Jorge and Debbie's Family Corner

I've been so busy this month with my Fiscal Year End closing at work and also traveling on personal and business trips that I have not had time to attend to my blog lately, and it will be a little while longer. So I've decided to re-post the story about The Trial since some have asked me about it again. This time, however, I will give a little background on how this story came to life.

The story, while fiction, was based on a true incident which I am about to describe briefly. Shortly after Castro took over in Cuba, the trials described below began to take place around the island. I was a very young child in the early 60's when those events were taking place, maybe 7 or 8 years old, and don't really remember much about them in specificity. However, I recall that one day I had gone somewhere with my mother and during that turbulent period, everyone was discussing the drastic changes taking place in the country. My mother met a neighbor on the street and they stopped to chit chat and the story that neighbor told my mother made such an indelible impression in my young mind that I never forgot it.

The neighbor told my mother about a soldier in Batista's army in our city that had been tried and condemned to the firing squad. After the sentence was declared, he was allowed to say some final words. His family, including his children, were present at that trial and he spoke to them. He basically told them that he had done nothing worthy of the sentence they had pronounced against him and that he would die an innocent man. He admonished his children that when they walked the streets of the city they should never lower their eyes when meeting people on the street, but instead they should always look at people square in the eyes because their father had done nothing that would have brought them any shame.

That story made such an impression on me that as I grew older, I wanted to write a story that would have that central theme to show others some of the injustices that change had brought to Cuba when the Rebel army, led by Castro, had come to power.

If you read the story before, now you know a little bit about its origin. If you didn't, I hope you enjoy it.

The Trial

On the third day of April 1959, Fernando Gonzalez woke up later than usual for a school day. He was glad that today was a holiday, not only for Caimanera, but also for the neighboring town of Boqueron, just across the bay. An event of great importance was going to take place at the city square that afternoon and Fernando, like most people of the two small towns, did not want to miss it. He pulled an old worn-out basketball out of his closet and by the time he left the house later that morning he felt in his brow the intense heat from the Caribbean sun. Fernando did not mind the heat. He twitched his nose as he walked toward the Parque, as the citizens of the small town called the central square. The soft breeze coming in from the bay was shrouding the town with the saline stench that came from the salt flats.

Caimanera was located in the western coast of the Bay of Guantanamo. Many years before, it had risen midst the salt flats that surrounded the city, and with time, it had grown into a small, dirty coastal town lined with wooden houses on mostly dirt streets that became impenetrable, slippery mud swamps during the rainy season. As he walked down the dirt road, Fernando gave thanks for the new school principal who had declared the day a holiday. Mr. Rosario could not have chosen a more beautiful day to declare a school holiday. This day was not only starting out to be beautiful with its bright sunshine and soft breeze coming from the bay, but it also happened to be Friday.

Fernando was in a festive mood.

He was going to have a three day weekend and nothing was going to spoil it for him. His only regret was that, because of the holiday, basketball practice had been canceled. But he and his friends had agreed to practice as soon as they left the Central City Square, where the activities of the day were going to take place later that afternoon.

A couple of blocks from his house Fernando stopped by to pick up Alfredo, his best friend from school.

"Catch!" Fernando threw the ball at point blank range hitting his friend on the stomach as he opened the door.

"Ouch!" his friend complained.

"A basketball player must always be alert."

"Another one of your practical jokes? Right?"

"No. Not at all." Fernando sounded real serious, but with a slight grin on his face that went unnoticed by his friend. "Just trying to practice what the coach has been drilling at us. Keep...your eyes...on the ball." He spoke the last sentence in short pauses for emphasis.

Alfredo didn't seem too convinced, but Fernando didn't notice and probably didn't care. "I think we'll have time to practice for a while after we leave the square. I just hope that whatever they do, they do it quickly."

The two teenagers made a comical pair as they walked toward the Square turning the street into an imaginary basketball court and the people in it their most zealous fans. They dribbled the ball on the dirt street passing it to each other and performing a series of twists and turns, which finally ended with a jump and a lay up into an imaginary basket. They never missed a single shot and even kept score in their imaginary game. "Two more points!" They called out, and began their street charade once again.

Everywhere there were people heading in the direction of the square. Some were on foot, some were on bicycles and occasionally a car or two passed by. Very few people in the poor town had, or even, needed a car to get around the small town.

"Beep! Beep!"

Fernando and the other people walking on the street looked behind them and saw a military jeep with its top down carrying four soldiers. The pedestrians moved aside and waved to the soldiers while the jeep passed by.

"Viva la Revolucion." Some of the people on the streets called out to the rebels in the Jeep.

"Viva Fidel!" the rebels answered as they went by. In the four months since Fidel had come to power in Cuba, the town was full of soldiers. But today they seemed to be everywhere.

These rebels were the heroes of the Revolution. For three years they had fought against the abusive and corrupt government of Fulgencio Batista, who in March 1952 had wrested the Presidency in a bloodless coup d'etat. The abusive and corrupt government of Batista had been a mirror image, with some slight variations, of all previous governments in the island since it had attained independence from Spain at the turn of the century. These rebels, inspired by Fidel, were loved by the masses. Aided by the campesinos and the middle class, they had defeated a much stronger, better armed adversary. For three years they fought a guerrilla warfare in the eastern mountains, hidden, preserved and supported by the campesinos, the middle class and even by the Americans that supplied them with much needed arms and ammunition. As they passed by, Fernando and the people around him gazed at these soldiers with admiration and respect. Fernando knew that he would see them again soon. These rebels were also heading toward the Square.

