Where Are My Children? The True Story of a Mother Who Risked Her Life to Rescue Her Kidnapped Children

by Cassie Kimbrough

  I turned the radio over in my hands, but my mind was still on Bob's first comment. Gas? Why now, of all times, were we caught low on gas?

  "Where am I supposed to put this so nobody will see it?" I asked.

  And why didn't we go over all this before? I thought as I examined the little buttons on the transmitter. It wasn't much bigger than a package of cigarettes.

  "Put the earpiece in your ear, then run the wire under your clothes. You can hook the transmitter onto your jeans. Nobody'll see it under your jacket." I rigged myself up as he described.

  Bob pulled into line at the gas station. The man in front of us, his tank already filled, was having a leisurely chat with the attendant. Bob flung open his door and yelled, "Apurese! Hurry up!"

  Looking back at me in the rearview mirror, he continued, "This is the signal: If Federico comes down the ramp with the kids, I won't say anything. You just wait there in the bathroom until the morning recess. If the kids come down alone, I'll say `solo.' In that case, sit tight for a few seconds to give Federico time to start leaving. Then wait until you hear me say 'ven' (come). That means haul out of there and get those kids. In the meantime, Karina here will intercept them on the ramp until you can get to them."

  My heart was pounding. As the attendant put gas in the Blazer, I went over and over the plans in my mind. Finally Bob pulled into traffic again. We were on the busiest street downtown and still had several miles to go to the school. Bob ran a red light; the traffic police blew the whistle and came running after us.

  "Damn," Bob muttered as he pulled to the side of the street. He rolled down his window, smiled, and put on his dumb tourist act. Surprisingly, the policeman didn't insist that Bob go to the police station to pay a fine—he didn't even hint around for a bribe. He let him go with a short lecture.

  "Gracias!" Bob pulled into the line of cars again. I glanced at my watch. It was 8:10. Federico would be leaving the apartment with the children in five minutes. The streets thronged with people, buses, cars, and taxis. The air reverberated with the sound of honking horns. Traffic crawled. The thought came to me again that maybe it just wasn't meant to be. Things weren't going right.

  Finally we neared the edge of downtown, and the streets cleared. We were close now. We drove past Guy, who was standing on a street corner. He was stationed there to watch for Federico and, when he drove by, to signal Lloyd by radio.

  "Good," Bob breathed, "That means Federico hasn't driven by yet. We're in luck—he's running late." He looked at me in the rearview mirror. "As soon as I pull up, you jump out and get down that ramp as fast as you can. He must be right behind us."

  White-smocked children were clustered around candy stands at the gate. I slipped past the guard and pushed through the knots of schoolgirls on the ramp—around the corner, down the steps, and into the open door of the bathroom. The walls echoed with the chattering and giggling of the older girls primping in front of the mirrors. No one seemed to notice as I slipped into the stall nearest the door. I pressed one finger to my ear and strained to listen to the earphone hidden under my hair. Nothing. Bob wasn't testing the radio, or—a worse thought—it wasn't transmitting through the thick walls.

  The bell rang and the chattering died away as the bathroom emptied. Outside, the children's voices piped up in the first strains of the national anthem. That meant they were already in their lines. Did we miss Jane and Michael? What happened to Bob? The radio was still silent. Visions of crouching in the stall for two more hours flashed through my mind. My guts twisted like a wrung-out dishcloth.

  Suddenly the radio crackled and through the static I heard the word "Solo." I forgot about waiting for his next signal. Heart racing, I flung myself out of the stall and out the door and—Dear God, there they were! on the landing with Karina!—I don't remember going up the stairs but there I was, kneeling in front of them laughing and crying and saying their names. Jane's look of puzzlement turned to astonishment when she saw me.

  "Mommy!" she cried. "What are you doing here?"

  "I came to see you," I laughed. Michael stared at the ground. His lower lip was thrust out and quivering.

  "Michael, it's me, Mommy," I said. He lifted his gaze and studied my face for a moment. Then his eyes cleared, and he broke into a smile. "Mommy!" he echoed. I talked fast as I took their hands and started up the ramp.

