CURSE THE MOON

by Lee Jackson

  “Five years,” Atcho breathed. “Do you believe that Castro is really going to close this place?” He looked around as the group of prisoners they were with trudged past the massive mess hall, then between the massive round cellblocks toward the front gate.

  “Sometimes world pressure works,” Domingo said. “Castro couldn’t keep up his façade of a benevolent revolution while this place existed.” He nudged Atcho. “Our Bernardo Martin did his job in Miami,” he said, “and 2506 Brigade brought the attention here that was needed.”

  “Ah yes,” Atcho said, “2506 Brigade. I tried to see them the whole year they were here, but never had the opportunity. I kept looking through the windows to see if I could recognize anyone. I thought I saw an old man that I called Toothless, and a Major I met in the swamps on the last night of battle, but I couldn’t be sure.”

  “Well, they’re going home to Miami – and we’re going to prisons in our home provinces.”

  “Sí,” said Atcho quietly, “and for me, that means Presidio Boniato in Oriente Province.”

  “Atcho, don’t you think it’s time to let them know your true identity? Boniato is every bit as bad as this place, but no one in the outside world knows about it yet.” He spoke with exasperation. “Your daughter is in the U.S. and that Russian officer is long gone. From what I can tell, no one is looking for you anymore.”

  “No,” Atcho said sadly. “I’ve made my own bed. If I tell them now, they’ll probably just think I’m trying to avoid Boniato; or they could retaliate for my having evaded them all these years. And,” his voice became even more subdued, “people died protecting my identity, including my closest friend, Juan.” They both fell silent.

  They had reached the main gate, and were herded onto the buses that would take them the few miles to the boat. Few spoke as they made the trip. On either side of the road, tall sentry pines watched their departure. Soon the bus rolled into Nueva Gerona, a small town on the river harbor providing the only access to the open sea.

  The bus headed toward the docks, turned onto a quay, and halted beside a transport boat. Evening settled as they cast off from port, turned downriver, and headed out to sea. Atcho watched the waters darken as evening fell. The atmosphere became eerily jovial as men settled for a trip that would take most of the night.

  They talked quietly about hopes and fears. Atcho found a quiet spot away from the others and stood leaning over the rail. The guards on the boat were Soviet soldiers, and they took scant notice of the prisoners except to keep them from sitting on benches. Those were for the guards, and prisoners had to content themselves on the floor. As the evening turned into night, the guards engaged in their favorite pastime, drinking vodka. But soon, the vodka ran out, so they took shots of rubbing alcohol until they were sick and puking on the deck. The stench rose, vile and thick, and the prisoners scrunched together to try to keep out of it.

  Atcho continued to look out to sea, and watched the moon rise, a cold, white orb, gleaming in its majesty, uncaring in its distance. He gazed at it in sad fascination, remembering the occasion long ago when the same full moon had witnessed the theft of his little girl. She was grown now, a stranger to her father.

  “You’re always there,” Atcho murmured to the moon. “It seems you are the only benign constant in my life.” His mind drifted. “Are you seeing my Isabelita now? How is she? What is she doing this minute?” He lowered his head, knowing the absurdity of his ruminations.

  Waves crashing against the bow brought Atcho back to the present. The moon had drifted across the sky, but continued to rule the night with undiminished radiance. Atcho reflected awhile longer. He wanted to sit down next to Domingo, but the fresh sea air kept the worst of the smell of bile away from him. He slid down by the rail. Most of the prisoners were asleep, and soon, in spite of himself, Atcho also slept.

  PART VII

  14

  April 13, 1980

  As the massive prison gate closed behind him, the harsh clang of steel on steel of Presidio Boniato’s gates reverberated in Atcho’s ears. He took a few tentative steps toward freedom, then turned and looked back at the stark surroundings that had been his abode these past seventeen years.

  Fourteen years here at Boniato! he thought. And five years at Isle of Pines. Nineteen years taken out of my life – and for what?

