CURSE THE MOON (12 page)

A Cuban army officer boarded the bus. “From this moment, you are on your own,” he said simply. “Behave yourselves.” Hardly believing the reality, the ex-prisoners filed out of the bus and shuffled hurriedly into the classical building. They did not even look around, lest they be snatched back to the hell they had just escaped. A Swiss guard met them at the main door, and led them through a large foyer, then into a long hall lined with paintings. Unaccustomed air conditioning provided relief from oppressive heat and stench of the street outside. Their footsteps sounded strange on the marble floor, and then were muffled by thick carpet.

Halfway down the corridor on the left, a door with an ornate emblem caught their eyes. It depicted an eagle, wings spread wide, holding a quiver of arrows in one talon and an olive branch in the other. A sign over the emblem read: “United States’ Interests Section.”

Mixed expressions of joy and disbelief covered the men’s faces as they filed into the office. A young woman with a friendly smile ushered them into a massive conference room. Deep leather chairs surrounded a long oval table of fine wood.

“My name is Sofia Stahl,” the woman said. “I’m here to make you comfortable and help in any way I can.”

Atcho took immediate note of Sofia. She was beautiful even in a business suit, and her shoulder-length dark hair was thick and lustrous. Friendliness danced from her green eyes, and her soft lips were quick to smile.

Sofia left and returned shortly with a serving cart of coffee, assorted soft drinks, and a variety of meats and pastries. Excited voices rose, punctuated with full-throated, happy laughter. Men slapped each other’s backs, and embraced. Atcho, beginning to relax, enjoyed the merriment but kept himself slightly apart from the group.

A man in a dark business suit entered the room. His demeanor was pleasant, but he spoke with authority as he introduced himself. “Hello. I am Robert Tilden, Director of the American Interests Section. We’re glad you’re here, and will do all we can to speed your departure for Miami. In this office, we process your applications for entry into the United States. That will take a little time. Meanwhile, relax. We will help as many of you as possible make phone contact with your families in the U.S.”

The director left the room amid unbridled cheers. Sofia returned and began escorting men to various locations to place their phone calls.

Atcho began pacing. A mirror hung at the far end of the room and, curious to see what the years had done, he walked over to it. The face staring back at him was startling. It was the same tanned visage of nineteen years ago, but altered by age and elements. His fine, smooth skin had become rough, lending him a craggy countenance. Lines only hinted at around his eyes when he had last seen them, were longer and deeper, and gray streaked his hair at the temples. His eyes traveled over his physique. He was lean; some would say underweight. However, his muscles were hard. Broad shoulders were still evident below his loose clothes. He pulled himself erect. What do you think my West Point buddies would think of this military bearing? he wondered in amusement. Then smiling with resignation, he looked at his hands. They were as coarse as any peasant’s he had ever seen.

Sofia walked over to him. “Is there anyone you’d like to call in Miami?” Atcho shook his head. “Is there anyone anywhere you’d like to contact?” she asked quietly.

Again, Atcho shook his head. This time he turned away and walked to the other side of the room and sat in a chair. Aware that the woman watched him compassionately, he lowered his head. Several minutes passed while he reminded himself that his life had improved immensely since yesterday. Feeling a tug on his sleeve, he looked up.

Sofia sat next to him, her expression kind and gentle. “Are you sure there is no one who would like to hear from you?”

Atcho searched the woman’s lovely face. A lump formed in his throat and his lips quivered. At last, he whispered, “I have a daughter.”

“Wonderful!” Sofia responded. “Let’s see if we can find her.” She pulled Atcho to his feet and led him by the arm into the hall. “Do you know where she is?”

Trying to compose himself, Atcho was able to say only, “New York.” I would not have known that if that captain hadn’t read it from the list, he remarked to himself.

“Anyone else?”

“My sister, Raissa,” he muttered, “but I don’t know how to contact her.”

“New York it is.” Sofia pulled him into another office. “Do you know where in New York?”

“Newburgh.” Atcho’s heart pounded. “But I don’t have any other information.”

“Let me worry about that.”

They approached a desk that had only a beige telephone on its surface. To Atcho, the instrument loomed larger than life.

“What’s her name?”

“Isabel.” He stopped, dumbfounded. “I don’t know what last name she used!”

