Part 4 — My Sister’s Letters Came from the Ruins, but When I Asked Who Was Sending Them, Simon’s Face Suddenly Turned Pale

…four hours separated us from Mother’s house, but on that road time no longer existed. Simon urged the horse on, I sat behind him, and Hasinta was in the middle, with the black veil still wrapped around her face.

Everything we had believed for seven years changed in one night.

We could not take the main road. Tomás’s people were waiting for us there. Simon chose a narrow mountain path where the horse’s feet sometimes slipped on the stones. Every time I caught Hasinta, but my hands were trembling.

“We left Mother alone by force,” I said.

“No,” Hasinta answered. “If they went to her house, even if you had stayed, you could not have saved her.”

“Why didn’t you call me for seven years?”

Her voice could barely be heard in the noise of the wind.

“I tried every year.”

“In the letters?”

“In the words that seemed too calm. Do you remember that once I wrote that the yucca flowers opened at night?”

“Yes.”

“That meant that I could go outside at night. But you did not understand it.”

“How was I supposed to understand?”

Hasinta rested her head on my shoulder.

“I hoped that someday someone would understand.”

At dawn we reached the end of the village. The windows of our house were lit. The door was open.

Mother was sitting in the room, holding a sheet of paper. Beside her stood an unfamiliar man, and my old bag lay on the table. A small copper bell was attached to that bag, which Hasinta had given me in childhood. It jingled at every step on the road.

The unfamiliar man reached toward his weapon.

Simon immediately locked the door.

Hasinta stepped forward.

“Where is Tomás?”

The man smiled.

“Your husband will come soon.”

Mother looked at Hasinta. At first she did not recognize her. Then she brought her hand to her mouth.

“Jinta?”

Hasinta removed the veil.

Fear and joy appeared simultaneously in Mother’s eyes.

“You are alive.”

“Mother, forgive me.”

“You came back. That is enough.”

The unfamiliar man took out his telephone.

“I’ll call Tomás.”

“Call him,” I said.

They did not know that I had the recorder in my bag. Nor did they know that before we left the village, Hasinta had sent a message about the path marked on the old map to a city investigator whom her father had once helped.

Tomás arrived twenty minutes later.

He did not look like a ghost. On the contrary, he wore clean clothes, his hair was neat, and he held leather gloves in his hand. It was as though he had come not for a burned village and seven years of lies, but for an ordinary business meeting.

“Hasinta,” he said. “You have made everything more complicated.”

Hasinta stepped back.

“You burned the village.”

“Have you forgotten these years? I saved you.”

“You hid me.”

“If I had not hidden you, you would have died that same night.”

I turned on the recording.

First there was crackling in the room, then Tomás’s voice from nine years earlier.

“The village will no longer exist tomorrow.”

Tomás stopped.

The color disappeared from his face.

“The Murgia girl is alive.”

Mother struck the table with her hand.

“You knew that my daughter was alive?”

For the first time Tomás looked toward me.

“This recording proves nothing.”

“Your voice proves everything,” I said.

“Elena, think. If you spread this, you will destroy Hasinta’s name too. People will say that she lived with me for seven years.”

Hasinta answered calmly:

“Let people say what they want. I am telling the truth for the first time.”

A strong pounding sounded at the door.

“Open up! We are investigators!”

Tomás tried to escape. Simon tripped him, and he fell onto the floor. Within several minutes the room filled with unfamiliar people. The investigator took the recorder, read through the document, and put handcuffs on Tomás.

Don Melesio was among them too.

His hands were tied behind his back.

He could not withstand my gaze.

“I only showed the roads,” he whispered.

“Did you show the fire the road too?” I asked.

He lowered his head.

The following days filled with calls, interrogations, and endless papers. Tomás’s lawyer called me first thing in the morning.

“We can offer you an agreement.”

“No.”

“You will receive money for your mother’s treatment.”

“No.”

“You want to protect your sister’s name, don’t you?”

“That is exactly why I will not agree.”

The second call was made by Tomás himself from prison.

“Elena, you do not know what you are doing.”

“I know.”

“You can destroy Hasinta’s life finally.”

“You have already destroyed her life.”

“I gave your family money.”

“You gave us fear.”

“I took care of your sister.”

“No. You did not let her breathe.”

A long silence fell on the other side.

Then for the first time I heard Tomás listen to his own words. The investigators played the recording before him. His voice from nine years earlier sounded in the room.

“Whoever survives will say that everything happened by accident.”

Tomás closed his eyes.

“I did not say that.”

The investigator answered:

“It is your voice.”

“No.”

“They are your words too.”

Tomás covered his ears with his hands. But he could no longer silence his own voice.

Mother died three weeks later.

Her last evening was peaceful. Moonlight came through the window, and Hasinta sat by the bed, drawing small circles with her fingers on Mother’s hand.

“I read all your letters,” Mother told her quietly.

“Forgive me.”

“For what?”

“For not coming for so long.”

Mother opened her eyes.

“You came every year. You were simply hiding in paper.”

That was her last sentence.

After the funeral the house became strangely empty. Under Mother’s bed I found the tin box. Inside were the letters, the first childhood ribbon, and the small copper bell, darkened with mud from my return from the journey.

The bell no longer jingled.

Hasinta took it in her hand.

“Do you still remember why you gave it to me?”

“So that I would not get lost on the road.”

“No. So that if you ever could not see me anymore, you would still hear my voice.”

Several months later the court sentenced Tomás to a long imprisonment for burning the village, illegally appropriating the lands, and hiding people. Don Melesio confessed everything. The lands of San-Lasaro were returned to the surviving village families.

Hasinta and I opened a small bakery in the city. Every morning we baked anise bread. We always carried the first loaf to Mother’s photograph.

Hasinta slowly learned to live without locking the door. In the first weeks she flinched at every sound. At night she checked the windows. Then one day she herself opened a window and let in the smell of coffee.

“Now this smell no longer frightens me,” she told me.

In winter the children made a small snow figure in front of the bakery. One little girl wrapped a paper ribbon around its neck. Hasinta watched it for a long time and then smiled.

Tomás wrote to me once more.

The letter was short.

“Come. Talk to me just once. I loved your sister.”

I did not open the letter. I sent it back with one sentence:

“I will no longer protect you from your consequences.”

That same evening Hasinta packed a new box. Inside she put anise bread, coffee, and a yellow candle.

“Who are you sending it to?” I asked.

“No one,” she answered. “It is for us.”

We lit the candle by the window. And we hung the copper bell on the handle of the bread box.

The wind blew.

For the first time in seven years, the bell rang.

This time the sound did not come from far away.

It was in our house.