CHAPTER ELEVEN
María Teresa
March to August 1960
Wednesday, March 16 (55 days)
I just got the notebook. Santicló has had to be
very careful this time around, smuggling in just a couple of things
every few days.
Security measures are stepped up after the second
pastoral, he says. You’re safer in here than out there, bombs and
what not.
He tries to say helpful things.
But can he really believe we’re safer in here?
Maybe he is, being a guard and all. But we politicals can be
snuffed out just like that. A little visit to La 40, that’s all it
takes. Look at Florentino and Papilín—I better stop. I know how I
get.
The fear is the worse part. Every time I hear
footsteps coming down the hall, or the clink of the key turning in
the lock, I’m tempted to curl up in the comer like a hurt animal,
whimpering, wanting to be safe. But I know if I do that, I’ll be
giving in to a low part of myself, and I’ll feel even less human.
And that is what they want to do, yes, that is what they want to
do.
It feels good to write things down. Like there will
be a record.
Before this, I scraped on the wall with our
contraband nail. A mark for each day, a line through a week. It was
the only record I could keep, besides the one in my head where I
would remember things, store them.
The day we were brought here, for instance.
They marched us down the corridor past some of the
men’s cells. We looked a sight, dirty, uncombed, bruised from
sleeping on the hard floor. The men started calling out their code
names so we’d know who was still alive. (We kept our eyes averted,
for they were all naked.) I listened hard but I didn’t hear,
“¡Palomino vive!” I’m trying not to worry
about it as we didn’t hear a lot of names because the guards
commenced beating on the bars with their nightsticks, drowning out
the men’s cries. Then Minerva began singing the national anthem,
and everyone joined in, men and women. That time Minerva got
solitary for a week.
The rest of us “women politicals” were locked up in
a cell no bigger than Mamá’s living and dining room combined. But
the real shock was the sixteen other cellmates we found here.
“Nonpoliticals,” all right. Prostitutes, thieves, murderers—and
that’s just the ones who have confided in us.
Three bolted steel walls, steel bars for a fourth
wall, a steel ceiling, a cement floor. Twenty-four metal shelves
(“bunks”), a set of twelve on each side, a bucket, a tiny washbasin
under a small high window. Welcome home.
We’re on the third floor (we believe) at the end of
a long corridor. Cell # 61 facing south towards the road. El Rayo
and some of the boys are in Cell # 60 (next to the guardia
station), and # 62 on our other side is for nonpoliticals. Those
guys love to talk dirty through the walls. The other girls
don’t mind, they say, so most of them have taken bunks on that
side.
Twenty-four of us eat, sleep, write, go to school,
and use the bucket—everything—in a room 25 by 20 of my size 6 feet.
I’ve walked it back and forth many times, believe me. The rod in
the middle helps, on account of we hang our belongings and dry
towels there, and it kind of divides the room in two. Still, you
lose your shame quickly in this horrid place.
All us politicals have our bunks on the east side,
and so we’ve asked for the southeast comer to be “ours.” Minerva
says that except for closed meetings, anyone can join our classes
and discussions, and many have. Magdalena, Kiki, America, and
Milady have become regulars. Dinorah sometimes comes, but it’s
usually to criticize.
Oh yes, I forgot. Our four-footed Miguelito. He
shows up for any occasion that involves crumbs.
Sunday, March 20 (59 days)
Today I took my turn at our little window, and
everything I saw was blurry through my tears. I had such a yearning
to be out there.
Cars were speeding east to the capital, north
towards home; there was a donkey loaded down with saddlebags full
of plantains and a boy with a switch making him move along; lots
and lots of police wagons. Every little thing I was eating up with
my eyes so I lost track of time. Suddenly, there was a yank at my
prison gown. It was Dinorah, who keeps grumbling about us “rich
women” who think we are better than riffraff.
“That’s enough,” she snapped. “We all want to have
a turn.”
Then the touchingest thing happened. Magdalena must
have seen I’d been crying because she said, “Let her have my
turn.”
“And mine,” Milady added.
Kiki offered her ten minutes, too, and soon I had a
whole other half hour to stand on the bucket if I wanted to.
Of course, I immediately stepped down, because I
didn’t want to deny anyone their ten minutes of feasting on the
world. But it raised my spirits so much, the generosity of these
girls I once thought were below me.
Monday, March 21 (60 days)
I keep mentioning the girls.
I have to admit the more time I spend with them,
the less I care what they’ve done or where they come from. What
matters is the quality of a person. What someone is inside
themselves.
My favorite is Magdalena. I call her our little
birdseed bell. Everybody comes peck-peck-pecking what they want off
her, and she gladly gives it. Her ration of sugar, her time at the
sink, her bobby pins.
I don’t know what she’s in for, since there’s a
sort of unwritten courtesy here that you’re not supposed to ask
anyone—though a lot of the girls blurt out their stories. Magdalena
doesn’t say much about herself, but she has a little girl, too, and
so we are always talking about our daughters. We don’t have any
pictures, but we have thoroughly described our darlings to each
other. Her Amantina sounds like a doll girl. She’s seven years old
with hazel eyes (like my Jacqui) and light brown curls that used to
be blond! Strange... since Magdalena herself is pretty dark with
quite a kink in her hair. There’s a story there, but I didn’t dare
come right out and ask who the father was.
I broke down last night. I feel so ashamed.
It happened right before lights out. I was lying on
my bunk when the call went round, Viva Trujillo! Maybe it
was that call or maybe it was all finally getting to me, but
suddenly the walls were closing in, and I got this panicked feeling
that I would never ever get out of here. I started to shake and
moan, and call out to Mamá to take me home.
Thank God, Minerva saw in time what was going on.
She crawled in my bunk and held me, talking soft and remindful to
me of all the things I had to live and be patient for. I settled
down, thank God.