“Let me work on it.” Determination was in Sofia’s voice. “There can’t be many Isabels in Newburgh, New York!” She searched a directory, then dialed a number and spoke into the phone. After a few moments, she turned to Atcho. “There is a girl’s college in Newburgh. Mt. Saint Mary’s. Do you know if she is attending school?” Atcho shook his head. “Well, let’s try it,” Sofia said. While Atcho paced the floor, she dialed another number.

“This should be it!” she called excitedly. “I was right. There is an Isabel at Mt. Saint Mary’s, and she was born in Camaguey, Cuba. Was your daughter born there?”

Atcho nodded numbly.

“Well, I have her dorm number. Her phone’s ringing now!” Atcho caught his breath. His heart beat furiously.

“Hello!” Sofia called into the phone. “May I speak to Isabel?” She glanced at Atcho, and then turned back to the receiver. “Not there?” Atcho’s heart skipped a beat. “Half an hour?” Relief. “Would you please tell her to expect a long distance call at that time? Thank you!”

Sofia turned to Atcho, her green eyes sparkling. “There, you see! We found her. And in one-half hour, you’re going to speak to her.”

Atcho shook with emotion. Embarrassed to be seen this way, he turned away. Appearing not to notice Atcho’s face, she touched his shoulder lightly. “You stay here to reserve this phone,” she murmured. “I’ll go help some of the other men, and be back to place that call.”

Atcho nodded gratefully. When he heard the door close he sat in the chair at the desk and lowered his head into his arms. The room was quiet, the lighting soft. Atcho’s nerves, drawn tight only moments before, were numb. His apprehension at talking to Isabel surprised him. Then again, he had not expected to speak with her this soon. He had had no time to prepare. He thought of leaving the room without making the call, but found that the urge to talk to his daughter was irresistible.

A short time later, Sofia came back. Atcho struggled for composure. A clock on the wall indicated that, indeed, thirty minutes had passed. Sofia appeared not to notice Atcho’s discomfiture. “Let’s make that call, shall we?”

Standing behind her, Atcho closed his eyes and held his breath while Sofia talked into the phone. “Hello, may I speak to Isabel?” Atcho’s hands tightened on the back of the chair. “Is this Isabel? Please hold. I have a long distance call for you.” She moved from the chair and held the receiver out to Atcho. He took the instrument.

Sofia crossed to the door and paused a moment, watching him. Atcho sat down and spoke hoarsely into the phone. “Hello.”

“Who is this, please?” The female voice was rich and musical.

“Is this Isabel?” Taking a deep breath, his mind swimming, he continued, “Isabel, this is Eduardo, your father. I have been released from prison.” Suddenly, he was full of things he wanted to say. “They tell me you claimed me three times.”

“Who are you?” The voice was low and racked with pain.

“This is Eduardo. Your father!”

“Is this a joke?” Isabel’s voice was flat, almost menacing. “If so, it’s not funny.”

“No, believe me, Isabel. Listen to me … ”

“No! You listen to me, whoever you are. My Aunt Raissa was killed in a car accident two years ago, and my father died in Cuba nearly twenty years ago. This prank is cruel and tasteless, and I never want to hear from you again.”

She paused, as if about to hang up, then added, “And I never claimed anyone! There was no one for me to claim!”

Atcho heard a click. The line was dead.

15

Stunned, Atcho looked at the phone in his hand. He sat in his chair, limp, unmoving. A whining sound from the receiver caused him to replace it slowly in the cradle. Behind him, the door closed quietly.

The secretary, Sofia, crossed the floor and gently touched his shoulder. “What happened?” Her voice was filled with kindness and concern. Atcho did not respond. A lump formed in his throat and constricted his breathing.

“Are you all right?” Atcho nodded, grateful for her presence. He wanted to speak, but turned away when his lips trembled and moisture formed around his eyes. Finally, Atcho murmured, “She hung up. She thinks I’m dead. She thought someone was playing a joke on her.”

Sofia knelt beside him. “I am so sorry!” she said. “Is there anything I can do?”

Atcho shook his head sadly. “No, but thanks for trying.” They were silent for several minutes.

Sofia stood up. “Stay here as long as you want,” she said. “I’m sure you’d like to be alone. I’ll keep everyone else out. If you need anything just come get me. I’ll be in the offices.” Atcho nodded and Sofia quietly left the room.

