by Lee Jackson
“Death! Leave him!” a familiar voice commanded. “You have no business here!” The apparition disappeared. Atcho stared in wonder at the two figures still standing at the end of his cot. The voice was his father’s. The old man looked at his son through gentle eyes. “I’m proud of you, Atcho. Don’t stop now. Isabel still needs you.”
The other figure glided to the side of his cot, and in the dim, prison chamber, Atcho recognized his old companion Juan. “You’re doing fine, my friend,” Juan said. “Keep going.” He reached down to touch Atcho’s arm. Instinctively, Atcho reached for him, and a mouse scampered from a place on Atcho’s sleeve, where it had begun to nibble.
Atcho peered around the cell. He was alone. A sound caught his attention. Peering through the dim light, he saw the usual pests competing for his food. Suddenly ravenous, he crossed the floor and consumed the remaining scraps.
PART IX
21
Another week passed. Then, bright sunlight pierced Atcho’s eyes, as he and his companions staggered through the courtyard of the old fortress to a waiting van. Atcho was pleased to see Domingo and Pedro, but appalled at their skeletal appearance, shadows of even their emaciated states of six months ago. They greeted each other with weak smiles. I am so sorry, he wanted to tell them.
The prisoners had been awakened early in the morning, and the process they had gone through during their previous release to the Swiss Embassy was repeated. After breakfast, the guards provided them with showers and a change of clothing. As on the earlier occasion, they wore expressions of mixed hope and fear. Mindful of how easily freedom could be withdrawn, they regarded each other in silence.
After loading into the van, their guards drove them to the Swiss Embassy, and administrative personnel led them through the same doors and corridors they had seen six months before. This time, even while waiting for processing to be completed, they maintained their guard.
The conference room again filled with political prisoners anxious to leave Cuba. Atcho looked for Sofia, the secretary who had helped him contact Isabel. She was nowhere to be seen. Disappointed, he inspected himself in the mirror he had used previously, and was dismayed to see the toll exacted by his self-imposed starvation.
As before, Director Tilden entered the room. “I understand that you are part of the group whose departure was delayed,” he said. The gravity of his face expressed probable knowledge of their re-incarceration. “I am so sorry.”
A strained voice from the rear of the room called out, “How long will we wait this time?”
“You won’t,” the Director responded. “Let’s get you to Miami. Now! The bus is waiting.”
Still not trusting their good fortune, the former prisoners filed silently out of the United States’ Interests Section to a yard in the rear of the embassy. There, ever watchful for signs that this dream would end, they clambered aboard the bus. Atcho and Domingo sat next to each other.
No one spoke. The bus started up and drove through the decrepit streets of Havana. Each blackened hulk of classical architecture seemed an emblem of a proud history long gone.
They arrived at José Marti Airport and found a waiting chartered passenger jet on a secluded runway. The bus drove alongside the aircraft and stopped next to a portable stairway. The refugees, filled with anticipation and anxiety, climbed from the bus and almost ran to the plane. They took seats aboard the jet and waited quietly for takeoff.
Within minutes, the aircraft taxied down the runway and climbed into the sky. The captain’s voice came over the intercom. “Gentlemen, we have cleared Cuban airspace. We will land at Miami International Airport in twenty minutes.”
Silence.
The men looked at each other, afraid to believe. Then, a joyous roar surged through the aircraft as they leaped from seats in exuberant celebration. They laughed, jumped, hugged each other, cursed Castro, blessed the United States, kissed the floor, and danced in the aisle.
Atcho remained in his seat. Govorov had said that Isabel no longer believed him dead. Has someone let her know I’m alive? Will she meet me?
Govorov also said that the press, former members of the resistance, and West Point classmates would hear of his release. I don’t know how to meet those people, he thought. All that matters is Isabel – and she probably doesn’t want to meet me.
Domingo noticed Atcho sitting quietly. “Aren’t you excited?” He clapped Atcho on the shoulder.