It happens here all the time. Every day and night
there’s at least one breakdown—someone loses control and starts to
scream or sob or moan. Minerva says it’s better letting yourself
go—not that she ever does. The alternative is freezing yourself up,
never showing what you’re feeling, never letting on what you’re
thinking. (Like Dinorah. Jailface, the girls call her.) Then one
day, you’re out of here, free, only to discover you’ve locked
yourself up and thrown away the key somewhere too deep inside your
heart to fish it out.
I’m learning a whole new language here, just like
being in our movement. We’ve got code names for all the guards,
usually some feature of their body or personality that lets you
know instantly what to expect from them. Bloody Juan, Little Razor,
Good Hair. I never could figure out Tiny, though. The man is as big
as a piece of furniture you have to move in a truck. Tiny what? I
asked Magdalena. She explained that Tiny is the one with the fresh
fingers, but according to those who have reason to know, he has
very little to brag about.
Every day we get the “shopping list” from the
knockings on the wall. Today bananas are 5 cents each (tiny brown
ones); a piece of ice, 15 cents; one cigarette, 3 cents; and a
bottle of milk that is really half water, 15 cents. Everything is
for sale here, everything but your freedom.
The code name for these “privileges” is turtle, and
when you want to purchase a privilege, you tell the guardía
in charge that you’d like to throw some water on the turtle.
Today, I threw a whole bucket on the creature and
bought rounds of cassava for everyone in our cell with the money
Santicló brought us from Mama. Ten cents a stale round, and I
couldn’t even keep mine down.
Periodically, we are taken downstairs to an
officers’ lounge and questioned. I’ve only been twice. Both times I
was scared so witless that the guards had to carry me along by the
arms. Then, of course, I’d get one of my asthma attacks and could
barely breathe to talk.
Both times, I was asked gruff questions about the
movement and who my contacts were and where we’d gotten our
supplies. I always said, I have already said all I know, and
then they’d threaten me with things they would do to me, to
Leandro, to my family. The second time, they didn’t even threaten
that much except to say that it was too bad a pretty lady would
have to grow old in prison. Miss out on ... (A bunch of lewd
comments I won’t bother to repeat here.)
The ones they take out a lot are Sina and Minerva.
It isn’t hard to figure out why. Those two always stand up to these
guys. Once, Minerva came back from one of the interrogation
sessions laughing. Trujillo’s son Ramfis had come special to
question her because Trujillo had said that Minerva Mirabal was the
brain behind the whole movement.
I’m very flattered, Minerva said she said. But my
brain isn’t big enough to run such a huge operation.
That worried them.
Yesterday, something that could have been awful
happened to Sina. They took her into a room with some naked men
prisoners. The guards stripped off her clothes in front of the
prisoners. Then they taunted Manolo, setting him up on a bucket and
saying, Come now, leader, deliver one of your revolutionary
messages.
What did he do? Minerva wanted to know, her voice
all proud and indignant.
He stood up as straight as he could and said,
Comrades, we have suffered a setback but we have not been
beaten.
Liberty or Death!
That was the only time I saw Minerva cry in prison.
When Sina told that story.
Bloody Juan beats on the bars with an iron bar at
five, iViva Trujillo! and we are rudely woken up. No
chance of mistaking—even for a minute—where I am. I hide my face in
my hands and cry. This is how every day starts out.
Lord forbid Minerva should see me, she’d give me
one of her talks about morale.
It’s my turn to empty the bucket, but Magdalena
offers to do it. Everybody’s been so kind about relieving me
because of the way my stomach’s been.
Right before chao comes, Minerva leads us in
singing the national anthem. We know through knocking with our
neighbor cell that our “serenades” really help raise the men’s
spirits. The guards don’t even try to stop us anymore. What harm
are we doing? Minerva asks. In fact, we’re being patriotic, saying
good morning to our country.
Today we sing, Adiós con el corazón, since
this is Miriam’s and Dulce’s last day. Most of us are crying.
I end up vomiting my breakfast chao. Anything can
set me off these days. Not that my stomach needs an excuse for
rejecting that watery paste. (What are those little gelatin
things I sometimes bite down on?)
We just had our “little school,” which Minerva
insists on every day, except Sundays. I guess Fidel did this when
he was in prison in the Isle of Pines, and so we have to do it,
too. Minerva started us off by reciting some Marti and then we all
talked about what we thought the words meant. I was daydreaming
about my Jacqui—wondering if she was walking yet, if she was still
getting the rash between her little fingers—when Minerva asked what
I thought. I said I had to agree with what everyone was saying. She
just shook her head.
Then, we politicals gathered in our comer and
rehearsed the three cardinal rules:
Never believe them.
Never fear them.
Never ask them anything.
Never fear them.
Never ask them anything.
Even Santicló? I asked. He is so good to me, to all
of us really.
Especially Santicló, Sina said. I don’t know who is
tougher, Minerva or her.
Both of them have warned me about getting too fond
of the enemy
Yesterday night, Santicló brought us the last of
the contents of Mama’s package, including some Vigorex. Maybe now
this stomach of mine will settle down. The smelling salts will also
help. Mama and Patria outdid themselves. We have everything we need
and then some luxuries. That is, if Minerva doesn’t give it all
away.
She says we don’t want to create a class system in
our cell, the haves and have nots. (We don’t? What about when Tiny
gave Dinorah a dulce de leche as payment for her
favors, and she didn’t offer anyone a crumb, even Miguelito?)
Minerva gives me her speech about how Dinorah’s a
victim of our corrupt system, which we are helping to bring down by
giving her some of our milk fudge.
So everyone’s had a Bengay rub and a chunk of fudge
in the name of the Revolution. At least I get this notebook to
myself.
Or so I think, till Minerva comes around asking if
I couldn’t spare a couple of pages for America’s statement for her
hearing tomorrow.
And can we borrow the pen? Minerva adds.
Don’t I have any rights? But instead of fighting
for them, I just burst out crying.
