In the Time of Butterflies (41 page)

Today we sing,
Adiós con el corazón,
since this is Miriam’s and Dulce’s last day. Most of us are crying.

I end up vomiting my breakfast chao. Anything can set me off these days. Not that my stomach needs an excuse for rejecting that watery paste. (What
are
those little gelatin things I sometimes bite down on?)

 

We just had our “little school,” which Minerva insists on every day, except Sundays. I guess Fidel did this when he was in prison in the Isle of Pines, and so we have to do it, too. Minerva started us off by reciting some Marti and then we all talked about what we thought the words meant. I was daydreaming about my Jacqui—wondering if she was walking yet, if she was still getting the rash between her little fingers—when Minerva asked what I thought. I said I had to agree with what everyone was saying. She just shook her head.

Then, we politicals gathered in our comer and rehearsed the three cardinal rules:

Even Santicló? I asked. He is so good to me, to all of us really.

Especially Santicló, Sina said. I don’t know who is tougher, Minerva or her.

Both of them have warned me about getting too fond of the enemy

 

Yesterday night, Santicló brought us the last of the contents of Mama’s package, including some Vigorex. Maybe now this stomach of mine will settle down. The smelling salts will also help. Mama and Patria outdid themselves. We have everything we need and then some luxuries. That is, if Minerva doesn’t give it all away.

She says we don’t want to create a class system in our cell, the haves and have nots. (We don’t? What about when Tiny gave Dinorah a
dulce
de
leche
as payment for her favors, and she didn’t offer anyone a crumb, even Miguelito?)

Minerva gives me her speech about how Dinorah’s a victim of our corrupt system, which we are helping to bring down by giving her some of our milk fudge.

So everyone’s had a Bengay rub and a chunk of fudge in the name of the Revolution. At least I get this notebook to myself.

Or so I think, till Minerva comes around asking if I couldn’t spare a couple of pages for America’s statement for her hearing tomorrow.

And can we borrow the pen? Minerva adds.

Don’t I have any rights? But instead of fighting for them, I just burst out crying.

Monday, March 28 (67 days)

I left my chao untouched. Just a whiff of that steamy paste, and I didn’t even want to take a chance. I’m lying on my bunk now, listening to the Little School discussing how a woman revolutionary should handle a low remark by a comrade. Minerva excused me from class. I feel like my insides are trying to get out.

I’ve gotten so thin, I’ve had to take in the waistbands of all my panties and stuff the cups of my brassiere with handkerchiefs. We were fooling the other day about whose were bigger. Kiki made a low remark about how the men are probably doing the same thing with their you-know-whats. First month I was here, I was shocked by such dirty talk. Now I laugh right along with everybody.

 

I can’t even fall asleep tonight remembering Violeta’s prayer at the close of our group rosary:
May I never experience all that it is possible to get used to.

How it has spooked me to hear that.

 

I am trying to keep a schedule to ward off the panic that sometimes comes over me. Sina brought it up during Little School. She had read a book written by a political prisoner in Russia who was locked away for life, and the only way he kept himself from going insane was to follow a schedule of exercises in his head. You have to train your mind and spirit. Like putting the baby on a feeding schedule.

I think it’s a good idea. Here’s my schedule.

Where are you going? America asked me yesterday.

Home, I replied without stopping my walk.

 

Day by day goes by and I begin to lose courage and wallow in dark thoughts. I’m letting myself go. Today I didn’t even braid my hair, just wound it in a knot and tied a sock around it. My spirits are so low.

Our visiting privileges were cancelled again. No explanation. Not even Santicló knows why. We were marched down the hall and then brought back—what a mean trick.

And it’s certain now—Leandro is not here with the rest of us. Oh God, where could he be?

 

Minerva and I just had a talk about morale. She says she’s noticed how upset I’ve been lately.

I
am
upset. We could have been out with Miriam and Dulce a whole week ago. But no, we Mirabals had to set a good example. Accepting a pardon meant we thought we had something to be pardoned for. Also, we couldn’t be free unless everyone else was offered the same opportunity.

I argued all up and down, but it was like the time Minerva wanted to do the hunger strike. I said, Minerva, we’re already half-starved, what more do you want?

She held my hands and said, Then do what you think is right, Mate. Of course, I ended up on a hunger strike, too. (Santicló snuck me in some chocolates, thank God, and rounds of cassava or I would have starved.)

This time, too, I’d have taken that pardon. But what was I supposed to do? Leave Minerva behind to be a martyr all by herself?

I start to cry. I can’t take it anymore, I tell Minerva. Every day, my little girl is growing up without me.

Stop thinking like that, Minerva says. Then she tries all over again to lead me through this exercise where I concentrate on nice thoughts so as not to get desperate—

I have to stop and hide this. They’re coming in for some sort of check.

 

There was a row here yesterday. As a consequence, there have been extra guards patrolling the hall outside our cell, so I didn’t dare write until tonight.

Minerva is back in solitary, this time for three weeks.

When they came in to remove our crucifixes, we sort of expected it because of what’s been going on.

The officials call it the Crucifix Plot. Minerva and El Rayo cooked up this idea that everyone without exception was to wear a crucifix as a symbol of our solidarity. Patria sent us a dozen little wooden ones Tio Pepe made for those who didn’t already have one. Soon, even the meanest prostitutes were dangling crosses above their bosoms. The naked men all wore them, too.

