Читать книгу Against All Hope - Armando Valladares - Страница 10

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LIFE AND THE TERRORS OF DEATH AT LA CABAÑA

The first visit we had with our families took place in the morning. Men were not allowed to visit the prisoners; only women were allowed inside. Even so, the searches they performed were humiliating. They stripped all the women, with no respect even for the elderly. Among the women guards who performed the searches, there were two who always caused problems — one was called La China and the other was named Mirta. Both of them were lesbians, and they made the most of the situation. However much my mother and sister tried to hide from me the shame and indignation they suffered when they were searched, I saw through it. I begged them not to come again.

Every night there were firing squads. When I heard the discharges of the rifles, I would be seized with horror, and I embraced Christ in desperation. I had come to prison with some religious feeling; my beliefs were genuine but no doubt superficial at that time, since they had never been submitted to hard trial. I held to the religion I had learned at home and at school, but it was very much like a man who has acquired good manners or who carries along the lessons of the things he first learns to read, without examining them. But very quickly I began to experience a substantial change in the nature of my beliefs. At first no doubt I embraced Christ out of the fear of losing my life — since I was certainly in danger of being shot at any time. But that path I took in approaching Him, however human it was, still seemed unsatisfactory and incomplete, merely utilitarian, to me. There came a moment when, seeing those young men full of courage depart to die before the firing squad and shout “Viva Cristo Rey!” at the fateful instant, I not only understood instantly, as though by a sudden revelation, that Christ was indeed there for me at the moments when I prayed not to be killed, but realized as well that He served to give my life, and my death if it came to that, ethical meaning. Both my life and my death would be dignified by my belief in Him. It was at that moment, I am sure, and not before, that Christianity became, more than a religious faith, a way of life for me. Because of my situation, it seemed my life would necessarily be a life of resistance, but I would be sustained in it by a soul filled with love and hope.

Those cries of the executed patriots — “Long live Christ the King! Down with Communism!” — awakened me to a new life as they echoed through the two-hundred-year-old moats of the fortress. The cries became such a potent and stirring symbol that by 1963 the men condemned to death were gagged before being carried down to be shot. The jailers feared those shouts. They could not afford to allow even that last courageous cry from those about to die. That rebellious, defiant gesture at the supreme moment, that show of bravery and integrity by those who were about to die, could easily become a bad example for the soldiers. It might even make them think about what they were doing.

The recruits who made up the platoons of the firing squads received five pesos and three days’ leave for each man executed. At least in Western countries, it is customary for a soldier in a firing squad never to be certain that he is the one who killed that other man, for of the six rifles, one is loaded with blanks. The soldiers pick up their guns at random, so they never know whether their cartridge is real or a blank. This method affords relief for the soldiers’ consciences. But that is not the method employed in Cuba. All the rifles are loaded with lead bullets.

Balbino Díaz and Robertico Cruz were very young. They had been accused of shooting at José Pardo Llada, the spokesman for the government at the time. At their trial, nothing could be proved; no one could identify them. At one point in the proceedings, the defense attorney approached the prosecutor, Flores Ibarra, a man everyone knew by the nickname Bloodbath, and asked him to reduce the sentence he was requesting, since it was obvious that he had not been able to prove the accused men were guilty. He responded, “I have received orders to have them shot, no matter what, as a means of social prophylaxis. If we didn’t go through with that, all those other counterrevolutionaries that think they’re tough would unleash a wave of attempts on the lives of the leaders of the Revolution.”

Two militiamen, who were members of the tribunal, Sergio Arenas and Alejandro Meneses, stamped their fingerprints on the sentence. They were illiterate; they didn’t even know how to sign their names. Balbino and Robertico were immediately executed.

The lawyer for the defense, Dr. Acosta Mir, was detained at the end of the trial; he was set free later, after he was warned not to defend any more counterrevolutionaries.