When he neared the Square, Fernando noticed the crowd of people approaching El Parque and he was surprised to see so many people there already. As he looked at the large crowd that had already gathered there, he realized that the choicest places from which to watch the events that were scheduled to take place at exactly noon that day would soon be gone.

The Central City Square was the center of commerce as well as the social gathering grounds of that small coastal town. It covered an entire city block bordering the Calle de la Marina, the main street coming into Caimanera, as it curved in a northwesterly direction near the city pier. The Square was so near to the water front that on a windy day one could clearly hear the constant slapping sound the waves made when they crashed against the thick pilings at the pier and ricocheted against the retaining wall. The Parque, was surrounded by cafes, clothing stores, a barber shop, the only movie house in town, and other businesses. On weekends it became the social grounds of the citizens of the small town. Young couples came dressed in their best attire to leisurely stroll around hand in hand seeking a remote, unlit area where they could steal a kiss from their lover before they emerged again to the view of those that came to sit around and take in the cool breeze that usually blew in from the bay. Every weekend, a volunteer band of musicians took over the stage located on the eastern side nearest the pier. The stage was covered with a half-shell canvas to guard the musicians and their music sheets from the heavy winds that blew in from the bay. For a couple of hours a night these amateur musicians made their instruments wail with nostalgia or sing with ecstasy in an array of melodies that entertained the crowd that came to the Square to enjoy the cool breeze that blew in from the bay.

When Fernando and Alfredo reached the Square, they surveyed the area looking for a spot from where they could watch the upcoming trial.

"Fernando! Over here!" Fernando looked in the direction of a large tree that shaded the Square on the end opposite the stage. There he saw a group of school friends sitting on the branches. He motioned to Alfredo to follow him and a few minutes later, when they were finally entrenched on one of the branches, Fernando thought that nothing could unseat him from this place until he went to the school yard to practice basketball with his friends.

From his vantage point, Fernando had a bird's eye view of the Square and its surroundings. He looked below, toward the stage and noticed what undoubtedly was going to be the court: two long tables and several chairs. The tables were set in the middle of the Square, one directly across and parallel to each other with a space of about four feet separating them. Some chairs were set on the outside of each table in such a manner that those sitting around the two tables would be facing each other. The remaining chairs, thirteen of them, were set on both ends of the tables. On one end of the tables, there were ten chairs arranged in two rows of fours and one row of twos. On the opposite side and right across from the ten chairs, three more chairs had been set. This arrangement was enclosed by ropes held up by poles in such a manner that it acted as a barrier to keep those on the outside out, and those in the inside in.

Fernando looked around him and not far away, to his left, he noticed some girls, about his age, began to laugh as they looked up at the tree where he and his friends were settled.

"Hey, guys. Look over there." And he pointed in the direction of the girls with a nod of his head.

"Wssh." Alfredo let out a long whistle. But either because of the noise or because the girls had already become distracted with other people in the crowd, they did not hear him.

"Watch this." Fernando told his friends and threw a small branch off the tree in the girl's direction wishing to get their attention again.

"Alright, which one of you wise guys threw this!" Instead of drawing the girls attention, Fernando hit a middle aged man who, had it not been for the crowd blocking him, would have climbed the tree to teach those teenagers a lesson.

Fernando brushed the incident aside with a shrug of the shoulders as his friends had a good laugh on him. "The practical jokester goofs again." they said almost in unison.

People continued to flood the Square, and Fernando wondered if the Square and its surroundings could hold more people. It was only one hour before noon but the Square was already filled to capacity. There were people standing on the Square benches, others on a small steel fence that surrounded the Square; others, as Fernando and his friends had done, climbed trees in and around the Square so that they could have a better view of what was about to happen. People overflowed into the streets. Some had even brought stools on which they stood so they could watch the activities about to take place. Fernando wondered why they had not set the so called court on the stage, but he did not dwell too much on this thought. His thoughts were distracted by the many homemade signs and banners that people had brought into the Square. The signs were full of revolutionary fervor: "Viva la Revolucion!", "Viva Fidel!", "Viva Cuba Libre!"

When all available spaces in the streets and sidewalks around the Square were taken, he saw people peering through the windows of the upper stories of buildings surrounding the Square. He noticed the people turning their head toward the town theater and he saw a group of about four men climbing on the roof. When they reached the top, they slowly began to unfold a large banner they had carried up with them. When the sign was completely unfolded everyone began to clap and hail the four young men as heroes. The banner read in big black letters: "PAREDON A LOS TRAIDORES!" "THE FIRING SQUAD FOR THE TRAITORS."

They'll have a tough time hearing the proceedings, Fernando thought as he looked at them so far away on the roof of the theater. But then he noticed the loudspeakers that had been so strategically located through out the Square. On his right, near the court, he also noticed the television crews setting up their cameras and microphones. The event was going to be televised to the rest of the nation, but that would not prevent the people in the city from coming to the trial. In the first place, everyone had been ordered, under the penalty of the law, to attend; and secondly, very few people in Caimanera owned a television set.

