Liliane's Sunday

Out of respect for myself, I will not interrupt the silence of the dead. And I will keep my tale free of names in all references to those who were the main actors in the Ponce Massacre; because most of them already stepped beyond the frontiers of life and my remembering their deeds seems to me to be enough sorrow for those few still alive, awaiting their turn to depart and slipping away like shadows fleeing their past.

--Rafael Pérez-Marchand Historical Reminiscence
on the Ponce Massacre

Each time the memory of that day reawakens in me, I relive the unchangeable ritual that marked the beginning and end of all the weeks of my childhood.

Every Sunday we went to La Concordia, my grandfather's farm in the Real Abajo district of Ponce. In the back seat of the square Packard my three sisters, my brother, and I fought over the windows. No sooner had we left Hostos Avenue behind to drive across the city to the Juana Diaz detour, than we went through a thousand contortions before settling down, while Mother scolded us because of the commotion and Father watched us, amused, in the rearview mirror.

I liked going around the Plaza de las Delicias, watching the young girls showing off their new dresses and the ladies entering and leaving the cathedral with their veils and fans. But I preferred crossing it on foot with Father on those afternoons when he allowed me to accompany him to the barbershop; on those days we always stopped at Eusebio's cart to buy the best vanilla ice cream I have tasted in my life.

That Sunday we left a bit later than usual. The night before Father had taken us against Mother's wishes to the Teatro la Perla to see a zarzuela: The Chaste Suzanna was, according to her, "too strong" for our tender ears. We had gone to bed well past ten, which in my house was considered, not only a risk to the children's fragile health, but a real abuse of trust.

We had a light breakfast in anticipation of Mamina's Chicken with Rice in the country. While Mother laid on my bed the pink pinafore with its little lace collar, I did my exercises with Father in the lean-to in the yard. At eleven we were on our way, asking in unison to stop at the Square for ice cones. People walked by with their holy palm branches in their hands, which made us redouble our entreaties and tripled our longing. But with the pretext of our delay there was to be no stopping and certainly no ice cones. Through the rearview mirror, Father gave me a wink of consolation which didn't amuse me one bit.

As we drove past the Pila Clinic, we saw a large number of policemen walking on the street and, naturally, we asked if there was to be a parade. "The nationalists are coming," Mother said, quickly changing the topic. And that was the end of that.

Angel was coming from El Tuque. He had spent the entire morning at the beach gathering shells to make bracelets and necklaces for the girls. He had found many pretty ones, rimmed in pink and violet. He was carrying them in the basket on his bicycle, in a paper sack pressed between the coffee jug and the tin bowl.

He was eager to catch a glimpse of those nationalists who had announced their meeting with such fanfare. He didn't much like those sorts of things, but, after all, there was nothing better to do to kill death-bound time on a Sunday afternoon in Ponce.

He tried to make his way into town up Marina Street. The policemen who had placed barricades on several intersections would not let him through. He made an attempt at Aurora Street, but almost before he reached the first corner they made him go back...