by Lee Jackson
A short time later, Sofia came back. Atcho struggled for composure. A clock on the wall indicated that, indeed, thirty minutes had passed. Sofia appeared not to notice Atcho’s discomfiture. “Let’s make that call, shall we?”
Standing behind her, Atcho closed his eyes and held his breath while Sofia talked into the phone. “Hello, may I speak to Isabel?” Atcho’s hands tightened on the back of the chair. “Is this Isabel? Please hold. I have a long distance call for you.” She moved from the chair and held the receiver out to Atcho. He took the instrument.
Sofia crossed to the door and paused a moment, watching him. Atcho sat down and spoke hoarsely into the phone. “Hello.”
“Who is this, please?” The female voice was rich and musical.
“Is this Isabel?” Taking a deep breath, his mind swimming, he continued, “Isabel, this is Eduardo, your father. I have been released from prison.” Suddenly, he was full of things he wanted to say. “They tell me you claimed me three times.”
“Who are you?” The voice was low and racked with pain.
“This is Eduardo. Your father!”
“Is this a joke?” Isabel’s voice was flat, almost menacing. “If so, it’s not funny.”
“No, believe me, Isabel. Listen to me … ”
“No! You listen to me, whoever you are. My Aunt Raissa was killed in a car accident two years ago, and my father died in Cuba nearly twenty years ago. This prank is cruel and tasteless, and I never want to hear from you again.”
She paused, as if about to hang up, then added, “And I never claimed anyone! There was no one for me to claim!”
Atcho heard a click. The line was dead.
15
Stunned, Atcho looked at the phone in his hand. He sat in his chair, limp, unmoving. A whining sound from the receiver caused him to replace it slowly in the cradle. Behind him, the door closed quietly.
The secretary, Sofia, crossed the floor and gently touched his shoulder. “What happened?” Her voice was filled with kindness and concern. Atcho did not respond. A lump formed in his throat and constricted his breathing.
“Are you all right?” Atcho nodded, grateful for her presence. He wanted to speak, but turned away when his lips trembled and moisture formed around his eyes. Finally, Atcho murmured, “She hung up. She thinks I’m dead. She thought someone was playing a joke on her.”
Sofia knelt beside him. “I am so sorry!” she said. “Is there anything I can do?”
Atcho shook his head sadly. “No, but thanks for trying.” They were silent for several minutes.
Sofia stood up. “Stay here as long as you want,” she said. “I’m sure you’d like to be alone. I’ll keep everyone else out. If you need anything just come get me. I’ll be in the offices.” Atcho nodded and Sofia quietly left the room.
Placing his arms on the desk, Atcho rested his head on them. Pain and disappointment were such a part of his adult life that they no longer generated the ferocity of his youth. He felt abandoned, uncared-for, forgotten.
New concerns formed, and he thought through the events that occurred as the bus had prepared to leave Boniato. Atcho had never before seen the captain, and when asked, gave only his prison serial number. Nevertheless, the officer had connected the number to the correct name on a list. He had read Isabel’s name from the same document, associated with the name of Manuel Lezcano. How? Who knew I was alive? Raissa? A new round of grief engulfed him as he contemplated her death, and he sat limp in the chair.
Through his anguish, Atcho had to admit that the potential for his discovery was reasonably good. His presence was known among prisoners; to what extent, he could not know. Like Atcho, they had been captured during the invasion, and had received the same rough treatment as all political prisoners.
Atcho had masked inquiries about his own family by asking about many in the area. In all that time he had never used his real name, and never in conjunction with his code name. Over the years, some of Castro’s worst enemies had been allowed to leave Cuba, usually after prolonged efforts by family members and friends in other countries. Apparently, without Atcho’s knowledge, someone was doing the same for him in the name of Manuel Lezcano.
Without more information, Atcho knew that further thought on the matter was useless. Maybe I should just leave Isabel alone, he told himself. She’s established a life of her own, and doesn’t need my interference. He wondered about how she lived, what her major was in college, and how she had afforded tuition. Might as well be happy that at least one aspect of my life seems to be a success.
