Soon Jurgen was given a new name, Jorge Sanchez. It was pronounced 'whore-hay.' The new story of how he'd lost his arm and leg was that it had happened during the Spanish Civil War. Joanna would now be known as Juana.
Hedda, who was now called Elena, dyed her hair dark brown, like Joanna's. Jurgen had his own hair cut very short and always wore a beret when outside the cabin.
Saturday evening, Jurgen told Joanna they'd be attending mass the next morning.
"What's that?" she asked him.
"You'll see," he replied.
They walked to church together the next morning. The building was painted white and had arched doorways, and there were many statues. Most were men, but a few were women, and they all wore robes and sandals.
One figure in particular filled Joanna with horror and dread. A man with only a cloth over his privates was nailed to a cross. On his head was a crown of thorns, from which blood streamed down his face. Blood gushed from the nail wounds in his hands and feet as well, and his face bore an agonized expression.
"Who is he?" Joanna gasped, cowering in fear.
"Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ!" Jurgen's whisper was fierce as his fingers dug into her arm. "Your people put him there. Now no more questions!"
They entered the nave along with a group of others. Joanna could tell which of them had arrived with herself and Jurgen by train, as their skin was either bright red or peeling like that of a snake, while the natives were all nicely tanned.
Someone handed Joanna a bracelet, and she slipped it onto her wrist.
"You fool!" Jurgen yanked the bracelet from her arm. "It's a rosary! You don't wear it!"
"What do you do with it, then?" asked Joanna.
"Just hold it," Jurgen muttered.
They sat on a long bench, and Joanna looked toward the front to see a white podium. Fastened to the wall above it was a smaller figure of the crucified man. Her stomach lurched.
Soon a young man wearing a long black robe and a white collar walked up to the podium. He introduced himself as Padre Miguel and began to speak.
The next three quarters of an hour passed in a haze of confusion for Joanna in which she heard the others repeat responses together, then watched them sit and stand, sit and stand. At one point, everyone formed a line that snaked toward the front, where Padre Miguel held a glass of red wine from which everyone took a sip. There was also a bit of cracker for each person to eat. As Padre Miguel placed the cracker on Joanna's tongue, she looked into his eyes and saw warmth, acceptance - things she hadn't seen in a long time.
Yet at the same time, she felt a stab of guilt. I don't belong here. None of us belong here. but - where do we belong?
She glanced at Jurgen, but he wouldn't meet her eyes.
That night, she had a horrible dream in which the figure on the cross, blood streaming from his wounds, beckoned to her.
"Your people put me up here. Now help me down!"
Joanna grabbed the spike in one of his hands and pulled with all her might. A torrent of blood gushed out all over her, and she found herself standing knee deep in it.
She screamed.
Right away Jurgen was there, shushing her, comforting her.
"It was awful!" she sobbed into the soft cotton of his pajama top. "The man on the cross told me to help him get down. I pulled and pulled but the nail wouldn't come out. Then it finally did, and there was blood everywhere."
"Sh. It's all right. It was just a dream."
He held her and rocked her like a baby, and within moments, her heartbeat returned to normal.
"This morning, when Padre Miguel put the cracker in my mouth, I knew I didn't really belong there. Why did we go today, Jorge?"
"This is our new home, mi amore, and we have to be like the others, and besides, we owe them a great deal. Now go back to sleep."
As she slowly drifted back to sleep, Joanna thought about how phony it had sounded for Jurgen to call her 'mi amore.'
One day Joanna was up on a ladder reaching for an orange when a wave of dizziness swept over her, causing her to lose her balance and topple to the ground, landing hard on her ankle and twisting it. She bit her bottom lip so hard it almost bled as pain shot through her wounded appendage.
"Juana! What happened?" Hedda ran over to her and grasped her arms. "Can you stand?"
Joanna tried and toppled over once again in unbearable pain.
"Luis, help!" Hedda yelled.
Luis, whose real name was Ludwig, climbed down from his ladder, strode toward Joanna, and gathered her up into his arms. He carried her back to the cabin she shared with Jurgen, where he laid her on the bed.
"She fell from a ladder," he explained to Jurgen. "I think her ankle might be broken. I'm going for the doctor."
When Ludwig had left, Jurgen wrapped some ice in a soft cloth and placed it on Joanna's ankle, then sat on the bed beside her and held her in his arms until the doctor arrived.
The doctor took one look at the injured ankle and said it would be necessary to transport Joanna to the hospital for an X-ray. The last time she'd been inside a hospital was when she'd found a severely injured Jurgen lying in bed with his stumps wrapped in bandages.
As she was wheeled into the building, a wave of nausea came over her. She felt the bile rise in her throat, gritted her teeth, and swallowed as hard as she could.