Part 22 (1/2)

Sat.u.r.day, 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 guardia station), and # 62 on our other side is for nonpoliticals. Those guys station), and # 62 on our other side is for nonpoliticals. Those guys love 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. 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 cla.s.ses and discussions, and many have. Magdalena, Kiki, America, and Milady have become regulars. Dinorah sometimes comes, but it's usually to criticize.

Oh yes, I forgot. Our four-footed Miguelito. He shows up for any occasion that involves crumbs.

Sunday, March 20 (59 days) Today I took my turn at our little window, and everything I saw was blurry through my tears. I had such a yearning to be out there.

Cars were speeding east to the capital, north towards home; there was a donkey loaded down with saddlebags full of plantains and a boy with a switch making him move along; lots and lots of police wagons. Every little thing I was eating up with my eyes so I lost track of time. Suddenly, there was a yank at my prison gown. It was Dinorah, who keeps grumbling about us ”rich women” who think we are better than riffraff.

”That's enough,” she snapped. ”We all want to have a turn.”

Then the touchingest thing happened. Magdalena must have seen I'd been crying because she said, ”Let her have my turn.”

”And mine,” Milady added.

Kiki offered her ten minutes, too, and soon I had a whole other half hour to stand on the bucket if I wanted to.

Of course, I immediately stepped down, because I didn't want to deny anyone their ten minutes of feasting on the world. But it raised my spirits so much, the generosity of these girls I once thought were below me.

Monday, March 21 (60 days) 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! 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 Mama to take me home. 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 Mama to take me home.

Thank G.o.d, 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 G.o.d.

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. b.l.o.o.d.y 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 little to brag about. 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 guardia guardia in charge that you'd like to throw some water on the turtle. 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 ca.s.sava for everyone in our cell with the money Santiclo 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, 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.) 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. 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) b.l.o.o.d.y Juan beats on the bars with an iron bar at five, iViva Trujillo! 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. 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, Adios con el corazon, Adios con el corazon, since this is Miriam's and Dulce's last day. Most of us are crying. since this is Miriam's and Dulce's last day. Most of us are crying.