The Children of Sanchez (42 page)

The cops grabbed hold of me; the convicts call them the lamb, the hangman and the shepherd. The lamb is the fellow who talks to you in a sort of deep and friendly voice, with a big smile on his face, so you’ll confess the easy way. And the shepherd, well, you might say he’s just waiting to see what happens. As for the hangman, well, his name tells you what his business is.

So the first cop, I mean the lamb, said to me, “Look, boy, don’t be a fool, you’re already in, and it can go bad for you here, worse than that, we can beat you to death. But it’s up to you, it depends on whether you let go and sing. So let’s see, we want you to sing and cough up a few saints.” This thing of the saints meant he wanted me to tell him if I knew about other robberies and that sort of stuff, understand? You get the point; they began to handle me like I was one of the worst criminals, asking me about a whole bunch of robberies I didn’t commit.
The honest truth is that they caught me shooting at birds with a slingshot. That’s what I told them.

When they saw that they weren’t getting anything out of me, the hangman grabbed hold of me and said, “Don’t be a shit-heel, you son-of-a-whore.” And he punched me in the pit of my stomach, so all I could do was bend over and put my hands on my belly.

“Oh, so you’re trying to defend yourself. Don’t try that stuff here.” And he makes out like he was going to hit me down there again, and I put my hands down there to protect myself, then he socks me up between my jaw and my ear, and that’s the way it went from then on.

“Oh, my God, how am I going to get out of this?” I thought. “If this keeps up, I don’t know if I can take it. It’s worth confessing to get them to stop.” This is what went through my mind, right? But I still kept hoping I’d have the strength to hold out and take the punishment. I thought, maybe they’ll try it this once or again tomorrow. Well no, it lasted six days, three beatings a day, or rather four beatings, like I told you. But they couldn’t make me say what they wanted.

More or less, that’s the way the “warm-ups” went. You get called by your name and all the rest begin the kidding and shouting, “Let’s go,
compadre
. They are going to warm you up a little on account of it’s getting cold in here.” The toughest of them trembled when they knew that a good beating was waiting for them. During those six days everyone they took out cried, and lots of them looked husky and like a hundred percent men. There is always a morbid curiosity about these things. In the cell block there was a little window that unfortunately opened on the corridor and we would climb up to watch our companions in misfortune being tortured.

They gave me the torture called “
del ahogadito
”—the little drowning. They make you strip off every stitch of clothing down to your undershorts, then they distract your attention and when you are least expecting it, you get a punch in the stomach or in the liver and before you can catch your breath, they grab you by the hair and push you headfirst into a barrel of water. They keep you under for a few seconds, but it seems like centuries and then they say, “Now you’ll sing.” I couldn’t even talk, no less sing, but they don’t give you time to breathe before they do it again.

I cursed at the cops and at everybody. I took in their whole genealogical tree. They tortured me anyway. There are some who put up their fists when they are being tortured and these get it worse. Besides
“the little drowning” there were other tortures, like “the little monkey.” In this one, they strip the prisoner and put him up on a pole that goes across the room under the ceiling, making him hang head down by his knees. Then they take a live wire and shock his testicles with it. They say that there are lots who can’t take this one and die. There is another torture which consists in turning on an electric grill, and putting your hands, palms up, on it. I am not exaggerating when I tell you these things, because even if one wanted to exaggerate, it still wouldn’t come near what is really the truth. There are no words to describe the things that go on in that place.

After Station No. 6 they took me to the Penitentiary and I passed into the hands of the courts. A criminal is always sent first to Headquarters and to Station No. 6 for investigation. Their method of investigating is to beat up people and make them confess to crimes they never committed. They didn’t get anywhere with me, thank God, because I guess they didn’t torture me as much as they do other poor people.

The faces of those three cops really are engraved in my mind. One of them was killed. If the others fell into my hands, I would give them time to defend themselves before I attacked, not like they did to me. But I hate all police, whether they wear uniform or not. All I have to know is that they represent the so-and-so justice and if it were in my power, I’d wipe them off the map … I’d wipe them off!

