Seductive Poison (34 page)

“Please hide me, my life’s at stake…. I must escape from Jonestown….”

It would never work. No one here would understand…. “Escape from what?” they would ask. Surely they had heard our wild screamed trilling noises and gunshots at night. They would not want to get themselves into trouble with the strange Americans deeper in the jungle. Not even they had dared move that far inside. I knew from Jim’s sermons that these “outback” people were very superstitious and they would be frightened by the peculiar noises they heard filtering through the night air. I looked around the sparse, antiquated port and wanted to cry. There was no place to run.

I had heard about a primitive airstrip, the one the Prime Minister had been brought into, but it was used only for specially chartered incoming flights. There was no such thing as catching a boat or plane out. And I had no money, no passport, and no proof of identity. If I were caught, there were hundreds of comrades who, under duress, would attest to some atrocity I had committed that would
warrant my arrest. It was painfully evident that I would have to continue to wait, watch, and scheme.

On my return to Jonestown my illness set in. I had lined up for the use of the sixteen-seater loo, when I was attacked by a ferocious cramp. Breathing deeply, I prayed the line would move quickly. With my next involuntary groan, Lee, who was in line right behind me, ushered me past the queue and to the outhouse door. I prayed he wouldn’t join me as I took the fifteenth wooden hole. Jim had lectured that bodily functions were a fact of life and that it was materialistic and shallow to be concerned with privacy, but I was never comfortable sitting next to a male in the outhouse. But as the hour passed with groaning and vomiting onto the fly-ridden floor, Lee’s presence was the least of my concerns. Perhaps it was he who summoned help because a nurse came and lifted my weakened body from the wooden toilet slats. She helped me clean myself and held my body against hers as we walked up the now deserted path. I felt faint and my body burned.

My fever worsened and I began to hallucinate. I believed I was in a bath in Pompeii and had feverish conversations with a woman who resembled someone I could not remember. She was kind and gentle, and she lifted me from the bed to a stool to give me my bath of cold river water to help reduce the fever.

I was entertained upon my bedcovers by a band of warriors mounted upon stallions. They rode up and down my pillow and fought battles upon my stomach. On occasion I’d scold them for talking too loud or poking my forehead with their swords, but they told me I had to learn the rules of war.

I had dreams of Mama holding my head, rocking me and speaking to me, encouraging me to push through the fever. Her voice was sweet and delicate, her faint Hamburg accent calling me back, begging me not to leave her there alone. Then silence, more dreary fog and more days passed. Late one evening, I awoke from my dreams. Shanda was sitting on my bed. The room was terribly dark, making it impossible to tell what time of day it was. As she talked, I recognized the individual who had tediously and kindly sponged away my fever. I looked around the medical unit for the special place where Father housed the ones he could never trust again. I was fortunate enough to leave once I was better. Shanda, however, would one day be condemned to this place, until her life was taken.

A new life was about to begin for me. I had learned something important from the warriors on my pillow: There is no etiquette in
war, no boundaries that are sacred. Those who were lucky enough to live rode fast and furiously from the flames.

Although weak, I was released from the medical unit and allowed to resume some of the activities in the camp. Shanda must have reported my condition to Father because he assigned me to the radio room rather than to the hard work in the fields.

“It is high time you learn the new codes anyway,” Father advised. “You’ve been with me two months and you’re due to return to the States soon.” I wanted to jump for joy, but I only nodded my head and replied respectfully.

“Yes, Father.”

There were two different radio shifts, each with vastly different codes. Transmissions between Jonestown and the capital, Georgetown, were scheduled from 7
A.M.
to 6
P.M.
They dealt with Temple leadership meetings at various ministries and embassies. Every function and meeting with an official in Georgetown was attended by three or more articulate Temple representatives, who would immediately type up and report every aspect of the meeting to Jonestown: what they said, what they looked like, whether they were attracted to us, or not. What our reply was to their comments, how we countered what they said in order to get more information from them. It was called feedback. Everyone had a code name, every department had a code, and the person relaying the information spoke in covert language. If, for example, Sharon had gone to the Cuban Embassy that morning, spoken with the ambassador and obtained helpful information, the transmission would be: “Anne went to Netty’s house today and had a pleasant and informative conversation with her Mother. She is very supportive of our issues.” This message sent to Jonestown would be reported to Jim when he came up that evening to begin the night communications with San Francisco. When I first arrived in Jonestown, the day shift was run by Maria and the night shift by Jim and Carolyn.