Fernando knew that there were too many people at the Square on this day for them all to be from the small town. He guessed correctly that there were people there from Boqueron, the small town just across the bay, on the east fifteen minutes away by boat, and possibly even Guantanamo, about twenty minutes by car to the Northwest. From his location, he looked into the bay and saw more boats docking at the pier as they continued to bring more people into Caimanera from the neighboring towns around the bay. His uncle Antonio was probably making a lot of money today. He looked again to the ferries out in the distance but could not identify his uncles boat. There were too many people around on the pier.

Around noon, the people gathered there from early morning, were ablaze from the smoldering heat of the Caribbean sun. Fernando counted himself lucky that he had found a shady spot, because instead of feeling the burning rays of the afternoon sun, he felt the soothing ocean breeze that blew in from the bay gently fanning his face.

"Rayados frios!" Fernando heard the loud clanging bells of the ice cone vendor who was surrounded by young children and their parents. In a series of quick motions the ice cone vendor frantically scraped ice from a large ice block, dipped it into a cone shaped paper cup and finally poured sweet tropical flavors over it selected from a rainbow of bottles held firmly on top of his cart. And not to be outdone by the ice cone man, the sandwich vendor was screaming to the top of his lungs peddling his pork sandwich specialty for the hungry crowd. "Lee...chon! Lechonsito asado!"

The crowd was in a festive mood and Fernando was caught up in the mood of these festivities. It reminded him of the crowds he saw at the carnival in Guantanamo the year before. Just as in Guantanamo, today the street vendors were crying to the top of their voices peddling their merchandise. Others were constantly ringing bells attached to their portable kiosks announcing their proximity. There were other vendors selling Cuban flags and the black flags with the red M-26 alphanumeric emblem of the victorious Rebel Army. In this carnival atmosphere, these entrepreneurs were doing a brisk business.

As noon approached, the crowd became more restless. The Cuban flags, the M-26 flags, the slogans and the banners blossomed in mid-air over the people's head rocking back and forth like waves on the surface of an angry sea. In one area of the Square someone began to sing the hymn of the Revolutionary Army extolling Cubans to go forward with heroism like soldiers to liberate the country, and almost in unison the noisy crowd began to sing, drowning momentarily the cries of the noisy vendors. The waving banners followed each beat in harmony as if directed by an unseen virtuoso. The frenzied crowd would not be denied the revelry they felt waving their banners and slogans even though these were demanding DEATH! The city of Caimanera was about to witness a Juicio Popular.

The forthcoming Revolutionary Trial was the first of its kind in Caimanera. The event had awakened the sleepy little town with revolutionary fervor, which may explain why the city was treating the upcoming events like a carnival. This event gave Caimanera the prominence it had lacked since the 1940's when the city had become a Mecca for laborers seeking work at the nearby American Base.

Since the first euphoric days after the victorious march into Havana by Fidel, the masses had been filled with joy and patriotic fervor because under the charismatic, almost fanatical leadership of Fidel Castro, the rebels had overcome unsurmountable odds to wrest victory from the might of Batista and his army of casquitos, the name given to Batista's soldier because of the army hard hats they wore. The idealistic David had conquered the well armed Goliath. The cuban people with a surge of enthusiasm and hope had supported the rebel cause hoping to be freed from the corruption and abuse that had marred cuban politics for half a century. At last the people hoped that there would be a truly democratic society in their land. On those first few days of January 1959 the people were wild with joy and full of hopes.

But the people were also ripe for revenge!

In his desperate effort to retain power, Batista and his cronies suppressed the political discontent of the island with such savagery and repression that the mere mention of his name and that of his casquitos inspired fear, horror and hatred in all fibers of Cuban society. In response to this savagery, immediately after Batista fled, and left the island in control of the rebels, the victorious rebel army retaliated, showing its thirst for revenge against Batista's followers. A new stage of bloodshed and summary execution without trials, or only with the semblance of a trial, took place around the country. The roles were reversed. The rebeldes now had become the blood-thirsty ones, executing the casquitos or anyone who had closely supported the Batista regime. On January 2, 1959, the rebeldes, without regards to a public outcry, ordered the execution of 71 former Batistianos in Santiago de Cuba without bringing them to trial. Firing squads became the order of the day and many Batistianos were summarily executed without a trial to establish their innocence or guilt. Because of this senseless bloodshed, the United States and other governments filed complaints through their embassies against the new government to guarantee the human rights of prisoners. Fidel's ego was wounded and in retaliation for this criticism established the People's Courts announcing that the trials would not only be opened to the public but would be televised and broadcast to the whole nation for the world to see that his regime had no desire for vengeance, only a desire for justice. It was within this frame of hate and blind justice that the people of Caimanera, in a carnival atmosphere, were clamoring for revenge against anyone who had collaborated with the old regime. On the third day of April, 1959, the people of Caimanera were about to witness one of many Revolutionary trials that were poisoning the landscape with hatred and revenge.

A few minutes before noon a hushed silence fell over the unruly crowd when they heard the approaching sound of diesel engines. From his place up in the tree, Fernando saw an army transport truck moving slowly toward the Square like a ship plowing its way through a sea of people. When the vehicle finally reached the boundary of the park, Fernando saw three heavily armed soldiers jump out of the rear of the truck followed by two rebel officers. The soldiers were carrying rifles in their hands, pistols in their belts and two Pancho Villa style ammunition belts criss-crossed around their shoulders.