On the second day in the Penitentiary, they took me to court. They had me slated for a federal court because I was accused of robbing the nation, that is, federal robbery. So they put me in the wagon, which is called the
Julia
. It had a big cage in it, and they took me along with other prisoners to the Santo Domingo court on Cuba and Brasil streets.

I didn’t have any shoes on, see? I was still wearing pants, though they were practically worn out, like my shirt; it was a shirt in name only. My own clothes had been stolen right away by a tough prisoner who sold them to get his “
mota
” or marijuana. They sell marijuana, cocaine, heroin, opium, all kinds of dope right inside the prison. That’s the kind of perfect inspection they have there. You can imagine how perfect it is when the guards themselves smuggle in the stuff.

I was still hopeful and kept saying to myself, “Dear God, dear God.” If there is anything good in me, it’s because at least I have a blind faith in Christ, Our Lord. I hoped that God would send my thoughts to my brother and sisters, or to some friend who would show up there in time. And sure enough, I was leaning against the bars of the door
in the room we were locked in, when I saw Manuel walking up the stairs.

I shouted and whistled and he turned around. He started toward me but the police stopped him. I spoke to the head guard who was in charge of us. “Chief, please let me talk with my brother. Look, I’ve been incommunicado for so many days. It’s the first time I’ve seen him; nobody knew where I was.”

“All right,” he said, “O.K., just for a minute, no more.”

So I spoke to Manuel. He gave me a bag of bananas and a sweater. I naturally perked right up, because I thought, “Well, at least they know I’m alive, and if I die, they will know where to find me.”

Manuel began to bawl me out. “So you see, that’s what you get for being a bum; for not working, like my father says. You’re always getting into trouble.”

“All right, brother,” I said. “Why don’t you lay off … at least listen to me for a moment.” And I started giving him the details, but time was limited. He asked me when I was getting out. I said, “I don’t know when I got in and I know less about when I’m getting out.”

Then they took us back to the cell block. Me they put in Section “A,” where the worst criminals are kept, see? They always figured me among the worst, although I’m proud to say I’m like the birds that cross the swamps and don’t get their feathers dirty.

I was put in a cell way back in the section where there was more danger of getting into fights; either I’d get killed or I’d kill someone. To prevent this, I paid the major a few
centavos
to be moved to a cell that was closer to the gate. I was pretty lucky, because there were only eight of us in it. We slept on the lousy concrete floor, with no cover except the clothes on our backs.

My sisters, Manuel and my father came to visit me, one at a time, and my father got busy trying to get me out. He sent a lawyer, who strung me along for seven months. “We’ve got the release now, tomorrow you leave, young fellow.” Another time he’d tell me, “This time it’s sure, you’re leaving this afternoon.” Or, “You’re leaving at midnight. Your family is coming after you. They’re bringing you clothes and shoes and you’ll go right off with them to the Basilica to give thanks to the Virgin.” I waited anxiously for the moment to come. Again I promised the Lord of Chalma I would pay Him a visit if He would make them see I was innocent. Day after day, I kept asking Him this … every minute, each beat of my heart was a plea to the Lord. Well, this went on for seven months.

There are hold-up men operating right in the prison. Some of the fellows made it a regular practice of robbing. They are fellows whom nobody comes to visit, see? They haven’t any family, or if they have, the relatives don’t come to see them because they are criminals. Well, these fellows make a practice of going to the courtyard during visiting hours to see who gets something they’d like to have, so they can take it away from him later.

One time, Consuelo, my aunt Guadalupe, Marta and my uncle Alfredo, may he rest in peace, came to see me, and they left me five
pesos
. Inside that place, it was fabulous amount of money. A dope fiend is capable of committing murder for that sum. When you come back from visiting, a cell door would open and a hand would pop out and they’d jump on you, screaming and swearing. Like they say in the pen, they were “taking the boy down,” they were taking away the money, food, and things your family had left.

