CURSE THE MOON (13 page)

Atcho shrugged it off. “Things are easy to do when the enemy is not paying attention. Anyway, they took it back again. I think it’s in the war museum here in Havana. Now, if I’d been really good, Cuba would be free, and we would be telling these war stories over beer in the Club Tropicana!” The men laughed.

“No,” one called, “we’d be drinking real Cuba Libres instead of Mentiritas!”

In late afternoon, Director Tilden entered the conference room. His face was bleak as he called for quiet. “Our staff is working very hard to expedite processing,” he said gravely. His demeanor caused a pall to settle in the room as looks of hope left the former prisoners’ faces, replaced by anxiety and a tinge of fear. Atcho felt his stomach tighten. “There’s been an incident at the Peruvian Embassy,” Director Tilden went on, “and it angered the Castro regime. As a result, Castro suspended all travel for political dissidents.” Deathly silence descended on the room. Tilden continued, “We have fresh clothes for those of you who need them, and we’ll issue the passes supplied by the Cuban government, so that you can come and go from here freely.”

A slow murmur started, and broke into questions and exclamations. “How long will this last?”

“Will we still get to leave?”

“Fidel is insane!”

“Madre de Dios!”

The Director raised his palms to quiet the men. “Please,” he said, “that is all that I am at liberty to say at this point. You are welcome here, and we have food for you. If you decide to go into town, of course, exercise caution. We are here to help you, but as you know, we are constrained.” Regret showed in his expression as he left the room.

Heartbreak was evident on many faces. The room acquired an unearthly stillness. Dread formed a presence that was almost palpable. Some men wept bitter tears; others cursed Castro.

Pedro appeared at Atcho’s elbow. “Things will be OK,” he said optimistically. “We’re better off today than we were yesterday. This is a temporary setback. Castro has already announced to the world his intent to let us leave. He won’t back down from that entirely.” Atcho was less optimistic, but saw the sense of Pedro’s reasoning.

Just then, a new group of former prisoners entered the room. They wore the looks of confusion, wonder, and hope that Atcho imagined had been on his face and those of his companions only hours before. Then he saw a face that looked familiar, walked over quickly and grasped the man’s shoulder.

“My God, Domingo!” Atcho was overjoyed. “Is it really you?”

Domingo looked up into his face and was overcome by emotion. He threw his arms around Atcho and buried his face in his chest. “Atcho,” he said after a moment. “I never thought I would see you again. We never even got to say goodbye!” They moved over to a table laid out with food, and Domingo eyed them hungrily. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “Eggs! Bacon! Ham! Bread!” He turned to Atcho, wide-eyed. “Are we still in Cuba?”

“Technically no, my friend. We are on Swiss soil. But the reality is that we are still in Havana.”

As they ate, Atcho filled Domingo in on what the Director had just told them.

“I refuse to be pessimistic,” Domingo exclaimed. “I just left prison this morning on the other side of Havana. Even this morning when I woke up, I had almost no hope of ever being free again.” He looked around, and then held up his sandwich. “And here I am!”

Pedro came over to Atcho, who introduced him to Domingo. “Some of us are going to walk over to the Peruvian embassy to see if we can find out what is going on,” he said. “Would you like to go with us?”

Atcho looked at Domingo. “Would you like to come, too?”

“Of course,” Domingo responded, “just let me put on some of those fresh clothes!” Minutes later, they left through the front door.

16

Walking through the city, Atcho was again struck by the apparent disintegration. Streets were filthy. Trash lay in heaps. Crumbling faces of once-magnificent white buildings with classical architecture were turning black, and faces in the streets showed listlessness and despair. Cuba’s new heroes, Marx, Lenin, Ché, Camilo, and Castro himself, stared somberly from huge, weathered posters that were peeling from walls and billboards.

Atcho thought the atmosphere to be stifling, and not just because of the heat. Everyone he saw looked poorly dressed, dirty, and they moved past each other either without saying a word or with a surliness that he had not known in the Havana of his youth. Rickety bicycles rambled past, looking like they were serving their last tortured mile. But Atcho was captivated by the cars.

