“Che, the two are not fixed in concrete. I desire her to be here to witness the reprieve of sentence. She need not be here after that, when you and I converse. I am not being unreasonable. I am merely repeating the terms you accepted one week ago.”
Che reflected on the alternatives. He knew that Catalina was at that moment being interrogated by the Jiménez in central Havana. It would take at least a half hour to bring her in. And—Che did not like to accuse himself of this, but an accusation it was, given the reputation he had for stamina—Che Guevara was … tired. It must have been that hour with Fidel. Moreover, in this room he did not have the facilities of the Intelligence Section, where he had anticipated Caimán’s visit the preceding Saturday and where he might more easily have penetrated evasions, or misrepresentations. So he made up his mind.
“All right. We will meet tomorrow at noon. At the—” he broke off. Traditional caution of the guerrilla: Don’t tell them ahead of time where the meeting place is to be. “—another location. I shall attend to the transportation. You can come in an ambulance.”
“That might not be necessary. I am better … Che, a simple request. Can I see Catalina alone tomorrow?”
Che hesitated. “We’ll see. We’ll see. Much depends on what happens tomorrow. What you have to tell us tomorrow.”
“Che, now listen, listen. What I have to tell you impinges very heavily on developments, international developments. If you will let me have in my room tonight a radio that can bring in Miami, I think I can be more helpful to you than otherwise: I mean, I can interpret what I hear, if it has any bearing on Cuba.”
Che hesitated. There was burning in him an exasperation with the Comandante en Jefe.
So he said. “All right. I will give instructions. Hasta luego, Caimán.”
“Hasta luego, Comandante.”
Forty-two
Catalina had been kept in solitary confinement from the moment she was led from the truck back to the same prison she and Blackford had left the preceding Saturday, to be rescued by the ambush. Rescued! Yes. Rescued at 9:15 P.M., returned to the same prison at noon the next day having, in between, traveled one hundred miles round trip through turbulent seas, been shot at, seen four Cuban soldiers killed, Cecilio Velasco and Captain Eduardo killed, and Caimán shot through the shoulder.
The security had been heavy, including a soldier posted outside her own cell. No written materials had been permitted, and not until Tuesday, when she complained of the utter pain of her isolation, had she been given a couple of musty volumes which she read with difficulty, using the daylight that came through the small prison window (no electricity in solitary). She hoped only that the Americans would strike, would strike quickly, perhaps causing chaos; perhaps in that chaos something would happen, and she would seize the opportunity.
Meanwhile there was Caimán. He had been wounded, but not, she felt sure, mortally. Another thing: Was the Resistance aware of what had occurred at sea? Were the same people who had banded together under the leadership of Velasco mobilizing for a second attempt? She knew it would be much more difficult now.
Nothing to do, nothing to do. She turned her attention, when she could, to the books. Prescott’s History of the Conquest of Peru. At least it was long (and, in fact, wonderfully diverting. But then she’d have found almost anything diverting). And on Sunday morning, when informed by the warden that she would be handcuffed and led to another location for a “conferencia,” she rejoiced. A conference anywhere, save with an execution squad, would be welcome.
She assumed that Blackford would be there, and Che, almost certainly Che; and so she scrubbed, as best she could, her face, and combed her hair with her fingers, so that she might look as she hoped they remembered her as looking. She asked for, but was denied access to, the tiny bundle of clothes that had been taken from her when she was first imprisoned. No. She would leave the prison in prison yellow.
In the corridor of Hq. Jiménez she sat, handcuffed, on a bench. And saw the doors open and Blackford led in. He was walking, his right arm in a sling. And his beard was gone. He winked at her.
Winked!
“¿Qué tal, Catalina. How’re things?”
She smiled, and would happily have thrown her manacled arms about him. The smile did it; and, radiant, they entered the study, contriving to touch shoulders and arms as they passed through the door. They sat down where indicated, at one end of a long table. The guards stayed, and when Blackford began to speak to her, one of them shouted, Silence! And then Che walked in.
