Even Silence Has an End (33 page)

“Okay, I just wanted to illustrate how ‘everybody’ wants to make the most of a hidden radio but nobody is prepared to take any risks. And that’s just the point: If you want a radio, you have to be willing to share the risk.”

“We don’t have to play your game,” Keith exploded. “You’re a politician, and you think you can fool us with your fine speeches. We asked you one question, we want one answer: Yes or no, have you got a radio hidden in your
caleta
?”

His words stung me. I would have liked to have found an outlet for the blood that was boiling inside me. I asked Lucho to hand me a cigarette. It was the first cigarette I’d ever smoked in captivity. Never mind, I wanted to remain calm, and I thought that if I inhaled the smoke that was scraping my throat, I might be able to keep my self-control. I snapped shut like a clam and answered, “Deal with it yourselves. I’m not about to submit to your pressure, your insults, and your cynicism.”

“Ingrid, it’s very simple: Either you give us the radio or I swear to you I will go and denounce you this very minute.” Keith was on his feet, threatening me, waving his finger in my face.

I got up, trembling, livid. “You don’t know me. I have never given in to blackmail. For me it’s a question of principle. You didn’t have the courage to hide your radio, so don’t come lecturing me. Go right ahead, tell the guerrillas whatever you like. I have nothing more to say to you.”

“Hey, we’re out of here,” Keith said, rallying his troops. “Let’s go talk to Arnoldo right away.”

Marc got to his feet, looking at me with hostility. “Too bad, you asked for it.”

I answered him in English. “What are you talking about! You didn’t understand a thing—you don’t speak Spanish!”

“You’re treating us like fools. That’s enough for me.”

If they were going to turn us in, I had to be ready. Lucho was as pale as I was; Jorge and Gloria were worried. “We warned you, they’re monsters,” said Gloria. “What are you going to do now?”

Before I was able to leave the barracks, Orlando got up and blocked my way, grabbing Keith by the arm.

“Stop it. Don’t do anything stupid. If you report her, no one will get any news about anything!” Turning to me, he said, “Don’t go out. Come with me. Let’s go talk.”

He led me to the other end of the barracks, and we sat down.

“Listen, I can understand why you’re worried. And you’re right. Someone here is going to tell the guerrillas everything. Except that this jerk, whoever he might be, needs you just now, because you’re the only one who can give him access to his messages. That’s it. No one can betray you, I guarantee. I’ll offer you an agreement: In the morning I’ll come and get the radio. I’ll listen to the messages for everybody, and I’ll inform the group. I’ll bring the radio back at seven o’clock in the morning, after the program with the messages and the news bulletins. If we have the slightest problem with the guerrillas, I’ll take responsibility for everything together with you. Does that suit you?”

“Yes, that suits me.”

“Thanks,” he said, shaking my hand and giving me a big smile. “Now I have to go and convince those guys.”

I told Lucho what we had agreed. He didn’t seem pleased. “Sure—the least little hitch and all hell will break loose.”

Gloria and Jorge didn’t seem too pleased either. “Why is it Orlando who gets to listen to our messages, and not us?”

I realized it would be impossible to try to meet everybody’s expectations. However, I thought that Orlando’s suggestion at least had the advantage of easing the situation. I looked outside. Orlando and the others were sitting around the big table. Keith was ranting.

“It’s out of the question! Let’s give her two hours to turn over the radio. If it’s not in my hands at twelve o’clock sharp, I’ll tell the receptionist!” To prepare for a possible search, I went to find a better hiding place for the radio under the floor of the washroom. I figured that if someone ratted on me, the guerrillas would concentrate their search on my belongings. Noon came, and the big guy did not get up. Neither did Marc. The day went by slowly, filled with tension, and fortunately there were neither reprisals nor suspicious movements among the guards. I breathed a sigh of relief, and Lucho did, too.

Orlando arrived at nightfall and went to sit at the little table between Lucho and me, as always.

“We have to find some headphones,” he said. “Otherwise we might get caught.”

“The reception on the radio is terrible,” I said. “I think we’re going to have to make an antenna, or we’ll have been through all this for nothing. Right now even the headphones would serve no purpose.”

“Well, are you going to bring out your radio or not?”

“Don’t even think about it. It’s not a good time.”

