Santa Clara Pen

 

The bus stopped before Santa Clara prison, a massive Spanish colonial building from the early 1900s. Its broad central courtyard, nine-foot ceilings, weathered clay roof, and long rooms facing the yard divided the compound into distinct cellblocks.

After passing through the main gates and guarded checkpoints, the prisoners were led into the central courtyard, where the guards unlocked the heavy chain binding them together. The young bootblack who had struck a policeman with a paving stone received only a swift kick in the backside, sending him stumbling into his assigned cellblock. He vanished into the shadows, surrounded by hostile, leering faces. The other newcomer needed no shove toward the larger political cellblock; the guards merely spoke to an inmate by the iron grate door and signaled him inside.

From his bunk near the entrance, Antonio watched the new prisoner cross the threshold.

Twenty-two or twenty-three, Antonio guessed, studying the man's features. He looked like a gringo, with light blond hair and exceptionally fair skin. Antonio noticed that Pablo—the muscular, self-appointed leader of the cellblock—was already rising to approach the newcomer. This will be interesting, Antonio thought, leaning back against the wall.

"Welcome to the political ward, young lawbreaker," Pablo boomed, modeling his posture after a theatrical Mexican outlaw. "What is your name?"

Tall and powerfully built, with deep olive skin, curly hair, and a heavy mustache, Pablo had spent two years intimidating his cellmates and keeping them under his thumb. The newcomer, though slender and just as tall, appeared completely at ease.

"My name is Emilio," the blond youth replied. "And yours?"

"Pablo. Didn’t the guards tell you how things work here?"

"No," Emilio said smoothly. "But I imagine you will."

"The warden gives us enough bunks, linens, and towels," Pablo said, gesturing around the room. "We take weekly turns washing them in the laundry. And remember—we are all innocent here. So, what did you do against the government? This is the political ward, after all."

"They caught me three days ago coming down from the Escambray mountains," Emilio said. "Near the Cumanayagua checkpoint."

"Is that so?" Pablo narrowed his eyes and stepped closer. "You have a strange accent. Where are you from?"

"I’m Venezuelan. You?"

"A Venezuelan, indeed!" Pablo scoffed. "Coming down from the Escambray, too. Perhaps you’re a chivato—a snitch."

Emilio smiled faintly, untroubled. "If I were a snitch, I’d be lucky. None of those men in the mountains were volunteers like me. The rest are quemados—burnt criminals with records, fattened by Florida money and the pigs it buys."

"Bold words from someone captured just like them," Pablo said, his tone shifting. "Come, I’ll show you the layout and your bunk."

Pablo led Emilio to an empty cot and introduced him to the other inmates. Antonio watched their faces: curious, hostile, and ready to interrogate him.

As expected, Pablo took charge of the questioning, eager to conduct the cross-examination.

"Now we’ll ask our new friend a few questions to learn where his loyalties lie," Pablo announced. "That boy manacled to you—was he with you in the Escambray mountains?"

"No," Emilio replied. "He hit a police officer with a paving stone in a public square here in Santa Clara."

"Why? Is he a revolutionary?"

"No," Emilio sighed. "Sometimes simple minds miss the fine print. He ignored the new rule barring bootblacks from certain areas. When the officer stomped on his box and ruined it, the boy didn’t miss the officer’s head with the paving stone."

"Do you know how the police punished him?" an inmate called from the back.

"No. I’m new here."

"They put him in the ward with the homosexuals," Pablo said with a cruel smirk. "Fresh fruit for them; buggering newcomers is their specialty. Now tell me, do you support the DRE, or oppose the 26th of July Movement in the Escambray?"

"I came to Cuba to help overthrow Fulgencio Batista and build a true democracy," Emilio said firmly. "I won’t take part in your internal revolutionary factions."

Mocking laughter erupted through the cellblock.

"So what do you think of Fidel?" Pablo demanded, stepping into Emilio’s space. "What did those DRE boys tell you about him?"

"If he truly supports democracy, he could be good for Cuba," Emilio replied.

"And what exactly do you mean by ‘democratic government’?"

"A government where citizens can debate state policies without fear of retaliation."

"Did they teach you that fairy tale in Venezuela?" Pablo sneered, his face hardening. "This country doesn’t need debate. It needs cleansing. It needs a strong man with the power to do what must be done, without philosophers or democratic idealists getting in the way. He’ll put every corrupt criminal in the government before a firing squad after a proper revolutionary trial. Do you object to that?"

Emilio met Pablo’s eyes. "Let me answer with a question. Have you ever found truth in the writings of someone you completely disagree with?"

"No," Pablo snapped, proudly. "My loyalty to Fidel leaves no room for ideas that contradict his."

"I am a Christian and a firm believer," Emilio said, his voice carrying through the quiet cellblock. "Yet I found truth in the writings of Mikhail Bakunin, a Russian philosopher who rejected Christianity. He wrote: 'If there is a devil in human history, that devil is the principle of command. It alone, sustained by the ignorance and stupidity of the masses, without which it could not exist, is the source of all the catastrophes, all the crimes, and all the infamies of history.' He also warned: 'If you took the most ardent revolutionary, vested him in absolute power, within a year he would be worse than the Tsar himself.'"

Antonio sat back on his bunk as a heavy silence settled over the room. This Venezuelan youth is going to have serious trouble here, he thought darkly.