He was explaining that June was the month of Jesus’s Sacred Heart, and he made the list of graces that would be granted to those who invoked it. I quickly went to fetch a pencil and a cigarette pack, and I wrote down the promises I’d managed to remember.
There were two in particular that seemed to express my deepest hopes: “I will give blessings on all their plans” and “I will touch even the hardest hearts.” My plan was none other than our freedom. It had become an immediate reflex. Likewise, the transformation of hardened hearts was a promise tailor-made for me. During my discussions with Pinchao, we often used the same expression. There were too many hardened hearts around us—the hard hearts of our jailers, of those in the outside world who maintained we must be sacrificed for reasons of state, and of those who were simply indifferent and turned their backs on us.
Without thinking, I appealed to Jesus. “I don’t dare to ask for my immediate release, but if your promises are true, I want to ask you for one thing: During this month of June, which is yours, help me to understand how much longer we will have to live as captives. You see, if I knew how long it is going to be, I could hold on. Because I would know that there is an end in sight. If you tell me, I promise you I will pray every Friday for the rest of my life. That will be the proof of my devotion to you, and that you did not let me down.”
But the month of June yielded little hope. Of course I listened to the appeals of the Green parties, of members of the European Parliament, of the support groups demanding the release of all those who were still in the jungle. There had been huge marches at the beginning of the year, not only in France and the rest of Europe but also, for the first time, in Colombia. The support groups campaigning in favor of the hostages had grown in number, and there were now thousands of activists everywhere. All the presidents of Latin America had expressed their support for talks with the FARC, and in Argentina, during Cristina Kirchner’s inauguration as president, she had opened the doors so that our families could appeal for help from her peers.
But in the month of June, our situation seemed more deadlocked than ever. Operation Phoenix, led by the Colombian army on March 2, 2008, into Ecuador to kill Raúl Reyes, the FARC’s second in command, created a serious diplomatic crisis between Colombia, Ecuador, and Venezuela. Talks for the release of new hostages were suspended.
On March 24 the announcement of the death of Manuel Marulanda, the FARC’s leader, chased away our last hopes. As Reyes, Marulanda’s immediate successor, had been killed two weeks earlier, the organization seemed to have been beheaded. The exchange of prisoners would be postponed, indefinitely.
There won’t be anything for you, I thought, to avoid nurturing any illusions. However, on June 28, I had a surprising visit. Enrique crept quietly up to my caleta, trying to find his way in, visibly intending to sit down and speak to me. I assumed that new misfortune was about to befall me. I didn’t like seeing Enrique. I froze, my muscles tense.
“A commission of Europeans will be coming to see you. They want to talk to you all and check on the health of the hostages. You have to be ready. We will have to move. There’s a possibility that one or several of you may be released.”
I had learned not to show my emotion. Nevertheless, my heart leaped from my chest like a fish from a bowl. I did not want Enrique to think he could fool me. He would have taken too much pleasure in my disappointment. I pretended not to be interested.
“I’ve ordered new clothes and smaller backpacks to be delivered to you. Take just the bare essentials—no tent, no mosquito net, just your hammock, a change of clothes, and that’s all. Leave your equipos here with all the rest.”
He went around the caletas, talking to everyone in the same weary, conscientious tone, no doubt following his orders. Members of FARC were not encouraged to act on their own initiative. Once Enrique had left our camp, everyone had a personal interpretation of what he’d said. There was a flurry of debate. I had only one thing in mind: I’d just been given the answer I was waiting for. Right before the end of June, the Colombian government had authorized European delegates to travel into the Amazon to meet with Alfonso Cano, the new FARC leader. These delegates were Noël Saez and Jean-Pierre Gontard, two men who had devoted years to our cause. If they restored contact with the FARC, then there was a chance that negotiations might be forthcoming.
The next morning Lili came into the camp with her arms full. There were plaid shirts and new pants for the men and for me some jeans and a turquoise T-shirt with a low scoop neck. Marc refused to wear the new clothes and handed them back to Lili. Tom put on his new shirt right away. You could tell they wanted to put us onstage. I’d wear my old clothes, I decided, emulating Marc’s gesture.
EIGHTY-ONE
THE TRICK
When our cambuches were dismantled and they had picked up everything, we were made to go up to one of the little wooden houses. We were very surprised to find the hostages from the other two groups already chatting in one of the houses. Armando and Arteaga in the lead were having animated discussions with Corporal Jairo Durán, and police lieutenant Javier Rodríguez, Corporal Buitrago, who was known as Buitraguito, and the ever courteous Sergeant Romero. We were all happy to see them. We’d become friends during the marches, because we sometimes had long waits for the bongo together. We’d go from one person to the next, wanting to find out all the news in a minute, exchanging our reactions and our feelings about what was coming. Nobody knew a thing. No one dared ask if they believed there’d be releases, because none of us dared to admit we hoped there might be.
I went up to Armando. I liked his company and his irrepressible optimism. He hugged me, delighted. “You’ll be next!” I laughed with him—he didn’t believe it any more than I did. “Look, Arteaga’s got a girlfriend,” he said, changing the subject. I turned around to have a look. It was sweet. Miguel had a little tame cosumbo on his shoulder, and he was kissing it on the nose.
