CURSE THE MOON (10 page)

Moments later, he felt more than saw a body descend, and heard it drop to the ground. He grabbed the man’s shoulder and positioned him a few feet away against the wall. “You are Number One,” he said. The man grunted understanding, and Atcho went back to the rope, and pulled it. Another man dropped to the ground. Atcho positioned him on the other side of the first. “You are Number Two,” he told the man.

Fifteen times, Atcho repeated the action until all the men were on the ground. Then he went and did a physical check to make sure he had the proper count. As a final precaution, when he had finished, he moved in front of Number One and whispered in the man’s ear, “Headcount.” The man turned to Number Two, and repeated the instruction, “Headcount.” Atcho waited. Very soon, Number One touched him on the shoulder, indicating that the headcount was complete, and all men were accounted for. He turned to Number One again, and touched him on his arm.

“Moving,” Atcho whispered. He waited only enough time for Number One to relay back, and then started off in the same direction he had previously gone.

Meanwhile, the wind had increased its velocity, and the rain poured in sheets. Atcho glanced anxiously at the sky, hoping that the weather continued its wrath. Behind him, he heard the squish of feet in the mud, and the rank odor of wet ground oozing up its hidden waste.

They had soon passed the guard shack, and as before, it was quiet and dark. They proceeded on toward the center of the compound. Their exit point had to be at the main gate. But that meant crossing the breadth of the prison grounds. Once again, they counted on darkness to mask their approach and on the rain to drive the guards into more comfortable shelter. They moved slowly, checking headcount periodically, and stopping to listen.

Atcho kept his eye on the sky. Dawn was still hours away, but behind the clouds a three-quarter moon poised, prepared to radiate light on the sparkling wet ground. The rain still fell in wind-driven sheets soaking every man to his core. And then Atcho saw something that stopped him cold. A glimmer of light shone between the clouds, enough for Atcho to see that they were crossing the sky rapidly. Just the fact that he had seen the moonlight meant that clouds were thinning. The rain-cover might be coming to an end!

He sent word back to step up the pace, and altered his course to head more directly toward a key intersection in the middle of the compound, guided by the darker hulks of the circular prison towers. As they progressed, he felt the rain abate some, and then some more. Minutes later, it ceased altogether. Atcho looked at the sky again. Moonlight was visible behind a translucent sky. He looked around. More objects came into view.

As they had trained to do, the escapees increased the distance between them so that the man ahead was still visible, but they were not so closely grouped. With greater visibility, they traveled faster, still conscious of maintaining noise discipline.

Then the moon broke through the clouds, resplendent in its ghostly beauty, deadly in its exposure of the escapees in their flight. Again, Atcho altered course, now heading toward shadows, but still needing to cross the now-dreaded intersection. They came to some low administrative buildings, and moved to the dark side, away from the moon. Atcho hoped that the natural inclination of soldiers to like sleep more than patrol would keep the guards in their barracks awhile longer.

Several minutes later, they came to the front of the buildings. The wind had diminished, and the rain had stopped altogether. Atcho peered around a corner, and then pulled back in dismay. The moon swathed the streets running to the intersection with illumination. Between their current position and the buildings on the other side, there were no shadows, no cover, and no concealment.

Atcho turned to Number One. “Do as we’ve planned and rehearsed,” he whispered. “Stay low, but get straight across that road, fast! If you get caught, yell something out, make noise. If we don’t hear you, we’ll assume you made it over all right, and then I’ll come. Go.”

Number One moved swiftly to the narrowest point between shadows, and then ran across the street in a low crouch. As soon as he had disappeared, Atcho turned to Number Two. “OK,” he said, “you’ll be the last one over. You stay here and send each man over when you see the previous one disappear into the shadows. After the last one, then you come.” Number Two whispered his assent, and then Atcho turned back to the road. He followed the same route that Number One had, and moments later dashed across the road. As soon he reached the safety of the shadows, he encountered Number One. “Good job,” Atcho told him. “Now, as the others come over, you take them and position them. I’ll stay here and look out for anything that might be coming down the road.”

