While he spoke, the next escapee ran into the shadows. Number One took him to his position. Seconds later, the next one came over, and then another one. Atcho watched in wonder. All of their training had been indoors, mainly by brief-back, and within sight of the guards on the watchtower.

  On a few occasions they had concocted games on the floor of the cellblock for physical practice, but those events had necessarily been few. Atcho marveled that these were farmers, doctors, teachers, engineers—none of them had been professional soldiers. He reflected briefly on the lengths that the human spirit would go to be free. He recalled Jujo’s warning about their probable fates if caught.

  The last man crossed the road into the safety of the shadows. Atcho took up the lead again. At one point, they thought they heard scuffling feet and froze in place, barely breathing. They were next to a long building that could have been an office or barracks. Several doors stood at regular intervals. The escapees watched warily as they passed.

  They were about halfway along the length of one building when one of the doors flew open. A soldier staggered out, still half-asleep, from a dimly lit interior. He stumbled into Number Nine, grunted in surprise, and stood back to take a closer look.

  Another soldier walked through the door. On the way out, he flipped a switch, bathing the area in light and exposing every man in the group. Both guards froze as realization spread across their faces.

  The escapees flew into motion. Number Nine shoved the guard to the ground and took off running after the others already sprinting down the trail. At the front, Atcho yelled, “Havana. Spread out.”

  A siren blared, and full lights went on all around the prison compound. “Havana,” Atcho yelled again. “Havana. Pass it back.” Immediately, the men split off from each other, yelling, “Havana. Havana.” Just as quickly, they fell silent again.

  Atcho ran as hard as he could, staying in the shadows when he could find them. The moonlight glistened on his wet clothing, and the mud impeded his progress. He turned randomly to his left and then to his right, and saw his fellow escapees running as hard as he was in divergent directions.

  He thought he heard screams behind him but pressed on. Ahead in the distance, he saw more lights flick on at the front gate, and then a line of soldiers formed, facing his direction.

  They started toward him. At an angle to his right, he saw more buildings with soft shadows and ran for them, unbuttoning his shirt as he ran. Reaching them, he tore off his shirt, then his trousers. He now wore only his underwear and everyday work shoes.

  Pausing next to one of the buildings, Atcho wadded up the uniform and stuffed it in a space under the floorboards. Then he continued his flight toward the front of the buildings.

  There, he saw the headquarters and main gate clearly. A line of soldiers advanced toward the fleeing prisoners. One of the guards called out and pointed at several men running far to Atcho’s left.

  Taking a deep breath, Atcho dashed into the light, making himself deliberately visible, running in the opposite direction. He heard a soldier yell and shots fired. Around him, hot lead whizzed by.

  Atcho ran until there was nowhere to go—no shadows and no buildings to hide behind. He threw his arms over his head and slowed to a walk. Keeping his hands high and panting deeply, he turned and faced his captors. Visions of “the box” floated in his mind as, very quickly, the line of soldiers formed a circle around him.

  12

  Eight months later, March 1962

  The full length of Atcho’s legs ached when he arrived back at Circular 4. Just standing to full height had been excruciating.

  The unforgiving guards had given no quarter. They had pulled him from his “box” that evening, taunting and jabbing him as he lay writhing on the floor. His fouled clothes stank with his own sweat, caked-on feces, and still-damp urine. The sores on his legs were open, full of pus, and they burned painfully.

  Two guards yanked him upright, casting one of his arms over each of their shoulders. Despite his emaciated form, they struggled under his dead weight. He was incapable of supporting himself, and they seemed angry at that as they dragged him from the punishment facility back to Circular 4.

  They opened the door, jostled him inside, and dumped him on the cold dirt floor. He lay there, unable to move even an inch.

  Fellow prisoners gathered around. Gently, they picked him up and carried him to a first-tier cell away from the sun. Someone brought him water, while another cut away his clothes. Barely conscious, he sensed more than felt gentle care as they cleaned him and massaged soothing salve into his wounds.

  He slept fitfully, nightmares of his most recent ordeal joining the pain that invaded his consciousness—but he slept, which felt like a new experience.

  He was not sure how long he had been back in Circular 4. He remembered periods of light and darkness, and extended time alone, and then men moving about.

  “Manuel, it’s me. Domingo.” Atcho looked around, realizing that he was awake. He tried to speak but heard only croaking coming from his own mouth.

  Domingo put his arm around Atcho’s neck, raised him slightly, and poured water down his throat.

  Atcho fell back into sleep again. When he awoke, Domingo was there. The room was lighter than it had been before, and the pain in Atcho’s legs had subsided. When he tried to move them, they felt stiff and resurrected the pain. His upper body, though emaciated, had had more freedom of movement in the box, and had not incurred the same ravages.

  “How long have I been here?” His voice was raspy, barely above a whisper.

  “Three days. The guards will let you recover for two more days. Then you’ll be back in the marble quarries.”

  Atcho sank back. “I wouldn’t expect less.” He coughed. “How long was I in there?”

  “The punishment facility?” Domingo exhaled. “Eight months.”