“Who gave him the cosumbo?”
“It’s not a cosumbo, it’s a coati!”97 said Armando, the specialist.
“Hey, what’s a coati?”
“It’s like a cosumbo.”
We were laughing, for no reason. The idea of a change in routine made us lighthearted.
“So where are we going?”
“Nowhere. We’re staying in Cambodia,” he said sarcastically.
That was his favorite expression, to imply that anything could happen and that we were in the worst possible mess, as if we were in the hands of Pol Pot. It always made me laugh. On the surface it might have seemed incongruous. And yet it was so true—the same jungle, the same extremism and fanaticism wrapped up in the same communist rhetoric, and the same cold-blooded cruelty.
“He eats more than leishmaniasis!” Armando said, pointing to his back.
I laughed even though I didn’t know who he was talking about. Off to one side in a corner, huddled over his bowl, Enrique was gorging himself on the morning’s leftover rice.
Our equipos were piled up in a room in the little house, behind a door locked with a big padlock. We’ll never see them again, I thought, glad that at the last minute I had taken out the belts I’d woven for Mela, Lorenzo, and Sebastian years earlier. Eventually the key to the padlocks ended up in Enrique’s pocket. He was cleaning his new AR-15 Bushmaster, an upgrade on his previous AK-47, and seemed oblivious to time. Lili came to inform him. The bongo was waiting.
The passage was surprisingly short. They had covered our heads with a huge tarpaulin, but I managed to see the opposite shore, with a scattering of neat little buildings painted in bright colors.
Where are we? I wondered, surprised to see so many civilians.
We moored below an imposing estate. A fine garden, planted with palm trees fanned out in the middle of an impeccable lawn, led up to a house on piles divided into three perfectly harmonized sections. The central part looked like it must be a sort of common room. A huge table with a multitude of plastic chairs seemed lost in a big room that was anything but
crowded, despite the presence of an equally huge billiards table in the far corner.
We were immediately led into the left wing of the building. As a rule we were put inside henhouses or laboratories, not in real houses. We were told to set our backpacks on the ground, at the back of the house, and to take out our bathing things. In no time at all, we were in the river.
“You’re a real soldier now,” said Rodríguez jokingly.
Someone brought out a half-full bottle of shampoo.
“Wow!” said everyone in unison.
Shampoo was a treasure that normally was not shared. But today everyone was feeling good-humored, and the bottle was passed around. The scent of the shampoo made me long for another life, and I sank into the water to play mermaid as I rinsed out my hair.
“Betancourt, out!” barked Oswald.
I picked up my piece of soap and got out before the others. I smiled, thinking that someday this would all come to an end, and I walked up to my equipo to change quickly, before the mosquitoes started attacking.
One of the guards opened the side door of the left wing of the building.
“Take your backpacks inside and get your chains ready,” he said smugly.
I saw my companions crowding together to be the first ones in. I looked at the sky one last time. The night was clear. Not a cloud. Above me the first star had just twinkled.
My companions hurried around a pile of torn mattresses. By the looks of it, there wouldn’t be enough to go around. William had grabbed one for each of us, and he showed me the spot he’d saved for me.
The guard rattled his key ring. Everyone found a spot, and the guard came by to lock our padlocks and fasten the chains to the posts supporting the beds. Once he had left, I took out my little radio and, as on every evening, tuned in to the Colombian programs. It felt good—to be under a roof, in a bed, upon a mattress.
I woke up at three o’clock in the morning and took out my rosary. It was a Wednesday.
That day I prayed with even greater joy, because I was convinced that my pact with Jesus had been sealed. He has kept his word, I thought, even if I had absolutely no idea what to expect.
Mom’s voice came to me at dawn. “I have to take the plane this afternoon,” she said, “but I don’t want to leave you.” I smiled, thinking of Lucho. Tomorrow she’ll call me from Rome, I thought, amused. Melanie, too, came on the air. She was calling from London and I thought there’d be nobody to meet me on my arrival, if I should be released now.
Fabrice came on immediately afterward. From my letter to Mom, he had learned that I could hear the radio messages, so he called in from everywhere, and he always ended up having to put the phone down, because his voice became too emotional. This time he managed to tell me that they were with Marc’s mother and that Jo was fighting like a lioness for him. Fabrice had been speaking to me in French, and no one but me could tell Marc.
The guard was already coming along to open the padlocks. To my great surprise, he removed my companions’ chains and put them away. Don’t go getting ideas. He’s going to leave yours on, I thought when I saw that it was Oswald at work. However, this time, he removed mine, too.
I looked up at the sound of dishes. A guerrilla came in with a china bowl in each hand, filled with soup. He handed it to my companions, going back and forth every two minutes. Soon they were all silently bent over their plates, focused on fishing the small pieces of potato out of the bowl.
A sudden stir announced a new arrival. Commander Cesar had just come in and was speaking with each of my companions, courteously, one by one, until he came to me.
Everyone had cleared out, probably as much out of courtesy as out of a desire to make the most of a sunny morning without chains and a good breakfast. I was left alone with the leader of our front.