Dressed exactly as always, he sat down opposite them. A uniformed, heavy woman secretary-interpreter who wore captain’s insignia and no makeup was on his right. She carried papers in a manila folder, a secretary’s pad, and a small tape-recording machine.
“Well,” Che began, “I see no point in rehearsing old times. These are very tense days. You have both been convicted of high treason against the Cuban state and have been sentenced to death. A deal has been struck the terms of which are that you, Catalina, will have your sentence reprieved and, following this reprieve, Caimán here will talk to me about certain arrangements in the United States of interest to the Cuban government. Have I said it all correctly?”
Blackford spoke. “Yes, you have. On one point, in my message to you a week ago, I was delinquent. I intended to say that Catalina would be reprieved from the death sentence, and that the alternative sentence, if anything at all, would be light. I did not make that plain. Do we have a problem here?”
“You are hardly in a position to change the terms of our arrangement,” Che said. “But if you wish from me reassurance that Catalina will not get a life sentence, you have it.”
“I hoped for a better assurance than that.”
“Ah, you Yanqui bargainers! You begin by stealing Manhattan Island for—was it fourteen dollars?—”
“Twenty-four,” Blackford corrected him.
“—And the next thing you want is thirty days in prison for a Cuban since, after all, all she did was reveal to an American espionage agent the deepest Cuban military secret.”
There was silence. “We are at your mercy on the matter of the length of the prison sentence, Che.”
Catalina now spoke. “Please don’t bring it up again, Caimán. I know Che. Comandante Che. And I trust him.”
Che looked down at a paper on the table. “Well, shall we begin?
“Here”—he extended his hand to his right, and his aide, perfunctorily introduced as Comrade Eudosia Mestre, handed him an unsealed envelope. Che opened it, brought out a sheet of paper, and handed it to Blackford.
He took it and read it carefully. It was written on the stationery of the Ministry of Industry. It was dated October 20, 1962. And read:
“In recognition of special services rendered to the Cuban state, the sentence of death levied on October 12, 1962, by the Supreme Military Court of Cuba on Catalina Urrutia Sánchez, state prisoner #322-17788, is hereby commuted. The substitute period of penitentiary service will be handed down by the Supreme Military Court on or about November 1, 1962.”
It was signed:
“Ernesto Che Guevara
Minister of Industry.”
Blackford handed over the copy to Catalina—not an easy transaction, given the handcuffs.
He was silent while she looked at it.
Blackford knew he was now running a risk. But he decided to run it.
“It is not quite satisfactory, Che.”
Che spoke as explosively as Blackford had ever heard him speak. “What do you mean it is not satisfactory!”
“I want Castro’s signature.”
Che rose, his cheeks red. “I am a Minister of the Republic. I have full legal power to grant reprieves of sentences. I have granted dozens such. In identical form. Would you, if you were in England and received a reprieve from the Home Secretary, demand the signature of the Queen?”
“The easiest way to answer that, Che, is to say that we are not in England, and you are not Home
Secretary. Fidel Castro makes the law in Cuba. Nothing is the law that he does not say is the law. You must understand that it is reasonable, under the circumstances, to ask for the signature of the monarch, given that it is after all a matter of life and death.”
Che was briefly attracted by the idea of sending them both, there and then, to the firing squad. But he cooled quickly enough to recognize that if he were to do so he would in effect have validated Castro’s taunt of eight days ago that Caimán would probably have nothing of interest to say, and that if he did, he was evidently not the type who would say it. And so he decided on a middle course.
He would forge Castro’s signature and so avoid the embarrassment of soliciting it.
“Very well, Caimán.” This with feigned exasperation. “It happens I will be lunching with Comandante Castro at two-thirty. Will you agree to proceed, on the understanding that at that point I will secure the signature of the Prime Minister?”
“Sorry, Che.”
Che rose, spitting out the end of his cigar. He motioned to Comrade Mestre to fetch the guards.
Major Marzo led them in.
“Take them away. Give them lunch. We will resume at 5 P.M.”
