CURSE THE MOON (9 page)

A few evenings later, Francisco sat next to Atcho in the dining hall. “Manuel,” he said. “My wife is coming to see me during visiting privileges this weekend. Would you like to join us? She might know some of the people you asked about.”

“Yes, of course,” Atcho replied.

Days passed slowly. Labor seemed more grueling. Stench of filthy living quarters was onerous and food seemed even unhealthier. Atcho clung to fragments of hope, heightened by working on the escape plan.

Finally, Sunday afternoon arrived, and buses brought loads of waiting relatives to the prison compound. Guards herded the inmates into wide fields. This time, instead of the mess hall, prisoners were packed by groups into large enclosures resembling chicken coops, complete with three strands of chicken wire. A few benches allowed some to sit, but they were overwhelmed by the press of inmates attempting to glimpse and draw the attention of relatives among passing visitors. They called loudly to the visitors, until at last family members were able to find each other. Atcho was with Francisco when he spotted his wife, Yolanda.

“Yolanda! I am here! Yoli! Over here! Aqi!” A thin, matronly woman stopped in the mass of passing humanity, and looked around. She saw Francisco and headed in his direction. Her long face displayed the stress of the trip, and she seemed to have given up on her graying, curly hair. It spite of that, her eyes sparkled momentarily when she saw Francisco, and then clouded over.

“Oh my God, Francisco!” she cried quietly, and tears formed around her eyes. “This is even worse than the mess hall! I can’t even hug you, and can barely touch your hand through this chicken wire!” They pushed their fingertips through the wire to meet between the strands. With nowhere to go, Atcho stood quietly for a few minutes, and then Francisco introduced them.

People were scared, Yoli said. “The American embargo is hurting. There’s nothing on the store shelves! And Castro set up neighborhood committees who report to authorities anyone suspected of anything! Even if they just think we are thinking something, they report us. Children denounce their parents! And in school, the children have to sing the Communist Internationale.”

“How are they treating families of political prisoners?” Atcho asked, gently interjecting himself into the conversation.

“They call us gusanos!” she replied vehemently. “Worms! Anyone wanting to leave Cuba has to quit his job, give up his house, and live with relatives. Then, the relatives are also persecuted.” She paused. “Food is so scarce,” she said. “Everything is rationed, and when anyone applies to leave Cuba, their rations are cut off. Their only food comes from relatives, who have to share their rations, and then,” she waved her hands in indignation, “and then, the relatives are called gusanos – even if the relatives are not trying to leave.” She put her hand to her forehead. “It’s crazy!”

“How are you living?” Atcho asked in concern. “You and your children.”

Yolanda waved a hand. “Oh, we get by,” she said with poorly concealed despair. “I worry about our children. What kind of lives will they have?”

“But how do you eat? You said there is no food.”

“No, but we still have good friends, and they get food to us.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “What happened, Francisco? What happened? We were a prosperous country. We could make plans for our lives. How did this … this demagogue … this hijo de puta convince the country that he would be better for us?” She shook her head. Francisco looked around, nervous about being overheard. He tried to reach further through the chicken wire to console his wife, but could still only touch her fingertips.

They conversed on other things, and then Atcho asked, “There was a little girl kidnapped in Camaguey awhile back. Whatever became of her? Did they find her?”

“Oh, yes,” the woman responded, rolling her eyes. “That was a very strange story.”

“What happened?”

“Well, her father was killed in a fire along with his parents. He lived in that great sugar plantation, tu sabes, the one about five miles east of the town of Camaguey?” She paused. “Francisco said you were from Camaguey. Did you know them?”

“Only vaguely,” Atcho replied. “Of course everyone knew of the family.”

“Sí. Well anyway, the girl was living with her Aunt Raissa. Then, last December, she disappeared! There was a rumor that her father was still alive and that G-2 tried to use her as bait to capture him. But about two months later, some people found her wandering on a road near her house. The story I heard was that a deranged lady just wanted a little girl to take care of, then got tired of her.” Yoli shifted her weight. “About four months ago, the weekend of the invasion, she disappeared again, this time with her aunt and uncle.”

“What?” Atcho could hardly restrain himself, but tried to act casual. “How did she disappear again?”