[pages torn out]
Monday, March 28 (67 days)
I left my chao untouched. Just a whiff of that
steamy paste, and I didn’t even want to take a chance. I’m lying on
my bunk now, listening to the Little School discussing how a woman
revolutionary should handle a low remark by a comrade. Minerva
excused me from class. I feel like my insides are trying to get
out.
I’ve gotten so thin, I’ve had to take in the
waistbands of all my panties and stuff the cups of my brassiere
with handkerchiefs. We were fooling the other day about whose were
bigger. Kiki made a low remark about how the men are probably doing
the same thing with their you-know-whats. First month I was here, I
was shocked by such dirty talk. Now I laugh right along with
everybody.
I can’t even fall asleep tonight remembering
Violeta’s prayer at the close of our group rosary: May I never
experience all that it is possible to get used to.
How it has spooked me to hear that.
I am trying to keep a schedule to ward off the
panic that sometimes comes over me. Sina brought it up during
Little School. She had read a book written by a political prisoner
in Russia who was locked away for life, and the only way he kept
himself from going insane was to follow a schedule of exercises in
his head. You have to train your mind and spirit. Like putting the
baby on a feeding schedule.
I think it’s a good idea. Here’s my schedule.
—The Little School every morning—except
Sundays.
—Writing in my book during guard change as I can
get away with twenty minutes at a time. Also after lights-out if
there is a bright enough moon.
—Going to the “movies” in my head, imagining what
is happening at home right this moment.
—Doing some handiwork. The guards are always
bringing us the prison mending.
—Helping clean up the cell—we’ve got a rotating
list of duties Sina wrote up.
—I also try to do one good thing for a cellmate
every day, from giving Delia massages for her bad back to teaching
Balbina, who’s deaf, and some of the others, too, how to write
their names.
—And finally, the thing that gets me the most
kidding, I try to “walk” for half an hour every day Twenty-five
feet down and back, twenty feet across and back.
Where are you going? America asked me
yesterday.
Home, I replied without stopping my walk.
Day by day goes by and I begin to lose courage and
wallow in dark thoughts. I’m letting myself go. Today I didn’t even
braid my hair, just wound it in a knot and tied a sock around it.
My spirits are so low.
Our visiting privileges were cancelled again. No
explanation. Not even Santicló knows why. We were marched down the
hall and then brought back—what a mean trick.
And it’s certain now—Leandro is not here with the
rest of us. Oh God, where could he be?
Minerva and I just had a talk about morale. She
says she’s noticed how upset I’ve been lately.
I am upset. We could have been out with
Miriam and Dulce a whole week ago. But no, we Mirabals had to set a
good example. Accepting a pardon meant we thought we had something
to be pardoned for. Also, we couldn’t be free unless everyone else
was offered the same opportunity.
I argued all up and down, but it was like the time
Minerva wanted to do the hunger strike. I said, Minerva, we’re
already half-starved, what more do you want?
She held my hands and said, Then do what you think
is right, Mate. Of course, I ended up on a hunger strike, too.
(Santicló snuck me in some chocolates, thank God, and rounds of
cassava or I would have starved.)
This time, too, I’d have taken that pardon. But
what was I supposed to do? Leave Minerva behind to be a martyr all
by herself?
I start to cry. I can’t take it anymore, I tell
Minerva. Every day, my little girl is growing up without me.
Stop thinking like that, Minerva says. Then she
tries all over again to lead me through this exercise where I
concentrate on nice thoughts so as not to get desperate—
I have to stop and hide this. They’re coming in for
some sort of check.
There was a row here yesterday. As a consequence,
there have been extra guards patrolling the hall outside our cell,
so I didn’t dare write until tonight.
Minerva is back in solitary, this time for three
weeks.
When they came in to remove our crucifixes, we sort
of expected it because of what’s been going on.
The officials call it the Crucifix Plot. Minerva
and El Rayo cooked up this idea that everyone without exception was
to wear a crucifix as a symbol of our solidarity. Patria sent us a
dozen little wooden ones Tio Pepe made for those who didn’t already
have one. Soon, even the meanest prostitutes were dangling crosses
above their bosoms. The naked men all wore them, too.
Whenever someone was taken for a “visit” to La 40
or got desperate and began shouting or crying, we’d all start
singing “O Lord, My Sturdy Palm When Cyclone Winds Are
Blowing.”
We kept this up for a week. Then the chief warden,
Little Razor, went from cell to cell, announcing the new
regulations, no more hymn singing, no more crucifixes. Especially
after this second pastoral Santicló told us about, Trujillo was
sure the priests were out to get him. Our crucifix wearing and
praying was a plot.
A sorry-looking Santicló and a not so sorry-looking
Tiny and Bloody Juan came in with four other guards to confiscate
our crucifixes. When I handed Santicló my little gold one from my
First Communion I’d always worn, he gave me a quick wink and
slipped it in his pocket. He was going to save mine for me. Gold
crucifixes were bound to get “lost” in Little Razor’s
safekeeping.
Everyone complied except for Minerva and Sina. They
managed to get Sina’s off her because all she did was stand real
straight with her chin up. But when they grabbed Minerva, she
started kicking and swinging her arms. Santicló’s cap flew across
the room and Tiny was smacked in the face. Bloody Juan got a bloody
nose when he tried to intervene.
Where does that sister of mine get her crazy
courage?
As she was being marched down the hall, a voice
from one of the cells they passed called out, Mariposa does not
belong to herself alone. She belongs to Quisqueya! Then
everyone was beating on the bars, calling out, iViva la
Mariposa! Tears came to my eyes. Something big and powerful spread
its wings inside me.
Courage, I told myself. And this time, I felt
it.
[pages torn out]
Thursday, April 7 (77 days)
Today, at long last, I got to see Mama and Patria,
and Pedrito—at a distance. Jaimito and Dedé didn’t come up because
we’re only allowed one visitor. But Santicló let Patria sit at my
table after prisoner # 49 was taken back. That’s what Pedrito’s
called. And something I didn’t know till today, I’m # 307.
