a thousand ears. That’s what they always said.

Señor Ernesto shook Alonso’s hand. “It’s good to see you again, Alonso.”

“I’m sorry about Mariela,” Alonso said. He tried to remember what his mother had taught him, what you were supposed to say. My most sincere . . . Something like that. The neighbors in Salvador had said it to him, the day of the funeral.

Sincere hadn’t lasted very long. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

Rodolfo’s uncle nodded, gripping Alonso’s hand. “Alonso, Comrade Felipe would like to meet you.

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