CURSE THE MOON (8 page)

Atcho looked across the crowd as he filed out with his work group to meet the guards waiting for them, who would shepherd them to the marble quarries. He felt a nudge on his elbow. Turning, he found the man who had rallied the prisoners the night before. “I saw what you did,” the man said quietly. “I told the leaders. We’ll be in touch.” He started to leave, but Atcho stopped him.

“Wait! What happened to the old man who was beaten?”

The man looked tiredly at Atcho, and his eyes moistened. He said simply, “He was my friend,” shook his head, turned, and walked away.

Atcho trudged with his group. His eyes hurt in the sunlight after having been in the half-light of Circular 4 for the last ten hours. In the center of the compound was the massive mess hall. As he entered, Atcho could not help being awed by the incredible size of the round structure. It was not as tall as the other Circulars, but its diameter was much larger, and with all the men from the prison moving in and out at roughly the same time, the din was loud, and carrying on a conversation was all but impossible.

“Sometimes we meet family in here,” an inmate yelled to him.

“How?”

“The guards make them listen to a speech about how great Castro is and what will happen to them if they don’t obey rules. They are searched, and then just pushed into here to find their family members.”

“But I thought that they only get to visit for an hour.”

The man shrugged. “True, and it takes at least half an hour to find each other.” Atcho looked down at his plate in silence. His breakfast was watery cornmeal gruel. There was plenty of it, but he noticed lumps in the slop, and started poking at them. He looked around. The prisoners who had been there longer were picking items from the gruel and tossing them on the floor. He gagged as he recognized pieces of cockroaches, soap …

“What is that?” he asked a man sitting next to him.

The man grinned. “Horse penis,” he yelled back. “The guards throw this stuff in there. Toss it out, but you’ve got to eat – that’s all there is, and you have to take some of it with you for lunch. If we’re lucky, it won’t spoil in the hot sun before we get to eat it.”

Atcho stared blankly at the man. He was in his early twenties, and had a gaunt look of someone who had already suffered debilitating conditions for an extended time. Whether he was tall or not was difficult to tell because of a permanent stoop. His skin was dark and leathery from apparent long hours in the sun. His jet-black hair was laced with dirt and showing signs of gray. Despite sarcasm in his tone, he carried a wide, friendly smile. “I am Leon.” He held out his hand, and Atcho shook it without enthusiasm. “You just got here, no?” Atcho nodded dully. “So then were you in the fighting?” Again, Atcho nodded. “What happened?” Leon asked. “Why did the resistance fail?”

Atcho shook his head. “We’ll probably never know.”

Leon leaned over and put his mouth close to Atcho’s ear. “People know who you are,” he said. “Atcho, some of us saw what you did last night, to Javier.” Atcho glanced up sharply. “Sorry to tell you so soon, but we never know how much time we’ll have to talk.”

Atcho ate as much as he could stomach. Within minutes, they trooped back outside, formed with their work groups, and began the trek to the marble quarries. Leon stayed close to Atcho, and as they started out, he said, “Don’t worry, no one will tell. We are honored that you are among us.”

A guard bellowed. “Hey you, stop talking!” He was not a large man, but his rifle was loaded and his bayonet sharp. The prisoners plodded along.

After a while, when it seemed that conversation had started between other prisoners, Atcho asked, “How is the work at the quarries?”

“I won’t lie,” Leon replied, furtively. “It’s rough. We do everything by hand with picks and sledgehammers. They make young prisoners do it because the work is hard and they are trying to break us.” He looked back at the guard. “They think that if they can kill our spirits, the other prisoners will see and be easier to manage. But always, we resist. The work strengthens resolve. When they push us harder, we slow down – we become plantadas, unyielding. And they know if they push us too hard, we’ll just stop. They can’t kill us all.” Atcho recalled that Domingo had told him the same thing last night. “But you still have to be careful, because the guards are untrained and they can be arbitrary.”

“I told you to stop talking!” the guard yelled. When Atcho turned, he saw that the guard was only a few feet away. The man lunged with his bayonet and plunged it into Leon’s left buttock. Leon screamed and fell to the ground.

