BERTHA'S JOURNEY by Robert Nerbovig  Table of Contents  THE OVEN  THE CONFRONTATION  A DECISION AT DAWN  THE NEXT GENERATION  A STORM OF UNCERTAINTY  A CELEBRATION OF RESILIENCE  THE ACADEMY'S SUCCESS  THE WEIGHT OF LEADERSHIP  PASSING THE TORCH  A FAMILY TRIUMPH  Contact Us THE BLOG Chapter 1 The Oven It was the year 1920, and Namiquipa, a sleepy village in the northern part of Chihuahua, Mexico, had become a place of nightmares. The Revolution was a raging fire consuming everything in its path. Pancho Villa, the famous revolutionary leader, and his army of bandits had brought chaos to the region. The once peaceful town, nestled between the jagged mountains, was now a place where men with rifles moved in the shadows, looting and killing without mercy. The women of Namiquipa lived in constant fear, their lives shattered by the raids and the violence that followed. Bertha, a fourteen-year-old girl with dark, wide eyes and a heart full of dreams, had already seen more than most children her age. The years of war had turned her home into a place where safety was a luxury few could afford. Bertha’s family, poor farmers who lived on the outskirts of town, had heard the stories of Villa’s men and the atrocities they committed. Yet, it wasn’t until that fateful night that Bertha truly understood the depth of that terror. It was late, and the sounds of hooves clattering against the dirt roads were unmistakable. The distant gunfire echoed in the hills like the warning of a storm. Bertha’s mother, Dolores, had always been strong and calm, but tonight there was something in her eyes that told Bertha to be afraid. “Mama, what’s happening?” Bertha asked, her voice trembling. She had heard the rumors, Villa’s men were coming. And when they came, no one was safe. “Stay here, Bertha,” Dolores ordered, her voice low and steady. “Don’t move from this spot. Hide in the oven, quickly.” Bertha looked at her mother in confusion, but the urgency in her mother’s voice left no room for questions. The large stone oven, used for baking bread, had always been a source of warmth and comfort. Now it would become her shelter. With trembling hands, Bertha crawled into the oven, pulling herself into the dark, tight space. Her heart raced as she huddled there, her body curled into a ball, the warmth of the oven a strange comfort against the cold fear that gripped her chest. She could hear her mother moving in the next room, gathering whatever she could carry, but Bertha could not leave. The door to the kitchen creaked open, and Bertha held her breath, praying she wouldn’t be noticed. Voices came next. Harsh, guttural sounds, as men entered the house. Their boots echoed through the hallways, and Bertha heard them rummaging through the rooms, their voices filled with crude laughter. "Where are the women?" one of them growled. Her mother, calm but terrified, answered from the other room. "There are no women here. Only children." The sound of a rifle being cocked made Bertha’s stomach twist. She could feel the men’s presence like a weight pressing against her chest. For what felt like an eternity, there was silence. The men were searching, looking for something to take, someone to hurt. Bertha shut her eyes, trying to still her breathing, wishing she could disappear altogether. “Move,” one of the men ordered. And then, finally, the sound of boots retreating, followed by the slam of the door. They were gone. Bertha stayed hidden for what felt like hours, not daring to move. When her mother finally called her name, Bertha scrambled out of the oven, her limbs stiff from the cramped space. “They’ve left,” Dolores whispered, her face pale but determined. “We have to go. Now.” Bertha didn’t ask questions. She knew. She had seen the fear in her mother’s eyes, the same fear that had now planted itself firmly in Bertha’s chest. Without another word, Dolores grabbed Bertha’s hand and led her through the back door, away from the house and into the dark, cold night. The journey to Hermosillo was perilous, not just because of the vast desert but because of the constant threat of Villa’s men. Dolores knew that Namiquipa was no longer safe for them, and they had no choice but to flee. Hermosillo, a larger town to the south, would offer them some semblance of safety, but it was still a long way to go. They traveled by foot, mostly under the cover of darkness, sleeping in abandoned barns or under the stars when necessary. Along the way, Bertha learned that she was not alone in her escape. Many others were fleeing the violence—families, refugees, all hoping for a better life. One evening, as they sat around a campfire, Bertha overheard a group of women talking. They were speaking of things she had never