"Open up! Move!" They shoved the people aside with the butts of their rifles opening up a corridor leading from the truck to the temporary court in the middle of the square. All of them were still sporting the long hair and beards they had worn during the days of fighting in the sierras, and in their uniforms the wore the black and red-lettered M-26 insignia of the rebel army. When the narrow corridor was secured, three wounded rebels, one walking with the help of crutches and the other two with bandages wrapped around their heads, descended from the truck and moved toward the park. They were followed by another soldier who stepped off the truck and with the barrel of his gun prodded a man wearing the beige uniform of Batista's Army to move.

"Vamos, hombres! Move" When the haggard looking prisoner stepped off the truck the crowd began to chant in unison with a deep, vengeful fury those words that were to become so often heard around the nation: "PA-RE-DON! PA-RE-DON! PA-RE-DON!" As they pronounced these words, which demanded death by firing squad, they waved their clenched fists above their heads keeping time with their chant of death. Fernando, not to be outdone by his friends and those around him, joined in the same chant with the rest of the crowd trying to outdo his friends while awkwardly clenching his fist and trying at the same time to hold unto the tree without dropping the basketball into the crowd below.

Four other men dressed in the same beige uniform followed the first prisoner. As each prisoner stepped down from the truck the crowd's chant of PA-RE-DON! intensified with hatred and revenge. These unfortunate men were the hated casquitos who now were prisoners of the Revolution. They were members of Batista's army and soon the trial at the people's court would determine their fate. When all the casquitos were pushed out of the truck they were followed by two more rebels that protected them from the crowd. All the casquitos, except one, walked in fear with bowed faces that dared not look up to the hostile crowd surrounding them with clenched fists and threatening words. As they walked toward the Square, one of the prisoners at the end of the line, a white haired old man, walked as erect as his elderly framed allowed him and not fearing to meet the stares of those that looked at him. Had it not been for the seriousness of the event--an event that would decide his life or death--the people that saw him pass nearby thought that they saw him smile.

When the white haired old man entered the Square, Fernando's face turned ashen. He recoiled gasping for air and feeling faint. While those around him continued with their chant of death, he could not move. He squinted his eyes to see better, to make sure he had not made a mistake. Then, he started to yell something to the prisoner, but realizing the intense hatred with which those around him were chanting their songs of vengeance and death, he decided to keep still.

"Oh, my God! Oh, no! It can't be!" He moaned when he finally spoke losing his balance and nearly falling to the ground.

"Hey. Hang on! What are you trying to do? Kill yourself!" Alfredo tried to keep him from falling. It was then that he noticed the shock in Fernando's face. "Are you feeling ill? You are looking pretty pale."

"I'll be alright," he said holding tightly unto a branch. "But I have to get down. I need some water.

"Here take the basketball." He shoved it into his friend's hands as he quickly began descending from the tree.

"Hey, wait, I'll come along."

"No! No! I'll see you later. At the basketball court." He added as an afterthought.

It wasn't easy to retreat from the human sea that had flooded El Parque. Slowly and forcefully, Fernando pushed his way out of the Square. Finally, after he cleared the packed crowd of people, he ran away from the Square as fast as he could. As he ran away, haunted by the vision of the imprisoned white haired old man, he could still hear the crowd in the distance chanting their song of vengeance and death.

At the Square, the five prisoners and the two rebel officers who made up the military court sat at the tables while the five prisoners were seated in their chairs. The three chairs set up across from the prisoners were occupied by the three wounded men. Two soldiers guarded the prisoners, while the other four were posted at each corner of the temporary court ensuring that the unruly crowd would not step into the court.

While the temporary court convened, the people continued to chant "PA-RE-DON!" until the rebel which appeared to be the commanding officer, walked to the microphone, raised his hand to calm the crowd, and addressed them.

"Companeros!" he shouted into the microphone as he raised both hands in front of him, pausing momentarily waiting for silence.

"Companeros!" He began again after the crowd was almost silent. "We know that you are anxious to see justice prevail here today. And that is why we are here, so that we can administer justice."

With these opening words the people began to chant again."PA-RE-DON! PA-RE-DON! PA-RE-DON!"

Without a doubt, the crowd knew the exact meaning of the word justice: execution by a firing squad. All the prisoners, but one, remained with their heads bowed down.

The rebel officer spoke for several minutes; minutes during which he spoke highly of the Revolution and the great things it had done, and the great things it would do in the future. "The Revolution will be kind to those which up to now have only known abuse and misery, but it will be severe toward those who aided the tyrant Batista. And the land--yes, the richness of the land--will belong to the people, to the guajiros peasants and not to the latifundistas landowners who stole land from the people. The fruits of the land will enrich the lives of the guajiro, not the coffers of the latifundistas."

Each time he mentioned the good things that the Revolution would do for the people, it was as a signal for the crowd to chant "Vi-va Fi-del! Vi-va la Revolucion" and then "PA-RE-DON!". The people were aroused to joy when he spoke of the greatness of the Revolution, to anger when he spoke of the foul deeds of Batista and his followers and to a combination of both when he mentioned Revolutionary justice.

"Now, companeros," he said after he had worked the people to a frenzy, "this Revolutionary court is in session! Let the trials proceed!"