While the other guards circled in close vicinity, the attacker stood over Leon using his weight to drive the bayonet further in, and when he felt bone, he turned it. Leon writhed in pain, and after a moment, the guard pulled the bayonet out, creating a sucking noise. A huge volume of blood spurted, drenching the guard and spraying those nearby, including Atcho.

Stunned, Atcho stared. The entire action had taken only seconds. On the ground, Leon writhed, while blood poured out of him into a bright pool. Other prisoners moved around, aghast. “Get him some help!” someone cried. The guards only moved to tighten their perimeter around Leon. The attacker whirled to face the prisoners. His expression was one of fascination and glee. It mixed with consternation as he confronted the hostility evident on the prisoners’ faces. He looked at Atcho. “Do you see what you caused?” he said, grinning.

Atcho reeled. Immediate guilt swept over him.

“We need to stop the bleeding!” someone else called.

“We’ll get him help,” the lead guard said matter-of-factly to no one in particular. “Now get to work.” He detailed a guard to stay with Leon and sent another for medical help while he and the other guards herded the work group to the marble quarries.

A pall hung over Circular 4 when Atcho and his work group arrived back at the end of the workday. Without inquiry, he knew that word had spread about what had happened to Leon. Given the deliberately slow pace at which the guards had gone for help, Atcho knew Leon’s fate. He had bled out among the weeds.

“It’s not your fault,” someone told him. “Sometimes they let us talk, sometimes not. It’s arbitrary. They might prod with the bayonet sometimes, but,” he shook his head, “that one’s crazy.”

Atcho learned later that suicides were rare among political prisoners despite the torture. That night, as he was sitting in his fourth tier cell, he saw a body plunge from above and heard it hit the floor below. The man had been Leon’s cellmate, and a close friend of the old man beaten to death the night before. Atcho reflected that he had been at El Presidio Modelo for less than twenty-four hours, and in that time, he had witnessed the deaths of three men.

Every day in the quarries, prisoners suffered physical torment. The jarring of Atcho’s muscles and joints with every blow he delivered with a sledgehammer and pick to the hard, raw marble kept him in constant, often excruciating, pain and his ears rang with the constant clang of metal on rock. But his muscles also hardened, and as Leon had told him, reinforced his determination. The sweltering heat turned his skin into leather and lined his face.

Isabel and his life before the Bay of Pigs seemed now distant memories.

From the time of his capture to his transfer to the island prison, Atcho had found no chance to escape. Then one evening a few days after his arrival in Circular 4, a man paid Atcho a visit in his cell. He was the prisoner who had stood up to the guards. When he entered, Atcho’s cellmates greeted him warmly and respectfully, then, moments later, vacated.

“My friends call me Jujo,” he said, extending his hand. He was a man of normally medium build, but the ravages of prison had taken their toll. Grizzled like everyone else, he was also balding on top. Gray, feathery strands of hair fell around his neck. He had been a literature professor in Havana. They spoke for a while.

“We know who you are, Atcho.”

Startled, Atcho said nothing for a moment. “How do people know me? Leon said the same thing just before he was attacked.”

Jujo smile softly. “Atcho, you were better known around Cuba than you might have thought. A West Point graduate from Cuba is very rare. You are the only one – well, and your father before you. I am so sorry for your loss.” Atcho acknowledged the sentiment. “When you graduated,” Jujo went on, “the news was on the front page of newspapers with your picture. President Batista called you a national treasure.” Noting Atcho’s concern, he continued, “Your exploits with that tank at the Bay of Pigs are well known, the stuff of legend, and more than a few of us saw you take out Javier that day.” He laughed softly. “I might only know about literature, but I can still add two and two, and I remember the photos I saw of you.”

Atcho shook his head. “I need to keep my identity as much a secret as possible.” He told Jujo about Captain Govorov and Isabel. “I don’t want my family to know I am alive. If everyone thinks me dead, I have a better chance of escaping and finding her.”

Jujo listened intently, thought a moment, and then said, “Atcho, I don’t think you have to worry. Only a few people have probably heard much about this, and we can let the story die. If it comes up among prisoners, we’ll say it was mistaken identity. Even if they don’t believe us, they won’t ask questions. Men have died in here protecting each other, and you’re not the only one whose identity needs to be hidden. Now.” He shifted his body. “You mentioned escape. That’s what I came to talk to you about.”

