Julia Alvarez

by In the Time of Butterflies (v5)

  I know I’ve been reluctant to share certain things, but I usually reflect a moment and end up giving most of my things away. I always check with everyone to see if no one else wants the lamp a certain night, and I never hog my turn at the window for fresh air or drying laundry.

  If we made up the perfect country Minerva keeps planning, I would fit in perfectly. The only problem for me would be if self-serving ones were allowed in. Then I believe I’d turn into one of them in self-defense.

  Thursday night, June 30, heat unbearable, Santicló brought us some paper fans

  We’ve found a great new hiding place, my hair!

  This is how it happened. Patria slipped me a clipping today, and I knew I’d be checked—like we always are—going in and out of the vsitors’ hall. It’s a pretty serious offense if you’re caught with contraband. You might lose visiting privileges for as long as a month or even be put in solitary. I tried slipping it back to her, but Bloody Juan was our patrol, and his hawk eyes weren’t going to miss twice.

  I was getting more and more anxious as the time was almost up. That newspaper clipping was burning a hole in my lap. Minerva made a hand sign we learned from Balbina that means, Give it to me. But I was not going to let her be caught and take the blame. Then I felt the heaviness of my braid down my back, and I got the idea. I’m always fooling with my hair, plaiting it, unplaiting it, a nervous habit of mine that’s gotten worse here. So I folded that piece of paper really small, and, pretending I was neatening up my braid, I wound it into my hair.

  And that’s how the whole prison found out about the assassination attempt.

  BETANCOURT ACCUSATIONS UNFOUNDED

  Ciudad Trujillo, R.D. Spokesman Manuel de Moya expressed his outrage at the vicious and unfounded accusations of President Rómulo Betancourt of Venezuela. Betancourt has accused the Dominican government of being involved in the attempt on his life that occurred in the capital city of Caracas, June 24. The President was injured when a parked car exploded as his own limousine paraded by. Speaking from his hospital bed, Betancourt announced he has again filed charges with the Organization of American States. When asked why a small, peace-loving island would strike out against him, President Betancourt confabulated a plot against his life by the Dominican government: “Ever since I brought charges of his human rights abuses before the OAS, Trujillo has been after me.” De Moya regretted these insults to the virgin dignity of our Benefactor and expressed the openness of our government to any and all investigations from member nations who wish to ascertain the falsity of these malicious charges. The OAS has accepted the invitation, and a five-member committee is due here by the end of July.

  Friday night, July 1, no one can sleep, and not just because of the heat!

  The mood here has changed overnight. Our divided movement is pulling together, gossip and grievances cast aside. The walls have been nothing but knockings all day long. The latest news I smuggled in!

  Trujillo is in hot water now, and he knows it. He has to put on a good show when the OAS comes. There are all kinds of rumors that we are all to be pardoned. Everyone is so hopeful! Except, of course, the guardias.

  When the gringos come, Santicló asks us this evening, you girls aren’t going to complain about me, now are you?

  Yes, Santicló, Delia teases him. We’re going to say you had a soft heart for certain prisoners. You didn’t treat us all equally. I never got mints or a ribbon for my hair.

  Santicló looks a little frightened, so I say, She’s just teasing you, Santicló. You’ve been a real friend. I say that to be polite, but then I get to thinking about it, and it is true.

  That’s why we nicknamed him Santicló after the big, jolly American “saint” who brings gifts even to those who don’t believe in Jesus or the three Kings.

  Sunday night, July 10 (Mama sent us a flashlight)

  No OAS yet, but lots more rumors. The beginning of last week, everyone thought they’d be here by the end of the week. But now the rumor is they’re waiting to see if Betancourt will live. Also they’re working out how they’ll conduct their investigations.

  Just lock them in here with us, Sina says. We’ll give them an earful.

  Yes, Dinorah says. You girls give them an earful, then the rest of us will give them something else.

  Everybody bursts out laughing. We’ve talked openly about it, and I can’t say I really miss it, but some of the girls are ready to scream, they want a man so. And, I should add, it’s not just the dubious “ladies” saying this. Minerva is the biggest surprise of all.

  These girls can be so vulgar. Lord, in six months my ears have heard what they hadn’t known about in twenty-four years. For instance, the girls have an elaborate system of body clues by which they can tell what kind of a man you’re suited for. Say, your thumb is fat and kind of short, then you’re bound to like men with a similar endowment elsewhere. I happen to have a short but slender thumb, and that proves I’m really compatible with a short, slender man with “average” endowments. Phew!

  Some of these girls are sleeping together, I know. That’s the only thing Santicló won’t allow. He says it’s just not right. Once a woman is with a woman, she’s ruined for a man.

  I myself had a close encounter that turned out to be all right. With Magdalena the other night after our talk.

  —Valentina just went by on her sneaky feet.

  I better put this away and not try the devil twice. To be continued.

  Monday afternoon, July 11, quiet time

  I mentioned the close encounter I had with Magdalena. This is what happened.