  Encircled by a high, chainlink fence, the dull, yellow Boniato Prison was comprised of five massively long two-story rectangular buildings. Low administrative offices and barracks connected them. Razor-sharp barbed wire topping the fence that stretched away in both directions, only hinted at the brutality that was constant within. He shook his head to clear it. He could not believe that he was truly departing the place where he had been incarcerated for so long.

  When he had awakened early that morning, there was no particular indication that anything new or different was in store for him. With other political prisoners, he had been called out and shoved at bayonet point into a separate group.

  As a unit, the group was herded into a shower house that was no more than concrete walls, from which bare pipes protruded bringing cold water in which to bathe. The guards instructed them to wash and dress in other clothing that was heaped in a pile in one corner, and generally cleaner than their own. Atcho saw immediately that the clothes had probably belonged to other prisoners, who, he surmised, might no longer be among the living. Once showered and dressed, the guards directed them to a separate dining facility, where they gulped another, more wholesome breakfast. This procedure was routine for prisoners about to be returned to their homes for release.

  Their eyes held hope and occasional glints of thrill, quickly subdued by the dread of ending this happy dream. When they finished eating, they trooped outside to sit in the shadow of the great iron gate until well past noon. Then, with guards prodding them, they herded onto the bus that would carry them to the train station. Still dubious, Atcho boarded with the others. The last time he had ridden such a bus was when he was transferred here from the Isle of Pines. He followed the man in front of him to a seat midway to the rear. “What do you think is happening?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know,” the man responded. “I just hope this continues the way it looks.” They exchanged wary glances.

  A sullen army captain whom Atcho had not seen before climbed into the bus. Glancing frequently at an official looking document in his hand, he spoke, his voice laced with sarcasm. “It is my duty to inform you that our great leader, Fidel Castro, in the goodness of his forgiving heart, has decided to terminate the sentences of many Cuban enemies and allow free passage to any country willing to receive them.” The prisoners listened in expressionless silence. Atcho felt a surge of disbelief. “You are the first,” the captain continued. “You will be taken to Havana and processed through the Swiss Embassy for travel to the United States. I advise you to watch your conduct.”

  Atcho’s mind raced as the captain droned on, reciting all the bad things that would happen to them, not the least of which would be a return to Boniato, should they offend the government. “President Carter has demonstrated an understanding spirit, and appears willing to accept the guilt which his country must bear for the difficulties between our two nations. As a result, and in the spirit of compromise, Fidel has agreed to begin freeing those prisoners who have been his sworn enemies. Are there any questions?”

  For several moments, no one spoke. The captain turned to leave the bus. Then, Atcho slowly raised a hand. “Capitan,” he called. “I have a question.” The other prisoners glared at him with stone faces.

  The officer looked up surprised. “Sí, what is it?” Clearly, release of prisoners was not his idea, nor did it meet with his approval.

  “Capitan,” Atcho picked his words carefully. “I understood that people sent to the United States must be claimed by family members living there.”

  “That requirement has been waived for this program. But, to demonstrate our good will, we have selected first those prisoners who have
been claimed by relatives in America. Anything else?”

  “No, Capitan. Gracias.” Atcho hoped the catch in his voice was not too obvious.

  The captain turned once again to depart, then looked thoughtful. Turning, he faced Atcho once more. “Are you supposed to be here?” he asked roughly. “What is your number?”

  With sinking heart, Atcho stared at the officer. “Well?” the captain demanded again.

  Atcho cursed himself for stupidity and glared defiantly. “I am number 32558.” His words sounded hollow. To his knowledge, his family had never been aware of his incarceration. He had never tried to communicate with Raissa.

  The captain rummaged through papers, found a list and scanned it carefully. “Well, Manuel Lezcano,” he said. “Depending on your point of view, you might be most fortunate, or most unfortunate. Personally, I love my country. I have no desire to leave.”

  Resigned to his fate, Atcho sank in his seat. The captain was enjoying this game, but since Atcho already knew the truth, he had no need to play. Sensing his mood, the captain laughed. “From your point of view, I would consider myself lucky,” he said derisively. “Apparently your daughter, Isabel, is most anxious to see her father again. She has claimed you three times. She shows that she lives in Newburgh, New York. Your sister, Raissa, too.”