The trial began under the clamoring and yells of PAREDON by the crowd gathered at the central Square. Nearest the court, where the prisoners and judges were sitting, the newspaper and television reporters and photographers that had come for the event were taking notes or just commenting into their tape recorders. They were trying to capture the emotion in the faces of the captives. They wanted to record any sign of fear, apathy or courage in these moments when their fates would be decided by the Revolutionary court. When one of the judges moved up to the microphones to call the names of the prisoners, the noisy crowd fell silent again. At the call of their names each prisoner was to stand to his feet and give his rank and the battalion under which he had served in Batista's army.

"Jose Perez!" The commanding officer called over the microphone.

A black haired prisoner with a thick moustache answered almost inaudibly in a feeble voice, "Captain. Served in Battalion 266 in Bayamo."

The crowd began to chant again intermittently until the name of the white haired prisoner was called out.

"Juan Martinez, stand to your feet!" The commanding officer repeated for the fifth time. At the mention of his name a soft whisper replaced the crowd's chant of PAREDON.

"Juan Martinez?" Someone whispered in surprise in the remotest area of the park where because of the distance it was difficult to clearly make out the faces of the prisoners. "What is he doing there?"

The prisoner stood up briskly, and with his head raised high, staring at the crowd, smiling as if unaware of his predicament, he spoke loudly "I'm not a soldier. I was the town jailer." Then he sat as peaceably as he had stood up. He had no rank to call out and no battalion number to report.

After this strange formality ended, the name of the first prisoner was called again. The thick mustachioed man stepped forward near the prisoner's microphone accompanied by one of the soldiers that guarded the prisoners. The presiding judge asked him to remain standing there. The prisoner was a man of about thirty-five, but he looked much older. His countenance was pale and the cheek bones in his face were easily visible, giving the impression that he had not had much nourishment. And yet, despite the fact that he appeared underfed and mistreated, when his name was called this second time, he spoke strongly and apparently without fear. The prisoner was obviously in a state of panic. He did not know what to do with his hands. He kept moving them from his front pockets to the back, then to his belt and then back to his pockets again.

"Jose Perez!" the prosecuting judge began. "You are charged with theft, child abuse, and murder. Do you plead guilty before this court or must we proceed to remind you of your foul deeds?" This judge was intent on serving his own brand of justice.

"Does it make a difference what I plead?" His reply was so bold that he became suddenly scared when he saw the rage in the face of the members of the court and in the crowd who began to chant PAREDON with fierceness.

The prisoners had no illusion about the reason for this trial. They had seen their fellow prisoners being taken away never to return and they knew that they were convicted before the trial even began. The end result of the trials had only one preconceived verdict: guilty. But the new masters of the country put the prisoners through the indignity of this mockery of a trial to prove to the world that the Revolution was fair and just in its dealing with the esbirros of Batista. The answer of this prisoner was that of a desperate man--a man who knew he was going to die and who preferred to die with courage than to die with shame. Or perhaps it was the answer of a man who had been driven to insanity and who no longer cared whether he lived or whether he died.

"I would advise you," said the prosecuting judge with livid rage in his countenance, "not to speak any more if your words will insult this court. The Revolution is providing you the opportunity to respond to the crimes with which you are charged, but do not continue to offend the respectable members of this court."

"Ah!" replied the prisoner as if suddenly he understood the fairness of the judge's words. The crowd was intent listening to the words of a man whom they knew would soon be facing death. Then he continued with a touch of irony in his voice. "Yes, the Revolution is very good to give us this chance." But in the next instant he spoke like a mad man. One who no longer cared whether he lived or whether he died. "But why go through this farce of a trial! Assassins, get your jobs done quickly!" As he screamed those words, the man reached for the guard near him and before anyone could stop him he took the guard's gun out of its holster brought it up to his head and pulled the trigger.

As he fell to the ground, blood oozing from his head with pieces of skull and brains scattered on the ground near his body, a deathly silence reigned over the crowd. Some spectators nearest the center of the court were peppered with bits of skull, brain and blood that oozed from the dying man's wound. For a long moment no one moved. All eyes were looking aghast at the body of the writhing, dying man, bathed in his own blood as he twitched, the last flickers of life ebbing from his body. For along moment, the only noise the crowd heard was the resounding echo of that fateful shot. And then, the sickening sound of a young woman near the court who vomited unable to control her revulsion at the sight of blood, the disfigured face, and the particles of bones and brains scattered around the dying man, some of which had splattered on her. For a moment, the unexpected event brought the crowd to its senses. Only a moment before they were clamoring for blood to quench their thirst for revenge, but now that blood had actually been spilled, the crowd became subdued in the sudden realization of what it was they were asking. The poor man, driven to insanity, was only one of many men whose blood stained the land because of the vengeful, revolutionary fervor that permeated the country.

The trial began in an unexpectedly dramatic way.

* * *

While the trial progressed at the Square, at the other end of town, Maria Gonzales was serving lunch to her three children--one boy around ten, the other one no more than eight, and a little girl of about five years old. Maria chose to stay home despite the general orders that everyone should attend the trials. Maria had no desire to go to the trials but if she were discovered at home she had a good alibi.

It's the truth. She thought. Martica is sick.