“No one really knows. They stayed away for three months, then showed up again last month.”

“All of them?” Atcho scarcely believed his ears. “The little girl – how was she?”

“Fine, as far as I know. I saw her two weeks ago, in line at the government store with her aunt. They didn’t talk to anyone, but they looked okay.” While Atcho listened intently, Yoli continued describing Isabel and his sister Raissa in detail. Then she said, “The strange part of the story is that they’re gone again!”

“What?” Atcho demanded, and then caught himself. “Where?”

“To the United States! They left for Havana last week to board an airplane for Miami. They should be in America right now!” Other people were now listening to the story as Yoli continued. “Their departure was unusual because it was so fast. Most people have to wait months to process papers, wait for Castro to let them go, then reserve space on a plane. But they just came and went.” She shrugged her shoulders, and waved a thin arm to illustrate her point.

Atcho felt stricken, and leaned against the chicken wire. He caught himself. “That is a strange story,” he said, “and a very sad one. So many families split up! Thank you for telling it.”

After a while, he thanked Francisco and Yolanda for sharing their time with him, and made his way to a far corner of the enclosure, where he could be alone with his thoughts. Then he sat on the ground and closed his eyes, bitterly recalling his brief intent to leave Cuba following the destruction of the mansion. Well, he thought, I guess letting Atcho die was a good thing – they let Isabel go.

11

July 1960

“Jujo, I think we can move tonight!” Atcho said softly. Outside, the wind moaned against the rounded walls of Circular 4, and the steady drum of a tropical downpour sounded on the old corrugated steel roof. Streams of water dripped through in various places, and the prisoners placed buckets to catch it, as much as for the rare joy of sweet, fresh water as to prevent runoff into living areas.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Jujo replied. They were standing in his cell on the second floor. “But let’s go over things one more time.”

“OK,” Atcho said, “the moon is about three-quarters tonight, but the clouds are black and low. There is very little artificial lighting outside, and that is blocked by rain – which is also keeping the guards from their regular patrols.”

“What about the boat?”

“It’s in the harbor now. One of the men on the orange-picking crew saw it there this afternoon when they were returning from the groves.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice took on even more urgency. “If we wait for a low moon, it’ll be another three weeks, and we won’t know for sure that there will be rain, or that the boat will be there.”

“I know,” Jujo said. “I was thinking the same things. OK, I’ll tell the men in the escape cell to finish sawing out the bars, and spread word to the others that we go tonight. I’ll meet you there.” He followed Atcho out the door. They both looked furtively at the watchtower, but the cavernous interior of Circular 4 was very dark, and the guards dozed in their chairs, arms wrapped tightly over their chests against the unusual chill that came with the rain.

Atcho returned to his cell and changed into a military uniform that he had stolen piece by piece. Domingo watched him. “I wish I could go with you,” he said.

Atcho looked at him. “I will gladly let you go in my place.”

Domingo shook his head sadly. “No,” he replied, “we all have our parts to play, and you are the best chance for this escape to succeed.” He paused a moment. “You know, Atcho, if you are successful, you might save us all.” Atcho looked at him without comprehending. “You might not know this,” Domingo continued, “but all of these cellblocks were wired to blow up with us in them.”

“What?”

Domingo nodded. “It’s true. It happened before the invasion. Look.” He crossed over to the walkway outside the cell door, indicated for Atcho to follow, and pointed at some depressions in the floor far below. “You see those?” Atcho nodded, and they returned to sit on their steel racks. “There was a lot of talk about the coming invasion, and there was fear among the guards and I guess up to Castro, that the island would be attacked and the prisoners set free and invited to join.

“One day, they drove a truck in here. They made us all get out of the way except for a few that they had digging tunnels under the floor, and then they took the stuff off the trucks. The items were covered so we couldn’t see what it was. Of course we speculated, and many thought it might be dynamite. Then one day, a guard came over to mock us. ‘You think it’s dynamite,’ he said. ‘Well, you’re right. We’re going to blow this place up, with all of you in it!’”

Atcho’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “What did you do?”

