Silver People

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Frontispiece

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  The Panama Craze 1906

  THE FOREST 1906

  The Serpent Cut 1906

  THE FOREST 1906

  The Cockroach Slide 1906

  THE FOREST 1906

  Curiosity 1906

  THE FOREST 1906

  The Silver Ward 1907

  THE FOREST 1907

  Open Hours 1908

  THE FOREST 1908

  The Crocodile Bridge 1910

  THE FOREST 1910

  Sky Castles 1914

  THE FOREST 1914

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Selected References

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2014 by Margarita Engle

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  www.hmhco.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Engle, Margarita.

  Silver people : voices from the Panama Canal / Margarita Engle.

  pages cm

  Summary: Fourteen-year-old Mateo and other young Caribbean islanders face discrimination, segregation, and harsh working conditions when American recruiters lure them to the Panamanian rain forest in 1906 to build the great canal.

  Includes bibliographical references.

  ISBN 978-0-544-10941-4 (hardback)

  1. Panama Canal (Panama)—History—Juvenile fiction. [1. Novels in verse. 2. Panama Canal (Panama)—History—Fiction. 3. Racism—Fiction. 4. Segregation—Fiction. 5. Rain forests—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.5.E54Si 2014 [Fic]—dc23 2013037485

  eISBN 978-0-544-10922-3

  v2.0314

  In honor of the islanders

  who did the digging

  and with love for Curtis,

  who helped me explore

  the butterfly forest

  MATEO

  from the island of Cuba

  JOB HUNT

  Fear is a fierce wind

  that sends me reeling

  down to the seashore,

  where I beg for work,

  any work at all,

  any escape

  to carry me far

  from my father’s

  furious fists.

  Sailor.

  Fisherman.

  Lobster trapper.

  I’m willing to take any job

  that floats me away

  from home.

  I am not an ordinary war orphan.

  Papi is alive, but the family part

  of his mind

  is deeply wounded.

  He drinks so much rum

  that he believes I am

  his enemy—a Spaniard

  from the country

  that lost the war

  and left so many

  of its soldiers

  behind.

  Spanish veterans

  flock the seashore, begging

  for the same jobs that lure me.

  I’m only fourteen, but I’m strong

  for a starving boy.

  So I shove and curse

  along with the crowd

  of muscular men, all of us

  equally eager to reach

  a fast-talking americano

  Panamá Canal recruiter

  who promises food, houses,

  and money,

  so much money . . .

  The recruiter shouts and pounds

  his fists in the air.

  His foreign accent

  makes the words sound powerful

  as he describes a wild jungle

  where men who are hired

  will dig the Eighth Wonder

  of the World.

  He says the canal is a challenge

  worthy of Hercules,

  a task for giants,

  not ordinary men,

  but when he unrolls a map,

  Panamá is barely

  a sliver.

  How can such a narrow

  bridge of land

  be so important?

  After the confusing map,

  there are pamphlets with pictures

  of tidy houses, the orderly dining rooms

  offering comforting details

  that catch my eye.

  Lacy curtains and tablecloths,

  flowers in vases,

  plates heaped with food . . .

  So much food.

  Barriga llena, corazón contento.

  Full belly, happy heart.

  That’s what Mami used to say,

  before cholera claimed

  her happiness

  and mine.

  With the flair of a magician,

  the recruiter tosses two sun-shiny coins

  up and down in his hand,

  until the gold

  American dollars

  ring out like church bells

  or kettledrums in a parade.

  Those musical coins lure me

  deeper into the crowd of pushing,

  rushing, desperate, job-hungry strangers,

  but as soon as I reach for the recruiter’s

  paper and pen, ready to sign my name

  on a contract, the blond man glares

  at my green eyes, brown face,

  and curly hair, as if struggling

  to figure out who I am.

  No cubanos, he shouts. No islanders,

  just pure Spanish,

  semi-blanco, semi-white—

  European. Civilized.

  His words make no sense.

  Isn’t semi-white the same

  as semi-dark?

  So I start telling lies.

  I let my skin fib.

  I point out that my father

  is blondish and my mother

  was the tan of toasted wheat,

  her hair long and silky,

  her eyes as blue-green

  as the sea,

  just like mine.

  Then I invent an imaginary village

  in Spain, for my birthplace,

  and I give my age

  as twenty,

  and I show off

  my muscles,

  pretending to feel

  brave . . .

  By the time I board

  a dragon-smoky

  Panamá Craze steamship,

  I’ve already told so many lies

  that my conscience feels

  as hollow

  as my belly.

  MATEO

  THE VOYAGE FROM CUBA

  Hunger at sea for three days

  feels like a knife in the flesh—

  twisted blade, rusty metal,

  the piercing tip of a long

  sharp-edged

  dagger

  called regret.

  But there’s no turning back,

  and with no food on board,

  hunger haunts me

  until we finally reach

  the slick, wet Panamá docks,

  where dozens of other ships

  are all unloading their fuming,

  angry,

  hungry

  human cargo

  in thunderous rain.

  MATEO

  ARRIVAL IN A STRANGE LAND

  As soon as my feet touch the docks,

  I rush toward a pile of burlap sacks . . .

  The bags are filled with island sugar,

  soggy from rain, but it’s food, so I rip<
br />
  the cloth and plunge my sweaty hand

  into the sweetness

  of my homeland,

  wondering

  if I will ever

  see the island

  again.

  MATEO

  COLOR-CODED

  A foreman commands us to line up

  by country:

  Americans, Frenchmen, Dutch.

  Spaniards, Greeks, Italians.

  Jamaicans, Barbadians, Haitians.

