to accept “Manuel,” but also sensed that Atcho’s pain went well beyond the loss of battle.
Though he did little to encourage Toothless’ friendship, Atcho welcomed the caring presence of the man. Thin and wizened, his empty mouth was often smiling. Because they were forbidden to talk that night and while being transported the next day, Atcho learned little of him beyond what had been disclosed on their ride to headquarters. He is brave. He represents 2506 Brigade very well.
The Cuban army trucked the captives to a holding area north of the swamp. From there they transported them to Havana. The captives’ spirits were low. No one cared to talk.
On the second day, Toothless approached Atcho. “Manuel,” he said quietly. “I have news I think you should hear.” Atcho returned the old man’s worried scrutiny with vague interest. “There was a leader of the resistance,” Toothless went on. “His name was Juan Ortiz.”
Atcho suddenly became alert, but he showed no outward change of expression. “Go on,” he said simply.
“I heard that he was killed.”
The old man continued speaking, but Atcho heard him as though in a fog. Images passed through his mind: the fire, the square in Havana, and their days together in Jaguey Grande. Though outwardly impassive, Atcho began to grieve. His body felt heavy and tired. He wanted only to find a corner in a dark place and lie down. “How did he die?”
Toothless looked at him compassionately. “I don’t know much. I heard he was closely a close friend of Atcho’s. When Juan was captured, they questioned him about Atcho. He wouldn’t talk, so they tortured him. When he still wouldn’t, they shot him.” The old man shook his head sadly. “The men who saw his murder say he was very brave.”
Tears burned in Atcho’s eyes, but he held them back. His throat constricted, but he refused to allow even a gasp to escape.
He turned to Toothless. “Thank you, Viejo.”
The next day in Havana, 2506 Brigade members were segregated from guerrillas. Atcho’s concern about discovery of his alias, Manuel Lezcano, dissipated. He had told authorities that he was from the province of Oriente. Records were poor in Cuba.
His trial was public. He stood in a line with other prisoners to have his picture taken. Then they were herded into a crowded courtroom with Fidelistas screaming “Paredor! Paredor! Firing squad! Firing squad!” On the other side of the courtroom were prisoners’ family members. Their misery, profound in their expressions, turned into abject grief when, one hour after entering the courtroom, sentences had been meted out and appeals exhausted. On leaving the courtroom, Atcho faced thirty years in prison, and was on his way to incarceration in the most notorious prison in Cuba, the Isle of Pines.
PART IV
10
May 1961
Atcho felt like a walking cadaver when he staggered from the bus with his fellow prisoners on arrival at the El Presidio Modelo, the Model Prison on the Isle of Pines. He knew he must look dead. A boat had brought them from the main island of Cuba early that morning, and then the bus had picked them up at the quay in Nueva Girona and taken them to the prison. Five massive towers rose into sight. Four of them were seven stories high each, and two hundred feet in diameter. The one at the center was only three stories high, but had a much larger diameter. This was the mess hall. On first seeing them, Atcho felt a cold chill. He turned to one of his companions.
“What do you think?” he asked. The man did not respond, but stared vacantly at the ominous round cellblocks. In silence, they trudged under the harsh commands of their guards to one marked Circular 4, which would house the newest cargo of “fresh meat.” In its cavernous interior, a single watchtower rose five stories from the center, and a mass of humanity moved on every conceivable inch on the ground floor, as well as on each tier.
Access was firmly secured at the base of the
Though he did little to encourage Toothless’ friendship, Atcho welcomed the caring presence of the man. Thin and wizened, his empty mouth was often smiling. Because they were forbidden to talk that night and while being transported the next day, Atcho learned little of him beyond what had been disclosed on their ride to headquarters. He is brave. He represents 2506 Brigade very well.
The Cuban army trucked the captives to a holding area north of the swamp. From there they transported them to Havana. The captives’ spirits were low. No one cared to talk.
On the second day, Toothless approached Atcho. “Manuel,” he said quietly. “I have news I think you should hear.” Atcho returned the old man’s worried scrutiny with vague interest. “There was a leader of the resistance,” Toothless went on. “His name was Juan Ortiz.”
Atcho suddenly became alert, but he showed no outward change of expression. “Go on,” he said simply.
“I heard that he was killed.”
The old man continued speaking, but Atcho heard him as though in a fog. Images passed through his mind: the fire, the square in Havana, and their days together in Jaguey Grande. Though outwardly impassive, Atcho began to grieve. His body felt heavy and tired. He wanted only to find a corner in a dark place and lie down. “How did he die?”
Toothless looked at him compassionately. “I don’t know much. I heard he was closely a close friend of Atcho’s. When Juan was captured, they questioned him about Atcho. He wouldn’t talk, so they tortured him. When he still wouldn’t, they shot him.” The old man shook his head sadly. “The men who saw his murder say he was very brave.”
Tears burned in Atcho’s eyes, but he held them back. His throat constricted, but he refused to allow even a gasp to escape.
He turned to Toothless. “Thank you, Viejo.”
The next day in Havana, 2506 Brigade members were segregated from guerrillas. Atcho’s concern about discovery of his alias, Manuel Lezcano, dissipated. He had told authorities that he was from the province of Oriente. Records were poor in Cuba.
His trial was public. He stood in a line with other prisoners to have his picture taken. Then they were herded into a crowded courtroom with Fidelistas screaming “Paredor! Paredor! Firing squad! Firing squad!” On the other side of the courtroom were prisoners’ family members. Their misery, profound in their expressions, turned into abject grief when, one hour after entering the courtroom, sentences had been meted out and appeals exhausted. On leaving the courtroom, Atcho faced thirty years in prison, and was on his way to incarceration in the most notorious prison in Cuba, the Isle of Pines.
PART IV
10
May 1961
Atcho felt like a walking cadaver when he staggered from the bus with his fellow prisoners on arrival at the El Presidio Modelo, the Model Prison on the Isle of Pines. He knew he must look dead. A boat had brought them from the main island of Cuba early that morning, and then the bus had picked them up at the quay in Nueva Girona and taken them to the prison. Five massive towers rose into sight. Four of them were seven stories high each, and two hundred feet in diameter. The one at the center was only three stories high, but had a much larger diameter. This was the mess hall. On first seeing them, Atcho felt a cold chill. He turned to one of his companions.
“What do you think?” he asked. The man did not respond, but stared vacantly at the ominous round cellblocks. In silence, they trudged under the harsh commands of their guards to one marked Circular 4, which would house the newest cargo of “fresh meat.” In its cavernous interior, a single watchtower rose five stories from the center, and a mass of humanity moved on every conceivable inch on the ground floor, as well as on each tier.
Access was firmly secured at the base of the
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