imagined: the rapes in Namiquipa, the pillaging, the burning of homes. The men of Pancho Villa’s army had become monsters, no longer fighting for justice but for chaos. “We cannot stay here, not with the way things are,” one of the women said, her face scarred with the pain of memories. “They take whatever they want, and when they leave, they leave nothing behind but death.” Bertha shuddered. She clung to her mother’s side, knowing that the road ahead was fraught with danger. Yet her mother had always been strong, a beacon of hope when everything else seemed dark. Dolores turned to Bertha one night, her voice full of resolve. “Once we get to Hermosillo, we’ll find a way to cross into America. It’s the only way we can escape this madness.” “But how?” Bertha asked, her brow furrowed with worry. “How can we cross the border? We have nothing.” Her mother smiled gently, though her eyes were tired. “We’ll find a way, Bertha. We always do.” After days of travel, they arrived in Hermosillo. The city was a bustling hub compared to the small, dusty town of Namiquipa. But even here, there were whispers of danger, of raids and of men who did not care for the lives of others. It was through an old friend of Dolores that they learned of Valle de Curuis, a coastal village not far from Hermosillo. There, boats crossed into the United States, taking refugees to safety. The journey by sea, though dangerous, seemed their only option. The boat that would carry them was small, barely large enough to hold the five passengers. There was no luxury, no comforts, only the uncertainty of what lay ahead. Bertha sat at the edge of the boat, her fingers gripped tightly to the side, watching the coastline of Mexico fade into the distance. The two days at sea were treacherous. The boat rocked violently in the waves, and Bertha feared they would capsize at any moment. But each time the boat lurched, her mother would hold her, whispering words of reassurance. “Keep your faith, Bertha. We are so close now.” But the sea was cruel. On the second day, a storm rolled in, fierce winds howling through the sails. The boat creaked and groaned under the pressure, and Bertha’s heart pounded in her chest. Water splashed over the sides, and the sky above turned black as night. “We’re going to sink!” one of the other passengers cried, clutching the sides of the boat. “We’re not going to make it!” But Dolores remained calm. She stood, her face set with determination, and shouted over the roar of the wind. “Keep rowing! Keep the boat steady!” The storm lasted for hours, but by the time the sun began to rise, the sea had calmed. The boat, battered and soaked but still intact, sailed on toward the distant shore of California. When they finally arrived on the shores of California, Bertha could hardly believe her eyes. The beach stretched endlessly before her, the sound of the waves crashing against the sand a stark contrast to the terror that had followed them from Mexico. Her uncle and aunts, who had arrived earlier, were there to greet them, their faces filled with joy and relief. They helped Bertha and her mother disembark from the boat, and for the first time in what felt like years, Bertha could breathe freely. They had made it. But even as Bertha stepped onto the soft, golden sand, a shadow fell over her. She looked up to see the distant silhouette of a man, standing tall against the horizon, his gaze fixed on her. A chill ran down her spine. For the first time in weeks, Bertha felt a creeping fear return. The world she had left behind was not so easily forgotten. And the storm of her past might not be finished with her yet. As Bertha’s feet sank into the warm sand, she felt a sense of relief she had never known. The ocean, vast and endless, stretched before her, the waves crashing with a rhythm that seemed to promise safety. Her family surrounded her, their faces etched with exhaustion but filled with a glimmer of hope. Her mother, Dolores, held her tightly, whispering words of reassurance, but Bertha’s eyes were drawn to the figure standing in the distance. The man stood tall on the edge of the cliff, silhouetted against the dimming sky, as though he were waiting for something. His broad shoulders were hunched, his stance rigid. Bertha’s heart skipped a beat. There was something about the figure that felt too familiar, too unsettling. The distant figure seemed to watch her, his gaze piercing, though he was too far away to identify clearly. "Mamá, who is that?" Bertha whispered, her voice trembling. Dolores stiffened beside her, her hand tightening around Bertha’s. She did not look at the figure but instead swept Bertha closer, her expression tight with fear. “Stay close, mija,” her mother