  She was visiting over here one night, and we got to talking about ourselves, and finally she told me her whole life story. I’ll say this, it’s enough to break my heart. I’ve been going around for months thinking no one has suffered like I have. Well, I’m wrong. Magdalena has taught me more about how privileged I really am than all of Minerva’s lectures about class.

  When Magdalena was thirteen, her mother died, and she didn’t have any place to go, so she took a job as a maid for a rich, important family. (The de la Torres, real snobs.) Night after night, she was “used” by the young man of the house. She said she never reported it to her mistress, since she thought it was part of her job. When she got pregnant, she did go to the doña, who accused her of being an ungrateful, lying whore, and threw her out on the street.

  Magdalena gave birth to a baby girl, Amantina, and for years they lived hand to mouth. Magdalena says the trash heap near the old airport was their bodega, and their home an abandoned shed near the runway.

  Pobrecitas, I kept saying.

  At some point, the de la Torres must have caught sight of the blond-headed, hazel-eyed little girl. They decided she was related to their son. They drove over to the new house where Magdalena was working and took the poor, screaming child away.

  Tears brimmed in my eyes. Any story of a separated mother and daughter can get me started these days.

  That’s when Magdalena gave me this real serious look—like she was grateful to me for understanding. But then the gratitude turned into something else. She came forward like she was going to tell me a secret and brushed her lips to mine. I pulled back, shocked.

  Ay, Magdalena, I said, I’m not that way, you know.

  She laughed. Girl, I don’t know what you mean by that way, like it’s a wrong turn or something. My body happens to also love the people my heart loves.

  It made sense the way she said that.

  Still, I felt really uncomfortable in my narrow bunk. I wanted her knee touching my knee not to mean anything, but it did. I wanted her to leave, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Thank goodness, she got the hint and went on with the rest of her story.

  —Quiet time is over. Minerva’s hollering for us all to come do exercises.

  I’ll finish this tonight.

  later

  The rest of the story is that Magdalena tried to get Amantina back. One night, she stole into the de la Torre house and climbed
the same back stairs the young man used to climb down, and she got as far as the upstairs hall, where she was caught by the dona coming out of her bedroom in her nightdress. Magdalena demanded her child back and pulled out a knife to show she meant business.

  Instead of shock I felt glee. Did you succeed?

  What do you think I’m doing here? she said. I got twenty years for attempted murder. When I get out, she continued, my little girl will be my age when I came in. Then Magdalena began to cry like her tears were spilling out of her broken heart.

  I didn’t even think about her kissing me earlier. I just reached out and took her in my arms like Mama always does me.

  Saturday afternoon, July 23

  Leandro is finally here with us! El Rayo says he’s in Pavilion B with Manolo and Pedrito and the rest of the central committee.

  Also, the ridiculous book is out. lComplot Develado! No one here has seen it yet, but we’ve heard it’s an album of all our photographs with a description of how the movement got started. Nothing that hasn’t been in the papers for months already.

  I hope all those who wagged their tongues feel ashamed of themselves.

  Wednesday evening, August 3—we got real chicken and rice tonight!

  Minerva and Sina have been talking strategy to me since the news was announced this morning. It’s as final as anything can be around here. The OAS Peace Committee comes this Friday. Only one prisoner from each pavilion will be interviewed. The head guards were given the choice. And they picked me.

  Minerva says it’s because they don’t think I’ll complain. And you have to, she says. You have to, Mate.

  But they haven’t done anything, I protest. They’re victims, too, like you say.

  But victims that can do a lot of harm. And this isn’t personal, Mate, she adds. This is principle.

  I never was good at understanding that difference so crucial to my sister. Everything’s personal to me that’s principle to her, it seems.

  We’ve heard that the interviews won’t be supervised, but that doesn’t mean a thing here. The hall will be bugged with secret microphones, no doubt. It would be suicide to talk openly. So, Minerva and Sina have written up a statement I must somehow slip to the committee, signed by the Fourteenth of June Movement.

  There is something else, Minerva says, looking down at her hands. We need someone to write a personal statement.

  What about what Sina went through? I say. Have Sina write up something.

  It’s not the same, please, Mate. You don’t even have to write it up, she adds. We can just tear out the pages in your journal and put them in with our statement.

  There are other considerations, I tell her. What about Santicló? If the statements are traced to me, he’ll be shot.

  Minerva holds me by the arms. Revolution is not always pretty, Mate. Look at what they did to Leandro, to Manolo, what they did to Florentino, to Papilin, to you, for God’s sake. It won’t stop unless we stop it. Besides, those are just rumors about the guardias being shot.

  I’ll see, I say at last, I’ll see.

  Ay, Mate, promise me, she says, looking in my eyes, please promise me.

  So I say to her the only thing I can say. I promise you this, I’ll be true to what I think is right.

  Minerva has never heard such talk from me. Fair enough, she says, fair enough.

  Saturday, August 6

  Minerva has asked me a dozen times what happened. A dozen times I’ve told her and the others the story. Rather, I’ve tried to keep up with their questions.