  "I came to see you. We're going to the car to get the presents I brought you. You've grown so much! You're so big! I've missed you so much," I rattled on. The ramp was deserted except for a nun standing near the top. As I passed she put her hand on my arm.

  "You can't take these children without their father's permission."

  I brazened a smile and kept walking. "Momentito. Just a minute." But the gate had swung shut and the guard stood there unmoving. I stopped, still clutching the children's hands. Bob pushed his way through from the other side of the gate. Waving the brown envelope that held the letter to the Mother Superior and the sheaf of legal documents, he began to argue with the nun. He told her that I was their mother, that it was all legal. But she refused to take the envelope and kept shaking her head, saying, "You can't take these children! You have to go inside and speak with the Mother Superior!"

  Somehow in the confusion Michael had slipped out of my grasp. Panicked, I glanced around. He wasn't with Karina—she was standing outside the gate. I looked the other way—he was heading back down the ramp, looking back at me, his face contorted with imminent tears. No! I thought, I can't leave him behind.

  "Michael, come back!" I yelled.

  His face brightened. He scurried back up the ramp, grabbed my hand, and proudly announced to the nun, "Esta es mi mama! This is my mommy!"

  The nun hesitated, confused. She looked at Bob, then at me, then threw up her hands. "Take them! I want no part of it!" She turned her back and started hobbling back down the ramp.

  Incredibly, the guard swung the gate open. I forced myself to walk, not run, to the Blazer. Oh God, it was happening. We were going to get away with it. I pushed Jane and Michael into the back seat of the Blazer and jumped in after them. Bob took off driving, Karina beside him in the front seat. Lloyd and Bob followed in a Jeep. It was 8:25 A.M.

  Jane and Michael sat still, eyes wide.

  "What about school?" Jane asked. "We'll miss school."

  "You won't be going back to school today," I said.

  "Where are we going?" she asked.

  "We're going home."

  "Home to Daddy or home to Texas?" she asked. "Where do you want to go?" I asked and tensed for her reply.

  "Texas," she answered firmly.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes."

  Up to now Michael had been silent. Now he said gravely, "Daddy shouldn't have taken us away."

  I pulled a black sweater over my white shirt and put the wig on, explaining to the kids that I would look funny for a while. I kept chattering cheerfully as I took off their school clothes, layer after layer of them, and dressed them in the blue jeans and jackets I had brought. The hood on Jane's jacket covered up her blonde hair, and Michael's knit cap covered his head. They still looked like little gringos, but without their hair showing it wouldn't be so obvious. Then for a few blocks I had them lie down on the seat out of sight. I stroked their heads in my lap and kept talking.

  Bob cursed as he maneuvered through the narrow serpentine streets in the “black market” section of La Paz, well away from the main thoroughfares of the city. The open markets went on for blocks, and the streets teemed with people and honking cars. My imagination had never gone beyond the act of getting the kids out of the school. I always assumed that if we got that far, we were home free. But our journey was just beginning. Bob was trying to reach the altiplano above La Paz by back roads. At a crowded intersection, he started to turn left and the traffic cop blew his whistle.

  "There's no left turn allowed here," said Karina.

  Bob cursed. He rolled down his window. "Por favor!" he begged, but the policeman shook h
is head and motioned Bob to continue straight ahead.

  "You're supposed to be giving me directions out of here!" Bob snapped at Karina. "Now what?"

  Karina began pointing the way, but didn't seem so sure herself. I glanced behind us. Guy was driving the white Jeep with Lloyd beside him. Lloyd grinned and gave me the circled thumb and forefinger "A-OK" signal. Twenty minutes later we had snaked our way up the sides of the canyon until we reached a bluff overlooking the city. Bob pulled the Blazer onto the gravel shoulder, and we piled out to switch to the Jeep. In the general scrambling Jane's name tag fell face up in the dust by the road.

  To Guy I gave a quick hug good-bye and to Karina a hurried "Gracias!" They got into the Blazer. Guy would fly out of La Paz and be on his way to Miami the following morning. Bob took the driver's seat in the Jeep, and Lloyd sat beside him. The Jeep was smaller and more cramped than the Blazer. The space behind the front seat was crammed with Lloyd's and Bob's bags and parcels. I sat down on one of the two facing bench seats and settled Jane and Michael on the floor, where they couldn't be seen from outside.