“Yes it is. Lucho and I can carry on a normal conversation. Our voices will cover the radio. You stick it up next to your ear, put the volume on low, and we can test it to see what we need.”

In the days that followed, we concentrated on improving the quality of the reception, doing what was necessary to arouse no suspicion. By now it was clear that my companions were not going to carry out their threat. The general belief was that their blackmail had been disgraceful. I was sorry that once again our quarrels had created permanent barriers between us.

In spite of everything, we set up a new routine. We would listen to the radio every evening and share all the information we had. Orlando devised a ground antenna by sticking an old battery in the mud, wrapped with wire as thick as the mesh of the fence and connected to a metal wire that was plugged into the jack for the radio headphones. The effect was astonishing: The volume and sharpness of the reception were now almost perfect. In the morning the connection had to be changed and the radio plugged into an aluminum wire that acted as an aerial antenna, a wire so thin that it became almost invisible, wound in the branches of one of the trees in the courtyard. At dawn, starting at four in the morning, the reception was excellent, but very quickly it would decline, and it became absolutely useless by eight in the morning.

There were only two times of day when it was easy to listen—at dusk and at dawn. Orlando waited impatiently for me first thing each morning, already on his feet in the barracks. We had finally worked out a procedure whereby I would listen to the messages until Mom had been on the air and then Orlando would take over.

For years Mom called in only on weekends, on Herbin Hoyos’s program. She had just discovered
La Carrilera
, hosted by Nelson Moreno, a warm anchorman from the Valle del Cauca, which broadcast every day of the week, from five to six in the morning. She’d become the most faithful participant, and she made it her duty to be on time, calling before dawn, to be the first to be aired.

This suited everybody, because when I handed over the radio to Orlando, the messages for our other companions had not yet been broadcast. Clara and our foreign companions received hardly any. So those of us who waited for our messages every day arranged to rotate the radio, taking turns listening to a part of the program. In the long run, this made everyone feel more relaxed, since obviously we were all bound by the same secret.

Orlando came to see me one morning. He wanted to know if he could lend the radio to our fellow hostages. They wanted to listen to the news.

“Go ahead. Just make sure they don’t give it to Arnoldo,” I said wryly.

No sooner had I finished speaking than I was biting my lip. The wound had not healed. I still bore a grudge against them. Even less honorable was the sense that I would find it easier to forgive those who kept me locked up in prison—because in a way I expected nothing from them—than to forgive my own fellow captives, my comrades in misfortune, because I had always hoped for something better from them.

Once again we were divided in the camp, more intensely than ever. But I no longer felt isolated, and I no longer wanted to be. We went on with our French lessons, we played cards, and every evening we reinvented the world. I listened religiously to the news as soon as it was lights-out, and my companions took over from me for part of the evening. When a certain report or commentary drew our attention, we informed the others, and the topic of conversation immediately changed so that we could all debate the latest piece of news.

FORTY

GLORIA’S CHILDREN

JULY 13, 2004

One evening I was listening somewhat distractedly to the news, trying at the same time to follow the conversation between Lucho and Orlando, when my heart skipped a beat: They had just mentioned Jaime Felipe and Juan Sebastian, Gloria’s children. I moved away and crouched down in the corner of my hut, cupping my hands over my ears. I wanted to be sure I heard properly. Gloria’s children had been kidnapped at the same time as their mother. The guerrillas had stormed their building and forced everyone out in the street in pajamas. Her youngest son, who hadn’t woken up, had been spared during the raid, as had his father, who was away traveling. The guerrillas were demanding an outrageous ransom for their release. The father, thinking it was for the best, managed to get his wife elected, in absentia, as the local deputy for their department. At that time the general impression was that so-called political prisoners had a greater chance of getting out than the economic prisoners, above all more quickly, because the guerrillas had entered into peace talks with the Colombian government and a demilitarized zone had been allocated to FARC. It turned out to have been the wrong move when the peace process failed. Gloria was separated from her children. The guerrillas had made her believe she would see them the next day, but she’d never seen them again. During all these months of cohabitation, I had held Gloria in my arms hundreds of times to comfort her, because the thought that her children were in the hands of the FARC drove her insane. We prayed together every day. She was the one who had explained to me how to use the rosary correctly, with the stations and devotions for each day.