He knew of Mt. Saint Mary’s, the Catholic college situated on the Hudson River fourteen miles upstream from West Point. He had dated girls from there. Knowing that Isabel was safe and doing well was comforting.
He glanced at the clock and was surprised to see that three hours had passed since arriving at the embassy. I’m in the Swiss Embassy, on the way to Miami. Despite himself, he felt a slight thrill. A stray thought entered his mind: Mt. Saint Mary’s isn’t far from West Point – maybe I can get a classmate to help. The prospect of seeing old friends improved his spirits. And I’m not prepared to dismiss Isabel from my life. He stood up, strode to the door, and made his way back to the conference room.
When Atcho entered, the room buzzed with excitement. More ex-political prisoners had arrived, many who were rediscovering comrades they had thought long dead. A man grabbed Atcho by the elbow. “Señor Tomas!” he exclaimed.
Atcho whirled. No one had called him that since his capture! A man stood in front of him smiling enthusiastically. “I know you don’t remember me,” he said. “Many of us remember you, though!” He gestured, indicating a group of men forming a circle around him. “We were at Jaguey Grande with you.” He laughed. “I was in that meeting where you called that CIA guy ‘Burly.’” He laughed again, and his companions joined in. “I don’t think he liked that too much.”
Atcho was at first speechless, but then warmed to the men. “I am happy to see you here safe and well.”
“And we’re happy to see you,” another said. “You might remember my father, Enriquez. He was the man in Jaguey Grande who said he had met John Kennedy at a meeting in Miami when he was a candidate.”
Atcho looked at the man. He must have been a mere boy during the invasion – and then reflected that he had not been much more than that himself. Nineteen years is a long time, he thought. “I do remember Enriquez,” he said. “He was a class act.”
“Sí” the man said, “he was, and much too old to have been in that swamp then. Our family is very proud of him. I am Pedro.” He extended his hand and shook Atcho’s, and then became serious. “You were right, you know.” Atcho looked at him inquiringly. “In the meeting that day, you were right about how things would go with the invasion. We didn’t want to see it, but you called it just like it turned out.”
Atcho shook his head and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Maybe if I had been more thorough … ”
“No,” Pedro said firmly, “you were right. If you had not been there to train us, every one of us here would probably be dead.” The others nodded their agreement.
“Well, it’s all past history,” Atcho said softly. “How is your father now?”
“He passed away. Old age. He couldn’t get back to Miami, and died in his home a few weeks after you met him. Maybe of heartbreak, but he was old. He really hoped for a free Cuba.” The other men muttered their agreement. A few moments later, Pedro’s face brightened. “Hey,” he said, “we heard about what you did with that tank! That was pretty amazing.”
Atcho shrugged it off. “Things are easy to do when the enemy is not paying attention. Anyway, they took it back again. I think it’s in the war museum here in Havana. Now, if I’d been really good, Cuba would be free, and we would be telling these war stories over beer in the Club Tropicana!” The men laughed.
“No,” one called, “we’d be drinking real Cuba Libres instead of Mentiritas!”
In late afternoon, Dir
ector Tilden entered the conference room. His face was bleak as he called for quiet. “Our staff is working very hard to expedite processing,” he said gravely. His demeanor caused a pall to settle in the room as looks of hope left the former prisoners’ faces, replaced by anxiety and a tinge of fear. Atcho felt his stomach tighten. “There’s been an incident at the Peruvian Embassy,” Director Tilden went on, “and it angered the Castro regime. As a result, Castro suspended all travel for political dissidents.” Deathly silence descended on the room. Tilden continued, “We have fresh clothes for those of you who need them, and we’ll issue the passes supplied by the Cuban government, so that you can come and go from here freely.”
A slow murmur started, and broke into questions and exclamations. “How long will this last?”
“Will we still get to leave?”
“Fidel is insane!”
“Madre de Dios!”
