The Four Winds

by Kristin Hannah

“When times is tough and jobs is scarce, folks blame the outsider. It’s human nature. And raht now, that’s us.

In California it used to be the Mexicans, and the Chinese before that, I think.”

Hard times don’t last. Education does and y’all are behind the grind these days.

“The school’s a mile south.” Jean cocked her head to the south. “They ain’t real welcomin’ there.” “I’d say that’s true of the whole state so far,” Elsa said. “Yep.” “After you get ’em set in school, you’d best go register with the state.

Elsa tipped Loreda’s chin up with one finger, saw the tears gathering in her daughter’s eyes. “I know what you’re feeling, but don’t you dare cry,” Elsa said. “Not about this, not with all you’ve been through to get here. You’re a Martinelli, and you’re as good as anyone in California.”

“You,” she said to Loreda. “Go on in. See those three desks in the back corner? Sit at one of them. Don’t touch anyone or anything on your way. And for God’s sake, don’t cough.” Loreda looked at Elsa. “You’re as good as anyone,” Elsa said. Loreda opened the classroom door.

Poverty was a soul-crushing thing. A cave that tightened around you, its pinprick of light closing a little more at the end of each desperate, unchanged day.

Survival took grit and courage and effort. It was too easy to give in. No matter how afraid she was, she had to teach her children every day how to survive.

They stood on the muddy bank and looked up to the bright heavens and sang hymns and Christmas songs, and by the end, none of them cared that the local churches denied them entry or that their clothes were ragged and dirty or that Christmas dinner would be small. They found strength in each other. Elsa and Jean looked at each other as they sang the words be unbroken

Hard times don’t last. Love does.

Elsa knew that a library card—a thing they’d taken for granted all of their lives—meant there was still a future. A world beyond this struggle.

Inside lay a slim leather-bound journal full of blank paper. The first few pages of the book had been ripped away and the cover was water damaged. Several pencils—sharpened down to stubs—rolled out and plopped onto the ground. Loreda looked at her. “I know you have stuff you need to say, but we’re kids so you stay quiet. I thought maybe writing it down would make you feel better.”

“I thought that, too,” Ant said. “I got the pencils from school! All by myself.” The journal reminded Elsa of who she’d once been: the girl with the bad heart who had read books and dreamed of going away to college to study literature. She’d dreamed of one day writing. Do you have some hidden talent of which we are all unaware? Elsa hated that she heard her father’s voice now, of all moments, at this time when her love for her children almost bowled her over and she thought, even in the midst of all this hardship and failure, I have raised good children. Kind, caring, loving people. “I’ll write something,” Elsa said. “Will you let us read it, Mommy?” Ant asked. “Maybe someday.”

One thing was left, as clear and perfect as a drop of rain—the desperate need to stand together … They would rise and fall and, in their falling, rise again. —SANORA BABB, WHOSE NAMES ARE UNKNOWN

The migrants who had just arrived in the state, most of them with nothing, were trying to survive on federal relief—paltry amounts of food handed out every two weeks. They lived on flour-and-water pancakes and fried dough. Elsa could see the ravages of malnutrition on their faces.

The migrants coming into the state are so desperate to feed their families, they’ll take any wage. There are more than seventy thousand homeless people between here and Bakersfield. Children are dying in the squatters’ camps at a rate of two a day, from malnutrition or disease. It’s not right. Not in America. I don’t care if there is a Depression. Enough is enough. It’s up to us to help them. We have to get them to join the Workers Alliance and stand up for their rights.”

“Now is the time, comrades. The government won’t help these people. It is up to us. We have to convince the workers to stand up. Rise up. Use any means at our disposal to stop big business from crushing the workers and taking advantage of them. We must stand together and fight this capitalist injustice. We will fight for the migrant workers here and in the Central Valley, help them organize into unions and battle for better wages. The time … is now!” “Yes!” Loreda shouted. “

am a migrant worker.” He lit a cigarette, studied her. “We live in the ditch-bank camp off Sutter Road. I picked cotton this fall when I should have been in school. If I hadn’t, we would have starved. We live in a tent. We wanted the jobs in the fields so badly that sometimes we slept in ditches at the side of the road to be first in line. The boss—that fat pig, Welty—he doesn’t care if we make enough to eat.”

“Kid, the people who love you stay. You’ve already learned that. Go find your mom and tell her you’ve been as dumb as a box of marbles. And let her hold you tight.”

Jean looked up first, smiled at Loreda, and touched Elsa’s arm. “It’s your girl. I told you she’d come back.” Mom looked up.

Loreda knew this distance between them was hers to cross. “I’ve been as dumb as a box of marbles, Mom,” Loreda said, moving toward her. A little laugh erupted from her mother; it sounded like joy. “Really. I’ve been a real crumb to you, Mom. And…” “Loreda—” “I know you love me, and … I’m sorry, Mom. I love you. So much.”