The cars! He had heard about them while in prison, but thought the stories about them to be improbable, if not impossible. The Havana that Atcho remembered was a thriving place, and proud of its industry and commerce. It had been filled with glamorous and merchandise-loaded glass-fronted stores, with multitudes of gleaming late-model American cars gliding by. Now, the same stores were vacant, the glass either dirty and yellowed or boarded over. But, the same cars creaked by – literally, the very same cars. Some limped by, spewing dirty exhaust and missing bumpers, and rusted areas where paint had scraped off. But some were clean, ran quietly, and sported bright paint jobs and gleaming chrome.

Atcho had to smile. Nothing he thought, speaks to the Cuban spirit more than the way they’ve kept their cars going against all odds. From ahead on the wide avenue, the warm aroma of his favorite pastry, churros, ascended through the dirty-street smell. He looked around. Tall palm trees still lined streets. Tropical plants and greenery grew out of every crack in sidewalks and ground not covered with concrete.

From somewhere down a side street, he heard the soft, undulating beat of Cuban music. When he looked, he saw middle-aged men and women sitting on scattered boxes and in doorways, watching youngsters dancing and laughing on the cobblestone surface. Ah, salsa, he thought. An image of his late wife, Isabel, flashed before his eyes, smiling and whirling as they had danced … he blocked out the reverie.

The group had neared the area where the Embassy of Peru was located, and the crowd seemed to thicken. People left buildings, and crossed streets in throngs, all headed in the same direction. Reaching Avenida Quinta, Atcho and his companions turned the corner and stopped. The sight was ghastly.

The embassy’s imposing structure was readily identifiable. But a swarm of humanity clutched to every visible resting place on the twenty-acre compound. People sat in trees, clinging to even the smallest branches that could hold their weight. They bunched against the fence, struggling for slightly more room. The crush of writhing bodies spilled onto the porch of the elegant building, transforming its appearance to that of a slum tenement.

As Atcho and his companions neared the gate, more people appeared, cursing, shoving, and pressing in desperate attempts to gain entrance. Some, pushing small children ahead of them, scaled the fence. Many tossed infants across the barrier into the waiting arms of a friend or relative. Cars, used to force entry, sat in gaping holes along the fence, as did the broad backs of busses used for the same purpose.

Adding to the tumult, another crowd formed on the opposite side of the street. This second group screamed at the swarming crowds, “Gusanos! Gusanos! Worms! Traitors! Hijos de putas!” As a chorus they taunted their victims, pummeling them with stones and garbage.

Atcho looked for the Cuban security guards normally posted around embassies. They were present in large numbers, but remained uninvolved at the opposite end of the street. Incredulous, Atcho and his companions joined the press of bodies struggling to gain entrance at the front gate.

The sun had begun its descent, but the heat was still oppressive, exacerbated by ten thousand sweat-drenched bodies pressed tightly together. A stench arose from the crowd and invaded Atcho’s nostrils. He gagged and then looked at his companions, who were being similarly affected. They pushed farther into the compound, where space was slightly more available.

Atcho caught the eye of an old man sitting on the ground, and crouched next to him. “Viéjo,” he said. “What’s going on here?” The old man eyed him dubiously, and turned away.

Atcho grasped his shoulder. “Por favor,” he pleaded. “My companions and I were just released this morning from prison. We were political prisoners. We are going to Miami through the Swiss Embassy, but whatever is happening here is slowing the process.”

The old man spoke hesitantly. “You have to be careful, even here,” he said. “I hope you are not one of Castro’s bullies.” He studied Atcho’s face a moment, and then went on. “Yesterday, six men forced their way onto this compound, seeking asylum. They killed a guard. Castro demanded their return. The government of Peru refused. In retaliation, Castro pulled security from the gate and said that anyone not satisfied with socialism was welcome to enter the embassy and leave Cuba.”

Atcho looked around, amazed. “Who are these people? Are things so bad they would suffer like this for the chance to leave Cuba?”

“Who are we?” The old man repeated the question. “Castro would like you to believe we are criminals, thugs, and social deviants. But look!” He swept his arm to indicate the crowd. “There are peasants and professionals here. I am a doctor.” He indicated a man close by. “My friend is a truck driver. Look over there.” He pointed in another direction. “There are white, black, all races here. And women and children. A baby was born here today.” He smiled fleetingly and added proudly, “I delivered her. The mother named her Peru.”

