Free CURSE THE MOON by Lee Jackson Page B

with every blow he delivered with a sledgehammer and pick to the hard, raw marble kept him in constant, often excruciating, pain and his ears rang with the constant clang of metal on rock. But his muscles also hardened, and as Leon had told him, reinforced his determination. The sweltering heat turned his skin into leather and lined his face.
    Isabel and his life before the Bay of Pigs seemed now distant memories.
    From the time of his capture to his transfer to the island prison, Atcho had found no chance to escape. Then one evening a few days after his arrival in Circular 4, a man paid Atcho a visit in his cell. He was the prisoner who had stood up to the guards. When he entered, Atcho’s cellmates greeted him warmly and respectfully, then, moments later, vacated.
    “My friends call me Jujo,” he said, extending his hand. He was a man of normally medium build, but the ravages of prison had taken their toll. Grizzled like everyone else, he was also balding on top. Gray, feathery strands of hair fell around his neck. He had been a literature professor in Havana. They spoke for a while.
    “We know who you are, Atcho.”
    Startled, Atcho said nothing for a moment. “How do people know me? Leon said the same thing just before he was attacked.”
    Jujo smile softly. “Atcho, you were better known around Cuba than you might have thought. A West Point graduate from Cuba is very rare. You are the only one – well, and your father before you. I am so sorry for your loss.” Atcho acknowledged the sentiment. “When you graduated,” Jujo went on, “the news was on the front page of newspapers with your picture. President Batista called you a national treasure.” Noting Atcho’s concern, he continued, “Your exploits with that tank at the Bay of Pigs are well known, the stuff of legend, and more than a few of us saw you take out Javier that day.” He laughed softly. “I might only know about literature, but I can still add two and two, and I remember the photos I saw of you.”
    Atcho shook his head. “I need to keep my identity as much a secret as possible.” He told Jujo about Captain Govorov and Isabel. “I don’t want my family to know I am alive. If everyone thinks me dead, I have a better chance of escaping and finding her.”
    Jujo listened intently, thought a moment, and then said, “Atcho, I don’t think you have to worry. Only a few people have probably heard much about this, and we can let the story die. If it comes up among prisoners, we’ll say it was mistaken identity. Even if they don’t believe us, they won’t ask questions. Men have died in here protecting each other, and you’re not the only one whose identity needs to be hidden. Now.” He shifted his body. “You mentioned escape. That’s what I came to talk to you about.”
    “Escape? From here?” Atcho was dumbfounded.
    “You brought it up.”
    “I thought about it in the abstract. Do you really think anyone could escape from here?” He felt excitement stir.
    “Sí, from here. The world does not yet know the tenacity of Cubans.” He chuckled. “But some day they might.” He reached under his shirt, and pulled out a thin metal hacksaw blade.
    Atcho stared. “How did you get that?”
    “Family members sent them in packages.” He gently smiled again. “Remember, Castro pushed out the educated people. The ones checking are untrained, inexperienced. We use that against them.”
    Atcho sat back. He felt the beginnings of hope. “So how do we do this? We’re on an island many miles from the Cuban mainland.”
    “Yes. It won’t be easy. This is the first blade that we got in. But the system worked, and now others are on their way. Meanwhile, we need to gather clothing, uniforms, identification cards – anything useful that we can get our hands on.”
    “Why would you include me? What do you need from me?”
    “Good question. Everyone would like to escape, but that won’t work. We’re trying to get a group out, but very few in