  Moments later we were driving among the adobe slums of El Alto. On both sides of the road open ditches carried raw sewage. Behind the ditches squatted the mud houses of campesinos who had come to the city hoping for a better life. The streets were under construction in preparation for the Pope's visit, and Bob groaned as he negotiated the poorly marked detours. But by taking the back roads he had managed to avoid the toll booths on the main road. In minutes we were on the paved highway leading to Lake Titicaca, an hour and a half away. Before then I didn't know whether the plan was to leave Bolivia by air or by land. I could see that we weren't headed for the airport.

  "I guess this means we're not taking a plane," I said to Lloyd.

  "The airport has been out of the question for a long time," he said. He explained that they'd separately contracted two different private planes to take us into Peru. But the planes could be called back by radio even after they were in the air. Besides, the pilots couldn't be relied upon. On a trial run, Lloyd said that he and Bob had reached the airport only to find that neither the planes nor the pilots were ready. Such a delay would be disastrous—the airport would be the first place they'd look for us.

  Meanwhile, the children's apprehension had dissolved and they were chattering away—in English but with unmistakable Spanish accents—and singing songs in Spanish. I drank it in. I couldn't believe that the objects of my longing and anguish for the past six months were finally sitting there in front of me. How precious they were! I had forgotten the funny way Jane pursed her lips like Shirley Temple when she talked, and how wide and green Michael's eyes were. Every few minutes he would kiss my hand and press it to his face, declaring, "Mommy, I love you." Then he and Jane would hug each other in unrestrained joy.

  Sometime in that first hour on the road I explained to them that their Daddy had kidnapped them—taken them away without my knowing it. Jane said that when they left McAllen, Federico had told them that they were going to visit their abuelita, like they'd done in July.

  With childlike honesty Michael said, "Sometimes I forgot about you. Then I'd remember you and cry. Then I'd forget again."

  "Did your daddy say why he took you away?" I asked.

  Jane answered, "He said you were with a bad guy."

  "Yeah," confirmed Michael. "He said the bad guy would put poison in our cereal."

  Good Lord, I thought.

  Then we talked about the event of the morning. "Mommy, I was surprised to see you at school," Jane said.

  "Me, too," said Michael. "At first I didn't remember who you were. But then I remembered," he smiled.

  "Why were you going back down the sidewalk?" I asked him.

  "The teacher yelled at me to go back to my class. I was afraid you were going to leave without me."

  I hugged him, "I wouldn't have left without you."

  "I thought she was mad at me."

  "She was mad all right, but not at you, honey."

  From the duffle bag I dug out the presents I had brought for them. The gift wrap was a bit rumpled, but they didn't notice. They were delighted with their gifts: a Skipper doll for Jane and a transformer toy for Michael.

  I tried to keep them unaware of the tension in the Jeep. I told them we were going to take a fun trip and would play a lot of games.

  As we approached the first police checkpoint, I covered them with Lloyd's trench coat and told them about the first game: they were rabbits hiding from a wolf—the little rabbits had to lie very still and quiet so the wolf wouldn't find them. They cooperated with enthusiasm and lay motionless under the coat as Bob showed the police his documents. The police waved us on without checking inside the Jeep.

  As we drove on toward Lake Titicaca, passing by farming villages and fields of maize and horse beans, Jane and Michael dozed off. I listened apprehensively as Lloyd and Bob argued about which route to take into Peru. It sounded like the hydrofoil—my personal favorite—was out of the running. Who could have caught us skimming the water at 100 miles per hour in the middle of the lake? We'd be on the Peruvian side in an hour. But the hydrofoils, like the planes, were connected by radio to La Paz and they, too, could be called back. Lloyd had left a reservation at the hydrofoil agency anyway, as a red herring—just as he'd told me to make reservations to Miami on Eastern Airlines for a week from now. Maybe they'd think we were hiding out in Bolivia until then.

  Now they were arguing about which border town to use to cross into Peru. Why hadn't they decided that earlier? They were saying that the village of Desaguadero was farther away than Copacabana, but Bob knew the captain of immigration there. On the other hand, we would have to pass through a military fort on the way. And Copacabana? If it was a market day, the border would be swarming with vendors crossing back and forth, and border security would be lax. But what if it wasn't market day? They ended up going with Copacabana.