  Atcho became aware of his long hair and beard, leaving only his eyes and nose exposed. “Eight months,” he breathed. “Eight months. How does anyone survive that for eight months?” He grabbed his beard angrily. “Can I please get this off?”

  “We would have done it before, but you needed sleep.”

  Atcho thanked Domingo. “Did anyone escape?”

  “Yes. We think three made it.”

  “Only three?” he said, despair in his tone.

  “Three,” Domingo said firmly, “but if you hadn’t taken off running the way you did, the number would have been zero—or maybe just one—you.”

  Atcho started to object. “Everyone knows you were the one most likely to make it out,” Domingo went on. “You sacrificed yourself to give the others a better chance. No one will forget.”

  Atcho protested. Domingo shrugged. “Have it your way,” he said. “You succeeded. We needed one man to get free to tell our story. You accomplished that.”

  They were silent a moment. Finally, Atcho asked, “Who were the three?”

  “We think there were three. Sixteen went out, including you. Thirteen went into the punishment facility. One made it all the way to Miami. He got word to us from a family member. We never heard from the other two.”

  Atcho was startled. “One made it to Miami?” he said. “How?”

  “You might remember him—Bernardo Martin. He was meticulous about getting his escape clothes together. He stole a full military uniform, including service cap and identification papers, and got away when you created your diversion. Then he walked through the gate like he was going home after his shift, made it to the boat and got off in mainland Cuba. From there, he went north and hid out with friends. He was a mechanical engineer. They had an old pickup truck, so he reworked the drive shaft to make it come out the back at an angle and fitted it with a propeller. Then they tied a bunch of inner tubes around the truck like a raft and drove it to Key West.”

  Dumbfounded, at first Atcho could only stare. Then he felt a surge of excitement. “Are you kidding?” He struggled onto his elbows. “He did that?” He laughed involuntarily, lay back, and looked up at the dark ceiling. “He should have planned the escape.”

  “You made good decisions. Without you, no one would have had a chance.”

  Atcho disregarded the remark. “What about the other two?”

  “We don’t know. We never heard. They might have been killed, they might have escaped and not reported back—we just don’t know.”

  Atcho was quiet a moment. “What about the ones in the punishment facility? Am I the last one out?” Domingo nodded, but was silent and looked away.

  Reading his demeanor, Atcho asked sharply, “Where are the others?”

  “Nine came out two months ago,” Domingo said. “Three…” His voice trailed off.

  Dread seized Atcho. He struggled to a sitting position as realization dawned. “What happened to the others?” He paused, his expression becoming urgent. “Jujo?” he said hoarsely. “What about Jujo?”

  Domingo just shook his head and lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry. He didn’t make it.”

  Atcho lay back again, anguished. For a long time, he just staring at the ceiling. Then, as if a switch flipped in his brain, he asked, “Where did you get the medicine?”

  “What?”

  “The medicine. You treated my legs. Where did you get the medicine?”

  Domingo shrugged. “From the clinic. They know we have doctors in here. They let us treat our own when it suits them. It saves them the trouble.” They sat in silence a while longer. “Atcho, I have other news. I don’t know if it’s good or bad. It’s just news.”

  Atcho stiffened against what he might hear next. “What is it?”

  “They’re bringing the prisoners of Brigade 2506 here.”

  “What?”

  “We heard it through a visiting family member. They still get radio from Miami, and it was announced over there. The Brigade 2506 made fools of Castro.”

  “How?”

  “He tried to divide them, but they stayed united and when they were at trial, they staged public demonstrations, right there with all of Castro’s goons around. Fidel thought he was going to show something to the world through those trials, and all he showed was his own ego and foolishness, and the magnificence of our men.” He paused. “You know they felt betrayed by the US and President Kennedy.”

  “We all did,” Atcho muttered with a toss of his head.

  “They made a pact among themselves to never say anything bad about the US or Kennedy, and they never did.”

  Atcho thought about what Jujo had said. “Cuban solidarity. We could use more of it.” The hint of a smile crossed his lips. “We haven’t won our country back yet, but at least they know they haven’t beaten us.” He sat quietly. “Why are they coming here?”

  “Castro has to put them somewhere, and they’ve become an embarrassment to him in Havana. This is the most secure place. The first ones arrived already. They keep them separate from us. At some point, they’ll probably return to the US.”

  Domingo searched Atcho’s face for a reaction, but Atcho looked like he was trying to process with an exhausted mind. “Brigade 2506 already captured world attention,” Domingo said. “When they are here, there is no way the atrocities committed in this prison can be kept a secret. That’s a good thing. You helped bring it about.”

  13

  Five years later, April 1966

  “How long have we been on the Isle of Pines?” Atcho asked.

  “Nearly five years,” Domingo replied.

  “Five years,” Atcho breathed. “Do you believe Castro is really going to close this place?” He looked around as their group of prisoners trudged past the massive mess hall, then between the immense round cellblocks toward the front gate.

  “Sometimes world pressure works,” Domingo said. “Castro couldn’t keep up his façade of a benevolent revolution while this place existed.” He nudged Atcho. “You set Bernardo Martin free, he did his job in Miami, and Brigade 2506 brought attention here.”

