My mother’s friend Thad was carried into the monastery at night roughed up and wrapped in a blanket as if he were dead. thy threw him into one of the monk’s cells next to the pig pen. This was not supposed to happen, the comandante had lied to me. He had promised he would not hurt the American. He had gone too far.

Smelling manure and hearing the grunt of the pigs, I unfastened the bolt and slipped in without being seen. The cell room was white and sparse just as a cell for a monk should be. The windows were too high on the wall to see out of, but it was morning and there was strong daylight. A crucifix of our dying savior hung on the wall above a desk and chair and a ceramic water basin and pitcher were set on a round table in the center of the room with a vase of drooping yellow flowers. Outside a truck engine idled, someone walked across crushed stones, a truck door slammed closed and drove away.

Thad lay asleep upon a monk’s bed, a wooden board covered with an old blanket. His miners cap and goggles had fallen to the floor. He must be my father, now I know where I got my blonde hair.

I walked over to the opposite wall from where he lay and slid down to the floor and stared at him. He was in bad shape. His clothes were torn, and there was dried blood on the back of his head. Here I thought I was just part of this great adventure cooked up by the comandante – fake my kidnapping, scare my fascist grandfather and his party’s leaders. If it could happen to me it could happen to one of their grandchildren too. The Comandante had promised nothing would happen to my mother, but he never told me the man who was to help get me across the border was my real father – an American no less, our number one enemy. And now I find I too am an American. By half.

I felt betrayed. Everybody had lied to me about who I really was. My mother pretending my whole life someone else was my father. The comandante, who taught me violence was necessary when nothing else worked to protect the innocent and punish those who deserved it, the gringos who deserved it the most. But Thad did not deserve this. He risked his life to save me, a kid he didn’t know he had until three days ago. Perhaps the only honest adult I could trust was this guy, who had risked his life to help rescue mine. He could have said no to my mother, hung up on her. This is all my fault. He must really hate me. How am I going to make it up to him?

I reached down to touch where he had been hit, when he grabbed my hand in defense. When he saw it was me, he let go.

-- Julian.

He sat up. Wiping puss from` his swollen eye with the corner of his shirt, he blinked and squinted at me. Maybe he was wondering if it had been worth risking his life to save me, some kid he never knew existed.

-- Did anyone hurt you? He looked around the room, spotted the dying flowers in the vase. He stood up and walked over to them to hold them between his fingers, wondering if they could be saved. He lifted the pitcher off the table and looked in. Except for a splash and trickle of water it was empty. He sprinkled them on the flowers.

--Your mother. Have you heard from her? Is she here? Is she safe? He put the pitcher down and faced me.

I didn’t want to answer that. “You weren’t supposed to be hurt, sir. I’m sorry.”

-- This is not your fault Julian. I’m sorry I cooked up this whole plan to get you across the border safely, of all dangerous paths one that led through a smuggler’s border tunnel. It’s my fault we are all in this mess. I am so sorry.

He truly had no idea what was going on. He had been innocently used, his emotions manipulated as were those of my mother. Did the comandante really know what he was doing?

Thad came over to me and place his hand on my shoulder. Son, did anyone tell you who I am?