Sudetenland Tales by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Sudetenland Tales

Page 324

But the shadow never left.

Every morning, he walked to work with his head down, avoiding eye contact with the patrol cars that cruised past. He knew the stories; men taken from their homes, women disappearing on their way to work, families torn apart overnight. He had seen it happen to neighbors, to friends. He had learned to live with the fear, to tuck it away like an old wound, through the safety of becoming an informant.

It was a tactic he had learned early in Guyana, where the burning tire necklace was given to those not properly aligned. Ray C’s sis became a victim.

Then, one morning, it happened.

He had just stepped out of the bodega, a coffee in one hand, a bag of plantains in the other, when the ICE officers surrounded him. There was no warning, no time to run. They asked for his papers. He had none. “I don’t need no stinkin’ papers; I squeal.” He tried to explain, but his words tangled in his throat. The cuffs were cold against his wrists.

Luis came to the detention center, furious, demanding answers. “He’s been here five years! He owns a home! He works hard!” But the system didn’t care. The paperwork said Guyana, but the