Commander Jesús Carreras was one of the leaders of the guerrilla army that had fought against the dictatorship of Batista. He had operated in El Escambray, a mountainous region in the central part of the island. His bravery in the battles there had made him a legendary hero in those parts, and certainly Commander Carreras had not fought so bravely just to see established a dictatorship which was a thousand times more vicious than the one he had helped to topple. So Castro sent him to jail, as he did so many other officers. But for the high-ranking officers Castro bore a special, almost sadistic, hatred. Moreover, Castro had a personal grudge against Carreras. Carreras had had a falling-out with Castro in the middle of the war because Carreras was unalterably opposed to Castro’s appointment of a Communist, Ché Guevara, as head of the guerrilla front in El Escambray. When Ché penetrated into the rebel zone that Carreras controlled, Carreras was ready to kill him. Neither Castro nor Ché ever forgot that. Carreras and I talked frequently, because we lived in the same group of cots, and he told me he was certain he’d be sentenced to death for what had happened. Sure enough, Carreras was the next high-ranking officer shot after Commander Clodomiro Miranda.

Then they shot William Morgan. The leader of the firing squad was so angry with Morgan that he gave him several coups de grâce. Even before that, but in Las Villas Province, another commander of the guerrilla forces had fallen before the firing squad. This one, Porfirio Ramírez, president of the Student Federation of Central University, had fought right beside Castro.

Because of the constant firing squads, the prison at La Cabaña had become the most terrible of all the jails. But added to that terror of death came another — the terror inspired in us by the early-morning “inspections.”

Captain Herman F. Marks, an American whom Fidel Castro had appointed head of the garrison of La Cabaña and official executioner, was the man who fired those coups de grâce and carried out the inspections. When he was drunk, which was very frequently, Marks would order the garrison to form up in full military gear and attack the prisoners. He called the prison his “private hunting reserve.” Another of his amusements was to stroll through the galeras and call out to those who were to be tried for offenses which carried the death penalty; he would ask them behind which ear they wanted the coups de grâce. He had a dog he took with him to the executions so the dog could lap up the dead men’s blood. Years later he returned to the United States.

For the inspections, the platoon of soldiers, armed with wooden truncheons, chains, bayonets, and anything else they could use to beat us with, would erupt into the galeras shouting and striking out blindly. The order was that we prisoners were to come out of the cells the instant the cell doors were opened. But when the cell doors would be opened, the angry mob of soldiers would rush in like a whirlwind, meting out blows at random. Prisoners, also like a whirlwind, would be trying to get out into the prison yard, and so a knot of prisoners and guards beating them would form at the door, since we couldn’t all fit through the door at the same time. We were always in mortal terror of those inspections. We would be gripped by panic, desperation, and, worst of all, confusion — we would try to escape unharmed, but that was virtually impossible, since outside in the patio a double file of guards armed with rifles and fixed bayonets made sure that no one failed to receive his quota of blows and kicks.

Hundreds of prisoners ran or staggered out in all states of dress and undress, some even naked. When we were all out, they rushed us and began beating us with even more ferocity. The more the guards flailed and yelled at us, the more furious they became, their faces growing more and more horrible and deformed with hatred and sadism. Up on the roof, a line of soldiers, including women, their rifles cradled in their arms, contemplated the spectacle. Among the soldiers up there was always a group of officers and civilians from the Political Police, and, of course, conspicuous, Captain Marks.

About three o’clock one morning in the days after my trial, which I will talk about in a moment, the cry of “Inspection!” woke us all up. Men were shouting the terrifying word from the galeras nearest the main gate. Almost instantly the prison yard filled with guards, but they didn’t open the cell doors. That was strange — soldiers were just standing there before the bars. But when they opened the doors and gave the order to come out, on the double, the blows began. They did not go inside the galeras. They beat us outside. One of us, a seventy-eight-year-old man named Goicochea who could hardly walk, was pushed, fell to the ground, and fractured his thigh. But no one picked Goicochea up; no one even stopped to help him.