Atcho shrugged. “It’s my daughter,” he said.
Concern overtook Domingo’s expression. “Won’t she be waiting for you?”
“I don’t know.” Atcho appreciated the man’s sympathy. “Until six months ago, she thought I was dead.”
Understanding, Domingo nodded.
Well, Atcho thought, so begins a life of half-truths and subterfuge with my own people.
Just then, the captain’s voice came over the intercom again. “Please take your seats and buckle your safety belts. We are preparing for final approach into Miami airport.”
A hush fell over the cabin as former prisoners looked at each other. Atcho leaned back and closed his eyes. His heart beat rapidly, and his palms were moist. He breathed deeply several times, and glanced through the window as the plane circled and began its final descent.
Moments later, the jet touched down, screamed to a standstill, then taxied slowly to the terminal. Atcho watched with interest as an exit ramp unfolded and extended from the terminal to the aircraft. What else is new in this modern world?
Heedless of the captain’s instructions, refugees sprang to their feet, jockeying to be first out of the aircraft. Then the door opened, and they poured through, eager to reunite with loved ones.
They found themselves in an empty part of the terminal except for a line of police officers that stood at each door. For an instant, anxiety clenched their stomachs and throats. Then, from far down the terminal, they heard cheering and saw a crowd of people waving from behind a police barricade. A small welcoming committee of three men wearing the traditional Cuban guyavera shirts came forward, shook their hands, and spoke to them in Spanish.
“We are so happy to welcome you to freedom,” the leader said. “We have a bus to take you to a convention center. Your families and friends are waiting there!”
Atcho and his companions were unprepared for the scene that greeted them as the bus turned out of the security section of Miami International Airport onto Lejeune Road. Ahead of them, a police escort led with lights flashing and sirens wailing. On both sides of the street, cars parked along their path. People honked and waved, jumped in the air, and hugged each other. They held up signs welcoming their countrymen to a new life.
The former prisoners now felt free to join in the revelry. They waved through the windows, their smiles exuberant and hopeful. Atcho observed quietly, and when the buses arrived at the convention center, he allowed his euphoric companions to push past him. Soon, he exited the bus. Crowds on either side resounded their welcome, and while his companions laughed and waved energetically, Atcho smiled perfunctorily as they made their way into the convention center.
On entering the building, the refugees pressed against a crowd of relatives seeking family members. People laughed, cried, and embraced, exclaiming in surprise at changes or lack of changes in relatives and friends. Shouting with exhilaration, some refugees knelt and kissed the floor.
Badges easily identified members of the press, along with notepads, microphones, and electronic cameras. They were on the flanks of the crowd, eagerly insistent on meeting and talking with refugees.
Looking for a familiar face, Atcho edged along the side of the throng. A dark-haired girl, face bright with anticipation, rushed towards him. He stopped and stared into her eyes, but then she passed on into the arms of a man behind him.
Feeling foolish, Atcho continued moving along the outside of the crowd. He looked for officials to direct him through the immigration process. Then he would be free to go about his own business. Whatever that is, he
thought dryly.
“There he is!” A rush of press representatives pushed in Atcho’s direction. Feeling a tug on his shoulder, he turned, and found a microphone thrust close to his mouth.
“Mr. Xiquez, how does it feel to be free after all these years?”
“Is it true that your daughter thought you were dead until just a few months ago?”
“What part did you play in the resistance against Castro during the Bay of Pigs invasion?”
“Why did Castro decide to let you go now?”
“What was the significance of the code name, ‘Atcho’?”
“What was a West Point graduate doing in Cuba, anyway?”
Atcho found himself surrounded by reporters, pushing and jostling to get closer. He sought escape in another direction, but found TV cameramen shining bright lights at him, and shouting requests for exclusive interviews. Anger rising, he pushed against the swarm, looking for an opening “Please,” he shouted, finding no way out, “let me through. Thank you for your interest, but I played a very small part.”