There was no fear of anyone finding her at home, but if they did, they would have to believe her. Her young daughter could not stand the heat at the Square because she was sick with a fever. The hot sun would only aggravate her condition. Maria felt such revulsion about going to the trial that she convinced herself that staying home was worth the risk. Besides, she did not want to expose her three young children to the hatred she knew would reign at the Square.

Maria had grown tired of listening to the news reports about the trials that were taking place around the nation, and she suspected that the trial in Caimanera would be no different from the other trials she had read about. She rarely listened to the news any more. All the trials were alike: the same carnival atmosphere, the same type of accusations, similar judges, the same indignity suffered by the prisoners, the same judgement and finally the same inhumane sentence. No one that had supported Batista was very safe these days. Especially those that had served in the military. She knew, without a doubt, what the outcome of the trial at the Square would be and she wanted no part of it. It had been that way since January. At first there was jubilation and joy because Batista had fled. When Batista fled and Fidel and his rebels entered Havana, everyone was ecstatic with joy. But now, she could see a change. There was no doubt that some of Batista's men were esbirros criminals who deserved their fate, but by the way the rebels were conducting the trials, and the quick sentencing... It just did not seem right. Not all men in his army were criminals.

She let out a long sigh. If only we could find out where he is, she thought. And her thoughts drifted to her father-in-law. He had disappeared around December when the rebel army entered Caimanera in the last days of the fighting. Thoughts of him rushed to her mind as she thought of the trial. Her father-in-law had worked as a jailer for the Batista government toward the end of the war. For ten years he had lived on the meager salary which his job afforded him, but he had nevertheless led, if not a life of luxury, at least one of blissful peace. In the small town of Caimanera he was liked by most of those who knew him. Even the prisoners whom he watched took a likeness for him because he was kind and considerate toward them. After the civil war broke out, Juan, her father-in-law, continued to work as jailer taking in and guarding the political prisoners of the town. Maria knew that her father-in-law did not have much of a political conviction, and many times he told her that to him it did not matter which way the tide of the war went. He was happy as it was, leading a peaceful life in his humble state trying to subsist in his meager salary. Sometimes he would come to her very upset because of the abuse which others suffered, himself included at times, from the Batista government. But then, he had shrugged it off and said that life was that way and it could not be changed.

He had disappeared during the battle for Caimanera, and no one knew where he was. So many people were missing since the end of the civil war, she could not bear the thought that Juan could have perhaps been tried already somewhere else, convicted and executed.

Oh, no! She closed her eyes and shook her head as if to dispel such thoughts from her mind. But the thought remained.

On the wall, the clock marked thirty minutes past noon. Suddenly, Maria and the three children were startled by the pounding on her door. She tensed up and became agitated because she feared she had been discovered and the rebeldes were coming to investigate why she was not at the trial. She motioned for her children to be quiet and waited, not opening the door.

The pounding on the door grew louder, but her fears were dispelled when she recognized a familiar voice outside call, "Tia! Tia! It's me, Fernando! Open the door!"

"What's the matter, Fernando? What is wrong with you?" She could not suppress the anxiety in her voice when she opened the door and saw her nephew there nearly out of breath, his body drenched in sweat.

"Tia, Papa Juan..." he paused to catch his breath. "Papa Juan is at the Square!"

"Oh, My God?" There was a momentary uncontrollable fear in her voice but then she regained her composure and refused to believe the news Fernando was bringing her. "Don't you come here with your pranks again, Fernando." She grabbed his upper arms and shook him with anger. "Don't even dare for one moment to play with me like that! Do you understand!" She screamed at him. She knew well about Fernando's mischievousness. He was always pulling practical jokes on people and had an uncanny ability to be very convincing.

"No, tia! Please, believe me." He was begging. "Papa Juan is at the Square. He is a prisoner, and they are going to try him there today." She saw the fear etched in his face.

"Are you telling me the truth?" She shook him again as if trying to loosen the truth out of him. He tried again to escape from her iron-like grips, unable to meet her fiery stare. He had never seen his aunt so angry before.

"Yes, Tia. Please, you must believe me!" He pleaded with her with tears of pain swelling up his eyes.

"Ay! Dios mio!" She let out a sob of helplessness when she finally realized he was telling the truth, and finally released her grip on him. Her face paled and her legs weakened. She trembled letting herself fall on a chair. For a moment she wished that he had been lying. That this was only another one of his practical jokes. She saw him rubbing his arms where she had held him.

The three children could not quite understand what was happening, except for the expression of joy that lit up their face when they heard Fernando mention the name by which they knew their grandfather. At the same time they seemed to sense also that something was terribly wrong because their mother was crying.

At that moment, a thousand thoughts went through Maria's mind. For over six months Juan had been missing, and now he had been found. Now she knew where he was, but how horrible the thought of that knowledge. Her father-in-law was about to be tried at a people's trial. Although she was certain that Juan had done nothing worthy of death, she feared for his life. The outcome of these Revolutionary trials generally meant death.

For this reason, she feared for Juan's life. She knew that he was innocent. His only guilt was that he had worked as a jailer for the government of Batista. This was his only crime. But she also knew that neither the fanatical crowd at the Square nor the prosecuting judges cared. All they knew was that he had worked for the government of Batista and therefore he was a batistiano, and they wanted paredon for anyone who had belonged and aided the old regime. As these thoughts rushed through her mind, she knew there was nothing anyone could do. She knew that only God could help Juan from the fate that the revolutionary court had in store for him.

