Her teachers told her that there were other people who didn't want the refugees to stay in the United States. Some of these people were very angry. They couldn't come into the camp. They couldn't get near the camp. The Army kept them away. The teachers and doctors and social workers had to come into the camp in Army trucks, or else in cars or vans surrounded by Army trucks and guarded by Army guns, because if they tried to come alone, they would be hurt by these others. A social worker and two nurses had been killed before the Army set up that system.
The people trying to help the refugees were called the Do-Goodniks, or Nicks for short. The people who hated them, who hated both the refugees and the Nicks, were called the Nuts, although there were different degrees of Nuts; not all of them were violent. Some only waved signs and wrote letters. But some Nicks also only waved signs and wrote letters, rather than coming into the camp to help the refugees.
The Nuts didn't call themselves Nuts: only the Nicks called them that. The Nuts called themselves Patriots, and called the Nicks Traitors.
Nut could also mean an edible seed. Nick could also mean a notch, or a small cut. English was a very confusing language. Patriot and Traitor, at any rate, seemed to have only one meaning each.
Zamatryna wasn't happy in the camp. She liked learning English, even though it was so confusing, and did well in her lessons, but there were too many people here and too many problems, both inside their tent and outside it. Having everyone in the family crowded into one room was extremely wearing. They all grew snappish, their love for one another strained, and Zamatryna had a private problem, one she was afraid to share with anyone.
Mim-Bim refused to die, as any ordinary beetle would have done at the end of the summer. The insect lived through the fall and the winter, surviving on bits of lettuce and rice and canned fruit that Zamatryna sneaked into her pocket in the dining tent. Mim-Bim lived in her pocket, always, allowed out only at night, when it traced Xs under the bedcovers. It traced Xs in her pocket, too; she could feel it. Silence, silence. So she had to keep Mim-Bim a secret, even though she longed to ask some adult what all of this meant. Clearly Mim-Bim was something other than an ordinary beetle, but whom could Zamatryna consult about this oracle, when the insect so obsessively demanded secrecy? The creature who had been a beloved pet became a dreaded burden, and yet one Zamatryna was afraid to discard. If she stepped
on Mim-Bim, or refused to feed the beetle, she would be no better than the Americans. Each morning when she woke up, she yearned to find that she had accidentally crushed the animal in her sleep, for then surely she would be forgiven. But each morning it was still alive, still tracing its constant figure.
And then there were the problems outside their tent: an illness that swept through the camp, leaving Zamatryna's family untouched but killing five babies; perpetual fights between people from rival tribes or faiths or nations; a man who raped two women, whose husbands then conspired to murder him, whereupon both couples were shipped back to their countries as criminals. Under American law, they had had no right to take the vengeance they did.
The entire camp was abuzz, after that happened. “Barbarians,” Aliniana said, weeping. “We have arrived in a world of barbarians!” Zamatryna didn't know if she meant that the man was a barbarian for raping the women, or that the husbands were barbarians for murdering him, or that the Americans were barbarians for sending the couples back to their countries. One couple was from Nicaragua, the other from Lebanon. Grandfather Timbor said quietly that this itself was a form of murder, because the couples would probably die of famine or war when they went back home.
Maybe Aliniana meant all three kinds of barbarity. She had nothing good to say about their new world. But Zamatryna was afraid to ask, because Uncle Darroti, who had never become normal again, didn't eat for three days after the couples were deported. He spoke only once, in a whisper, to Erolorit, who reported the conversation to the rest of the family.
“He is afraid that if the Americans learn that he is a murderer, we will be cast out of this place.”
Macsofo snorted. “What are they going to do? Send us back home? How?”
“No one will find out,” Timbor said mildly. “We will not tell them.”
Harani shook her head. “The question isn't whether we'll get to stay here. It's whether we'll ever get to leave the camp.”
For Zamatryna's family, who had arrived without papers, were a great mystery to the Americans, who kept asking them questions. The Americans thought that Timbor's family had gotten off one of the refugee trucks from the East (for in the press of the crowd, apparently, no one had seen them simply appear). Their names were not on the master list kept by the soldier on duty, the list Zamatryna had mistaken for a poem, on which every name had already been checked off. They spoke no known language, and there was no record of them anywhere in the computer, which tracked the transportation of
refugees from across the country here, to Nevada. And yet they must have been processed at one of the airports, the Americans said, must have had papers at some point, or they never would have gotten this far.
That was why Zamatryna's family had spent their first night in a quarantine tent, why their blood had been drawn to check for diseases. The Americans knew that this must have already happened, if the family was hereâfor no one could get onto the trucks without a health checkâbut they did it again, to be safe. And the fact that Zamatryna's family so obviously had never seen needles before puzzled and worried them, although when all the tests came back negative the next morning, the family was still allowed into the main camp.
Because Zamatryna was the oldest child, and more fluent in English than her parents, the Americans asked her a great number of questions, which she relayed to her grandfather. Timbor answered the questions as succinctly and truthfully as he could. The Americans didn't find these conversations very satisfying.
“Where are you from?”
“Home.”
“Yes, but what is the name of your home?”
“In our language it means the Glorious City.”
“What language is that?”
“It is our language.”