As soon as he had said those words, the next escapee ran into the shadows, and Number One took him to his position. Seconds later, the next one came over, and then another one. Atcho watched in wonder. All of their training had been indoors, mainly by brief-back, and within sight of the guards on the watchtower. On a few occasions they had concocted games on the floor of the cellblock for physical practice, but those events had necessarily been few. Atcho marveled that these were farmers, doctors, teachers, engineers – none of them had been professional soldiers. He reflected briefly on the lengths that the human spirit would go to be free, and recalled Jujo’s warning about their probable fates if caught.

Then the last of the escapees was across the road and into the safety of the shadows. Atcho took up the lead again, and they made their way carefully through the shadows. At one point, they thought they heard scuffling feet and froze in place, barely breathing. They were next to a long building that could have been an office or a barracks. Several doors stood at regular intervals, and they watched them warily as they passed. They were about halfway along the length of one building when one of the doors flew open and a soldier staggered sleepily out from a dimly lit interior. He stumbled into Number Nine, grunted in surprise, and then stood back to take a closer look. Another soldier walked through the door, and on the way out, flipped a switch that bathed the area in light, exposing every man in the group. Both guards froze as realization spread across their faces.

The escapees flew into motion. Number Nine shoved the guard to the ground, and took off running after the others sprinting down the trail. At the front, Atcho yelled, “Havana! Spread out!” At that moment, they heard a loud siren, and full lights went on all around the camp. “Havana!” Atcho yelled again. “Havana! Pass it back!” Immediately, the men split off from each other, yelling “Havana! Havana!” Just as quickly, they fell silent again.

Atcho ran as hard as he could, staying in the shadows when he could find any. The moonlight glistened on his wet clothing, and the mud impeded his progress. Occasionally, he turned to his left and right, and saw his fellow escapees running as hard in divergent directions. He thought he heard a couple of screams behind him, but pressed on. Ahead in the distance, he saw more lights flick on at the front gate, and then what looked like a line of soldiers forming, facing his direction. They started moving toward him. At an angle to his right, he saw more buildings with soft shadows, and ran towards them, unbuttoning his shirt as he ran. When he reached them, he tore off his shirt, then his trousers. He now wore only his underwear and everyday work shoes.

Pausing momentarily next to one of the buildings, Atcho wadded the uniform and stuffed it in a space under the floorboards. Then he continued to move toward the front of the buildings. There, he saw the headquarters and main gate clearly, and a line of soldiers advancing toward them. He heard one of them call out and point far off to Atcho’s left. Taking a deep breath, Atcho dashed into the light, and ran in an opposite direction. He heard a soldier yell, and then heard shots fired. Around him, hot lead whizzed by. Atcho ran on a little farther. There was nowhere to go – no shadows and no buildings to hide behind. He threw his hands high over his head and slowed to a walk. Keeping his hands high and panting deeply, he turned and faced his captors. Visions of ‘la caja’ in the Punishment Facility floated in his mind. Very quickly, the line of soldiers formed a circle around him.

PART V

12

March 1962

Atcho’s legs ached their full lengths when he arrived back at Circular 4. Just standing to full height had been excruciating, and the unforgiving guards had given him no quarter. They had pulled him from his ‘caja’ that evening, and immediately taunted and jabbed him as he lay writhing on the floor. His fouled clothes stank with his own sweat, caked-on feces, and still-damp urine. The sores in his legs were open, full of pus, and they burned painfully.

Two guards yanked him up, with his arms cast over each of their shoulders. Despite his emaciated form, they still struggled under dead weight that he was incapable of supporting, and they seemed angered as they dragged him from the Punishment Facility back to Circular 4. There, they opened the door, jostled him roughly inside, and dumped him on the ground. He lay there, unable to move even an inch.

Fellow prisoners gathered around, and picked him up gently and carried him to a first-tier cell away from the sun. One brought him water, while another began to cut away his clothes. Barely conscious, he sensed more than felt gentle care as soothing salve was massaged into his wounds.