Loreda clung fiercely to her mother, afraid to let her go. “I was afraid you’d leave when I was gone…” When Mom drew back, her eyes were bright and she was smiling. “You are of me, Loreda, in a way that can never be broken. Not by words or anger or actions or time. I love you. I will always love you.” She tightened her hold on Loreda’s shoulders. “You taught me love. You, first in the whole world, and my love for you will outlive me. If you had not come back…” “I’m here, Mom,” Loreda said. “But I learned something last night. And I think it’s important.”

Jack. A rebel instead of a dreamer. Daddy had given Loreda words; it was actions that mattered. She knew that now. Leaving. Staying. Fighting. Or walking away.

Loreda wanted to be like Jack, not like her faithless father. She wanted to stand for something and tell the world she was better than this, that America should be better than letting her live this way.

“People get scared when they lose their jobs and they tend to blame outsiders. The first step is to call them criminals. The rest is easy. You know about that,” she said, eyeing Loreda. “I do.” “Several years ago, the Mexicans organized and joined the union and struck for better wages, but it came with violence. Men died. Jack spent a year in San Quentin. When he came out, he was even more determined.”

“They sent flyers across America, telling workers to come. And they came, too many of them. Now there are ten workers for every job. We’re having trouble getting your people to organize. They’re—” “Independent.” “I was going to say stubborn.” “Yeah. Well, a lot of us are farmers, and you have to be stubborn to survive sometimes.” “Are you stubborn?” “Yeah,” Loreda said slowly. “I reckon so. But more than anything, I’m mad.”

Life went on, even in the hardest of times.

“You know the thing about history, Elsa? It’s over. Already dead and gone.” “They say people who don’t heed history are doomed to repeat it.” “Who says that? I ain’t never heard it. I say folks who hang on to the past miss their chance for a future.”

“Ah, Elsa. You got a wrong picture of yourself.” “Even if that is true, what does a person do about it? The things your parents say and the things your husband doesn’t say become a mirror, don’t they? You see yourself as they see you, and no matter how far you come, you bring that mirror with you.” “Break it,” Jean said.

Cotton was their lifeblood. Even the children had to pick.

She was grateful for his honesty. “They’ll hurt us for trying.” “Yeah,” he said. “But life is more than what happens to us, Elsa. We have choices to make.” “I’m not a brave woman.” “And yet here you are, standing at the edge of battle.”

“My grandfather was a Texas Ranger. He used to tell me that courage was a lie. It was just fear that you ignored.” She looked at him. “Well, I’m scared.” “We’re all scared,” he said.

“They can’t be taught that this is what we deserve, that this is America. I have to teach them to stand up for themselves.”

What we’re doing—a strike—it’s legal.”

“It’s legal. Hell, it’s the very essence of America. We were built on the right to protest, but laws are enforced by the government. By the police. You’ve seen how they support big business.”

“Everything is dangerous,” she said. “So what?”

It’s dangerous, though, Natalia had said to Loreda last night. Don’t forget this. When I was a girl, I saw revolution up close. Blood runs in the streets. Don’t forget for one moment that the state has all the power—money and weapons and manpower. We have heart and desperation, had been Loreda’s answer. “Yeah,” Natalia had said, exhaling smoke. “And brains. So, use yours.

you never knew who the traitor was until you said the wrong thing to the wrong person and a knock at your door came in the middle of the night. They had heard the cries of families being hauled out of camp.

“Sometimes legal rights don’t matter as much as they should,” Jack said.

“When a man resorts to violence, he’s scared,” Jack said. “That’s a good sign.”

“I’m proud of you, Loreda. “You’re scared about tomorrow.” Elsa should have been ashamed that Loreda saw her fear so clearly, but she wasn’t. Maybe she was tired of hiding from people, of thinking she wasn’t good enough; she’d filled that well for years and now it was empty. The weight of it was gone. “Yes,” she said. “I’m scared.” “But we’ll do it anyway.”

Elsa smiled, thinking again of her grandfather. It had taken decades, but she finally knew exactly what he’d meant by the things he’d told her. It wasn’t the fear that mattered in life. It was the choices made when you were afraid. You were brave because of your fear, not in spite of it. “

In his eyes, she saw love. For her. It was young, new, not deep and settled and familiar like Rose and Tony’s, but love just the same, or at least the beautiful, promising start of it. All of her life she’d waited for a moment like this, yearned for it, and she would not let it pass by unnoticed, unremarked upon.

The four winds have blown us here, people from all across the country, to the very edge of this great land, and now, at last, we make our stand, fight for what we know to be right. We fight for our

American dream, that it will be possible again.

know this: A warrior believes in an end she can’t see and fights for it. A warrior never gives up. A warrior fights for those weaker than herself.

It sounds like motherhood to me.

Jack stood in the wooden-slatted bed of the truck and faced the small gathering. “The world can be changed by a handful of courageous people. Today we fight on behalf of those who are afraid. We fight for a living wage.” He yelled out, “Fair pay! Fair pay!”

This wasn’t about

being a Communist or a rabble-rouser. This was about fighting for the rights of every American.