Reporters continued to press and Atcho struggled against them. Then he had a thought. If they know so much about me, maybe they know something about Isabel! Seizing a newsman by the shoulder, he thrust his face next to the man’s ear. “Do you know my daughter?” he asked above the noise of the crowd.
The man nodded. Atcho’s heart leaped. “Do you know where she is?”
The reporter looked at him, a calculating expression on his face. “Will you give me an interview?” the man yelled.
Disgusted, Atcho breathed deeply and nodded. The man grabbed Atcho’s arm, turned to the right, and pointed.
Atcho’s heart stopped.
Across the terminal, apart from the crowd, a young woman leaned against a column. Her hair was dark, her blue eyes large, with full lips firmly set beneath a delicate nose. Atcho gasped. She was the image of his beloved wife, Isabel.
As in a dream, he made his way slowly through the crowd of reporters. Sensing another story, they parted to let him through.
The woman’s gaze met his and she froze. Her eyes widened in apprehension and she glanced quickly around, as though seeking a place to hide. Then she composed herself and walked toward Atcho.
The world seemed to stop. Atcho was deaf to the tumult around him. His heart beat furiously and perspiration broke out on his forehead. At last he stood in front of her. Meeting her gaze, he remembered the same expression in the eyes of his dear wife.
“Isabel?” he whispered, tears running freely down his face. Isabel nodded. Then throwing her arms around her father’s neck, she wept softly. Atcho drew his arms tightly about his daughter. “I can’t believe it’s you!”
The two remained embraced, surrounded by reporters still hammering questions at them.
“I didn’t know you were alive!” Isabel said, in a broken voice. “I’m sorry I treated you so badly on the phone.”
Atcho mumbled something unintelligible, hugged his daughter once more, and leaned back to look at her. “You look so much like your mother,” he breathed. “How did you know I would be here today?”
“Someone from the State Department contacted me. Aunt Raissa had claimed you in my name.” Tears flowed again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
A man touched Isabel on the shoulder. “Let’s get through immigration, and get out of here,” he said.
Isabel wiped tears from her cheeks and nodded. “Papa,” she said. “This is my husband, Bob Bernier.”
Thrilled at being called ‘Papa,’ Atcho surveyed the young man. Bob was tall, blond, and blue-eyed, with a rugged look indicating the willingness and ability to handle any situation. His smile was friendly, but his manner warned that he would be difficult to deal with if he discovered that he had been misled. He thrust out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Atcho,” he said. “I’ve heard so much about you, and I want to hear a lot more.”
Atcho’s spirits rose as he shook Bob’s hand. He liked his son-in-law immediately. Bob turned and barreled through the crowd, pulling Isabel and Atcho with him.
22
“Atcho! Atcho! Atcho!” The crowd outside the convention center called his name over and over, huge grins on their faces as they thrust their arms overhead in celebratory gestures. Sitting next to Isabel in the back of a Lincoln Continental, Atcho could only gaze in wonder. He opened a window and waved, hoping that his smile did not expose him for the impostor he felt himself to be.
Isabel squeezed his hand, and laid her head on his shoulder. Emotion such as Atcho had never experienced gripped him, and he sat limply, not knowing how to react in such a public setting.
The crowd parted to make way for the sedan, and soon, they were headed for a hotel in Coconut Grove. “Some friends own this hotel,” Bob called from the driver’s seat. “It’ll be quiet, and you can get some rest. Unfortunately, not much, because we fly to New York tomorrow.” He turned his full attention to the road as he steered across lanes to enter the freeway. “Your West Point classmates are anxious to see you,” he continued. “They were very insistent that we bring you back to West Point with us. Your class reunion starts in two days!”
Dread seized Atcho, and his face took on a stony expression. He recalled that Govorov had predicted exactly this scenario. “That’s great!” he replied, and hoped that his tone matched the expected reaction.
Next to him, Isabel pulled away slightly. When he glanced at her, he saw that she was looking at him with a quizzical expression. He smiled and patted her hand, and then gestured his fatigue. “That will be really great,” he said again, this time with more genuine feeling – seeing old classmates would be a wonderful event.