  “Brigade 2506,” Atcho said. “I tried to see them the whole year they were here, but never got the chance. I kept looking through the windows to see if I recognized anyone. I thought I saw an old man I called Toothless, and a major I met in the swamps on the last night of fighting. I couldn’t be sure if they were the ones I saw.”

  “They went home to Miami—we’re going to prisons in our home provinces.”

  “For me, that means Presidio Boniato in Oriente Province,” Atcho said quietly.

  Domingo swung around to face him. “Isn’t it time to let them know your true identity? Boniato is every bit as bad as this place, but no one in the outside world knows about it yet.” He spoke with exasperation. “Your daughter is in the US and that Russian officer is long gone. From what I can tell, no one is looking for you anymore.”

  “I made my own bed,” Atcho said sadly. “If I tell them now, they’ll think I’m trying to avoid Boniato; or they could retaliate because I evaded them all these years. His voice became even more subdued, “People died protecting my identity, including my closest friend, Juan.”

  They both fell silent and walked on.

  They had reached the main gate and were herded onto buses that would take them the few miles to the boat. No one spoke as they made the trip. On either side of the road, tall sentry pines watched their departure. Soon the bus rolled into Nueva Gerona, the small town on the river harbor providing the only access to the open sea.

  The bus headed toward the docks, turned onto a quay, and halted beside a transport boat. Evening settled as they cast off from port, turned downriver, and headed out to sea.

  Atcho watched the waters darken as evening fell. The atmosphere became eerily jovial as men settled for a trip that would take most of the night. They talked quietly about hopes and fears.

  Atcho found a quiet spot away from the others and stood leaning over the rail. Soviets guarded the prisoners on the boat and took scant notice of them except to prohibit them from sitting on benches. Those were for the guards. Prisoners had to content themselves on the floor.

  As the evening turned into night, the guards engaged in their favorite pastime, drinking vodka. But soon, the vodka ran out, so they took shots of rubbing alcohol until they were sick and puking on the deck. The stench rose, vile and thick, and the prisoners scrunched together to try to keep out of it.

  Atcho continued to look out to sea, and watched the moon rise, a cold, white orb, gleaming in its majesty, uncaring in its distance. He gazed at it in sad fascination, remembering the occasion long ago when the same full moon had witnessed the theft of his little girl. She was five years older now, a stranger to her father.

  “You’re always there,” Atcho murmured to the gleaming disk. “It seems you are the only benign constant in my life.” His mind drifted. “Are you seeing my Isabelita now? How is she? What is she doing this minute?” He lowered his head, knowing the absurdity of his ruminations.

  Waves crashing against the bow jolted Atcho back to the present. The moon had drifted across the sky but continued to rule the night. Atcho reflected a while longer. He wanted to sit down next to Domingo, but the fresh sea air kept the smell of bile away. He slid down by the rail. Most of the prisoners were asleep. Soon, in spite of himself, Atcho slept too.

  14

  Fourteen years later, April 13, 1980

  As the massive prison gate closed behind him, the harsh clang of steel on steel of Presidio Boniato’s gates reverberated in Atcho’s ears. He took a few tentative steps toward freedom, then turned and looked back at the stark surroundings that had been his abode these past fourteen years.

  Fourteen years at Boniato. Five years at the Isle of Pines. Nineteen years taken out of my life—for what?

  Encircled by a high, chain-link fence, the dull yellow Boniato Prison was comprised of five massively long two-story rectangular buildings. Low administrative offices and barracks connected them. Razor-sharp barbed wire topped the fence that stretched away in both directions. It only hinted at the brutality within its perimeter.

  Atcho shook his head to clear it. He could not believe that he was truly departing the place where he had been incarcerated for so long.

  When he had awakened that morning, nothing indicated that anything new or different was in store for him. With other prisoners, he had been called out and shoved at bayonet point into a separate group. The guards herded them into a “shower house,” concrete walls with protruding bare pipes, bringing cold water for bathing.

  The guards yelled at them to wash and dress in clothing heaped in a corner and cleaner than their own. The clothes had probably belonged to other prisoners. Atcho wondered if they were still alive.

  Once showered and dressed, the guards directed them to a separate eating facility where they gulped another, more wholesome breakfast.

  The prisoners’ eyes glinted with veiled hope. This procedure signaled that they might be returned to their homes for release. Their hopes remained in check by the dread of ending this beguiling dream.

  When they finished eating, they trooped outside to sit in the shadow of the iron front gate until well past noon. Then, with guards prodding them, they herded onto a bus that would carry them to the train station.

  Still dubious, Atcho boarded with the others, remembering that the last time he had ridden a bus he had been transferred here from the Isle of Pines. He followed the man in front of him to a seat midway to the rear.

  “What do you think is happening?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know,” the man responded. “I just hope this goes the way it looks.” They exchanged wary glances.

  A sullen army captain Atcho had never seen before climbed onto the bus. Glancing at an official-looking document in his hand, he spoke, his voice laced with sarcasm. “It is my duty to inform you that our great leader, Fidel Castro, in the goodness of his forgiving heart, has decided to terminate the sentences of many Cuban enemies and allow free passage to any country willing to receive them.”

 

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