replied softly, pulling Bertha’s arm firmly around her. "Don't look at him. Just keep walking." But Bertha couldn’t help herself. Her eyes were drawn back to the man on the cliff. He was taller than most men she had seen, his figure imposing even from afar. For a moment, their gazes met. Bertha’s heart pounded in her chest, the weight of the past suddenly pressing down on her. She knew that look. It was the same kind of look that Pancho Villa’s men had given her mother and the other women in Namiquipa. The look of a predator sizing up its prey. Before Bertha could speak, her uncle Juan appeared from behind, his weathered face full of concern. He had been waiting at the beach, and when he saw the tension on Bertha’s face, his eyes followed her gaze to the man on the cliff. A flicker of recognition crossed his features before he quickly turned back to her, his face hardening. “Don’t worry about him, Bertha,” Juan said in a low voice. “He’s not someone we need to fear. We’re safe here. But we must move quickly.” Bertha wanted to argue, to ask more questions, but her uncle's serious expression silenced her. She trusted him. He had always been there for her family, even when things were difficult. So, without another word, they began to walk toward the small cabin where they would be staying. But Bertha couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. The cabin that her uncle had arranged for them was simple, nestled in a quiet grove of trees just beyond the beach. It was small, with rough wooden beams and a thatched roof, but it was shelter, and for that, Bertha was grateful. After the tumultuous journey from Mexico, it felt like a sanctuary. That night, as the family gathered around a small fire, Bertha tried to put the man from the cliff out of her mind. Her mother and uncle spoke in low tones, their words quick and urgent, while Bertha and her aunts prepared a meager meal of rice and beans. They were all exhausted, but Bertha noticed her mother glancing toward the door every so often, as if she were expecting someone—or something. "Mamá, who was that man?" Bertha asked again, her voice hesitant. Her mother paused, her hand stilling as she stirred the pot. A long, silent moment passed before Dolores turned to Bertha, her face pale. “He’s from the old days, mija. He’s one of Villa’s men. I don’t know what he’s doing here, but we cannot take chances. He could bring trouble.” The words sent a chill through Bertha’s veins. The idea that Pancho Villa’s men had followed them to America was terrifying. How could they have found them? They had crossed the border in secret. They had been careful, but the man on the cliff was too familiar. And now, his shadow loomed over them. "Do you think he saw us?" Bertha asked, her voice trembling. “I don’t know, mija,” her mother replied. “But if he did, we’ll have to be careful. We cannot trust anyone from our past—not here, not now.” The following day, Bertha spent most of her time at the beach, trying to shake the unease that lingered like a dark cloud over her heart. The sand stretched endlessly before her, the waves rolling in and out with rhythmic regularity, but the beauty of the place did little to calm her. The thought of Pancho Villa’s men coming after them, even here, in a foreign country, weighed heavily on her. Her thoughts were interrupted when a familiar figure approached from the distance. Her uncle Juan had gone into town that morning, but now he was walking quickly toward her. His face was serious, his movements tense. “Bertha, come with me,” Juan said sharply, his voice low. “We need to leave, now.” “Leave?” Bertha’s heart skipped a beat. “Why? What’s happened?” “There’s a man in town. A Mexican man. He’s been asking questions about your family,” Juan explained, his eyes scanning the horizon as though expecting someone to appear from the shadows. “We can’t stay here. Not with him sniffing around.” Bertha felt the blood drain from her face. "Do you think it’s him? The man from the cliff?" Juan nodded grimly. “I’m not sure. But we can’t take chances. We have to move quickly. We’ll head into the mountains. It’s safer there.” The urgency in Juan’s voice was enough to make Bertha’s heart race. She grabbed her coat and followed her uncle without hesitation, knowing that whatever was coming was far worse than anything they had faced so far. As they made their way toward the hills, Bertha’s mind raced. The quiet life she had imagined in America was slipping away, replaced by the threat of violence and danger that seemed to follow them no matter where they went. She had hoped for safety, for peace, but the shadows of her past were never far behind.

This site is designed
and maintained by:

Robert Nerbovig