When I was given the five
pesos
, I went back to the empty cell. The floor there was broken up in places where the concrete was gone and the dirt was showing. That’s where I put my money, shoving it under the dirt, and I went out again, to get my food ration. I was walking along, carrying my food, when a fellow named Aurelio began to stare at me. I realized what could happen to me, because a dope fiend is born full of marijuana. I think if you open up his head, instead of brains you’ll find marijuana smoke. This dope fiend had been smoking for years. I know because he told me once when we were, well, not exactly friends, but companions in adversity, understand?

Aurelio said, “Give me some money for a
‘mota.’
”

“
Caramba!
Why didn’t you tell me before, I’d have given you the money for a fag. Look, you can fish me, I’m all out, I’ve just divided it with the boys, and when I went downstairs just now, I bought a candle from the prisoner who owns the store and spent my last
centavo
.

“Nothing doing,” and he grabbed me by the shoulder and shook me. “No, you don’t, and don’t get stubborn.”

Well, I got mad and said, “You’re not going to fish me, you’ll get no money for a fag, and you’re not going to do anything about it, either.”

So then he pulled out his knife and made a pass at me. Luckily for me, instead of sticking me with the point, he swung at me with the side of the blade, get me? We call this stroke a “
planazo
.” I managed to put my hand up and block him with my candle. He wasn’t on the level with me; he didn’t give me a chance to get my knife. Well, this got me even madder. He came at me again, and I defended myself as
best I could and thanks to God, I came out ahead. He didn’t take anything away from me, but he sure did scare the hell out of me, right? That was the first time.

But the second time I really got it. It was after visiting hours and I was walking to my cell to leave the food my family had given me when one of them pulled me into a cell, and then a fellow puts a knife up against my throat and another one holds a knife up against my ribs. There were four of them. Well, anybody with just a little common sense, at a time like this, wises up, right? so the best thing for me was not to move and do like they told me.

So one of them says, “We need money for a ‘jab.’ ” You see, these fellows took morphine by injection.

“Fine, O.K., just leave me something to buy myself a candle or a bit of bread.”

“How much change do you have on you?” I believe I had four or five
pesos
. He said, “Well let you keep a ‘
baro
’ ” (a
peso
).

Now these fellows are very dangerous, believe me. Though I really pity them because when they don’t have their dope they get into a terrible state. They suffer a whole lot … they roll on the floor, they twist and they say their whole body hurts them, see? Inside of them, they feel like they’re burning up. You know, you can tell a dope fiend by his face, a mile away, understand? If he denies it, all you have to do is look at his forearm.

Well, that was the end of that, and I left feeling madder than a bull. But there was no other way out for me. If I had lost my head and fought back, I’d have been worse off.

Such things are not allowed, understand? but unfortunately, when the guards see these goings-on, they just turn the other way. Every corridor has a sentry box with a telephone, and a guard armed with a Thompson machine gun. But when there’s a fight, the guard just looks on and does absolutely nothing to stop it. He could easily call up the front office and ask them to send somebody to separate the men, because when two prisoners start a fight, it spreads to the rest in the cell, and a lot get hurt.

The day in prison begins with reveille at six in the morning. Four squads, one for each of four rows of cells, come banging away with their clubs to wake up everybody. The guards yell, “Up now, you sons-of-whores, you’re off the gravy train. Line up for your gruel and Glory be, you’ll never get out of the pen.” The way those guys
talk! As far as I am concerned they can blow up the pen and all those so-and-so’s with it.

Then we go downstairs and line up for rollcall. I became a corporal after a while and it was my job to call the roll in the morning. I called out the first names and they’d answer with their last names. We reported to the major when all were accounted for.

The bugles then play “
rancho
,” mess call, and we all lined up for breakfast. They’d give us corn gruel and milk, a roll and beans and a jar of water. Then we’d go down for drill which lasted about three hours. I didn’t go to this military training because in a very short time I became an “
influyente
,” see? That means I paid one
peso
every week to the major of the cell block to be marked present. The major was a prisoner like the rest of us, except that he was in charge of keeping order, of handling complaints, and stuff like that. When you give him your
peso
, you don’t have to get up at six in the morning and do drill. The reason I didn’t want to go was that I had no shoes.