“Would you say the name of the city in your language, please?”
“Lémabantunk.”
“We have never heard of Lémabantunk. Where is it?”
“It is home.”
“Sir, what country is Lémabantunk in?”
“Gandiffri.”
“We have never heard of any country called Gandiffri.”
“Well no, not in your language, of course not.”
“But no one speaks your language! No one here has ever heard your language.”
“Of course people speak our language. We speak it.”
“How did you get here?”
“We walked.”
“You
walked?
To the United States? That is impossible. That would mean you were from South or Central America, and you speak no language known in those places. You could have walked from Canada, but there are no refugees from Canada. And you were in the trucks from New York. You could not have walked from South or Central America to New York. If you
were from South or Central America, you would have been in a convoy from Los Angeles or Texas.”
“We walked from our city to this desert.”
“Sir, that is impossible.”
“I am sorry that you think it is impossible. We are here, whether it is impossible or not.”
“Why do you have no papers?”
“We had to leave so much behind.”
“But you must have had papers with you, to get into the country! The borders are guarded very carefully, and the trucks are guarded even more carefully.”
“I am sorry. If you give us papers now, we will guard them very carefully.”
“But we can't give you papers unless we know where you are from. Do you understand?”
“I have told you where we are from.”
“Can you show us on a map? If we bring you a globe, can you show us your country?”
“I cannot read your maps. We do not have globes, in our country.”
“What direction did you walk in, when you walked to the United States? Did you walk north? If you walked, you must have walked north. Otherwise you would have had to walk across an ocean, which is impossible.”
“We walked forward.”
“Sir, please understand that we are not trying to be difficult. We want to help your family. But if we cannot get fuller information from you, you will be deported. You will have to go back home.”
“We cannot go back home.”
“Why not? Why did you leave home? Why did you come here? Was there a war, or a famine, or a plague? Were people persecuting you?”
Here, at last, Timbor lost some of his composure. Zamatryna knew that he wanted at all costs to keep from the Americans the fact that Darroti had committed a crime, since criminals were not allowed to stay here. In her pocket, she could feel Mim-Bim tracing its constant X, and she wondered if silence about the cause of their exile was what the beetle was commanding so urgently. “We came here to begin again! It is painful to us to think about why we had to leave. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir. Sir, we are very sorry, but we still need to ask you these questions. There are laws here.”
“Go away, please. We are grateful for the shelter and the food you have given us, and for teaching us your language, but I think you have asked enough questions for today.”
They went away. They came back. They brought with them a woman, an immigration lawyer, who explained patiently that to remain in the United States without papers, the family would need to fulfill certain conditions. If they were not already sponsored by relatives, or by an employer, or by a church, they could request asylum in the United States. But that was a complicated legal process, which would involve proving that they had left their own country out of justified fear of persecution based on race, religion, political views, social affiliation, or nationality.
“And who,” Timbor asked, “decides if the fear is justified?”
“We do,” the lawyer said gently. “The court does, based on its knowledge of the region from which you came.”
Zamatryna saw her grandfather squeeze his eyes shut in pain. “The court will have no knowledge of the region from which we came. To you, it never existed. To us, it no longer exists.”
The lawyer shook her head. “I don't understand. Your village has been destroyed? But we keep track of such destruction; if you're from a war-torn region, there will be recordsâ”
“No,” Timbor said bleakly, “there are no records. Just as we have no papers.”
The lawyer sighed. “Mr. Timbor, you're here. You must have come from somewhere.”
“Yes. But it is not a somewhere about which Americans have records.”
“Ask her,” came a strange voice from the back of the tent, “ask her what will happen to the family if we cannot justify ourselves.”
Zamatryna turned. It was Darroti who had spoken, Darroti who always hid in shadows now, who had said nothing in weeks. His voice sounded like wind blown through a hollow reed. “Ask her, Zamatryna. If we cannot justify ourselves and we cannot go home, what will happen to us?”
Zamatryna asked. The lawyer frowned and said, “If your request for asylum were denied, you would be deported.”
“And if we cannot be deported, because our home no longer exists, because there is no way for us to get back there? Ask her, Zamatryna.”
Zamatryna asked. The lawyer shook her head, and said, “If that were really true, I suppose you would have to stay in the camp indefinitely. But it can't be true. You came from somewhere, and you can go back, even if you don't want to. I understand that you don't want to. We'll do whatever we can to help you, but to do that, we need to know where you came from.”
“Tell her,” Darroti said, “that we do want to go home and cannot,” but Timbor frowned and made the slashing X for silence. Mim-Bim echoed it in Zamatryna's pocket. This was what the Americans must not be allowed to learn.
No one spoke for a few moments after the lawyer left, and then the adults began talking all at once in low, guarded voices, even though they were speaking their own language, which no one else understood.
“So we are stuck here,” Erolorit said. “In limbo. We cannot go back home and we cannot leave the camp.”
“It is my fault,” Darroti said.
“We could invent a history,” Harani said. “Zamatryna and the cousins have heard enough stories by now of where other people are from. We can tell a story.”
“But we do not speak the languages of those countries,” Macsofo said. “We do not know the names of their cities. The deception would be discovered.”