"Why are you crying, mom?" The little girl jumped on Maria's laps and hugged her.

"It's nothing, honey. Go finish your meal." She had to be strong in front of her children, she thought, and wiped her tears away as she let her daughter down from her laps and sat her on the chair.

"Fernando, will you help them? I have to call Esteban at work." She walked to her room and closed the door behind her.

"Operator, I would like to place a call to the Base."

A short moment later she heard a voice on the other end of the receiver.

"Hello!"

"Esteban Martinez?, Please." She asked trying to say his name with an English accent, and then she heard the voice at the other end say something she did not understand.

After what it seemed to her like an eternity, she finally heard a man's voice on the line. "Oigo!"

"Esteban..." She began, but her voice faltered and she choked up.

"What's wrong, Maria? Speak!" He could hear her sobs. "Has something happened to the children?"

"No, Esteban. It's your father."

"Oh, Papa. He has returned." She detected the happiness of his misunderstanding.

"No, Esteban. You don't understand. Papa Juan is at the Square." She hesitated for a moment, then continued. "He is a prisoner and will be tried at the people's court."

"Oh, Virgen Santa." His disheartened voice came loud over the phone. "Did you see him?! Do you realize what you're saying? How do you know?" He peppered her with questions hoping she was wrong.

"Please, come home! Fernando saw him when the rebeldes were leading him into the Square. Please, come home quickly!" She pleaded.

"Maria. Why do you bother to call me with these practical jokes from Fernando!." He was upset but at the same time she could perceive the relief in his voice. "You know about Fernando. How can you believe him? I am very busy, Maria..."

"Wait...Wait, don't hang up."

She heard the finality in his voice and knew that he was about to go. She understood his irritation. Fernando could not be trusted with his cruel lies sometimes, but she knew that this time was different. She knew he was telling the truth. "Please, don't hang up. Listen to me." She pleaded again. "You must come home right away. Fernando is not joking. I know he is telling the truth."

"How can you be so sure, Maria? He has done this to you before...to all of us. If he were my son...!"

"Of course, I know what he has done. But you should have seen the expression in his face. He ran here all the way from the Square. He was so pale, and his face..." She didn't know how to explain it. "He looked terrified and he was crying. Please, come home as fast as you can."

She seemed to finally convince him. "Oh, my God! Do you know what that means?" He asked not really expecting an answer. "I'm coming home right away, Maria. Adios!"

He did not wait for her reply. He realized how dangerous his father's condition was--a condition that could mean his life or death.

As she wiped the tears rolling down her cheeks, Maria heard the "click" of the receiver at the other end. She slowly hung up the telephone and made the sign of the cross resigning herself to whatever lay ahead for them. Everyone knew the swiftness with which the revolutionary courts passed sentence, and she had no illusions that the trial in Caimanera would be any different from other trials that had already taken place around the nation. She heard the living room clock strike the quarter hour. The trial had already been in process more than one hour. As she let herself fall in a chair, trembling and exhausted, she wondered if Esteban could make it to Caimanera in time to see his father.

* * *

At the Square, the pavement was ablaze with the afternoon sun. The two large pitchers of water set at the judges' table were empty. The heat made the crowd irritable and reckless and the judges were anxious to finish their jobs. In less than two hours all but the white haired prisoner had been tried and sentenced. The trials were hastened, not only because of the heat, but also because of the incident which had occurred with the first prisoner. After his corpse had been removed and the blood stains had been washed away, the judges thought it best not to delay the judicial process, and in a matter of minutes the prisoners were tried in typical Revolutionary fashion. And to prevent any more unforeseen incidents, the guards had been ordered to watch the prisoners more closely.

When the name of the white haired prisoner was called over the loudspeaker, the Square became silent momentarily. Everyone seemed to know the pleasant old man that had worked in Caimanera's jail. No one could believe that such a good natured and simple minded old man could have committed any crime worthy of imprisonment, much less death. The only prisoners he had ever guarded were probably the town drunkards and trouble makers. And maybe, toward the end of the revolution, some sympathizer of the rebels that may have been taken in to the city jail for questioning. But it was doubtful he could have tortured these men. And for the first time, many of those men and women gathered at the park in Caimanera wondered if there could not have been a mistake in this quick revolutionary trial that was taking place. Many people had no doubt that in the end justice would prevail and that the old man would be set free.

But the trial of the simple old man was conducted in speedy Revolutionary fashion, and after some words of accusations and of presentation of evidence by the most high tribunal of the Revolution whose authority was supreme and true in the city of Caimanera, it was brought to light that the said Juan Martinez several months before had beaten and tortured a score of rebeldes who had been so unfortunate as to fall under his custody. At the time of the crime the rebeldes refused to give the government of Batista any information concerning the whereabouts of their brothers in arms and thus, the said Juan Martinez inflicted tortures on those unfortunates rebels that he guarded at the city jail. He had committed the most heinous crimes of war. These accusations were submitted to the Revolutionary tribunal by those prisoners who had survived and who had been liberated at the end of the war by the Revolutionary army. Two of those who had survived were present at the Square and they pointed at Juan Martinez as the perpetrator of their misfortunes. Juan Martinez denied having ever seen the wounded rebel that accused him, but this was evidence to the judges that he was merely trying to hide his foul deeds and in the end, the members of the court had no doubt that Juan Martinez had committed the crimes of which he was accused and soon it was ready to pass judgement.