Blackford looked at Catalina, and she caught his signal. She was to do the petitioning.
“Che,” she called as Guevara was on the way out, “might Caimán and I lunch together? Please?”
Che hesitated. Then, over his shoulder to Marzo, he said, “Permission granted. But you, Marzo, must be in the room, and within hearing distance throughout the lunch.” He banged the door.
It was an unusual scene. A table was propped up against the wooden wall, under a wide, open window from which the Bay of Havana was visible. A warm breeze flowed in. It was an office, commandeered for a few hours from a junior officer at Jiménez. Chairs were placed side by side. Following the instructions of Major Marzo, two guards unlocked the right handcuff on Catalina’s hand and relocked it around the right front leg of the chair where she was seated. Her left hand was then unmanacled and left free.
Corresponding action was taken with Blackford. His right hand was as free as a hand sustained by a sling could be, his left manacled to the leg of the chair. And then, directly behind them, as though his function were that of official interpreter, Major Marzo sat. Plates were put in front of the prisoners. Rice and beans and an indiscriminate vegetable, colored green; three bananas, a pot of coffee, and a large bowl of sugar.
The careful plans of the bureaucracy had overlooked only this, that poor Major Marzo spoke and understood not a single word of any language other than his own, so that when Catalina and Blackford burst forth in quiet English he faced the alternative of trying to find, for immediate duty, another official who spoke both languages and could substitute for Major Marzo, incidentally drawing attention to his limited usefulness for any Jiménez functions involving English-speaking people. That—or simply keeping quiet.
It occurred to him to order them to speak in Spanish, but if they declined to do so he did not really think he was well situated to enforce his orders, given that both of them, or such was his understanding, were under sentence of death.
So he just let them talk. And he let them, after they had eaten their food—Catalina with some difficulty, handling her fork with her left hand—let them join hands. They spoke, it occurred to Major Marzo, without ceasing; in particular the woman spoke, spoke and spoke and spoke, and the man, Caimán, would utter a word, softly, here and there, and occasionally a sentence. And their hands, once joined, never unclasped, and at one point Major Marzo was wondering whether they were about to lean their heads toward each other to kiss, and if so whether he should physically get in the way of such license. He did not need to act, because although his two charges were inclining steeply in that direction, suddenly the door swung open, and even though it was only four o’clock the guard announced that Comandante Guevara had returned and had summoned the prisoners.
All the careful maneuvers were once again taken: Unlock, lock. Unlock, lock. They were back in conventional tether, and were led back to the questioning room. They spoke to each other again, in English, and Major Marzo felt, through the alien tongues, the ardor of their communication. They were, quietly, resignedly, on fire, vibrant with the spiritual energy they had generated in each other.
Che Guevara swept the piece of paper across to Blackford, who examined it. Underneath the signature of Ernesto Che Guevara appeared now the scrawl, “Approved. Fidel Castro.” Blackford fondled the document. And turned to Catalina. “This is yours,” he said. And then, to Guevara, “I am ready. But for this we do not need Catalina.”
Che nodded, and Srta. Mestre rose and called the guards, who escorted Catalina, the envelope in her manacled hands, out. She turned her head to Blackford. “Hasta luego, mi amor.” He waved at her as best he could, his hands manacled, his right arm in a sling.
“All right, Caimán. Business.” He motioned to his secretary, who turned on the recorder and sat poised over her dictation pad. In the room, apart from them, were only two guards, one each at the opposite corners, standing at ease, their carbines at their sides.
“Proceed.”
“Well,” said Blackford, his voice descending to a conspiratorial whisper, “here’s the big one.” He spoke in Spanish, but occasionally Srta. Mestre would help him, when help was indicated.