We ran around him, trying at the same time to dodge the soldiers’ blows and not to trample him. We ran toward the front wall, where we always formed up under the yells of the guards armed with rifles and fixed bayonets waiting for us there. At that inspection, as at some others, platoons were present from the National Revolutionary Police, which collaborated with the garrison at La Cabaña. This time the inspection had a special purpose. Months before, the Revolutionary Government had begun a campaign to collect money to buy arms. Castro’s own slogan at the beginning of 1959 — “Arms? For what?” — had been utterly forgotten, and now the rage to arm Cuba was spreading over the land. The government had asked the people to contribute money and jewelry — rings, pendants, gold chains — to the defense coffers. Because of the terror, anguish, and blind panic the inspections always gave me, I had forgotten to grab my watch when I ran out. I always hid it inside a shoe when I went to bed, but like everyone who possessed a watch I always took it out with me during these inspections. It was a matter of prudence — if you left it the soldiers would find and “confiscate” it for sure. And if you dared to report the “loss,” the soldiers invariably took it as an accusation of thievery against themselves; the consequences to the prisoner are easily imagined. As I ran out of my cell I realized that I had left the watch. No doubt about it, I thought, I might as well give it up for lost. It was a gift from my father.

But now all the prisoners were being stripped of their watches, pendants, chains, and wedding rings anyway. One by one, as we entered the galeras, completely naked, they took our jewelry. The officers shouted, egging on the pillaging by the soldiers, “Let’s go! You people have to contribute to buying weapons and airplanes just like everybody else!” If one of us dared not to turn over a piece of jewelry he was beaten even worse.

All the jewelry was dumped into a canvas bag. When we returned to the galeras, there was a huge mess of clothing and personal articles strewn down the passageway. Now that we were safe, out of reach of the guards, the prisoners began to rage against them, accusing them of being thieves and robbers. When I picked up my shoes under the cot, I was amazed to find my watch, which had escaped the search. What should I do now? Suddenly I was frightened, frightened to have in my possession my own watch. What if the garrison troops saw it and jumped to the conclusion I’d hidden it from them? They might feel I had intentionally mocked or tricked them, even defied them. Good Lord, what to do? I stood there dazed and bewildered, holding the watch, while some of the prisoners around me looked at it incredulously and asked, “How did you manage to sneak that one by?”

I was now paralyzed with worry. I would have to hide the watch as though I had stolen it. I toyed with the idea of going to the door, calling the guard over, and very politely turning it over to him. I would explain what had happened. That way I would avoid reprisals, but that seemed a weak and even cowardly thing to do. I decided not to do that, and I think that somehow that decision was what determined all my future conduct. I would always act according to my own set of values, because reprisals would be more bearable than the reproaches and censures of my own conscience.

Every morning at sunrise La Cabaña awoke to the same question — “Who will they shoot today?”

After the morning headcount, they opened the cells and we congregated in the prison yard and waited in the interminable line for breakfast. The youngest member of our particular group was Carlos Alberto, who was underage, although he was taller than any of us. Carlos Alberto had married very young, and his wife, Linda, had brought their daughter, Gina, to the last visit, when she was only a few months old. Carlos and I had made our attempt to escape from the jail at Political Police Headquarters, so the possibility, or rather virtual certainty, of our being executed always hung over our heads. Because of that and because of his age, Carlos Alberto’s family had requested that he be transferred to a jail for minors.

A few days after his trial, he was called to the main gate with his belongings. He was being sent to a prison outside Havana. Within a few weeks, somehow supplied with a hacksaw, he cut through the bars of his cell and escaped. He managed to enter the Venezuelan embassy, and after months of pressure the Cuban government allowed him to leave the country.

Carrión, Piñango, Boitel, and I were jubilant at Carlos Alberto’s escape — one man fewer in that hell! When days before I had thought of Linda and the months-old baby girl, I couldn’t help being overwhelmed by grief for them. I remembered Juan José and Pedrito, and I thought about their little children, whom I had played with during the visit, and whom a week afterward had been left fatherless. Gina, at least, would not be an orphan.

The authorities did not bother to notify the families of the men they had executed, so that quite often the mothers, wives, and children of executed men appeared at visiting time asking to see them. A wrenching silence would fall. The prisoners would look at one another, as though saying, “You tell them.” Sometimes the family interpreted that silence perfectly, and they would open their eyes wide in pain and shock and break into tears.

When Julio Antonio Yebra’s mother found out about her son’s execution, she exclaimed with extraordinary self-possession and integrity, “If the death of my son were the last blood shed by these firing squads, I would accept his death without another word.”

But he would not be the last. Thousands and thousands more would follow Julio Antonio.