Then his expression dropped again. “You asked if things are so bad. Why else would we suffer heat, filth, hunger, thirst, abuse?” He shook his head. “Ask around,” he said sadly. “Our people are starving on government rations. They send our children away to Communist schools. Our national produce is shipped to Russia in exchange for military equipment. We can afford to buy nothing, and there is nothing to buy. If we speak out against the government, we are thrown in jail.”

He sat dejectedly while Atcho reflected on what he had heard. Then the doctor spoke again. “Leave this place and keep working with the Swiss Embassy. Castro has been letting political prisoners go that way. He’ll keep doing it because you are a bother to him, and he can’t kill you all.”

He sighed. “We really don’t know what will happen to us in here. We risked everything because this was our only chance for freedom.” He fell silent and looked away.

Atcho sat quietly absorbing the scene around him. Babies cried. Children sat where they had just relieved themselves. Faces were transfixed in a strange expression of incredible hope and dreadful fear.

Gloom possessed Atcho. He shook the old doctor’s hand and stood up. Then, with his companions, he made his slow way toward the entrance gates. When his group reached the street, the nature of crowds outside the compound had subtly changed. Refugees pushed harder to enter the estate, while their tormentors across the way stood in a sullen, menacing mood. A platoon of security guards had strung themselves in a line between the two groups.

Atcho looked around warily. Dusk was rapidly approaching, and he wanted away from this place as fast as possible. But it would be foolish to move in a way that would draw attention.

Anguished cries caught his attention. Down the street, ruffians viciously beat people attempting to reach the gate. Refugees still outside the portal became more urgent. They jostled each other angrily, trying to squeeze through whatever openings were available in the fence. Guards made no move to intervene or interfere.

From the corner of his eye, Atcho saw a sentry gesture in his direction. He inhaled sharply, but pretended not to see. The guard walked toward him.

Atcho’s companions had also seen the soldier. Trying not to appear obvious, they stepped up their pace. Another guard turned in their direction. Between the soldier who had first gestured and the one up ahead, a string of guards spread out, cutting off his progress and that of his companions.

A shot rang out. A woman screamed. Refugees ran in all directions. More shots were fired. A man fell, his chest blown open, his eyes glazed in death. More people fell. Blood spilled onto the hard surface of the street. Someone tossed a baby into the air, intended for the sanctuary of the foreign embassy. It fell to the ground, its tiny form riddled with bullets.

Atcho dove onto the asphalt, as did other members of his group. They lay stunned, not comprehending the savagery they had just witnessed. The agonized cries of the wounded and the wailing of those who had lost loved ones cut through the ominous quiet. A chant of approval came from the loyalists as they picked up a chant, “Gusanos! Gusanos! Gusanos!”

A soldier jabbed Atcho roughly with his rifle. “Get up!” Atcho did as he was told and saw his companions also being taken prisoner. Behind them, loyalists roared their approval, while in the embassy compound, the refugees pressed against the fence to see what had happened. They wailed their agony over loved ones lost in the carnage, and hurled invectives at the soldiers.

The soldiers herded Atcho and his companions into the back of a van and drove away. Eyes dull, and prisoners once more, they sat in silent shock on the hard benches.

The sun’s waning rays shone feebly through the small van window. After ten or fifteen minutes, the shadow of a great building blocked the remaining light. Atcho stared at the part he could see. Recognizing its outline, his every nerve stretched taut. They were at La Cabaña, Castro’s private house of horrors, the prison that hid Cuban intelligence’s most brutal interrogations and tortures.

In the portal of the ancient fortress, the driver honked the horn. When the iron gate swung open, they drove into a medieval courtyard. Sentries emerged and escorted them from the vehicle, down a winding corridor into the bowels of the notorious prison. Long halls led away into darkness in multiple directions. Atcho and his companions followed down one passageway lined with heavy, wooden doors. The first, on the left, was open, leading into a single cell. A guard grabbed Atcho and shoved him roughly into the interior of the dimly lit, smelly chamber, then closed the door and turned the key.