“Escape? From here?” Atcho was dumbfounded.

“You brought it up.”

“I thought about it in the abstract. Do you really think anyone could escape from here?” He felt excitement stir.

“Sí, from here. The world does not yet know the tenacity of Cubans.” He chuckled. “But some day they might.” He reached under his shirt, and pulled out a thin metal hacksaw blade.

Atcho stared. “How did you get that?”

“Family members sent them in packages.” He gently smiled again. “Remember, Castro pushed out the educated people. The ones checking are untrained, inexperienced. We use that against them.”

Atcho sat back. He felt the beginnings of hope. “So how do we do this? We’re on an island many miles from the Cuban mainland.”

“Yes. It won’t be easy. This is the first blade that we got in. But the system worked, and now others are on their way. Meanwhile, we need to gather clothing, uniforms, identification cards – anything useful that we can get our hands on.”

“Why would you include me? What do you need from me?”

“Good question. Everyone would like to escape, but that won’t work. We’re trying to get a group out, but very few in here have combat skills, and if I remember correctly, you went to Ranger school.” Atcho nodded. “Well, your plan to hide your identity actually worked. The guards don’t know who you are, and neither does the administration. They watch the leaders constantly. We need someone capable of planning and coordinating quietly, training the participants in what they need to know, doing it without drawing attention ― and then execute.”

“It sounds like you’ve done a pretty good job so far.”

“Yes, in working out the concept. But, we need you to work out the details, assign responsibilities – watch for those things that will trip us up if someone with experience isn’t looking out for them.”

“What’s your plan for getting off the island?”

“There is a yacht that ferries guards back and forth. It’s different from the one that brings prisoners. This one is used also as a cargo boat, and if we can get uniforms and board as soldiers or stow away with the cargo, we might have time to get to mainland Cuba and disperse.”

Atcho mulled a few moments. “Some men will die. That’s a certainty,” he said. “Even if we make it to the mainland, Castro will do everything he can to find us, and not everyone can evade him indefinitely.” He chuckled. “Unless we can make it to Key West in Florida, we will always be hunted.”

“We know that,” Jujo said firmly. He looked around Atcho’s cell. “But, we won’t be here. Every degree of freedom is worth the sacrifice. Will you do it?”

“Yes, of course. I just hope your confidence isn’t misplaced.”

“Well, now that I’ve gotten you to say yes, you need to know something. If we are captured, we could be shot on the spot, or … ” He looked reluctant to go on. “Has anyone told you about the Punishment Facility, or ‘la caja,’ ‘the box’?”

Atcho shook his head.

“The Punishment Facility is a special place. The men incarcerated there don’t go out on work details. They are there for only one reason: to be tortured.” He paused to let his words sink in. “The guards there like their work, and they are very inventive.” His gaze bore into Atcho. “They leave you in there for at least six months.” He then described ‘la caja.’

Atcho listened, riveted. Despite what he had already witnessed, he could not imagine such cruelty, particularly a Cuban doing those things to another Cuban. Then again, he reminded himself, I’ve already seen savagery that I could never have imagined. He contemplated further while Jujo studied him. At last he spoke. “Jujo, my father didn’t have to fight in World War II, but he went anyway. He told me that a great American said, ‘Those who willingly give up freedom for security don’t deserve either freedom or security.’ I know what I have to do – and what my father would expect.”

Over the next several weeks, Atcho met with escape participants and organized for it. The hacksaw blades came in as expected, and bit by bit, the other materials were gathered. From listening to guards’ conversations, they learned the schedule of the cargo boat.

As days passed, Atcho very quietly sought out a prisoner named Francisco. Someone had told Atcho that Francisco had lived in Camaguey Province near the provincial capital. Gently, Atcho developed the friendship, saying that he had no living relatives but was interested in various families in the vicinity. At one point, Francisco said that he would ask his wife by mail about people in the general area.

Weeks passed with no news, but when not working in the marble quarries, Atcho worked on the escape. After several weeks, he sought out Jujo. “I think we are as ready as we are going to be,” he told him. “But we need to go when the moonlight is low and during a rainstorm. Regardless, we should cut the window bars most of the way through now. We’ll leave a little to cut out on the night of escape to make sure the bars don’t fall out.” Jujo agreed.