Mama was so upset about Minerva being in solitary,
I decided not to bring up the way I’ve been feeling and worry her
even more. Besides, I didn’t want to take up time I could be
hearing about my precious. She’s got two new teeth, and has learned
to say, Free Mama, Free Papá, every time she passes
Trujillo’s picture in the entryway.
Then Patria gave me the best news so far—Nelson is
free! He was offered and accepted a pardon. Ay, how it made
me wish all over again we hadn’t turned ours down.
As for Leandro. He and some of the others are still
being held in La 40. I’m so relieved just to know he’s alive.
Patria heard from Pena up in Salcedo about Leandro being pressured
to do some job for Trujillo. They sure picked the wrong guy. My
gentle Palomino has the iron will of a stallion.
Mama said she’s going to bring Jacqueline next
week. Not inside for a visit, of course. It’s not allowed. But
Jaimito can park on the road, and I can take a peek out my
window—
How can Mama tell our window looks out on the road?
I asked her.
Mama laughed. There’s a certain black flag flown
from a certain window.
How ingenious of Mama! I always wondered why she
sent me my good towel.
Magdalena and I had a long talk about the real
connection between people. Is it our religion, the color of our
skin, the money in our pockets?
We were discussing away, and all of a sudden, the
girls started congregating, one by one, including the two new ones
who have replaced Miriam and Dulce, everybody contributing their
ideas. And it wasn’t just the usual, Sina and Asela and Violeta and
Delia, the educated women, talking. Even Balbina knew something was
up and came and sat right in front of me so she could watch my
mouth. I spoke real slow for her to understand that we were talking
about love, love among us women.
There is something deeper. Sometimes I really feel
it in here, especially late at night, a current going among us,
like an invisible needle stitching us together into the glorious,
free nation we are becoming.
I am very low. The rain doesn’t help. The days drag
on.
This morning, I woke up with the thought, Jacqui
has to get some new shoes! And that’s been going around and around
in my head all day. The old ones are probably pinching her toes and
she’ll learn to walk pigeon-toed, and then we’ll have to get her
some corrective braces, on and on and on.
You get a thought in your head in this crazy place
and it looms so big. But let it be her shoes I worry about instead
of the other thing tugging at my mind now all the time.
I’ve got a big worry, and Minerva isn’t here for me
to talk to.
I go back and calculate. Leandro and I were trying
like crazy in December and January. I wanted another one soon,
since I’ve enjoyed having my Jacqui so much. Also, I admit, I
wanted an excuse to stay home. Like Dedé, I just didn’t have the
nerves for revolution, but unlike her, I didn’t have the excuse of
a bossy husband. Not that my Leandro wouldn’t have preferred for me
to be just his wife and his little girl’s mother. More than once he
said one revolutionary in the family was enough.
I missed January, then February, and now most
definitely March. I know almost everyone here has stopped
menstruating. Delia says stress can do this to a woman; she’s seen
it before in her practice. Still, this queasiness is all too
familiar.
If I am and the SIM find out, they’ll make me carry
it to full term, then give it to some childless general’s wife like
the story Magdalena told me. That would kill me.
So, if there really is no chance I’ll be out soon,
then I want to release this poor creature from the life it might be
born to.
The girls all know home remedies, since most of
them have had to get rid of unwanted side effects of their
profession. And Delia is a woman doctor, so she can help,
too.
I’m giving it till Minerva gets back to
decide.
Still very weak, but the bleeding has
stopped.
I can’t bear to tell the story yet.
Just this—I’ve either bled a baby or had a period.
And no one had to do a thing about it after the SIM got to
me.
Magdalena has been nursing me. She feeds me broth
with crunched-up saltines Santicló brings me. She says he’s
smuggled in a little gift every day. Today, it was this blue ribbon
she used to tie my braid and a little packet of honeyballs.
Balbina has also been so sweet. She rubs my feet,
and the way she kneads the soles and pats the heels, it’s like
she’s talking to me with her touching. Saying, Get well, get
well, get well.
And I wiggle my toes back and smile wanly at her,
I will, I will, I hope I will.
You think you’re going to crack any day, but the
strange thing is that every day you surprise yourself by pulling it
off, and suddenly you start feeling stronger, like maybe you are
going to make it through this hell with some dignity, some courage,
and most important—never forget this, Mate—with some love still in
your heart for the men who have done this to you.
I’ve got to get a note written to Mama. She must
have been worried sick when I didn’t show up Thursday. What a pity
I missed seeing my little girl!
But that loss seems small now compared to what has
happened.
[pages torn out]
Easter Sunday
Minerva came back this afternoon. They released her
five days early on account of Easter. How Christian of them.
We had a little welcome party for her with some of
the saltines Santicló had brought me and a hunk of white cheese
Delia managed to get by throwing lots of water on the turtle.
Miguelito, of course, showed up for the crumbs.
I try to be lighthearted, but it takes such effort.
It’s as if I am so deep inside myself, I can’t come to the surface
to be with anyone. The easiest to be with is Magdalena. She holds
my head in her lap and strokes my forehead just like Mama.
It’s only her I’ve told what happened.
Minerva keeps asking me. I tell her I can’t talk
about it yet. I know I’ve told Magdalena, but somehow telling
Minerva is different. She’ll make some protest out of it. And I
don’t want people to know.
Minerva says, Write it down, that’ll help,
Mate.
I’ll try, I tell her. Give me a few more
days.
Minerva has excused me from the Little School today
so I can write this.
Here is my story of what happened in La 40 on
Monday, April 11th.
[pages torn out]
Saturday, April 30 (100 days)
After you lose your fear, the hardest thing here is
the lack of beauty. There’s no music to listen to, no good smells,
ever, nothing pretty to look at. Even faces that would normally be
pretty like Kiki’s or beautiful like Minerva’s have lost their
glow. You don’t even want to look at yourself, afraid what you’ll
see. The little pocket mirror Dedé sent is kept in our hiding place
for anyone who wants a look. A couple of times, I’ve dug it up, not
on account of vanity, but to make sure I am still here, I haven’t
disappeared.