  How many members were in the committee. (Seven in all, though two looked like they were there just to translate.) Where was the session? (In the visitors’ hall—that’s why we didn’t have visiting hours Thursday. The authorities spared themselves the trouble of having to bug a new place.) How long was my session? (Ten minutes—though I waited two hours outside the door with a very nervous Santicló.) Then, most importantly. Did I get a chance to slip the papers to a member of the committee?

  Yes, I did. When I was leaving, a serious young man came forward to thank me and lead me out. He spoke a very polite, pretty Spanish. Probably Venezuelan or maybe Paraguayan. By the way he was looking me over, I could tell he wanted a closer look. Checking for scars or skin pallor—something. I had given La Victoria a good report and said that I had been treated fairly. What everyone else from the other cells had probably told them as well.

  Just as he was turning away, I loosened my braid and let the first folded note fall on the floor. When he saw it, he seemed surprised and went to pick it up. But then he thought better of it and kicked it under the table instead. He gave me this pointed look. I returned him a slight nod.

  Santicló met me right outside the door. His jolly, round face looked so afraid. As he was walking me back down the corridor, he wanted to know how it went.

  Don’t worry, I said, and I smiled at him. It was actually his blue ribbon that I had used to hold both notes twisted in my braid. I unwound that ribbon just enough so the first note with the statement Minerva and Sina had drafted slipped out. It was signed The Fourteenth of June Movement so it can’t be traced to any one cell. And what are they going to do, shoot all the prison guards?

  The second note with my story was lodged further up in my braid. Maybe it was the sight of that ribbon Santicló had given me when I was so broken, I don’t know. But right then and there, I decided not to drop the second note. I just couldn’t take a chance and hurt my friend.

  As far as Minerva is concerned, I kept my promise to her. I did what I thought was right. But I think I’ll wait till sometime in the future to tell her exactly what that was.

  Sunday afternoon, August 7—we’re having a little party later

  We have been told to be ready for our release tomorrow!

  None of the men are being freed, though, only the women. Gallantry to impress the OAS is what Minerva guesses.

  I was so afraid she was going to get high-minded on me again. But she’s agreed to go, since this is not a pardon but a release.

  I think Minerva is close to her own breaking point. She has been acting funny. Sometimes, she just turns to me and says, What? as if I had asked her something. Sometimes her hand goes to her chest as if she is making sure she has a heartbeat. I am glad we will soon be out of here.

  What hurts is thinking of those I’m leaving behind.

  Every time I look at Magdalena I have to look away.

  I’ve learned so much from you, I tell her. This has been the most meaningful experience of my whole life, I tell her.

  I’m going to start crying before the party even starts.

  late night

  The moonlight is streaming in through our little window. I can’t sleep. I am sitting up in my bunk, writing my last entry in the space left, and sobbing in the quiet way you learn in prison so you don’t add to anyone else’s grief.

  I feel sad to be leaving. Yes, strange as it sounds, this has become my home, these girls are like my sisters. I can’t imagine the lonely privacy of living without them.

  I tell myself the connection will continue. It does not go away because you leave. And I begin to understand the revolution in a new way.

  At our “farewell party,” I took a chance Dinorah might report me and had all of them sign my book like an autograph book. Some of them I’d taught how to write their names, so this is a real memento of my time here.

  As for the book itself—Santicio is going to smuggle it out for me. We will be inspected thoroughly, I’m sure, when we leave.

  Then we passed around our little hoard of sugar cubes and crackers and peanuts. I had a couple of bars of chocolates left and I cut those in thin slices. Even Dinorah added some guava paste she’d been hoarding. Then we looked at each other, and there was such a sad heartfelt feeling among us. Minerva started to say something, but she couldn’t get it out. So we just held each other, and one by one, we wished each other well and then goodbye.

  For the OAS Committee investigating Human
Rights Abuses.

  This is a journal entry of what occurred at La 40 on Monday, April 11th, 1960, to me, a female political prisoner. I’d rather not put my name. Also, I have blotted out some names as I am afraid of getting innocent people in trouble.

  Please don’t put it in the papers either, as I am concerned for my privacy.

  When they came for me that morning, I thought that maybe I was being taken to the officers’ lounge for questioning.

  But instead, Bloody Juan escorted me down the stairs and outside. There was a wagon waiting. It took me only a minute to realize where we were going.

  I kept looking out the window, hoping I’d be seen by someone who might recognize me and tell my family they had spotted me in a police wagon headed towards La 40. How strange that the sun was shining so innocently. That people were walking around as if there were no such thing in the world as poor souls in my predicament.

  I tried getting some explanation as to why I was being taken in. But Bloody Juan is not one to explain things.

  By the time we got to La 40, I was shaking so bad I couldn’t get out of the wagon. I felt ashamed that they had to carry me in like a sack of beans.

  There was a bunch of them already waiting in the interrogation room, tall fat Johnny with his Hitler mustache. The one called Can dido with the curly hair. Then a bug-eyed one that kept cracking his knuckles to make the sound of breaking bones.

  They stripped me down to my slip and brassiere and made me lie down on this long metal table, but they didn’t buckle the belts I saw dangling down the sides. I have never known such terror. My chest was so tight I could barely breathe.