Whenever someone was taken for a “visit” to La 40 or got desperate and began shouting or crying, we’d all start singing “O Lord, My Sturdy Palm When Cyclone Winds Are Blowing.”

We kept this up for a week. Then the chief warden, Little Razor, went from cell to cell, announcing the new regulations, no more hymn singing, no more crucifixes. Especially after this second pastoral Santicló told us about, Trujillo was sure the priests were out to get him. Our crucifix wearing and praying was a plot.

A sorry-looking Santicló and a not so sorry-looking Tiny and Bloody Juan came in with four other guards to confiscate our crucifixes. When I handed Santicló my little gold one from my First Communion I’d always worn, he gave me a quick wink and slipped it in his pocket. He was going to save mine for me. Gold crucifixes were bound to get “lost” in Little Razor’s safekeeping.

Everyone complied except for Minerva and Sina. They managed to get Sina’s off her because all she did was stand real straight with her chin up. But when they grabbed Minerva, she started kicking and swinging her arms. Santicló’s cap flew across the room and Tiny was smacked in the face. Bloody Juan got a bloody nose when he tried to intervene.

Where does that sister of mine get her crazy courage?

As she was being marched down the hall, a voice from one of the cells they passed called out, Mariposa does not belong to herself alone.
She belongs to Quisqueya!
Then everyone was beating on the bars, calling out, i
Viva la
Mariposa! Tears came to my eyes. Something big and powerful spread its wings inside me.

Courage, I told myself. And this time, I felt it.

Thursday, April 7 (77 days)

Today, at long last, I got to see Mama and Patria, and Pedrito—at a distance. Jaimito and Dedé didn’t come up because we’re only allowed one visitor. But Santicló let Patria sit at my table after prisoner # 49 was taken back. That’s what Pedrito’s called. And something I didn’t know till today, I’m # 307.

Mama was so upset about Minerva being in solitary, I decided not to bring up the way I’ve been feeling and worry her even more. Besides, I didn’t want to take up time I could be hearing about my precious. She’s got two new teeth, and has learned to say,
Free Mama, Free Papá,
every time she passes Trujillo’s picture in the entryway.

Then Patria gave me the best news so far—Nelson is free! He was offered and accepted a pardon.
Ay,
how it made me wish all over again we hadn’t turned ours down.

As for Leandro. He and some of the others are still being held in La 40. I’m so relieved just to know he’s alive. Patria heard from Pena up in Salcedo about Leandro being pressured to do some job for Trujillo. They sure picked the wrong guy. My gentle Palomino has the iron will of a stallion.

Mama said she’s going to bring Jacqueline next week. Not inside for a visit, of course. It’s not allowed. But Jaimito can park on the road, and I can take a peek out my window—

How can Mama tell our window looks out on the road? I asked her.

Mama laughed. There’s a certain black flag flown from a certain window.

How ingenious of Mama! I always wondered why she sent me my good towel.

 

Magdalena and I had a long talk about the real connection between people. Is it our religion, the color of our skin, the money in our pockets?

We were discussing away, and all of a sudden, the girls started congregating, one by one, including the two new ones who have replaced Miriam and Dulce, everybody contributing their ideas. And it wasn’t just the usual, Sina and Asela and Violeta and Delia, the educated women, talking. Even Balbina knew something was up and came and sat right in front of me so she could watch my mouth. I spoke real slow for her to understand that we were talking about love, love among us women.

There is something deeper. Sometimes I really feel it in here, especially late at night, a current going among us, like an invisible needle stitching us together into the glorious, free nation we are becoming.

 

I am very low. The rain doesn’t help. The days drag on.

This morning, I woke up with the thought, Jacqui has to get some new shoes! And that’s been going around and around in my head all day. The old ones are probably pinching her toes and she’ll learn to walk pigeon-toed, and then we’ll have to get her some corrective braces, on and on and on.

You get a thought in your head in this crazy place and it looms so big. But let it be her shoes I worry about instead of the other thing tugging at my mind now all the time.

 

I’ve got a big worry, and Minerva isn’t here for me to talk to.

I go back and calculate. Leandro and I were trying like crazy in December and January. I wanted another one soon, since I’ve enjoyed having my Jacqui so much. Also, I admit, I wanted an excuse to stay home. Like Dedé, I just didn’t have the nerves for revolution, but unlike her, I didn’t have the excuse of a bossy husband. Not that my Leandro wouldn’t have preferred for me to be just his wife and his little girl’s mother. More than once he said one revolutionary in the family was enough.

I missed January, then February, and now most definitely March. I know almost everyone here has stopped menstruating. Delia says stress can do this to a woman; she’s seen it before in her practice. Still, this queasiness is all too familiar.

If I am and the SIM find out, they’ll make me carry it to full term, then give it to some childless general’s wife like the story Magdalena told me. That would kill me.

So, if there really is no chance I’ll be out soon, then I want to release this poor creature from the life it might be born to.

The girls all know home remedies, since most of them have had to get rid of unwanted side effects of their profession. And Delia is a woman doctor, so she can help, too.

I’m giving it till Minerva gets back to decide.

 

Still very weak, but the bleeding has stopped.