I have not been able to write for a while. My heart
just hasn’t been in it.
Monday, Minerva and I got arraigned. It was my
first time out of here since that other Monday in April I don’t
want to remember, and Minerva’s first since we got here in
February. The guards told us to put on our street clothes, so we
knew right off we weren’t going to La 40.
I rubbed rosewater in my hair, then braided it with
Santicló’s ribbon, humming the whole while the little boat song my
Jacqui loves to clap to. I was so sure we were going to be
released. Minerva wagged her finger at me and reminded me of the
new cardinal rule she’s added to her other three: Stay hopeful but
do not expect anything.
And she was right, too. We were driven down to the
courthouse for our joke of a trial. No one was there to represent
us and we couldn’t talk or defend ourselves either. The judge told
Minerva if she tried one more time, she would be in contempt, and
the sentence and fine would be increased.
Five years and a fine of five thousand pesos for
each of us. Minerva just threw her head back and laughed. And of
course, I bowed mine and cried.
[pages torn out]
Wednesday, June 15 (I’ve decided
to stop counting—it’s just too depressing!)
My journal has stayed in our hiding place, everyone
helping themselves to clean pages when they need paper. I haven’t
minded. Not much has mattered for days on end.
Minerva says I’m understandably depressed. The
sentence on top of what I went through. She read what I wrote, and
she wants me to tell the OAS (when and if they ever come) about
what happened at La 40. But I’m not sure I can do that.
You have nothing to be ashamed of! Minerva says,
all fierce. She is doing my face in sculpture so I’m supposed to
sit still.
Yes, the authorities are now encouraging us to
start hobbies—again, the OAS on their backs. Minerva has taken up
sculpture, in prison of all places. She had Mama bring her some
plaster and tools. After each session, Santicló is supposed to
collect them, but he’s pretty lenient with us.
So we now have a couple of little scalpels in our
hiding place along with our other contraband, the knife, the sewing
scissors, the pocket mirror, four nails, and the file, and of
course, this diario.
What is this arsenal for? I ask Minerva. What are
we going to do with it?
Sometimes I think revolution has become something
like a habit for Minerva.
We now have two new women guards. Minerva thinks
they’ve been assigned to us to impress the OAS with the prison
system’s delicacy towards women prisoners.
Delicacy! These women are as tough or tougher than
the men, especially the fat one Valentina. She’s nice enough to us
politicals but a real witch to the others, seeing as the OAS won’t
be investigating their treatment. The nonpolitical girls have such
wonderful, foul mouths. Here’s their little chant when Valentina is
out of earshot:
Valentina, la guardona,
stupid bloody fool
went to suck milk from a cow
but got under the bull.
stupid bloody fool
went to suck milk from a cow
but got under the bull.
The guards are all worried about the rumored coming
of the OAS. We’ve heard that if a political complains, the guards
in charge of that cell will be in very hot water indeed—maybe even
shot! El Jefe cannot afford any more international trouble right
now.
During our Little School, Minerva warns us not to
be swayed by these rumors or manipulated by “fine” treatment. We
must let the Committee know the real situation or this hell will go
on. She gives me a pointed look as she says this.
I’ve told myself, Mate, don’t pay them any
attention. But with so few distractions in this place, what else am
I supposed to think of?
There’s quite a gossip underground in this place.
It relies mostly on our knocking system, but notes are also passed,
and brief exchanges sometimes take place in the visitors’ hall on
Thursdays. News travels. And it really has hurt to hear the ugly
rumor going around. My Leandro—along with Valera, Fafa, Faxas,
Manzano, and Macarrulla—is being accused of being a traitor.
Minerva says, Mate, don’t listen to evil tongues.
But sometimes she gets so angry herself at what comes through the
wall that she says she is going to tell the whole world what
happened to me, what persuasion was used on poor Leandro.
Oh please, Minerva, I plead. Please.
The movement is falling apart with all this
mistrust and gossip. Manolo is so worried, he has tapped out a
communique that has come all the way down the line. The comrades
had his permission to work on that book. There is nothing in it but
information the SIM had already collected after months of tortures.
Manolo admits even he talked, giving names of those who were
already caught or had escaped abroad.
Compañeros y compañeras. We must not fall
prey to petty divisions, but concentrate on our next point of
attack—the OAS members when they come. If sanctions are
imposed, the goat will fall.
We are suffering a setback but we have not
been beaten.
Liberty or Death!
But the terrible rumors continue.
I couldn’t sleep all night for how worked up I was
about the rumors. Then to top it off, the stench kept everyone else
up, too. We’re all angry at Dinorah for going in the bucket.
Especially after we made our agreement to use the outdoor latrine
at night so the whole cell wouldn’t have to endure bad smells while
we’re trying to sleep. And except for Bloody Juan, the guards are
willing to take us out. (Especially Tiny, who gets his chance to
“frisk” us in the dark.)
It certainly comes out, living in such close
quarters with people, which ones are only looking out for
themselves and which ones are thinking about the whole group.
Dinorah is a perfect example of the selfish kind. She steals into
our food “locker,” she swipes our underwear from the central rod
when we aren’t looking, and she has been known to report us for
wall tapping with Cell # 60. At first, Minerva made excuses about
how Dinorah learned bad civic habits from a corrupt system. But
ever since Dinorah turned in Minerva’s treasured packet of little
notes from Manolo, my open-minded sister has become quite guarded
around this so-called victim.
I know I’ve been reluctant to share certain things,
but I usually reflect a moment and end up giving most of my things
away. I always check with everyone to see if no one else wants the
lamp a certain night, and I never hog my turn at the window for
fresh air or drying laundry.
If we made up the perfect country Minerva keeps
planning, I would fit in perfectly. The only problem for me would
be if self-serving ones were allowed in. Then I believe I’d turn
into one of them in self-defense.