  Each work crew is a different shade

  of light or dark,

  but when the foreman orders us

  to stand still while we’re measured

  for our coffins,

  dark and light faces

  all look equally

  shocked.

  MATEO

  THE LABOR TRAIN

  Jungle heat sends foggy steam rising

  from my hair, like a thick mist

  on the towering forest

  that looms ahead of the train,

  as we crowd onto a flatcar

  with open sides.

  In order to keep from falling out,

  I cling to any surface I can find,

  even when

  it means leaning

  toward the jungle,

  grasping at branches.

  Behind us, a cattle car enclosed

  by a wooden framework

  is filled with Jamaicans

  and Barbadians, dark islanders

  who have to ride behind bars,

  as if trapped in a cage.

  Jamaica is one of Cuba’s

  closest neighbors,

  but this is the first time

  I have ever seen anyone

  from another Caribbean island.

  Until now, we have always

  been separated

  by the sea.

  How will we work together,

  when Jamaicans speak English

  and we know only

  español?

  MATEO

  HOWLERS

  Ferocious jungle heat

  closes in around us, like the blaze

  of a glowing oven.

  The train steams through deep

  forest shade, beneath spidery,

  brilliant red flowers

  that dangle

  from sky-high branches,

  like flames.

  Some of the rain-shiny leaves

  are shaped like green hands,

  others like hearts, livers, or kidneys,

  making the whole forest seem

  like one enormous,

  magical creature

  with an endless body

  and a fiery mind.

  Through the chug

  and churn

  of the train,

  I hear clacking cries

  from black toucans

  with huge rainbow beaks

  and eerie howls

  from big, hairy monkeys

  with shaggy faces that almost look

  human . . .

  faces with voices

  so challenging

  that every man on the train

  starts howling too.

  MATEO

  BOXCAR BARRACKS

  Exhausted and excited, I jump off

  before the train even stops.

  There’s nothing but mud and jungle

  in every direction.

  Each step feels as if the hungry earth

  is trying to suck my bare feet into

  its wet belly.

  A sunburned americano foreman

  separates us into groups of twelve men.

  Each group is led to another train car,

  this one completely motionless.

  Inside, we find twelve cots

  draped with lacy mosquito nets,

  and twelve blue shirts,

  twelve khaki trousers,

  twelve pairs of work boots . . .

  Some of the men grumble

  and curse, but others laugh,

  impressed by our own foolishness.

  Did we really believe that we would live

  in nice houses like the ones we saw

  in that tricky recruiter’s

  pretty pictures

  of dining rooms

  with tablecloths

  and tables?

  Our first meal is served outdoors.

  Mushy potatoes, stringy meat, soft bread.

  But it’s food, and it’s filling.

  None of the Spanish men seem to mind

  my rapid Cuban accent as I echo Mami’s

  old saying about full bellies

  and happy hearts.

  MATEO

  A DIFFERENT HUNGER

  Homesickness?

  How can I miss the place

  I was so desperate to leave?

  All night, I lie awake, frightened

  by jungle noises. By dawn,

  all I want to do

  is keep listening

  to screeching birds

  and howling monkeys—

  any wild animal music

  to help me escape

  from my own scary

  human story

  of loss.

  MATEO

  LA YERBERA

  While we sit on the train tracks

  eating our breakfast of soggy bread

  and weak coffee,

  a local yerbera—an herb girl—

  walks toward us with a basket

  of leaves, flowers, roots, and twigs

  gracefully balanced

  on her head.

  Some of the men call out to her

  with rude kissing noises, so she clasps

  the handle of her machete in one hand

  and spins the big cane-chopping knife

  like a warning as she sings her wares,

  chanting about the sharp teeth

  of strong garlic to ward away

  bloodsucking

  vampire bats.

  She sings about fragrant

  orange blossoms to heal

  the wounds of homesickness.

  If I had any money, I would buy

  her whole mysterious basket

  of scented

  cures.

  ANITA

  from the Land of Many Butterflies

  VOICES

  I listen to the lonely boy’s tale of a mother lost

  and a father damaged, and then I tell him

  how I was abandoned in the forest as a baby

  and how I was cared for

  by an old Cuban healer

  who adopted me as her own

  granddaughter.

  Now, when monkeys howl, frogs sing,

  and wings flap, I think of my forest’s

  natural music

  as a serenade

  by my own

  animal sisters

  and animal brothers.

  I belong to the trees, and the mud,

  and the whispering wind . . .

  THE HOWLER MONKEYS

  PEERING DOWN FROM TREES

  PIERCING TRAIN SCREAMS

  NOISY STRANGERS

  CLOSE

  CLOSER

  TOO CLOSE

  STAY AWAY

  AWAY FROM OUR TREES

  OURS

  OURS

  OURS

  GO

  GO

  GO

  GO

  GO

  GO

  THE GLASS FROGS

  PEERING UP FROM MUD

  you can’t see us

  not like those golden frogs

  flashing their beauty

  because we’re not here

  pretend we’re not here

  you can’t eat us

  we’d taste like clear air

  we’re transparent

  invisible

  until night when stars pass through us

  moonlight flows into us

  we start to sing

  we need to sing
<
br />   we love to sing

  sing

  sing

  sing

  A BLUE MORPHO BUTTERFLY

  FLOATING OVER THE WORLD

  High enough

  just high enough

  above

  all danger

  except the sharp beaks

  of birds

  but high enough

  just high enough

  to fool the eyes of hungry beings

  with our blue wings

  just a passing

  shimmer

  of sky.

  THE TREES

  ROOTED

  Only our branches

  Can move

  So we dance

  With our green

  While our roots

  Are unseen

  And all the legs

  And wings

  And eyes

  Of the world

  Forget that we

  Are here