CURSE THE MOON (7 page)

Through exhaustion, Atcho’s stomach knotted, he felt his shoulders droop, and he complied without saying a word. Beside him, Toothless did the same. Two Cuban Army soldiers searched them. They removed the pistol Atcho kept in his belt, and the knife strapped to his calf. When the search was completed, the soldiers ordered them to move over with the group Atcho had seen on entering. The prisoners greeted Toothless warmly, and regarded Atcho with dull curiosity.

Atcho said nothing, settled on the floor in the corner and leaned against the wall, head in his hands. He could not believe the turn of events. Anger at himself gripped him. How could I have been so stupid to have let my guard down and walk right into the headquarters that Castro wanted to capture? Then he thought of his daughter. “Ah, Isabelita,” he breathed quietly. “Will I ever see you again?”

There were two types of captives to deal with. First were uniformed members of the exile force. The others were underground fighters, such as Atcho. He was sure that treatment of those who fell in this latter category would be worst. There would be public trials, of that he was sure. Castro had too much flair to miss an opportunity to show the world his justice. Beatings and torture would be private events, only rumored, and officially denied. Executions would be many, accomplished both as official sentence and the result of brutal retaliation.

He watched for an opportunity to escape, but besides his own exhaustion, the guards stayed close. And if I do escape, how do I find Isabel – now with no organization? He lowered his head into his hands once more, and then leaned it back against the wall Escape first, then find Isabel. But to do either, I can’t let them know who I am.

Just then, Toothless walked over and sat down next to him. “You are Atcho, aren’t you?” he whispered.

Atcho placed his arm around the old man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you are mistaken,” he replied softly. “I am Manuel. But I do know about Atcho. I saw him killed on the battlefield tonight.”

9

Toothless sat next to Atcho throughout that first night of captivity. The old man never indicated whether he believed the ruse about Atcho’s death. He seemed to accept “Manuel,” but also sensed that Atcho’s pain went well beyond the loss of battle.

Though he did little to encourage Toothless’ friendship, Atcho welcomed the caring presence of the man. Thin and wizened, his empty mouth was often smiling. Because they were forbidden to talk that night and while being transported the next day, Atcho learned little of him beyond what had been disclosed on their ride to headquarters. He is brave. He represents 2506 Brigade very well.

The Cuban army trucked the captives to a holding area north of the swamp. From there they transported them to Havana. The captives’ spirits were low. No one cared to talk.

On the second day, Toothless approached Atcho. “Manuel,” he said quietly. “I have news I think you should hear.” Atcho returned the old man’s worried scrutiny with vague interest. “There was a leader of the resistance,” Toothless went on. “His name was Juan Ortiz.”

Atcho suddenly became alert, but he showed no outward change of expression. “Go on,” he said simply.

“I heard that he was killed.”

The old man continued speaking, but Atcho heard him as though in a fog. Images passed through his mind: the fire, the square in Havana, and their days together in Jaguey Grande. Though outwardly impassive, Atcho began to grieve. His body felt heavy and tired. He wanted only to find a corner in a dark place and lie down. “How did he die?”

Toothless looked at him compassionately. “I don’t know much. I heard he was closely a close friend of Atcho’s. When Juan was captured, they questioned him about Atcho. He wouldn’t talk, so they tortured him. When he still wouldn’t, they shot him.” The old man shook his head sadly. “The men who saw his murder say he was very brave.”

Tears burned in Atcho’s eyes, but he held them back. His throat constricted, but he refused to allow even a gasp to escape.

He turned to Toothless. “Thank you, Viejo.”

The next day in Havana, 2506 Brigade members were segregated from guerrillas. Atcho’s concern about discovery of his alias, Manuel Lezcano, dissipated. He had told authorities that he was from the province of Oriente. Records were poor in Cuba.

His trial was public. He stood in a line with other prisoners to have his picture taken. Then they were herded into a crowded courtroom with Fidelistas screaming “Paredor! Paredor! Firing squad! Firing squad!” On the other side of the courtroom were prisoners’ family members. Their misery, profound in their expressions, turned into abject grief when, one hour after entering the courtroom, sentences had been meted out and appeals exhausted. On leaving the courtroom, Atcho faced thirty years in prison, and was on his way to incarceration in the most notorious prison in Cuba, the Isle of Pines.