  Atcho felt blood drain from his face. The world seemed to stand still while continuing a slow spin. A buzz sounded in his head. He sat in stunned silence while the captain, after instructing subordinates to escort the prisoners to the boat, exited the vehicle.

  The bus lurched into reluctant motion, then wound along the narrow asphalt road that led through the lush bowl situated in low surrounding hills. On the horizon, Atcho saw the Sierra Maestra, the rugged mountain range in the southernmost province of Oriente. This, he knew, was the province from which Castro mounted his successful insurgency against President Batista.

  Soon they were at the train station, where they loaded into boxcars for the long trip to Havana. Sitting in the dark interior, illuminated only by light piercing through cracks and slits in the walls, there was nothing to do but converse and sleep. Knowing that for the first time in years, what waited at the end of this journey might be better than their current circumstances, the inmates relaxed. After a few hours, only their own snoring disturbed their sleep.

  Sounds of a city and the sense of the train slowing awakened Atcho and his companions. Whistles blew, traffic rolled, and the oppressive smell of exhaust fumes roused them from their slumber. Soon, the train halted, guards jerked the doors open, and they clambered down a rough wooden ramp. More buses awaited them. Minutes later, they rolled through the streets of Havana.

  When the bus reached the once-stately wide thoroughfares of the city, its passengers could only stare in silent wonder at the sights before them. To those who had visited before, there were few visible signs of change, but the city was different. Cars were older, and decrepit. Streets were dirty and in desperate need of repair. Long lines of people stood outside grocery stores, a phenomenon that had just begun when Atcho was first incarcerated. The men said nothing, but continued to observe the “successes” of the revolution.

  Soon, they pulled up in front of the Swiss Embassy. It was an imposing white colonial structure, in good repair, and surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. Large red flags, each centered with a white cross, stood on either side of the enormous gate.

  A Cuban army officer boarded the bus. “From this moment, you are on your own,” he said simply. “Behave yourselves.” Hardly believing the reality, the ex-prisoners filed out of the bus and shuffled hurriedly into the classical building. They did not even look around, lest they be snatched back to the hell they had just escaped. A Swiss guard met them at the main door, and led them through a large foyer, then into a long hall lined with paintings. Unaccustomed air conditioning provided relief from oppressive heat and stench of the street outside. Their footsteps sounded strange on the marble floor, and then were muffled by thick carpet.

  Halfway down the corridor on the left, a door with an ornate emblem caught their eyes. It depicted an eagle, wings spread wide, holding a quiver of arrows in one talon and an olive branch in the other. A sign over the emblem read: “United States’ Interests Section.”

  Mixed expressions of joy and disbelief covered the men’s faces as they filed into the office. A young woman with a friendly smile ushered them into a massive conference room. Deep leather chairs surrounded a long oval table of fine wood.

  “My name is Sofia Stahl,” the woman said. “I’m here to make you comfortable and help in any way I can.”

  Atcho took immediate note of Sofia. She was beautiful even in a business suit, and her shoulder-length dark hair was thick and lustrous. Friendliness danced from her green eyes, and her soft lips were quick to smile.

  Sofia left and returned shortly with a serving cart of coffee, assorted soft drinks, and a variety of meats and pastries. Excited voices rose, punctuated with full-throated, happy laughter. Men slapped each other’s backs, and embraced. Atcho, beginning to relax, enjoyed the merriment but kept himself slightly apart from the group.

  A man in a dark business suit entered the room. His demeanor was pleasant, but he spoke with authority as he introduced himself. “Hello. I am Robert Tilden, Director of the American Interests Section. We’re glad you’re here, and will do all we can to speed your departure for Miami. In this office, we process your applications for entry into the United States. That will take a little time. Meanwhile, relax. We will help as many of you as possible make phone contact with your families in the U.S.”

  The director left the room amid unbridled cheers. Sofia returned and began escorting men to various locations to place their phone calls.

