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.
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