PART IV

10

May 1961

Atcho felt like a walking cadaver when he staggered from the bus with his fellow prisoners on arrival at the El Presidio Modelo, the Model Prison on the Isle of Pines. He knew he must look dead. A boat had brought them from the main island of Cuba early that morning, and then the bus had picked them up at the quay in Nueva Girona and taken them to the prison. Five massive towers rose into sight. Four of them were seven stories high each, and two hundred feet in diameter. The one at the center was only three stories high, but had a much larger diameter. This was the mess hall. On first seeing them, Atcho felt a cold chill. He turned to one of his companions.

“What do you think?” he asked. The man did not respond, but stared vacantly at the ominous round cellblocks. In silence, they trudged under the harsh commands of their guards to one marked Circular 4, which would house the newest cargo of “fresh meat.” In its cavernous interior, a single watchtower rose five stories from the center, and a mass of humanity moved on every conceivable inch on the ground floor, as well as on each tier.

Access was firmly secured at the base of the interior watchtower. From that perch, Atcho saw that four armed guards observed every cell on every floor that ringed the outside walls. Already thirty-seven years old and having housed generations of prisoners, the building’s stench of effluent tropical dankness, and decades without proper cleaning stung Atcho’s nostrils. He felt the visceral press of multitudes of dirty human bodies in close proximity.

When the doors closed behind them, the guards who had escorted them stayed outside. A tall muscular inmate wearing a blue prison uniform approached the new group. “I am Javier,” he growled. “I am appointed by the prison warden to govern inside Circular 4.” He pointed to several other men in blue prison uniforms. “Those are my assistants. They will show you how things work here. Meanwhile, you’ve each been assigned a cell and a work group. Don’t give me any trouble.” He paused. “Your fellow inmates here,” he waved his hand to indicate the hundreds of prisoners milling about, “they think that they should not wear these blue uniforms, like mine.” He indicated his own. “They were already complaining earlier today. They think that because they are political prisoners that makes them better than us.” He leered at them and exchanged grins with his cohorts. “Don’t think it!” he snapped at the prisoners. “Now,” he looked over them, “I’m going to divide you into work groups, and you start work tomorrow morning.”

Moments later, Atcho stood with a group of young men roughly his own age. They were designated for the marble quarries. He stood awaiting further instruction when he heard a commotion off to his right. Suddenly, an old man, very skinny and bent over, walked deliberately up in front of Javier. He was dressed only in his underwear, and he carried his blue uniform in his arms. “These Circulars were built for nine hundred prisoners!” he yelled angrily. “There must be twice that many in here.” He threw the uniforms at Javier’s feet. “I will not wear these clothes of criminals!” He spat onto the floor. “I am not a common thief like you. I will not be ruled by criminals!”

Javier looked startled, then his face darkened with fury. The entire cavernous interior had gone quiet with only a murmur coming from a few who had not sensed the unfolding drama. On the watchtower, the guards moved uneasily, weapons pointed in the direction of Javier and the old man. Atcho tensed. Another prisoner walked in front of Javier and threw down his uniform, then a third, and a fourth. Within seconds, roughly twenty prisoners, clad in only their tattered, grimy underwear, stood defiantly in front of Javier, looking alternately between him and the guards in the watchtower.

Atcho saw one guard speak into a telephone. Moments later, the outside door swung open, and a band of guards rushed in. They grabbed the old man and began beating him, then dragged him outside.

“Silencio!” Javier yelled above the din. More prisoners quickly drowned him out as they stripped off their uniforms and threw them down. Around the walls, yet more inmates angrily left their cells and descended the narrow concrete stairs, stripping their uniforms off as they came.

Javier’s “assistants” drew close to him. On the watchtower, Atcho saw the same guard once again speak into the telephone. Atcho stepped quickly into the shadows to one side of Javier, and delivered two sharp blows, one to his stomach, the other directly into the bridge between his eyes. He heard a crack of bone, and Javier went down. The entire motion took barely a second, and Atcho stepped further into the shadows.