  By now we had reached the edge of Lake Titicaca, its sparkling blue waters surrounded by the distant snowy peaks of the Andes Mountains. The reed boats of fishermen dotted its banks, and on shore, women and children toiled in fields and tended sheep.

  "Let's get rid of these," Lloyd said, and grabbed the children's discarded school clothes. Bob pulled to the side of the road. Lloyd took the little bundle of clothes and the children's book bags and dumped them over a low mud fence. He made an incongruous figure in his impeccable gray suit, leaping puddles among the mud huts.

  A little farther on we reached the Strait of Tiquina, the narrowest crossing point on the lake, where wooden ferries would take us across. On the other side was the Bolivian naval base at Tiquina. Bob pulled the Jeep onto the loading ramp. Jane and Michael were still asleep under their "tent." As the returning ferry neared shore, a stern-faced man in a black uniform approached and rapped on Bob's window. He demanded that Bob come inside the post.

  "What's the problem?" Bob asked. The guard repeated that he'd have to come inside, so Bob followed him into the building. I waited, scarcely breathing, as the seconds ticked by. Maybe the police had been alerted and I would have to hand Jane and Michael over here. Five long minutes later, Bob returned.

  "Whew," he sighed heavily as he climbed back into the Jeep. "All they wanted was the crossing fee."

  By now the ferry was waiting for us, and Bob guided the Jeep onto its wooden planks. The Jeep rocked gently as we crossed the Strait. Jane and Michael woke up and threw off the coat.

  "Mommy, where are we? We want to look outside."

  Lloyd said sharply. "Keep them covered up."

  I replaced the coat. "We're crossing the lake right now. When we get to the other side, I'll tell you when you can sit up and look."

  On the other side Bob drove the Jeep off the ferry and maneuvered it through the rutted muddy roads of the tiny naval base. It looked like just another lakeside village except that everywhere you looked there were black-uniformed sailors. Before leaving the base we stopped once more at a checkpoint. Bo
b jumped out of the Jeep and went inside before anyone had a chance to come to us. He quickly returned.

  "No problem," he said cheerily. "As soon as we clear the edge of town, you can tell the kids to sit up."

  Then we were on our way to Copacabana. The day was warming up. Eucalyptus trees towered over the road, shading it from the bright sun. Jane and Michael stretched, sat up, and looked around. Michael took a seat next to me. Every few minutes he would press my hand and say, "I'm glad you came, Mommy."

  For the next two hours we wound our way through the hilly countryside on a twisting dirt road. This road, like most in Bolivia, allowed passage for only one vehicle at a time. It was the custom to honk at each bend to warn oncoming cars. When two cars approached from opposite directions, one would pull close to the outside edge of the road, usually within inches of a dangerous precipice, and the other would edge by on the inside. This system didn't always work, however, as evidenced by the many roadside crosses marking fatalities. Road trips in Bolivia were not for the faint-hearted.

  About an hour outside Tiquina, a ragged man appeared in the middle of the road. He took up a belligerent stance and refused to let us pass until we gave him money. Bob grumbled, but tossed him a coin. The beggar doffed his hat and stepped aside.

  It was 12:30 P.M. when we approached the checkpoint on the outskirts of Copacabana. A chain strung across the road barred the way. By this time the children had fallen asleep again. I made sure they were well covered up. Bob jumped out of the Jeep and went inside the dingy green shack. Through the dusty window I could see him gesturing and waving a bill in his hand. There was some hitch, it seemed, and as before, each minute he was inside seemed an hour. He finally returned, explaining that they were demanding some kind of pass that we should have been given at the first checkpoint. A small bribe had taken care of it.

  Copacabana's dusty roads were all but deserted. Obviously it was not a market day. Too bad we didn't arrive on a Saturday or Sunday, either. Every weekend Bolivians and Peruvians alike, in a combination of ancient pagan rites and Catholicism, draped their new cars with flowers and streamers and drove them to Copacabana to be blessed by the Virgin. But none of this activity was in evidence today.