Free CURSE THE MOON by Lee Jackson Page A

“Sorry to tell you so soon, but we never know how much time we’ll have to talk.”
    Atcho ate as much as he could stomach. Within minutes, they trooped back outside, formed with their work groups, and began the trek to the marble quarries. Leon stayed close to Atcho, and as they started out, he said, “Don’t worry, no one will tell. We are honored that you are among us.”
    A guard bellowed. “Hey you, stop talking!” He was not a large man, but his rifle was loaded and his bayonet sharp. The prisoners plodded along.
    After a while, when it seemed that conversation had started between other prisoners, Atcho asked, “How is the work at the quarries?”
    “I won’t lie,” Leon replied, furtively. “It’s rough. We do everything by hand with picks and sledgehammers. They make young prisoners do it because the work is hard and they are trying to break us.” He looked back at the guard. “They think that if they can kill our spirits, the other prisoners will see and be easier to manage. But always, we resist. The work strengthens resolve. When they push us harder, we slow down – we become plantadas, unyielding. And they know if they push us too hard, we’ll just stop. They can’t kill us all.” Atcho recalled that Domingo had told him the same thing last night. “But you still have to be careful, because the guards are untrained and they can be arbitrary.”
    “I told you to stop talking!” the guard yelled. When Atcho turned, he saw that the guard was only a few feet away. The man lunged with his bayonet and plunged it into Leon’s left buttock. Leon screamed and fell to the ground.
    While the other guards circled in close vicinity, the attacker stood over Leon using his weight to drive the bayonet further in, and when he felt bone, he turned it. Leon writhed in pain, and after a moment, the guard pulled the bayonet out, creating a sucking noise. A huge volume of blood spurted, drenching the guard and spraying those nearby, including Atcho.
    Stunned, Atcho stared. The entire action had taken only seconds. On the ground, Leon writhed, while blood poured out of him into a bright pool. Other prisoners moved around, aghast. “Get him some help!” someone cried. The guards only moved to tighten their perimeter around Leon. The attacker whirled to face the prisoners. His expression was one of fascination and glee. It mixed with consternation as he confronted the hostility evident on the prisoners’ faces. He looked at Atcho. “Do you see what you caused?” he said, grinning.
    Atcho reeled. Immediate guilt swept over him.
    “We need to stop the bleeding!” someone else called.
    “We’ll get him help,” the lead guard said matter-of-factly to no one in particular. “Now get to work.” He detailed a guard to stay with Leon and sent another for medical help while he and the other guards herded the work group to the marble quarries.
    A pall hung over Circular 4 when Atcho and his work group arrived back at the end of the workday. Without inquiry, he knew that word had spread about what had happened to Leon. Given the deliberately slow pace at which the guards had gone for help, Atcho knew Leon’s fate. He had bled out among the weeds.
    “It’s not your fault,” someone told him. “Sometimes they let us talk, sometimes not. It’s arbitrary. They might prod with the bayonet sometimes, but,” he shook his head, “that one’s crazy.”
    Atcho learned later that suicides were rare among political prisoners despite the torture. That night, as he was sitting in his fourth tier cell, he saw a body plunge from above and heard it hit the floor below. The man had been Leon’s cellmate, and a close friend of the old man beaten to death the night before. Atcho reflected that he had been at El Presidio Modelo for less than twenty-four hours, and in that time, he had witnessed the deaths of three men.
    Every day in the quarries, prisoners suffered physical torment. The jarring of Atcho’s muscles and joints