He slept fitfully that night, nightmares of his most recent ordeal joining the pain to invade his consciousness – but he slept, which seemed to him like a new experience. He was not sure how long he had been back in Circular 4. He remembered only periods of light and darkness, and extended periods of being alone, and then with many men about.

“Manuel, soy yo. It’s me. Domingo.” Atcho looked around, realizing that he was awake. He tried to speak, but heard only a croak coming from his own mouth. Domingo put his arm around Atcho’s neck, raised him slightly, and poured water into his mouth. Atcho fell back into sleep again.

When he awoke, Domingo was there still. The room was lighter than it had been before, and the pain in Atcho’s legs had subsided. When he tried to move them, they felt more stiff than painful. His upper body, though emaciated, had had more freedom of movement in the box, and so had not incurred the same ravages.

“How long have I been here?” He heard his own voice, raspy, barely above a whisper.

“Three days, Atcho. The guards will give you two more days to recover, and then you’ll be back in the marble quarries.”

Atcho sank back. “I wouldn’t expect less,” he coughed. He was silent a moment. “How long was I in there?”

“The Punishment Facility?” Domingo exhaled. “Eight months.”

Atcho raised his head, and became aware that the long hair and beard grown while inside the Punishment Facility still covered his head, leaving only his eyes and nose exposed. “Eight months,” he breathed. “Eight months. How does anyone survive that for eight months?” He shook his head, and then grabbed his beard angrily. “Can I please get this off?”

“Of course, Atcho. We would have done it while you slept, but decided you need your sleep more.”

Atcho nodded tiredly. “Did anyone actually escape?”

“Yes. We think three made it.”

“Only three?” he asked softly.

“Three,” Domingo said firmly, “but if you had not taken off running the way you did, the number probably would have been zero – or maybe just one – you.” Atcho started to shake his head. “Look,” Domingo went on, “everyone knows that you were the one most likely to make it out. You sacrificed yourself to give the others a better chance. That was obvious.”

Atcho started to protest. Domingo just shrugged. “Have it your way,” he said grimly. “But Atcho, you succeeded. All we needed was one man to get free to tell our story, and that happened.”

They were silent a moment. Finally, Atcho asked, “Who were the three?”

“Well, we think it was three. Sixteen went out, including you. Thirteen went into the Punishment Facility. One made it all the way to Miami. He got word to us from a family member. We never heard from the other two.”

Atcho was startled. “One made it to Miami?” he said. “How?”

“You might remember him, Bernardo Martin. He was the one who was so meticulous about getting his escape clothes together. He managed to steal a full military uniform, including service cap and identification papers. He was one that got away when you created your diversion. He just walked through the gate like he was going home after his shift, made it to Nueva Girona, and waited for that cargo boat to leave as scheduled. He presented himself, boarded, and got off on mainland Cuba. From there, he went north and hid out with friends. He was a mechanical engineer. They had this old pickup truck, so he reworked the drive shaft so that it came out the back end at an angle, and he fitted it with a propeller. Then they tied a bunch of inner tubes around it like a raft, and piloted it like a boat to Key West!”

Atcho felt a surge of excitement. “Are you kidding?” He managed to rise up onto his elbows. “He did all of that?” He laughed involuntarily, lay back, and looked up at the dark ceiling. “He’s the one who should have been planning the escape.”

“No, Atcho. You made good decisions. Without you, no one would have made it out.”

Atcho disregarded the remark. “What about the other two?”

“We don’t know. We never heard. They might have been killed, they might have escaped and not reported back – we just don’t know.”

Atcho was quiet a moment. “And what about the ones in the Punishment Facility? Am I the last one out?” Domingo nodded, but was silent and looked away.

Reading his demeanor, Atcho asked sharply, “And how are they? Where are they?”

“Nine came out two months ago,” Domingo said. “Three … ” his voice trailed off.

Dread seized Atcho, and he struggled to a sitting position. “What happened to the others?” He paused, and his expression became urgent. “Jujo?” he asked hoarsely. “What about Jujo?”

Domingo just shook his head and lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry, Atcho, he didn’t make it.”