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.
Thursday, March 17 (56 days)
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.
Friday, March 18 (57 days)
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.
Saturday, March 19 (58 days)
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.
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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.
Tuesday, March 22 (61 days)
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.
Wednesday, March 23 (62 days)
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.
Thursday, March 24 (63 days)
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.
Friday, March 25 (64 days)
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?)
Saturday, March 26 (65 days)
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.
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
Sunday, March 27 (66 days)
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.
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.
Tuesday late night, March 29 (68 days)
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.
Wednesday, March 30 (69 days)
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.
Thursday, March 31 (70 days)
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?
Friday, April 1 (71 days)
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.
Saturday, April 2 (72 days)
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.
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.
Friday, April 8 (78 days)
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.
Saturday, April 9 (79 days)
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.
Sunday, April 10 (80 days)
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.
Not sure what day it is
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.
Another day
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.
Friday (I think)
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.
Saturday, April 16
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 20 (90 days)
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.
Tuesday, April 26 (96 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.
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.
Wednesday, May 25 (125 days—1,826 days to go—Oh God!)
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.
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.
Friday, June 24, hot as hell in here
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.
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.
Monday, June 27, midafternoon
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.
Tuesday morning, June 28 (a bad night)
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.
Thursday night, June 30, heat unbearable, Santicló brought us some paper fans
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.
Sunday night, July 10 (Mama sent us a flashlight)
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.
Monday afternoon, July 11, quiet time
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.
Saturday afternoon, July 23
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.
Wednesday evening, August 3—we got real chicken and rice tonight!
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.
Saturday, August 6
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.
Sunday afternoon, August 7—we’re having a little party later
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.
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.
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.
Are you saying you’ve reconsidered, Johnny asked.
But
 |
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.
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.
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.
So I told those monsters that I would never ask
 |
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!
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.
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.