We’ve found a great new hiding place, my
hair!
This is how it happened. Patria slipped me a
clipping today, and I knew I’d be checked—like we always are—going
in and out of the vsitors’ hall. It’s a pretty serious offense if
you’re caught with contraband. You might lose visiting privileges
for as long as a month or even be put in solitary. I tried slipping
it back to her, but Bloody Juan was our patrol, and his hawk eyes
weren’t going to miss twice.
I was getting more and more anxious as the time was
almost up. That newspaper clipping was burning a hole in my lap.
Minerva made a hand sign we learned from Balbina that means, Give
it to me. But I was not going to let her be caught and take the
blame. Then I felt the heaviness of my braid down my back, and I
got the idea. I’m always fooling with my hair, plaiting it,
unplaiting it, a nervous habit of mine that’s gotten worse here. So
I folded that piece of paper really small, and, pretending I was
neatening up my braid, I wound it into my hair.
And that’s how the whole prison found out about the
assassination attempt.
BETANCOURT ACCUSATIONS UNFOUNDED
Ciudad Trujillo, R.D. Spokesman Manuel de
Moya expressed his outrage at the vicious and unfounded accusations
of President Rómulo Betancourt of Venezuela. Betancourt has accused
the Dominican government of being involved in the attempt on his
life that occurred in the capital city of Caracas, June 24. The
President was injured when a parked car exploded as his own
limousine paraded by. Speaking from his hospital bed, Betancourt
announced he has again filed charges with the Organization of
American States. When asked why a small, peace-loving island would
strike out against him, President Betancourt confabulated a plot
against his life by the Dominican government: “Ever since I brought
charges of his human rights abuses before the OAS, Trujillo has
been after me.” De Moya regretted these insults to the virgin
dignity of our Benefactor and expressed the openness of our
government to any and all investigations from member nations who
wish to ascertain the falsity of these malicious charges. The OAS
has accepted the invitation, and a five-member committee is due
here by the end of July.
Friday night, July 1, no one can sleep, and
not just because of the heat!
The mood here has changed overnight. Our divided
movement is pulling together, gossip and grievances cast aside. The
walls have been nothing but knockings all day long. The latest news
I smuggled in!
Trujillo is in hot water now, and he knows it. He
has to put on a good show when the OAS comes. There are all kinds
of rumors that we are all to be pardoned. Everyone is so
hopeful! Except, of course, the guardias.
When the gringos come, Santicló asks us this
evening, you girls aren’t going to complain about me, now are
you?
Yes, Santicló, Delia teases him. We’re going to say
you had a soft heart for certain prisoners. You didn’t treat us all
equally. I never got mints or a ribbon for my hair.
Santicló looks a little frightened, so I say, She’s
just teasing you, Santicló. You’ve been a real friend. I say that
to be polite, but then I get to thinking about it, and it is
true.
That’s why we nicknamed him Santicló after the big,
jolly American “saint” who brings gifts even to those who don’t
believe in Jesus or the three Kings.
No OAS yet, but lots more rumors. The beginning of
last week, everyone thought they’d be here by the end of the week.
But now the rumor is they’re waiting to see if Betancourt will
live. Also they’re working out how they’ll conduct their
investigations.
Just lock them in here with us, Sina says. We’ll
give them an earful.
Yes, Dinorah says. You girls give them an earful,
then the rest of us will give them something else.
Everybody bursts out laughing. We’ve talked openly
about it, and I can’t say I really miss it, but some of the girls
are ready to scream, they want a man so. And, I should add, it’s
not just the dubious “ladies” saying this. Minerva is the biggest
surprise of all.
These girls can be so vulgar. Lord, in six months
my ears have heard what they hadn’t known about in twenty-four
years. For instance, the girls have an elaborate system of body
clues by which they can tell what kind of a man you’re suited for.
Say, your thumb is fat and kind of short, then you’re bound to like
men with a similar endowment elsewhere. I happen to have a short
but slender thumb, and that proves I’m really compatible with a
short, slender man with “average” endowments. Phew!
Some of these girls are sleeping together, I know.
That’s the only thing Santicló won’t allow. He says it’s just not
right. Once a woman is with a woman, she’s ruined for a man.
I myself had a close encounter that turned out to
be all right. With Magdalena the other night after our talk.
—Valentina just went by on her sneaky feet.
I better put this away and not try the devil twice.
To be continued.
I mentioned the close encounter I had with
Magdalena. This is what happened.
She was visiting over here one night, and we got to
talking about ourselves, and finally she told me her whole life
story. I’ll say this, it’s enough to break my heart. I’ve been
going around for months thinking no one has suffered like I have.
Well, I’m wrong. Magdalena has taught me more about how privileged
I really am than all of Minerva’s lectures about class.
When Magdalena was thirteen, her mother died, and
she didn’t have any place to go, so she took a job as a maid for a
rich, important family. (The de la Torres, real snobs.) Night after
night, she was “used” by the young man of the house. She said she
never reported it to her mistress, since she thought it was part of
her job. When she got pregnant, she did go to the doña, who
accused her of being an ungrateful, lying whore, and threw her out
on the street.
Magdalena gave birth to a baby girl, Amantina, and
for years they lived hand to mouth. Magdalena says the trash heap
near the old airport was their bodega, and their home an abandoned
shed near the runway.
Pobrecitas, I kept saying.
At some point, the de la Torres must have caught
sight of the blond-headed, hazel-eyed little girl. They decided she
was related to their son. They drove over to the new house where
Magdalena was working and took the poor, screaming child
away.
Tears brimmed in my eyes. Any story of a separated
mother and daughter can get me started these days.
That’s when Magdalena gave me this real serious
look—like she was grateful to me for understanding. But then the
gratitude turned into something else. She came forward like she was
going to tell me a secret and brushed her lips to mine. I pulled
back, shocked.
Ay, Magdalena, I said, I’m not that way, you
know.