“About a year ago,” Blackford began languidly, “we got ourselves a very useful asset. Very useful because you thought he was one of yours. He was, once. But we took him on. And for nine months we played a very simple game. Every time we wanted to get somebody out of the way who was particularly … nettlesome to us,” Blackford turned to Comrade Mestre, “—n-e-t-t-l-e-s-o-m-e. A big bother. An itch. A pain in the behind—we would drop that person’s name through our double agent and—wonderful!—that nettlesome person”—he waved at Srta. Mestre, who handled the English word now with dispatch in her aside to Comandante Guevara—“simply disappeared. We were using, Che, your man, to get your men!
“Now if that isn’t worth a pardon, maybe even a parade to Guantánamo, I swear I don’t know what would be.”
Che Guevara was pale. But he proceeded cautiously. “You have not yet been very useful. You have not named him.”
“Oh no, I’m not through. The incredible thing is that about four months ago, he mysteriously disappeared. We never found out where. We obviously could do no further business with him, but maybe he is well entrenched behind your lines, and is doing business with somebody else. Frankly, Che, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some foul play here. Anyway, he would be the biggest catch in Cuban Jiménez history.”
“Who was he? What was his name?”
“He worked for the Swiss Embassy. His name was Pedro Nogales—”
If Blackford had intended to say more he couldn’t have. Che Guevara had bolted from his seat and, across the table, delivered with all his force a blow at Blackford’s mouth. Blackford, his hands tied, unable to seek balance, fell, the chair with him. He closed his eyes against the pain he felt in his mouth, and in his shoulder. There were exclamations and mutterings in Spanish. And he was dragged out, and strapped down in the ambulance that had brought him in to Jiménez.
Forty-three
That night at seven, the word having got around that President Kennedy would be speaking to the entire world on the subject of Cuba, prison personnel, the inmates having been meticulously secured under lock and key, gathered at the four or five centers where radios were posted. The simultaneously translated eighteen-minute speech was broadcast live. Major Marzo was the senior officer in his social group, which met in the clerk’s office by the armory: six officers, a portable radio, and two bottles of rum.
Fidel Castro gathered his intimates on the top floor of the INRA. He had announced to the media that he would reply to President Kennedy on Cuban television and radio at 10 P.M.
The word had spread rapidly that something of consequence was up, and almost everywhere
competing activity had stopped so that all might hear the speech of President Kennedy.
At seven, the Castro party was silent, listening to the translator … “The stationing of the missiles was a belligerent act on the part of Cuba and the Soviet Union … Any activity against the United States or its neighbors involving said missiles would be considered by the American government as an act of aggression by the Soviet Union as well as by Cuba … There would be a quarantine of the seas surrounding Cuba, and all cargo vessels going in toward Cuba would beginning at dawn tomorrow be hailed, boarded, and passage would be permitted only to those vessels that did not carry arms … That situation would continue until the Soviet Union had removed all missiles currently reposing in Cuba, and until a physical inspection of the island confirmed that the missiles had all been removed …”
Castro shouted out his glee. “We have taken them! We have taken them! We have the gringos! They are not coming in for an air strike! And, of course, the Soviet Union will never permit the quarantine!”
He practically danced about the table, and Dorticós, Valdés, and even Raúl and Che caught his enthusiasm. They were dumbfounded that the Americans had not struck, and apparently were not planning to do so. And they shared the conviction of Fidel that nothing, but nothing would prevail upon the Soviet Union to accept the humiliation of removing the missiles, let alone submitting to the boarding of their cargo vessels, steaming in toward Cuba at this very moment, “like dirty little children showing their hands to a teacher,” as Castro put it. Castro said he looked forward eagerly to ten o’clock, at which point he would review the record of United States aggression against Cuba, express Cuban gratitude to the Soviet Union for helping Cuba with strategic defensive arms, and reassure the Cuban people that their capacity for self-defense would not be a victim of these tense times. “I can say it all, I am sure, in one hour, it is that simple,” Fidel said.
He sat back in his desk chair and turned his thoughts inward, as his associates began to pick at the dishes of fruits and cheese that were brought in, and Dorticós and Valdés and Raúl toasted each other with a rum drink. Suddenly Fidel looked up at Che, and beckoned to him.
See You Later, Alligator Page 29
