The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(11)
It is impossible to not be angry in a place like this.
One day, the clank of metal against metal, the rattle and shake that accompanies the heavy fall of footsteps on dirty, dank stone floors fills the air, and hope springs in my chest at the possibility of a visitor and any news they might bring even as I know such an emotion is futile in this place.
Recogidas has a particular talent for eradicating hope in the women it imprisons.
“The warden would like to speak with you,” one of the guards announces, staring at me and Carmen.
Carmen sidles closer to me, clutching my hand in hers.
“Not you,” the guard replies, his gaze fixed uncomfortably on Carmen. “Just your sister,” he adds, gesturing toward me.
“I’ll be fine,” I whisper, squeezing Carmen’s hand.
Around us, the other women imprisoned here jeer, but I block out their voices.
Recogidas has a particular talent for pitting us against one another, too.
When we first arrived, the women searched us for anything valuable they could use until they realized that despite our appearances, the whispers that we are ladies, like them we have nothing. Regardless of how and why we ended up here, we have all been excommunicated from society, abandoned, discarded, and forgotten.
The feel of their hands on my body reminded me so much of Berriz, I was sick afterward.
Behind me, the women laugh as I follow the guard from my cell, Carmen’s anxiety at being left alone a palpable thing that follows me all the way to the warden’s office. Will she be safe in my absence?
If they sentence me to death, who will care for my sister?
My family has always been the most important thing in my life, and after all I have done to care for my father and sister, it pains me that Carmen is here, even indirectly, because of me.
The guards parade me through the prison, more women calling out to me. My case has drawn a measure of notoriety thanks to Berriz’s stature, heaping more attention on me than I’d like. I can only hope that somewhere outside of Recogidas, there are people working on my behalf, like-minded revolutionaries who are as tired of the Spanish injustices as I am.
I suck in a deep breath as I walk toward the warden’s office, trying not to breathe in the air, to keep the odor of the prison at bay. The stench here is an indescribable horror—death, desperation, all sorts of bodily decays mixed together.
I lower my head, careful to keep from making eye contact with anyone. In my mind, I am somewhere else entirely, at home with my family, dancing in the courtyard of our home, the sun shining down and warming my skin. In my mind, I have disappeared, and I am not covered in filth and rags, hunger gnawing at my belly.
The guard stops outside the warden’s office.
Nerves fill me as he shows me into the room, and I approach the warden’s desk.
“You will need to make a statement about what happened to you,” the warden Don Jose announces, all pleasantries abandoned.
I swallow, fear closing my throat. Of all the things I relive at night when the demons come to me, the last I wish to remember is the feel of Berriz’s body against mine.
“I will tell you the truth,” I say, because there is no point in lying to these people. They will have every part of you whether you wish to give it or not.
I tell him all of it, but when I get to the end of my story, Don Jose looks at me expectantly.
“But not the whole truth,” he replies. “You omitted something very important. We want the names of the men who came to your house. The ones who attacked Colonel Berriz. They must be made to answer for their crimes. To attack a Spanish officer is a grave offense. If you do this, you will make things much easier for yourself. We will be more lenient in your sentencing if you show that you are sorry for what you have done, and that you recognize the role others have played in your actions.”
It is one thing to discuss what happened, to be forced to remember it, but another entirely to sacrifice my friends, people like Emilio Betancourt whom I love. They’ve already arrested so many; why must I confirm it for them? Why must I give them my honor, too?
“I cannot give you the names.”
Displeasure fills his gaze. “Can’t or won’t?”
For a moment, I hesitate at the thread of steel in his voice. Perhaps they already have the names and I would only be echoing what they already know. Maybe this is all a test to see how cooperative I will be, how much of a threat I am to them and Berriz’s reputation. My friends were already rounded up; but will I be sentencing them to their death, too, if I corroborate what the Spanish suspect?
It would be easy to tell them the whole story in exchange for saving my father or my sister. For pleading for some leniency for myself.
But even as I open my mouth to speak, something holds me back. My father raised me to believe in something more than myself, taught me the honor of sacrificing for my country, and I cannot betray my countrymen.
“The names are not mine to share.”
Don Jose’s lips tighten into a thin line. “Why do you insist on making this so difficult for yourself? It could be easier, you know, if you were friendly with the guards. If you made some attempts to ingratiate yourself to us.”
It is impossible to mistake the leer in his gaze or the insinuation in his voice.
I duck my head, my cheeks burning as the indignity of it all rushes through me, that they believe they have some claim to my body. I take a deep breath, and then I look into his eyes, meeting his gaze.