The Director raised his palms to quiet the men. “Please,” he said, “that is all that I am at liberty to say at this point. You are welcome here, and we have food for you. If you decide to go into town, of course, exercise caution. We are here to help you, but as you know, we are constrained.” Regret showed in his expression as he left the room.
Heartbreak was evident on many faces. The room acquired an unearthly stillness. Dread formed a presence that was almost palpable. Some men wept bitter tears; others cursed Castro.
Pedro appeared at Atcho’s elbow. “Things will be OK,” he said optimistically. “We’re better off today than we were yesterday. This is a temporary setback. Castro has already announced to the world his intent to let us leave. He won’t back down from that entirely.” Atcho was less optimistic, but saw the sense of Pedro’s reasoning.
Just then, a new group of former prisoners entered the room. They wore the looks of confusion, wonder, and hope that Atcho imagined had been on his face and those of his companions only hours before. Then he saw a face that looked familiar, walked over quickly and grasped the man’s shoulder.
“My God, Domingo!” Atcho was overjoyed. “Is it really you?”
Domingo looked up into his face and was overcome by emotion. He threw his arms around Atcho and buried his face in his chest. “Atcho,” he said after a moment. “I never thought I would see you again. We never even got to say goodbye!” They moved over to a table laid out with food, and Domingo eyed them hungrily. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “Eggs! Bacon! Ham! Bread!” He turned to Atcho, wide-eyed. “Are we still in Cuba?”
“Technically no, my friend. We are on Swiss soil. But the reality is that we are still in Havana.”
As they ate, Atcho filled Domingo in on what the Director had just told them.
“I refuse to be pessimistic,” Domingo exclaimed. “I just left prison this morning on the other side of Havana. Even this morning when I woke up, I had almost no hope of ever being free again.” He looked around, and then held up his sandwich. “And here I am!”
Pedro came over to Atcho, who introduced him to Domingo. “Some of us are going to walk over to the Peruvian embassy to see if we can find out what is going on,” he said. “Would you like to go with us?”
Atcho looked at Domingo. “Would you like to come, too?”
“Of course,” Domingo responded, “just let me put on some of those fresh clothes!” Minutes later, they left through the front door.
16
Walking through the city, Atcho was again struck by the apparent disintegration. Streets were filthy. Trash lay in heaps. Crumbling faces of once-magnificent white buildings with classical architecture were turning black, and faces in the streets showed listlessness and despair. Cuba’s new heroes, Marx, Lenin, Ché, Camilo, and Castro himself, stared somberly from huge, weathered posters that were peeling from walls and billboards.
Atcho thought the atmosphere to be stifling, and not just because of the heat. Everyone he saw looked poorly dressed, dirty, and they moved past each other either without saying a word or with a surliness that he had not known in the Havana of his youth. Rickety bicycles rambled past, looking like they were serving their last tortured mile. But Atcho was captivated by the cars.
The cars! He had heard about them while in prison, but thought the stories about them to be improbable, if not impossible. The Havana that Atcho remembered was a thriving place, and proud of its industry and commerce. It had been filled with glamorous and merchandise-loaded glass-fronted stores, with multitudes of gleaming late-model American cars gliding by. Now, the same stores were vacant, the glass either dirty and yellowed or boarded over. But, the same cars creaked by – literally, the very same cars. Some limped by, spewing dirty exhaust and missing bumpers, and rusted areas where paint had scraped off. But some were clean, ran quietly, and sported bright paint jobs and gleaming chrome.
Atcho had to smile. Nothing he thought, speaks to the Cuban spirit more than the way they’ve kept their cars going against all odds. From ahead on the wide avenue, the warm aroma of his favorite pastry, churros, ascended through the dirty-street smell. He looked around. Tall palm trees still lined streets. Tropical plants and greenery grew out of every crack in sidewalks and ground not covered with concrete.
From somewhere down a side street, he heard the soft, undulating beat of Cuban music. When he looked, he saw middle-aged men and women sitting on scattered boxes and in doorways, watching youngsters dancing and laughing on the cobblestone surface. Ah, salsa, he thought. An image of his late wife, Isabel, flashed before his eyes, smiling and whirling as they had danced … he blocked out the reverie.