She was a great woman with a big heart and a strong character who didn’t let others step on her feet and who knew how to put people in their place. I had seen her hold her own, even though some of our companions mistreated her. She refused to backpedal, even if I saw her weeping with rage afterward, hiding up on her bunk.

Now the newscaster repeated the headlines. In fact, it was the top news on all the stations: Gloria’s children had just been liberated. Their father was already with them. They’d been let go in San Vicente del Caguán, the place where I was headed when Clara and I were taken hostage.

My heart was racing. The journalist announced that the children would make their first statements to the press in just a few minutes. I ran into the barracks to find her. Lucho and Orlando were looking at me as if I’d gone mad. Trying to explain to them why I was so agitated, all I managed to say to them was “Gloria! Gloria!” while waving my hands frenetically, getting them into a panic, as well.

“What about Gloria? Tell us! Speak, for Christ’s sake!”

It was impossible to say anything more. I set off, stumbling, trying to adjust my sandals on the way, nearly falling over with each step. Gloria was sitting in the dark, and I didn’t see her. I burst in, breathless, the radio hidden under my T-shirt.

She came up to me, alarmed. “What’s going on?”

I put my arm around her neck and whispered into her ear, “The children, the children—they’ve released them.”

She cried out, and I reached to stifle her cry with both hands, weeping like her, trying like her not to attract attention with our wild display of emotion. Dragging her over to the darkest corner in the barracks, I pressed the radio up to her ear. And there, huddled together in the dark, clinging to each other, we listened to her children, mindless of our fingernails painfully digging so hard into each other’s skin that we bled. I was still crying, even though she had stopped, transformed by the joy of hearing their voices and the loving words they’d prepared especially for her. I stroked her hair and said, “It’s over. It’s all over.”

We followed the children’s voices on all the stations until there was nothing more, Gloria was transformed. She took me by the arm and leaned close to me to say, “I can’t look too happy. I’m not supposed to know anything! Oh, my God, what if they come to tell me tomorrow? How am I going to hide my feelings?”

I kissed her before going back into my hut and warned her not to arouse the guards’ curiosity.

“Wait, you’ve forgotten the radio.”

“You’re going to need to listen to it all night. They’ll probably keep rebroadcasting the children’s interviews, and tomorrow morning you’ll have their messages on
La Carrilera.
Keep it.”

Strangely enough, while some of us were happy for her, others seemed dejected. In our world, one person’s suffering could bring relief to another by making him feel that his own fate was better. Likewise, another’s joy could be just as unbearable.

The next day it was Guillermo the nurse who came to announce the news. Gloria did her best to look surprised. But more than anything she was relieved to be able to talk openly about the event and to express her joy unrestrainedly.

FORTY-ONE

THE PETTY THINGS OF HELL

After the release of her children, Gloria became the target of petty little attacks. They made fun of her or imitated her in a rude way when her back was turned; they criticized her for smoking too much. Cigarettes came intermittently, and each of us was given a pack to do with as we liked. We nonsmokers gave our rations to the smokers. Or at least that’s the way it was in the beginning. Gradually the attitude changed, and I noticed that there were nonsmokers who were keeping their cigarettes to barter for things from the guards or to obtain favors from fellow inmates. I found this repellent, and as soon as the packs were handed out, I gave mine to Gloria and Lucho. They were the ones who smoked the most.

One day one of our companions had the bright idea of asking the guerrillas
not
to give cigarettes to nonsmokers. He felt there was favoritism going on if some people had a double ration thanks to the others. Clearly, Gloria and Lucho were being targeted. The receptionist adopted their suggestion right away—the extra packs would be for him! When it was time for the next distribution, he asked that only the smokers come up. I demanded my pack, and he was about to refuse, so I had to smoke there in front of him to get it. He threatened me with reprisals if ever I tried to fool him. So with Gloria and Lucho, we agreed that from time to time I would smoke a cigarette very ostentatiously to avoid any controversy. The end result was ironic: After several weeks had gone by, I was smoking as much as they were. Instead of being a source of cigarettes, I had become a burdensome rival.

Likewise, some were jealous of the canned food Lucho received for his diabetes. A bite of tuna fish was a luxury. Lucho had committed to sharing every can he opened with one of our companions in turn, so that we all could have some from time to time. He favored Jorge, who was sick, and he never forgot me. Some were so outraged by this that they would emerge from the barracks, fuming, when Lucho opened his nail clippers to attack his can of tuna.

