Free Before We Were Free by Julia Álvarez

on the dirt shortcut path too difficult.
    Just ahead, a line of black Volkswagens crawls up the main driveway. Mami stops short. “
Ay, Dios,
I forgot my shawl,” she says in a tense voice she tries to disguise. “Chucha, you and Lorena, go on ahead. Here, take this tray. We’ll be right over.”
    “I’ll get your shawl for you, Doña,” Lorena offers. “I know where it is.”
    A look passes between Mami and Chucha. “You’re not leaving me to carry all these platters!” the old woman snaps at the younger one. “Come along now, don’t dawdle. The
pastelitos
are getting cold.”
    The minute they’ve gone a few steps, Mami grabs my arm and pulls me back behind the hedge of hibiscus. “Listen to me, Anita,” she whispers fiercely. “I want you to run back to Tío Toni’s
casita
and tell Papi and the others that Mr. Smith’s friends are here. You hear me?
Mr. Smith’s
friends. Hurry!” she says, practically shoving me on my way.
    I’ve been wanting to hear a voice like the one Joan of Arc heard, and here it is! I run down the dirt path all the way to Tío Toni’s pad
. Mr. Smith’s friends are here. Mr. Smith’s friends are here,
I say over and over under my breath—as if there’s any chance in the world that I’m going to forget.
    The men stand abruptly when they hear my footsteps, Tío Toni yanking something out from under his belt, Papi pulling Mundín behind him. But the minute he sees me, Papi calls out.
“Es mi
hijita.”
It’s my little girl.
    “Papi,” I gasp, before he can scold me for the scare I’ve given them, “Mami says to tell you,
Mr. Smith’s friends are here.
” I don’t know exactly what I’m saying—though, of course, I remember what Susie and Lucinda said about a Mr. Smith who likes pretty girls.
    The effect of my words is instantaneous. It’s as if one of the firecrackers that have been going off all day long has suddenly fallen in the center of the group. In seconds, the men take off, some with Tío Toni into the darkness of the back of the property, some following Papi and Mundín at a run toward our house.
    When we reach our patio, Papi lets go of my arm. He holds up a hand, signaling everyone to slow down. He speaks in the tensest voice I’ve ever heard him use.
“Con calma, como si nada.”
    Calmly, as if nothing is going on, we walk slowly down the path toward the Washburns’ lit-up patio, where the party is in full swing. Elegant ambassadors with their fancy wives on their arms pick snacks off silver trays. Oscar and Sam, wearing bow ties, have been enlisted to take drink orders. Here and there, military men in fancy dress uniforms are looking up at the distant flashes of fireworks in the sky. Lucinda and Susie and their girlfriends sit on lounge chairs, their crinoline skirts spread around them like the petals of flowers. Young men surround them, as if drawn by the perfume of those flowers, closer and closer.
    From their post by the buffet table, my mother and Mrs. Mancini are nervously scanning the crowd. They look relieved when they spot us coming back from the garden. Mami turns her head slightly, signaling to Papi. Men in dark glasses who look like the thugs who raided the compound months ago lurk at the shadowy edges of the patio.
    What are the SIM doing here? Perhaps they’ve been summoned to protect the high-ranking military guests and ambassadors? I’m about to ask Oscar what he knows when there’s a shout.
“¡Atención!”
    The party goes silent. The crowd parts as if a god is coming down among us. An old man, chest gleaming with medals, face whitened with pancake makeup, steps onto the patio.
    “¡Que viva El Jefe!”
a woman’s voice cries out.
    “Long live the chief,” a chorus of voices echoes.
Boom, boom,
boom,
the fireworks explode, lighting up the sky. For a moment, night turns into day as Mr. Smith lifts a small, spotted hand and gives us a weary wave.

six
    Operation Maid
    Mami and Papi are still in shock as we cross over to our