The group had neared the area where the Embassy of Peru was located, and the crowd seemed to thicken. People left buildings, and crossed streets in throngs, all headed in the same direction. Reaching Avenida Quinta, Atcho and his companions turned the corner and stopped. The sight was ghastly.
The embassy’s imposing structure was readily identifiable. But a swarm of humanity clutched to every visible resting place on the twenty-acre compound. People sat in trees, clinging to even the smallest branches that could hold their weight. They bunched against the fence, struggling for slightly more room. The crush of writhing bodies spilled onto the porch of the elegant building, transforming its appearance to that of a slum tenement.
As Atcho and his companions neared the gate, more people appeared, cursing, shoving, and pressing in desperate attempts to gain entrance. Some, pushing small children ahead of them, scaled the fence. Many tossed infants across the barrier into the waiting arms of a friend or relative. Cars, used to force entry, sat in gaping holes along the fence, as did the broad backs of busses used for the same purpose.
Adding to the tumult, another crowd formed on the opposite side of the street. This second group screamed at the swarming crowds, “Gusanos! Gusanos! Worms! Traitors! Hijos de putas!” As a chorus they taunted their victims, pummeling them with stones and garbage.
Atcho looked for the Cuban security guards normally posted around embassies. They were present in large numbers, but remained uninvolved at the opposite end of the street. Incredulous, Atcho and his companions joined the press of bodies struggling to gain entrance at the front gate.
The sun had begun its descent, but the heat was still oppressive, exacerbated by ten thousand sweat-drenched bodies pressed tightly together. A stench arose from the crowd and invaded Atcho’s nostrils. He gagged and then looked at his companions, who were being similarly affected. They pushed farther into the compound, where space was slightly more available.
Atcho caught the eye of an old man sitting on the ground, and crouched next to him. “Viéjo,” he said. “What’s going on here?” The old man eyed him dubiously, and turned away.
Atcho grasped his shoulder. “Por favor,” he pleaded. “My companions and I were just released this morning from prison. We were political prisoners. We are going to Miami through the Swiss Embassy, but whatever is happening here is slowing the process.”
The old man spoke hesitantly. “You have to be careful, even here,” he
said. “I hope you are not one of Castro’s bullies.” He studied Atcho’s face a moment, and then went on. “Yesterday, six men forced their way onto this compound, seeking asylum. They killed a guard. Castro demanded their return. The government of Peru refused. In retaliation, Castro pulled security from the gate and said that anyone not satisfied with socialism was welcome to enter the embassy and leave Cuba.”
Atcho looked around, amazed. “Who are these people? Are things so bad they would suffer like this for the chance to leave Cuba?”
“Who are we?” The old man repeated the question. “Castro would like you to believe we are criminals, thugs, and social deviants. But look!” He swept his arm to indicate the crowd. “There are peasants and professionals here. I am a doctor.” He indicated a man close by. “My friend is a truck driver. Look over there.” He pointed in another direction. “There are white, black, all races here. And women and children. A baby was born here today.” He smiled fleetingly and added proudly, “I delivered her. The mother named her Peru.”
Then his expression dropped again. “You asked if things are so bad. Why else would we suffer heat, filth, hunger, thirst, abuse?” He shook his head. “Ask around,” he said sadly. “Our people are starving on government rations. They send our children away to Communist schools. Our national produce is shipped to Russia in exchange for military equipment. We can afford to buy nothing, and there is nothing to buy. If we speak out against the government, we are thrown in jail.”
He sat dejectedly while Atcho reflected on what he had heard. Then the doctor spoke again. “Leave this place and keep working with the Swiss Embassy. Castro has been letting political prisoners go that way. He’ll keep doing it because you are a bother to him, and he can’t kill you all.”
He sighed. “We really don’t know what will happen to us in here. We risked everything because this was our only chance for freedom.” He fell silent and looked away.