She laughed. Girl, I don’t know what you mean by
that way, like it’s a wrong turn or something. My body happens to
also love the people my heart loves.
It made sense the way she said that.
Still, I felt really uncomfortable in my narrow
bunk. I wanted her knee touching my knee not to mean anything, but
it did. I wanted her to leave, but I didn’t want to hurt her
feelings. Thank goodness, she got the hint and went on with the
rest of her story.
—Quiet time is over. Minerva’s hollering for us all
to come do exercises.
I’ll finish this tonight.
later
The rest of the story is that Magdalena tried to
get Amantina back. One night, she stole into the de la Torre house
and climbed the same back stairs the young man used to climb down,
and she got as far as the upstairs hall, where she was caught by
the dona coming out of her bedroom in her nightdress. Magdalena
demanded her child back and pulled out a knife to show she meant
business.
Instead of shock I felt glee. Did you
succeed?
What do you think I’m doing here? she said. I got
twenty years for attempted murder. When I get out, she continued,
my little girl will be my age when I came in. Then Magdalena began
to cry like her tears were spilling out of her broken heart.
I didn’t even think about her kissing me earlier. I
just reached out and took her in my arms like Mama always does
me.
Leandro is finally here with us! El Rayo says he’s
in Pavilion B with Manolo and Pedrito and the rest of the central
committee.
Also, the ridiculous book is out.
lComplot Develado! No one here has seen it yet, but
we’ve heard it’s an album of all our photographs with a description
of how the movement got started. Nothing that hasn’t been in the
papers for months already.
I hope all those who wagged their tongues feel
ashamed of themselves.
Minerva and Sina have been talking strategy to me
since the news was announced this morning. It’s as final as
anything can be around here. The OAS Peace Committee comes this
Friday. Only one prisoner from each pavilion will be interviewed.
The head guards were given the choice. And they picked me.
Minerva says it’s because they don’t think I’ll
complain. And you have to, she says. You have to, Mate.
But they haven’t done anything, I protest. They’re
victims, too, like you say.
But victims that can do a lot of harm. And this
isn’t personal, Mate, she adds. This is principle.
I never was good at understanding that difference
so crucial to my sister. Everything’s personal to me that’s
principle to her, it seems.
We’ve heard that the interviews won’t be
supervised, but that doesn’t mean a thing here. The hall will be
bugged with secret microphones, no doubt. It would be suicide to
talk openly. So, Minerva and Sina have written up a statement I
must somehow slip to the committee, signed by the Fourteenth of
June Movement.
There is something else, Minerva says, looking down
at her hands. We need someone to write a personal statement.
What about what Sina went through? I say. Have Sina
write up something.
It’s not the same, please, Mate. You don’t even
have to write it up, she adds. We can just tear out the pages in
your journal and put them in with our statement.
There are other considerations, I tell her. What
about Santicló? If the statements are traced to me, he’ll be
shot.
Minerva holds me by the arms. Revolution is not
always pretty, Mate. Look at what they did to Leandro, to Manolo,
what they did to Florentino, to Papilin, to you, for God’s sake. It
won’t stop unless we stop it. Besides, those are just rumors about
the guardias being shot.
I’ll see, I say at last, I’ll see.
Ay, Mate, promise me, she says, looking in
my eyes, please promise me.
So I say to her the only thing I can say. I promise
you this, I’ll be true to what I think is right.
Minerva has never heard such talk from me. Fair
enough, she says, fair enough.
Minerva has asked me a dozen times what happened. A
dozen times I’ve told her and the others the story. Rather, I’ve
tried to keep up with their questions.
How many members were in the committee. (Seven in
all, though two looked like they were there just to translate.)
Where was the session? (In the visitors’ hall—that’s why we didn’t
have visiting hours Thursday. The authorities spared themselves the
trouble of having to bug a new place.) How long was my session?
(Ten minutes—though I waited two hours outside the door with a very
nervous Santicló.) Then, most importantly. Did I get a chance to
slip the papers to a member of the committee?
Yes, I did. When I was leaving, a serious young man
came forward to thank me and lead me out. He spoke a very polite,
pretty Spanish. Probably Venezuelan or maybe Paraguayan. By the way
he was looking me over, I could tell he wanted a closer look.
Checking for scars or skin pallor—something. I had given La
Victoria a good report and said that I had been treated fairly.
What everyone else from the other cells had probably told them as
well.
Just as he was turning away, I loosened my braid
and let the first folded note fall on the floor. When he saw it, he
seemed surprised and went to pick it up. But then he thought better
of it and kicked it under the table instead. He gave me this
pointed look. I returned him a slight nod.
Santicló met me right outside the door. His jolly,
round face looked so afraid. As he was walking me back down the
corridor, he wanted to know how it went.
Don’t worry, I said, and I smiled at him. It was
actually his blue ribbon that I had used to hold both notes twisted
in my braid. I unwound that ribbon just enough so the first note
with the statement Minerva and Sina had drafted slipped out. It was
signed The Fourteenth of June Movement so it can’t be traced
to any one cell. And what are they going to do, shoot all the
prison guards?
The second note with my story was lodged further up
in my braid. Maybe it was the sight of that ribbon Santicló had
given me when I was so broken, I don’t know. But right then and
there, I decided not to drop the second note. I just couldn’t take
a chance and hurt my friend.
As far as Minerva is concerned, I kept my promise
to her. I did what I thought was right. But I think I’ll wait till
sometime in the future to tell her exactly what that was.
We have been told to be ready for our release
tomorrow!
None of the men are being freed, though, only the
women. Gallantry to impress the OAS is what Minerva guesses.
I was so afraid she was going to get high-minded on
me again. But she’s agreed to go, since this is not a pardon but a
release.
I think Minerva is close to her own breaking point.
She has been acting funny. Sometimes, she just turns to me and
says, What? as if I had asked her something. Sometimes her hand
goes to her chest as if she is making sure she has a heartbeat. I
am glad we will soon be out of here.