“Well, you know I’m a civil engineer.” He saw Atcho nod, and went on. “We dug our own tunnels, came in from the other side, and disarmed the dynamite.”

“You did what?” Atcho was dumbfounded.

Domingo laughed. “We’ve done lots of things in here, Atcho. We built a radio out of scrap. We assembled it and disassembled it every day, and each of the men involved kept a piece in his room so that if our cells were searched, they would find nothing.”

Atcho shook his head, still disbelieving. “Where is the radio now?”

“It wore out, but while we had it, we were able to listen to the stations in Miami. We knew what our countrymen were doing there, and that was a great morale booster.”

“What about the tunnels? You had to dig them in front of the guards?”

“Yes. That was very dangerous. And we had to find the demolitions blindly, and then disarm them. But we did it.” His smile glowed with faint triumph. “Of course, if the guards had tried to explode them and found them not working, they would just have turned cannons on us, and that would have set the dynamite off.” He shook his head, “Unbelievable what evil people will do.” They sat quietly a moment. “So you see, Atcho, when you escape and tell the world what is going on here, you help us all.”

Atcho felt a new weight of responsibility. Then Domingo laughed quietly and indicated a makeshift mannequin lying on Atcho’s bed. “Your evil twin is ready to do his duty,” he said. He pulled a rope in his hand, and the mannequin sat up. “He won’t fool anyone up close,” Domingo added, “but he should get you through the next headcount.”

Atcho smiled. The headcount was five hours away. The guards in the watchtower would raise the lights in Circular 4 to full power, and from their platform, look into every cell, and count heads. In at least fifteen cells on this night, they would see the silhouette of what appeared to be heads and torsos, but were the prisoners’ best efforts at fashioning facsimiles to cover their absence. If the ruse succeeded, their escape would not be discovered until the daily work groups formed, which could be delayed or canceled due to the rain.

Domingo stood and shook hands with Atcho, and then they clapped their arms about each other’s shoulders. “I hope to see you in Miami,” Domingo said, “to share a Cuba Libre – una Mentirita – a Little Lie!” They both laughed, and Atcho headed out the door.

He hung to the shadows, and minutes later entered a cell on the first living tier, just above the ground floor. This cell had been selected because it was farthest from the lights, had the deepest shadows, and was closest to the direction of travel – the escapees would not have to maneuver around Circular 4. When Atcho arrived, other men were already assembled, hugging the shadows against the back wall.

“Are we all set?” he whispered.

Jujo appeared in front of him. “We’re ready, Atcho. It’s your show.”

“OK then, take the bars out of the window.” Two men stepped through the darkness, reached up, and with painstaking care not to make a sound, pulled the four bars from their places. They came away easily.

“Remember,” Atcho said, “I’ll go first, and if I think conditions are right, I’ll come back and pull on this rope.” He indicated a long line of clothes and sheets that had been tied together. It now hung from the window. “I won’t call out because you won’t be able to hear me anyway in this storm, so be sure someone is paying attention.” He paused. “Stay close together. In this light, we’ll need to have no more than an arm’s distance between us. As the light comes up, spread out. But by the time that happens, we should be most of the way to Nueva Gerona.” He paused again, and then gave his final instruction, “We’ve been over this, and we’ve been lucky up to now. If we are discovered anywhere along the way, scatter! The code word for that is Havana! When you hear that, execute your individual escape plans. That’s how we’ll protect each other. They might catch some of us, but they might not catch all of us.”

When final questions had been asked and answered, Atcho went over to the window. Outside, the rain beat a steady rhythm. He pushed his head through, and immediately felt the cold deluge. Twisting his body, he put his feet out, held onto the sill, and carefully shinnied down the makeshift rope. The ground was about a foot below the end of the rope, and when he felt safe, he dropped the remaining few inches. The wind buffeted him as he settled a moment to acclimate. Then, convinced that no immediate danger lurked, he headed off in the direction of the closest guard shack. It was sealed and quiet – not even a sliver of light appeared at the base of the door. He imagined that the guards were happy for the rare opportunity to sleep undisturbed through a whole night. He waited a few more minutes, and then, convinced that no patrols were out in the torrential rain, he moved swiftly back to the window with the rope. He gave it a tug.