Their attitude contrasted greatly with that of Marc’s. During the final months of our stay in Sombra’s prison, probably in anticipation of a planned departure—for the Plan Patriota was already under way—a series of chickens were slaughtered. The guerrillas brought the pot to us with the bird hacked in pieces, on top of the rice or floating in a suspicious-looking broth, head and feet included, curled up and sticking out of the pot. It was a repellent sight, especially as in general the neck had not been plucked properly and the bird’s eye was wide open, taken by surprise when the sudden blow of death came. Still, this was like a banquet for us, and we all lined up to get our share. The strange thing was that Marc invariably ended up with the chicken head and neck. In the beginning no one paid it any attention. But because it happened again so regularly, the third time we placed bets. Whether he stood at the front of the line or at the end, whether it was Arnoldo or someone else serving, Marc always got the head, with its quivering purple crest and staring eyes. He would look at his plate, incredulous, then sigh and say, “I always get it,” and sit down. I admired his resignation and thought there was something noble about his detachment. I knew that all the others, myself included, tried to seek compensation wherever we could.

This realization helped to quell my animosity toward him. I had deeply resented the radio business. After that I kept away from him. But I no longer wanted to nurture any feelings that might burden my existence.

When I heard in one of Mom’s messages that Marc’s mother was in Bogotá and that she would be trying to send him messages during the week, I put my resentment aside. For me information like this was sacred. Every effort must be made so that he could hear his mother’s voice. And I also thought that there were situations in life that made you come face-to-face with yourself, that were nods from fate: Without my radio, Marc wouldn’t have known that she had come all the way to Colombia to fight for him.

When I gave him the news, he made no comment, but he took the radio after all the others had had their messages. And indeed the broadcaster mentioned Jo Rosano’s presence. She hoped to speak with the authorities and in particular with the United States ambassador to Colombia. She felt that her son had been abandoned by her government, which was doing its best, she said, to consign him to oblivion. Marc was embarrassed by her declarations. He believed that the American authorities were working discreetly to obtain his release.

However, the signs that were getting through to us were not favorable. The United States government had reaffirmed its refusal to deal with the terrorists; its response to the abduction of its citizens had been to increase military aid to Colombia. When they had first been abducted, I’d hoped that their presence would accelerate the release of all the hostages, as Joaquin Gomez had suggested. I’d reacted the same way my companions had when I myself had been kidnapped. But over time we had to face the facts: Their capture had made the hostage situation even more complicated. We all suspected that they would be the last ones to regain their freedom, and each of us liked to think that our fate was in no way connected to theirs. This idea had taken hold. From time to time, one of my American companions would say, “At least you’ve got France fighting for you. But nobody back home even knows what has happened to us.”

Jo Rosano’s visit to Colombia gave them courage. Everyone agreed that she was the only one moving things forward on the side of the Americans. My mother and Jo Rosano had met, immediately falling into each other’s arms. Somehow or other they managed to make themselves understood, because Jo didn’t speak Spanish and Mom’s English was a distant memory from a stay in Washington with Papa at the very beginning of their marriage. But they were both of Italian origin, and that helped.

Marc came during the week, at dawn, and we sat down together to listen to the messages on La
Carrilera,
hoping to hear Jo, to no avail. What little information we had came from Mom—they’d had dinner together.

They’d met to plan their joint action. Jo had come away frustrated from her meeting with the American ambassador. He’d been curt and ill-mannered, she said. Mom told me in her message that she wasn’t surprised. “When I went to see him to ask for his support for the ‘humanitarian agreement,’
⁴³
he replied that it wasn’t a priority for his government, that for them the hostages were as good as terminally ill patients and there was nothing they could do except wait!” Mom was audibly outraged. Marc was next to me. We had our ears by the radio and listened together to what Mom was saying. But he didn’t understand everything, because she spoke quickly and Marc’s Spanish was still very basic. I was relieved, since I didn’t want him to understand everything I’d heard.

“Mom says that your mother came to have dinner with her, and they’re going to take joint action. Your mother saw the American ambassador.”

“And?”

“And nothing. She will surely call in on Saturday on
Las Voces del Secuestro.
It’s very long. With a bit of luck, they’ll be on early and we won’t have to wait all night.”