What hurts is thinking of those I’m leaving
behind.
Every time I look at Magdalena I have to look
away.
I’ve learned so much from you, I tell her. This has
been the most meaningful experience of my whole life, I tell
her.
I’m going to start crying before the party even
starts.
late night
The moonlight is streaming in through our little
window. I can’t sleep. I am sitting up in my bunk, writing my last
entry in the space left, and sobbing in the quiet way you learn in
prison so you don’t add to anyone else’s grief.
I feel sad to be leaving. Yes, strange as it
sounds, this has become my home, these girls are like my sisters. I
can’t imagine the lonely privacy of living without them.
I tell myself the connection will continue. It does
not go away because you leave. And I begin to understand the
revolution in a new way.
At our “farewell party,” I took a chance Dinorah
might report me and had all of them sign my book like an autograph
book. Some of them I’d taught how to write their names, so this is
a real memento of my time here.
As for the book itself—Santicio is going to smuggle
it out for me. We will be inspected thoroughly, I’m sure, when we
leave.
Then we passed around our little hoard of sugar
cubes and crackers and peanuts. I had a couple of bars of
chocolates left and I cut those in thin slices. Even Dinorah added
some guava paste she’d been hoarding. Then we looked at each other,
and there was such a sad heartfelt feeling among us. Minerva
started to say something, but she couldn’t get it out. So we just
held each other, and one by one, we wished each other well and then
goodbye.
For the OAS Committee investigating Human
Rights Abuses.
This is a journal entry of what occurred at
La 40 on Monday, April 11th, 1960, to me, a female political
prisoner. I’d rather not put my name. Also, I have blotted out some
names as I am afraid of getting innocent people in trouble.
Please don’t put it in the papers either, as
I am concerned for my privacy.
When they came for me that morning, I thought that
maybe I was being taken to the officers’ lounge for
questioning.
But instead, Bloody Juan escorted me down the
stairs and outside. There was a wagon waiting. It took me only a
minute to realize where we were going.
I kept looking out the window, hoping I’d be seen
by someone who might recognize me and tell my family they had
spotted me in a police wagon headed towards La 40. How strange that
the sun was shining so innocently. That people were walking around
as if there were no such thing in the world as poor souls in my
predicament.
I tried getting some explanation as to why I was
being taken in. But Bloody Juan is not one to explain things.
By the time we got to La 40, I was shaking so bad I
couldn’t get out of the wagon. I felt ashamed that they had to
carry me in like a sack of beans.
There was a bunch of them already waiting in the
interrogation room, tall fat Johnny with his Hitler mustache. The
one called Can dido with the curly hair. Then a bug-eyed one that
kept cracking his knuckles to make the sound of breaking
bones.
They stripped me down to my slip and brassiere and
made me lie down on this long metal table, but they didn’t buckle
the belts I saw dangling down the sides. I have never known such
terror. My chest was so tight I could barely breathe.
Johnny said, Hey, pretty lady, don’t get all
excited.
We’re not going to hurt you, the one called Cándido
said.
That made me shake all the more.
When the door opened, and
was
brought in, I didn’t immediately recognize him. A walking skeleton,
that’s what he looked like, shirtless, his back covered with
blisters the size of dimes.
was
brought in, I didn’t immediately recognize him. A walking skeleton,
that’s what he looked like, shirtless, his back covered with
blisters the size of dimes.I sprang up, but Bloody Juan pushed me back down on
the table. You lay down nice like you’re in bed waiting for him,
Bug Eye said. Then he said something gross about what torture does
to the necessary organ. Johnny told him to shut up.
What do you want with her?
shouted. I could tell
he was scared.
shouted. I could tell
he was scared.We want her to help us persuade you, Johnny said in
a voice that was too calm and rational for this eerie place.
She has nothing to do with this,
cried.
cried.Are you saying you’ve reconsidered, Johnny
asked.
But
stood his ground. I’m
not discussing the matter further unless you let her go.
stood his ground. I’m
not discussing the matter further unless you let her go.That’s when Bug Eye slammed him with a fist,
knocking him down. How dare scum dictate terms to the captain! Then
all of them joined in kicking
until he was writhing
in agony on the floor.
until he was writhing
in agony on the floor.I was screaming for them to stop. It felt like my
very own stomach was being punched, and that’s when the pains as
bad as contractions began.
Then Johnny asked me if I couldn’t
persuade
After all,
and
had all
reconsidered.
After all,andhad all
reconsidered.I was so tempted to say, Ay, 
save yourself, save
us. But I couldn’t. It was as if that would have been the real way
to let them kill us.
save yourself, save
us. But I couldn’t. It was as if that would have been the real way
to let them kill us.So I told those monsters that I would never
ask
to go against what
his conscience told him was right.
to go against what
his conscience told him was right.Two of a kind, the one called Cándido said. We’ll
have to use stronger persuasions.
I guess, Johnny said. Tie her down.
Bug Eye stood before me, holding a rod with a
little switch. When he touched me with it, my whole body jumped
with exquisite pain. I felt my spirit snapping loose, soaring above
my body and looking down at the scene. I was about to float off in
a haze of brightness when
cried out, I’ll do
it, I’ll do it!
cried out, I’ll do
it, I’ll do it!And down I went, sucked back into the body like
water down a drain.
Next thing I knew,
was calling out
my name and shouting, Tell them I had to do it, as he was being
dragged away.
was calling out
my name and shouting, Tell them I had to do it, as he was being
dragged away.Johnny seemed in a bad mood at all this commotion.
Get him out of here, he said. Then to Bloody Juan, Get her dressed
and take her back.
I was left alone in that room with a handful of
guards. I could tell they were all ashamed of themselves, avoiding
my eyes quiet as if Johnny were still there. Then Bloody Juan
gathered up my clothes, but I wouldn’t let him help me. I dressed
myself and walked out to the wagon on my own two feet.