The night shift began at 7
P.M.
and continued until 4
A.M.
Father explained that he wanted me to learn how to operate the ham radio and to master all our codes and frequencies so that on my return to the States, I could take charge of the San Francisco radio room. In his paranoia, he had become fearful of those members still in the States who were no longer under his powers. He understandably wanted one of his own to manage the San Francisco radio room,
someone from here who knew and understood our impending doom and had experienced the death threats from the mercenaries. Father needed someone with “his mind” to coordinate messages, give orders, and disseminate information. On my return to the States I would be his liaison.

There was an elaborate vocabulary that had to be memorized, but I quickly became adept at giving and interpreting secret transmissions. Here, too, nothing was said in plain language, everything was in code so that outsiders, ham radio operators, and government provocateurs, could not decipher our messages. Ham radio operators would often intercept our conversations just to say hello. That’s when we would use a code to switch frequencies and lose them. It turned out we were in violation of international FCC regulations concerning amateur radio transmissions because we often fled into military restricted areas for quick coded messages. Concerned operators complained because we were always disappearing from the frequency band when they began their friendly conversation, called “Qso” or “Qso-ing.”

If our operator said, “I’ve got to see Mary,” it meant to go up 81 kilocycles. If she said, “I have to water the plants,” that meant to go down 31 kilocycles. When both operators were on the new frequency, the lead operator would cautiously whisper, “Go up 35.” Of course no outside listener could follow these antics and the frequencies were switched repeatedly during delicate negotiation plans.

We spoke mainly of the United States, Cuba, and the Soviet Union, whose code names were Rex, Netty, and Shirley respectively, as there had been an increased interest in trying to immigrate to a Communist country. A typical communication such as “Send us more guns and ammunition” sounded like this: “Give Lilly a message for me. Hold on, I have to go see Mary.” (Go up 81 kilos.) “Tell her to send … Wait, I have to water the plants.” (Go down 31 kilos.) “Okay, meet you at 15.” (Go up 15 kilos.) “Send Bibles and toys for the kids.”

At first, I began to work with Maria in the mornings to get a sense of the radio’s workings, the nuances of frequency changing, and the Georgetown codes. Then I began staying up with Father and Carolyn after my day with Maria. By dusk, the sun was no longer creating interference with long distance receptions and transmissions. It generally took an hour to secure contact. Night communications
were always interesting as Father was requesting help from friends in the States, and determining how bad the conditions were with the press and what the CIA was investigating.

One morning, after a week of being solo on the day shift, Father entered the room on his way to check in on the children’s Russian history classes.

“Give us a full report this afternoon, Lieutenant.” He brushed my cheek with his finger, smiled, and left. I had become the interior’s coordinator and only liaison between Jim and our members in the capital. As the weeks passed and I became more skilled, I gained more respect from Jim. He was impressed with my ability to field questions, solve problems, suggest alternatives if they were needed. He became increasingly dependent on my opinions about how things were going in the capital, how people were responding to his orders, and how problems should be solved.

My written reports of my interpretations of events became a source of information for Jim to use and base decisions upon. Slowly and perceptibly my stature rose. Finally, I was part of the team again. I was even invited to visit Jim’s unit, where he lived with Carolyn, Maria, and the two young boys.

Father’s living conditions were extravagant in comparison to the rest of ours. Besides the privacy fence surrounding the living quarters, there was a wide porch. Father had his own room, with a double bed and wonderful accessories like an electric floor lamp. There were books and magazines on the beds as well as newspapers strewn on the floor. I was shocked. The only paper the residents ever saw were the scraps of paper we were allotted on our way to the latrine. Father had his own refrigerator and inside were fresh hard boiled-eggs, soft drinks, and snack foods, the names of which I had long forgotten. Jim’s unit had a double bed and a long, graceful mosquito net hung from the ceiling, flowing down and sweeping across the floor. I noticed medications, well organized, on a shelf next to the window. There, untouched and waiting for use, stood my mother’s anti-nausea syrup and almost all of her pain medication. There were tall bottles, green ones and odd-shaped bronze ones, and prescriptions with other individuals’ names on the labels. There was a fan on the floor, blowing cool air about the room; a small ribbon tied to his bedpost was slightly swaying in the breeze. Father’s bed had pillows in different sizes, delicately placed at the head of the
bed, and cotton sheets had been pulled downward tightly and tucked into the corners of his mattress. A fluffy earth-toned throw rug lay on the floor and Father’s black slippers were waiting patiently to be engaged again.