They spent most of that afternoon near the hotel. It was a beautiful representation of Floridian art deco of the early 1920s, but had been updated to modern standards. Atcho took in the lush foliage in the courtyard. It bloomed with broad green ferns, purple wisteria, red bougainvillea, and other bright flowers of all colors. He enjoyed them, startled at the new dimension they seemed to have suddenly added to his life. The fragrance sharpened his senses.
His room was furnished in heavy oak traditional furniture, and the air was fresh with the scent of lilacs. “Color and cleanliness!” he said to Isabel. “A new experience for me!”
“Oh, Papa,” she cried, her eyes moistening, and she buried her head in his arm.
“Now, now!” he said embracing her. “The bad things in life have got to be put in the past. Almost everything will be a new experience for me.” They held each other for a few quiet moments while Bob hovered by the window.
Atcho did not feel like sleeping. Only seven hours ago, he had left La Cabaña, and he was too worked up to rest. “Sleeping means darkness!” Atcho told Isabel. “I want to stay out where there is light, and color, and good smells, and happy music. I want to be with people I love.” A quick glimmer crossed his eyes. “Where can I get a good Cuban espresso?”
With support from Bob, Isabel relented, and they walked across the street to a walking mall. Cuban influence here was unmistakable. Soft, undulating tones of Latin music filled the air, and Atcho had a weird sense of being transported back to Camaguey in the days before Castro.
They found a small café with outdoor seating, and sat at a table. “Una colada,” Isabel told the smiling waiter. “Y seis pastelitos de carne y guava.” Atcho noticed that, as the waiter went to fill his order, he kept his eyes on Atcho and smiled wider than normal. He soon returned with a small plastic container and five tiny plastic cups, and set them down. Bob lifted the lid, and the aroma of rich of Cuban coffee wafted into the air.
“Gracias,” Atcho said to the waiter.
“De nada,” he replied, the big smile still plastered on his face. “Muy amable. Es un honor.”
Atcho turned to Isabel. “Does everyone speak Spanish here?” he asked.
Isabel laughed and pointed to the window of a clothing store on the opposite side of the walkway. “Look there,” she said. A sign prominently
displayed in the window stated English Spoken Here.
Atcho shook his head. “I think Cubans have done well in Miami.”
“Oh yes,” Isabel said proudly. “We’ll shop around here and buy you some new clothes.” She laughed. “We can’t have a prominent Cuban walking around out of fashion!” She was melancholy a moment, and sighed. “Papa,” she said, “there is so much I want to ask, so much I want to tell!”
Atcho grasped her hand. “Me too,” he said warmly, even as warnings rang in the back of his mind. He withdrew his hand. “Let me have one of these,” he said gruffly, picked up one of the meat pastelitos and took a bite. It was warm, and the taste and aroma warmed his soul. He sat back with spontaneous exultation, and then leaned forward and took a sip of the coffee. He savored the sweet bitterness as the warm liquid rolled over his tongue, and sat back to relax into his new surroundings.
Just then, Atcho observed a group of passersby turn and look at him. Their eyes expressed friendliness and curiosity, and they smiled and waved, but otherwise did not intrude into his family’s privacy. Atcho glanced around, and saw various people noticing him, stopping momentarily, and nudging companions to point him out.
“Bob,” Atcho said. “These people, and the waiter – they act like they know who I am. How could that be?”
Bob laughed. “Wait. I’ll show you.” He stood up and walked into the café. A moment later he sat back down and handed Atcho a newspaper. It was that morning’s edition of the Miami Herald. Prominently displayed was a photograph of Atcho. Next to his was one of Isabel. The headline read: “Bay of Pigs hero released to Miami.” In smaller text, a subhead read: “Political prisoner reunited with daughter after 19 years.”
“These are your people, Atcho,” Bob said. “They wish you well. You are home.”