“We are the army of the people,” said Cesar, like an orator.
They’re just like the old Colombian political class, I thought. He made his statement in due form, explaining why they were keeping the “detainees”—a euphemism for “hostages”—and why it was a good thing they were using drug money to finance their activities, because it meant they would not have to take economic hostages.
I looked at him impassively, knowing that there had to be a purpose behind everything he was saying. What was he afraid of? Did he want me to serve as witness? Did he want to pass on a message? Leave himself a way out? Whom were we going to meet? Foreigners? FARC leaders? I sighed. Years ago I would have resisted, would have tried to pull his arguments to threads. Now I felt like an old dog. I no longer barked. Sitting down, I observed.
An hour later Cesar was still going on and on. My soup was cold. I had put the bowl down on the flea-infested mattress where I’d slept. When it seemed he had finished, I asked him what we might expect from the rest of the day.
“Some helicopters will be coming to get you. We’ll be going to talk with Alfonso Cano, probably. After that I don’t know,” he confessed. “Maybe you’ll be transferred to another camp.”
Marc was by his bunk bed, putting his bowl into his backpack. We were alone in the room. I hesitated, then went up to him. “Marc, I wanted you to know that on the radio this morning I heard that your mother is in London. She’s with my family at a forum on peace, or human rights, I think. Fabrice told me she’s fighting like a lioness for you.”
Marc had gone on closing his bag while I was speaking. Finally he looked up, his gaze so gentle that I was ashamed of my official tone. He thanked me, and I went away so as not to prolong a tête-à-tête that might turn awkward.
Outside, there was the clatter of approaching helicopters. All my companions were already there, looking up at the clouds, searching the sky. I began sweating at once, my stomach in a painful knot. My body was reacting as if it were a military raid. “How stupid. . . . I know it’s not and yet I react all the same,” I mumbled. My mouth felt furry, and I was still trembling when old Erminson screamed at us to return to the barracks with our backpacks. He made us walk single file into the billiards room. We were being searched. Yet again.
There was one guard for each prisoner, so the search went very quickly. They confiscated anything that could cut, even nail clippers. Mine were in my pocket and survived the raid. Still in single file, we were taken down to the bongo.
I had an assigned guard following close behind, a girl I’d never seen before. She was very nervous, and she would scream at me, sticking the end of her rifle into my ribs.
“Take it easy, gently,” I said, to calm her down.
We crossed the river in the bongo and moored on the opposite shore, by a field of coca behind a little shack. In the middle of the coca field, a grassy expanse surrounded by a fence seemed to be the spot the guerrillas had chosen for their helicopter pad. There were two choppers circling high above, disappearing into the clouds and reappearing immediately afterward. One of them began its descent. It was all white, with a red band beneath the rotors. The sound of the rotor became deafening and seemed to take on the same rhythm as the pounding in my heart. The closer it came, the more the vibrations spread through my body. It landed, and the door opened immediately.
Enrique had ordered most of his troops to stand in a circle all around the enclosure. The guards were looking ill-tempered, and their nervousness was as tangible as the hot air shimmering just above the ground. We prisoners were gathered in a group; we had instinctively clustered against the barbed wire to be as close as possible to the helicopter, so we couldn’t be overheard by the guards. I stayed slightly to the rear. I was wary.
Several people jumped out of the chopper. There was one very tall man, with a white cap on his head, who walked bent to one side, as if he were afraid the wind from the rotors might knock him over. Another thin man with a blond beard ran behind him, along with a little woman in a white lab coat, holding forms in one hand and a pen in the other. A sturdy guy with very dark eyes and a piercing gaze walked along the side. He looked Arabic. Behind and to the left was a dark little man with a
movie camera in his fist; he wore a white vest and a Che Guevara T-shirt and was filming everything. Next to him was a young reporter wearing a red bandanna and brandishing a microphone, visibly trying to speak to the commanders.
“Are they Europeans?” My companions nudged me, eager for an answer.
I was trying to get a good look at them, but my sight was affected by the glare. And it was hotter than a furnace.
“No, they’re not Europeans.”
The tall man with the white cap stopped just on the other side of the barbed wire and bombarded us with stupid questions, while his acolyte took notes.
“Are you in good health?”
“Do you have any infectious diseases?”
“Do you get vertigo in airplanes?”
“Do you suffer from claustrophobia?”
He wasn’t interested in anyone in particular, and he went from one person to the next without waiting for any answers.
I got closer to look at the laminated ID badge hanging from his neck: INTERNATIONAL HUMANITARIAN MISSION, it read, written against a pale blue background bearing the logo of a dove with its wings spread, like the one on a bar of Dove soap. This is a trick, I thought, in dismay. The men were obviously foreigners; they might be Venezuelan or Cuban. Their accent, in any event, was Caribbean.
This was no international commission. There wouldn’t be any releases. We were going to be transferred God knows where. We’d still be prisoners ten years from now, I concluded.
The man with the white cap had given an order to unload some crates of soft drinks from the helicopter; acting the grand gentleman, he gave them to Cesar.
Even Silence Has an End: My Six Years of Captivity in the Colombian Jungle Page 60
