Sunday, January 26, 2025 - Brenners' Home

Elena's parents come for dinner. David sets the table while Elena and her mother cook, the kitchen filling with smells of pupusas and the sound of rapid Spanish he can follow only partially.

Elena's father, Miguel, arrives late, still in work clothes from the auto shop. He embraces Elena, nods at David, goes straight to the kitchen to help his wife.

They eat in the dining room. TV on low in the background. CNN is doing a retrospective on the first week of Trump's second term: the executive orders, the Schedule F reinstatement, the inspector general firings.

"So many changes," Rosario says, Elena's mother, in English that still carries Kansas vowels beneath the Spanish influence. "It's hard to keep track."

"That's the point," Miguel says. He's a compact man with mechanic's hands and graying hair, quiet most of the time but absolute when he speaks. "Move so fast nobody can respond."

"Is it really that unusual though?" Rosario asks. "I mean, every president makes changes."

Elena and Miguel exchange a look.

"Mama," Elena says carefully, "firing seventeen inspectors general without notice isn't normal. It's illegal, actually."

"Well, I'm sure if it's unlawful, the courts will—"

"Will what?" Miguel interrupts, his voice sharp. "Stop him? Like they stopped the family separations? Like they stopped the travel ban?"

Rosario looks down at her plate. "That's different, Miguel."

"How?"

"The courts did eventually—"

"Eventually." Miguel sets down his fork.

Rosario looks at her husband. "I thought America was different. I thought our institutions—" She stops. "They did work, didn't they?"

"Eventually," Miguel says again, quieter.

"You know what I learned in El Salvador? When you start seeing people purged from government jobs for loyalty, when oversight disappears, when the press is called enemies—you don't wait for 'eventually.' You recognize what's coming."

David's fork pauses halfway to his mouth. "The situations aren't really comparable—"

"Aren't they?" Miguel turns to him. "You're the historian. You teach this. What do you tell your students?"

David feels everyone's eyes on him. Elena's especially. His grandmother's voice echoes unbidden: They came for the journalists first. Then the judges. Then us.

"I teach them," he says slowly, "to analyze patterns using historical context. To understand both similarities and differences. To avoid—"

"To avoid what?" Elena interrupts. "Avoid calling it what it is?"

"To avoid false equivalencies," David finishes. His throat tightens. "Hitler had the Reichstag Fire. He suspended civil liberties. He had paramilitary forces—"

"Executive orders that bypass Congress," Miguel counts on his fingers. "Attacking the press. Threatening judges. Firing oversight officials. Mass deportations without due process. Tell me which of those things isn't happening."

"The scale is different—" David stops himself. That's not the argument. He tries again. "Miguel, I hear you. My grandmother—she was in Łódź. Then Auschwitz. She told me stories that still wake me up at night." He removes his glasses, cleans them with his napkin. His hands need something to do. "If I compare this to what she survived—if I call this Nazism when it's not Kristallnacht yet, not the night they smashed every Jewish storefront and burned the synagogues—what word do I have left when it becomes that? Precision isn't about politics. It's about… it's about being able to name the real thing when it arrives."

Miguel's expression doesn't change. "And how many people die while you wait to be precise?"

Silence.

David has no answer. Miguel's question hangs in the air like smoke.

"How was your first week of classes, David?"

Rosario's question lands like a rope thrown overboard. "Good. Good enrollment. The students are engaged."

"They're terrified," Elena says.

"They're not—"

"They are. They're watching adults like you—people who are supposed to know better—act like everything's normal. Like we're not watching democracy die in real time."

"Elena, that's not fair—"

"Isn't it?"

She stands. Picks up plates.

"We're sitting here having dinner. Like it's a normal Sunday. People are being rounded up. Career officials purged. Courts packed. And you—" She stops at the doorway. "You're worried about false equivalencies."

She disappears into the kitchen.

The dishwasher hums. Plates clatter. David stares at nothing.

Rosario reaches for David's hand. "The immigration cases—"

"She's right though," Miguel says quietly. "About all of it."

David doesn't respond. His hand finds his wedding ring, turns it once. On the TV, CNN shows clips of the People's March last Saturday—the crowds, the signs, the chants. The chyron reads: Democrats Vow Resistance as Trump Orders Continue.

Miguel follows his gaze. "In El Salvador, my uncle was a journalist. Government said he was spreading false news, undermining the regime. One day he didn't come home." Miguel's voice is matter-of-fact, recounting history. "They found his body a week later. That was after the courts stopped working, after the press was controlled, after everyone who could say no was gone."

David's chest tightens. His grandmother's photographs flash through his mind—the Łódź ghetto, the selection platform at Auschwitz, the tattooed number on her arm. Different country. Different decade. Same sequence.

"Miguel," Rosario says softly.

"No, let me say this."

He looks at David.

"You're a good man. You're smart, educated, you know the history. But knowing isn't enough. My uncle knew too. He thought his newspaper, his readers, his connections—he thought those things would protect him. You know what protected people? Leaving."

"Are you saying we should leave?" David asks.

"I'm saying you should stop pretending this is academic." Miguel stands. "Rosario, we should go. I have early work tomorrow."

They leave with hugs that feel strained. After they're gone, David finds Elena loading the dishwasher, knuckles white against the ceramic plates.

"You didn't have to bring up my class," he says.

"I didn't bring it up. Mom did."

"You know what I mean."

Elena closes the dishwasher and turns to face him. "Do I? Because I thought I knew you. I thought when the moment came—if it ever came—you'd be brave. You'd speak up. You'd use that expertise you spent fifteen years building. But you're not. You're hedging. You're both-sides-ing. You're playing it safe."

"I'm trying to be responsible—"

"To who? Your tenure? Your reputation? The administration?" Her voice breaks. "My father fled a death squad, David. A death squad. And you're worried about false equivalencies."

"It's not the same—"

"WHEN WILL IT BE?" She's shouting now, tears on her cheeks. "When they abolish elections? When they start shooting protesters? When it's too late? When do you stop being a historian and start being a human being?"

David stands frozen. His hand grips the counter edge. His mouth opens. Closes. Nothing.

Elena wipes her eyes. "I'm sleeping in the guest room. I can't—I can't do this right now."

She leaves.

David stands alone in the kitchen, hands gripping the counter. His phone buzzes. The Class Portal again. He offers nothing to the screen.

Outside, the night is dark and silent. Inside, the dishwasher hums.