I dozed off between ten o’clock and midnight. I was terrified I wouldn’t wake up in time. Without a watch, I had gotten into the habit of using the preceding programs as a guide. I recognized the one that was just before our broadcast, an hour of tango music. So I knew then that I had to go on listening, and I pinched myself, hard, to keep myself awake.

That evening, like every Saturday, I roused from an uneasy sleep and switched on the radio. I hunted for the tango station in the dark, Marc had not come over yet. I thought I was awake. But without realizing it, I fell back into a deep sleep.

Marc arrived later. He could hear the whispering of the radio and thought I was listening to the broadcast, stretched out on my bunk, and that I would hand him the radio if his mother called in. So he waited, sitting in the dark, for hours.

I awoke with a start. They had just given the time on the radio. It was two o’clock in the morning. I had missed half the program! I quickly got up and gave out a cry when I saw Marc quietly waiting. I was confused.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“But I thought you were listening to the program!”

“We must have missed all the calls.”

I was so angry with myself. We sat back down, dejected, our heads close together and the little radio in the middle. The messages followed one another every two minutes. I listened attentively in the hope of finding a way to determine whether Mom had already called in. The program was slow, and participants complained that some families would hog the broadcast as if it belonged to them. Herbin Hoyos, the director of the program, apologized profusely and asked those who were waiting to prepare telegraphic messages to make the broadcast go faster. He named the people still to come: Mom and Jo were at the head of his list!

Marc was drowsy. He’d been waiting for so long that he could hardly keep his eyes open. I squeezed his arm. “Hang in there. They’ll be on in a few minutes.”

And sure enough, Mom’s voice came on, with a lot of interference but still comprehensible. She was emotional. She informed me of an upcoming trip to Holland, where she would be receiving a prize in my name. Then the message was interrupted and someone else began to speak. We had to wait a long time until it was Jo’s turn. Marc practically fell asleep on his chair. I roused him when his mother came on the air. Marc took hold of himself, but his entire body was stiff with emotion as he clutched the radio. I took his other hand and caressed it. It was one of Mom’s gestures, and I did it instinctively to reassure him, to make him understand that I was there for him, to share this very intense moment. It was a gesture I’d also made with my children, and it helped me to concentrate on his mother’s words, to record them in my mind. We were listening so intensely that it created a bond between us. Our quarrels no longer mattered. I knew exactly what he must be going through. I remembered the effect Mom’s very first message had had on me—the sound of her voice, the timbre, her warmth, her mellow tone, all the physical pleasure I had in hearing the intonation of that voice I loved so much, the sensation of safety and well-being that had flowed over me. When she’d finished speaking to me, while I was still in the magical bubble that her voice had created around me, I realized I was incapable of recalling what she’d said.

I observed Marc’s expression while his mother was speaking, the pain of absence transformed now into bliss, the need to absorb each word like an essential nourishment, the ultimate surrender to immerse one’s entire being in an ephemeral happiness. When her voice vanished, Marc met my gaze with the eyes of a child. In that moment I understood that he’d been on the same journey. Then, as if he were suddenly waking up, he asked, “Wait a second—what did my mom say?”

I went over every moment of the message, one by one—the way she’d chosen to address him from a distance, the words of love she’d used to greet him, her entreaty to be strong and have courage in adversity, her own certainty that he had the strength to resist, and her absolute faith in God as she asked her son to accept God’s will, for this was a trial, a way to grow spiritually. God would bring him home, she said. Marc wasn’t listening to me; he was listening to his mother’s voice inside his head, as if it were a recording he could hear through me. For a few moments, he made the same journey once again. When I finished, his face lit up, but his memory was absent.

“Sorry, I know I must seem stupid—can you tell me her message again?”

I would have repeated it to him a hundred times if he had asked. I was in the presence of a founding experience: A mother’s words are magical and penetrate us intimately, even in spite of ourselves. Had I but understood this earlier! How much less demanding, how much more patient and reassuring I would have been with my own children. It was comforting to think that the words I’d said to them could have touched them in a way that was just as intense. During the week Marc asked me to repeat Jo’s message, and each time I felt the same happiness. I noticed, after that, that his gaze had grown softer—not only the one he turned on the outside world, but also when he looked at me.