Placing his arms on the desk, Atcho rested his head on them. Pain and disappointment were such a part of his adult life that they no longer generated the ferocity of his youth. He felt abandoned, uncared-for, forgotten.

New concerns formed, and he thought through the events that occurred as the bus had prepared to leave Boniato. Atcho had never before seen the captain, and when asked, gave only his prison serial number. Nevertheless, the officer had connected the number to the correct name on a list. He had read Isabel’s name from the same document, associated with the name of Manuel Lezcano. How? Who knew I was alive? Raissa? A new round of grief engulfed him as he contemplated her death, and he sat limp in the chair.

Through his anguish, Atcho had to admit that the potential for his discovery was reasonably good. His presence was known among prisoners; to what extent, he could not know. Like Atcho, they had been captured during the invasion, and had received the same rough treatment as all political prisoners.

Atcho had masked inquiries about his own family by asking about many in the area. In all that time he had never used his real name, and never in conjunction with his code name. Over the years, some of Castro’s worst enemies had been allowed to leave Cuba, usually after prolonged efforts by family members and friends in other countries. Apparently, without Atcho’s knowledge, someone was doing the same for him in the name of Manuel Lezcano.

Without more information, Atcho knew that further thought on the matter was useless. Maybe I should just leave Isabel alone, he told himself. She’s established a life of her own, and doesn’t need my interference. He wondered about how she lived, what her major was in college, and how she had afforded tuition. Might as well be happy that at least one aspect of my life seems to be a success.

He knew of Mt. Saint Mary’s, the Catholic college situated on the Hudson River fourteen miles upstream from West Point. He had dated girls from there. Knowing that Isabel was safe and doing well was comforting.

He glanced at the clock and was surprised to see that three hours had passed since arriving at the embassy. I’m in the Swiss Embassy, on the way to Miami. Despite himself, he felt a slight thrill. A stray thought entered his mind: Mt. Saint Mary’s isn’t far from West Point – maybe I can get a classmate to help. The prospect of seeing old friends improved his spirits. And I’m not prepared to dismiss Isabel from my life. He stood up, strode to the door, and made his way back to the conference room.

When Atcho entered, the room buzzed with excitement. More ex-political prisoners had arrived, many who were rediscovering comrades they had thought long dead. A man grabbed Atcho by the elbow. “Señor Tomas!” he exclaimed.

Atcho whirled. No one had called him that since his capture! A man stood in front of him smiling enthusiastically. “I know you don’t remember me,” he said. “Many of us remember you, though!” He gestured, indicating a group of men forming a circle around him. “We were at Jaguey Grande with you.” He laughed. “I was in that meeting where you called that CIA guy ‘Burly.’” He laughed again, and his companions joined in. “I don’t think he liked that too much.”

Atcho was at first speechless, but then warmed to the men. “I am happy to see you here safe and well.”

“And we’re happy to see you,” another said. “You might remember my father, Enriquez. He was the man in Jaguey Grande who said he had met John Kennedy at a meeting in Miami when he was a candidate.”

Atcho looked at the man. He must have been a mere boy during the invasion – and then reflected that he had not been much more than that himself. Nineteen years is a long time, he thought. “I do remember Enriquez,” he said. “He was a class act.”

“Sí” the man said, “he was, and much too old to have been in that swamp then. Our family is very proud of him. I am Pedro.” He extended his hand and shook Atcho’s, and then became serious. “You were right, you know.” Atcho looked at him inquiringly. “In the meeting that day, you were right about how things would go with the invasion. We didn’t want to see it, but you called it just like it turned out.”

Atcho shook his head and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Maybe if I had been more thorough … ”

“No,” Pedro said firmly, “you were right. If you had not been there to train us, every one of us here would probably be dead.” The others nodded their agreement.

“Well, it’s all past history,” Atcho said softly. “How is your father now?”

“He passed away. Old age. He couldn’t get back to Miami, and died in his home a few weeks after you met him. Maybe of heartbreak, but he was old. He really hoped for a free Cuba.” The other men muttered their agreement. A few moments later, Pedro’s face brightened. “Hey,” he said, “we heard about what you did with that tank! That was pretty amazing.”