When Javier’s men saw him go down, they grouped around and helped him move toward the exit, encircled by the furious crowd of prisoners. At that moment, a shaft of sunlight broke through the doorway, and more guards rushed in. They grabbed Javier and his men, and made a quick exit, closing and locking the heavy iron door behind them.

Inside, the noise died rapidly, and all eyes turned towards the watchtower. One guard was still on the phone, but the others were spread out so that they had full rifle coverage of the interior. The guard on the telephone replaced the receiver, and picked up a bullhorn. “Go back to your cells!” His voice was half authoritative and half wavering. “Go back to your cells! Now!”

The crowd began dispersing, each individual headed toward his few square feet of space. Atcho nudged one of the men in his underwear. “Where do I go?” he asked. “I just got here.” The man looked at him through sagging eyes. He did not respond, nor did he start walking. He seemed lost in thought. Then, he turned, faced the tower, and called up.

“Oye me! Listen to me!” he yelled. At first, no one seemed to hear him, so he called again. “Guardia! Oye me!” Movement stopped, and one of the guards peered down.

“What do you want? More trouble?”

“You tell your jefe that we will not be governed by criminals. We are educated men who never broke the law, and we will govern ourselves, or you will have to shoot us all!” He paused, and then yelled again, “And we won’t wear the uniforms of criminals!”

Around him, other prisoners looked at him in awe and fear. “You go too far,” one said quietly.

“No!” he responded vehemently. “They’ve already taken everything away from us. I will either keep my dignity or die with it!” He set his jaw firmly. Around him, a small group gathered. It grew until every man in the Circular 4 had descended to the first floor and stood packed together in their underwear, facing the watchtower defiantly. Atcho had also stripped down, but he moved further into the shadows.

The guard with the bullhorn spoke into the phone again. A moment later, he lifted the bullhorn, and called down, “The warden will meet with your representatives tonight. Now, go back to your cells!” He lowered the bullhorn and picked up his weapon.

A few minutes later, with help from other prisoners, Atcho located his assigned cell, and lay down on the canvas stretched over a steel frame that served as his bed. The walls were rough-hewn and coated with worn-through, grimy whitewash. The bars had also been painted white at some point in its old history, but that had also worn through to shiny steel by thousands of hands that had gripped them over many decades. The cells had doors, but they were left unlocked, and inmates were free to move about. Twice each day, there was a head count, and prisoners then had to be in their cells where they could be seen and counted by the guards in the watchtower.

Atcho said little to anyone that night. One of his cellmates, Domingo, had been an engineer prior to the revolution, and had also been captured at the Bay of Pigs. “What will happen now?” Atcho asked, referring to the commotion.

Domingo was small, in his mid-thirties, and appeared to be a thoughtful man. “I don’t know,” he responded. “You can tell by how quiet it is now that people are worried. But they can’t kill us all! There are famous people in here. If they massacre us, the world will know.”

The next morning before breakfast, Atcho milled with his work group on the ground floor of the cellblock waiting to go for breakfast, and was surprised to see that the cadre of criminals was not present. Instead, a fellow prisoner stood at the base of the watchtower and called for quiet.

“The warden brought me and some others to his office last night,” he announced in a loud, serious tone. “We govern ourselves!” As the crowd began to voice its approval, he raised his right hand for quiet. “We don’t celebrate,” he said. “We are still prisoners. But here,” he tapped his head, “and here,” he put his hand over his heart, “we are still freemen – and they will never take that away.” The crowd raised its collective voice again, and again he raised his hand. “To celebrate is to invite retribution,” he cautioned. “We will do as we always have: conduct ourselves with dignity and look out for each other.” He smiled softly. “I wish I had something better to say in closing, but,” he indicated the outer heavy iron doors opening and guards waiting for them, “have a good day at work.”

With that, the prisoners started to disperse to their work groups, but one man called out, “What about our clothes?”

The leader laughed. “Ah sí, las ropas – the clothes. Well, today, we work in our underwear. Tonight, we will receive back clothes taken from us on arrival.” He laughed again. “You might not get back exactly the same clothes, but you’ll still look better than in your underwear. You might have to do some trading to get something that fits.” With that, he left.