  Atcho began pacing. A mirror hung at the far end of the room and, curious to see what the years had done, he walked over to it. The face staring back at him was startling. It was the same tanned visage of nineteen years ago, but altered by age and elements. His fine, smooth skin had become rough, lending him a craggy countenance. Lines only hinted at around his eyes when he had last seen them, were longer and deeper, and gray streaked his hair at the temples. His eyes traveled over his physique. He was lean; some would say underweight. However, his muscles were hard. Broad shoulders were still evident below his loose clothes. He pulled himself erect. What do you think my West Point buddies would think of this military bearing? he wondered in amusement. Then smiling with resignation, he looked at his hands. They were as coarse as any peasant’s he had ever seen.

  Sofia walked over to him. “Is there anyone you’d like to call in Miami?” Atcho shook his head. “Is there anyone anywhere you’d like to contact?” she asked quietly.

  Again, Atcho shook his head. This time he turned away and walked to the other side of the room and sat in a chair. Aware that the woman watched him compassionately, he lowered his head. Several minutes passed while he reminded himself that his life had improved immensely since yesterday. Feeling a tug on his sleeve, he looked up.

  Sofia sat next to him, her expression kind and gentle. “Are you sure there is no one who would like to hear from you?”

  Atcho searched the woman’s lovely face. A lump formed in his throat and his lips quivered. At last, he whispered, “I have a daughter.”

  “Wonderful!” Sofia responded. “Let’s see if we can find her.” She pulled Atcho to his feet and led him by the arm into the hall. “Do you know where she is?”

  Trying to compose himself, Atcho was able to say only, “New York.” I would not have known that if that captain hadn’t read it from the list, he remarked to himself.

  “Anyone else?”

  “My sister, Raissa,” he muttered, “but I don’t know how to contact her.”

  “New York it is.” Sofia pulled him into another office. “Do you know where in New York?”

  “Newburgh.” Atcho’s heart pounded. “But I don’t have any other information.”

  “Let me worry about that.”
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  They approached a desk that had only a beige telephone on its surface. To Atcho, the instrument loomed larger than life.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Isabel.” He stopped, dumbfounded. “I don’t know what last name she used!”

  “Let me work on it.” Determination was in Sofia’s voice. “There can’t be many Isabels in Newburgh, New York!” She searched a directory, then dialed a number and spoke into the phone. After a few moments, she turned to Atcho. “There is a girl’s college in Newburgh. Mt. Saint Mary’s. Do you know if she is attending school?” Atcho shook his head. “Well, let’s try it,” Sofia said. While Atcho paced the floor, she dialed another number.

  “This should be it!” she called excitedly. “I was right. There is an Isabel at Mt. Saint Mary’s, and she was born in Camaguey, Cuba. Was your daughter born there?”

  Atcho nodded numbly.

  “Well, I have her dorm number. Her phone’s ringing now!” Atcho caught his breath. His heart beat furiously.

  “Hello!” Sofia called into the phone. “May I speak to Isabel?” She glanced at Atcho, and then turned back to the receiver. “Not there?” Atcho’s heart skipped a beat. “Half an hour?” Relief. “Would you please tell her to expect a long distance call at that time? Thank you!”

  Sofia turned to Atcho, her green eyes sparkling. “There, you see! We found her. And in one-half hour, you’re going to speak to her.”

  Atcho shook with emotion. Embarrassed to be seen this way, he turned away. Appearing not to notice Atcho’s face, she touched his shoulder lightly. “You stay here to reserve this phone,” she murmured. “I’ll go help some of the other men, and be back to place that call.”

  Atcho nodded gratefully. When he heard the door close he sat in the chair at the desk and lowered his head into his arms. The room was quiet, the lighting soft. Atcho’s nerves, drawn tight only moments before, were numb. His apprehension at talking to Isabel surprised him. Then again, he had not expected to speak with her this soon. He had had no time to prepare. He thought of leaving the room without making the call, but found that the urge to talk to his daughter was irresistible.