* * *

While the rebel judges deliberated the fate of the old man, Esteban was driving toward the pier at the Base. He knew that he was in a race against time. He wanted to reach Caimanera as quickly as possible and the quickest way to get there was to take la lancha, the commuter boats that ferried passengers between the Base and Caimanera. But when he arrived at the ferry docks, he realized that he cursed under his breath realizing he had wasted precious moments. All the lanchas were gone. They had returned to Caimanera after the last morning drop-off. In his haste, he had overlooked the obvious. Generally, there would be a ferry boat at the Base waiting to take some midday passengers to Caimanera and Boqueron, but this day, because of the trial, all ferry operators had returned to the two coastal towns after the morning drop-off. The owners knew they would have a brisk business ferrying passengers from the outlying bay towns into Caimanera for the trial.

He cursed under his breath as he sped away from the ferry station toward Caimanera. A few minutes later, when he reached the Northeast Gate at the frontier between the American base and the Cuban territory, the American guard at the gate waved him on. On the Cuban side, however, a Revolutionary guard stopped him.

"Let's see your identification." He asked matter of fact while Esteban struggled to pull out his driver's license.

"Que pasa, soldado? You don't usually do this." Esteban spoke tersely and obviously irritated because this frontier guard was adding to his delay.

"New orders!" Was all the guard said flipping the driver's license from side to side.

"Is anything wrong? You don't usually do this."

"Just taking precaution while the trials in Caimanera are going on." Esteban cursed under his breath. He could not understand what the trials in Caimanera, some ten miles, away, had to do with the access to or exit from the Base. The soldier detected the apprehension and haste in Esteban's voice and decided to make a more thorough review.

"Turn off the engine and open the trunk."

Esteban was going to protest but thought of the precious time he was wasting and decided to comply. The guard observed him closely wondering why this man was in such a hurry. But when Esteban complied quickly with his command, he thought maybe he had been on duty too long that day. Nevertheless, he took his time. He made a thorough search of the trunk but found nothing there. Then he looked inside the car, both in the front and in the back seat. Next, he opened the glove compartment and looked there. He found nothing but noticed Esteban's impatience again. At last he seemed satisfied with the inspection.

"You can go on." He said. "But why in such a rush today?" He asked to let Esteban know he had noticed his haste.

"One of my children was taken to the hospital very sick." Esteban lied, but did not wait for an answer from the guard. He sped away in the car oblivious of what the guard would have thought or said. He hoped that there was nothing else that would prevent him from making it to Caimanera in time to see his father. As he sped away, he turned his radio on. The trial was broadcasted for those who could not personally attend.

* * *

Back at the Square, the Revolutionary judges had reached a verdict already on all the prisoners and the Chief Judge was about to end the proceedings.

"Here, before the people of Caimanera, and in accordance with the laws of this Revolutionary court,"--this was the fifth time that he had pronounced the very same words--"we find the accused, Juan Martinez, guilty of war crimes as testified by the witnesses here present. This court sentences the prisoners to be shot to death by firing squad for the crimes they have committed against the Revolution!" As soon as the judge finished speaking, the people went into a frenzy. They no longer thought about the innocence of the old man. If the Revolution found him guilty, then guilty he must be.

"PA-RE-DON! PA-RE-DON!"

The television cameras scanned the faces in the crowd and the banners they held. This revolutionary crowd had already forgotten what it was they were asking for. Only a short time ago they had seen with their own eyes the meaning of the words they were chanting. They had seen the horror of the bloodletting for which they were asking. But the gruesome act they had seen, had apparently only increased their thirst for revenge.

After the crowd calmed down momentarily, the commanding judge spoke again. "All prisoners stand!"

The cameras captured the soldiers guarding the prisoners prodding them with their rifles to stand up. Then the cameras turned once again toward the commanding judge as he spoke. "These enemies of the Revolution. These criminal men who stand before you today have been found guilty of abuse and torture against their fellow men, and justice will soon be administered them by this Revolutionary court."

"PA-RE-DON! PA-RE-DON!"

He motioned with his hands for silence. Then he wiped the sweat of his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. He was anxious to end the trial taking place under that blistering afternoon sun under Cuban skies. "However," he continued when the crowd calmed down, "because of the goodness of the Revolution we will let the prisoners make any petition they so desire before we adjourn this court." He then turned toward the prisoners and added, "If any of you wishes to speak, step forward."

There was a moment of silence. The crowd and the reporters gathered there turned toward the prisoners with great expectations. They looked like vultures circling around the carcass of dead animals looking for the opportunity to dive into their prey. They did not want to miss one single word, nor one single sign of fear from men who were about to die. But the prisoners were apparently going to deprive them of such a show because they remained in their places. Not one dared to step forward.

Seeing that none of the prisoners wished to speak, the judge moved toward the microphone to adjourn the court, but at that moment the old man, Juan Martinez, stepped forward. "I want to say something." And he moved resolutely toward the microphone flanked by two guards.

The silence was complete. No one dared to break the solemnity of the moment by distracting with a sound the last words of a dying man.

A long silence followed before the prisoner finally spoke.

"I have no important petition to make concerning myself. All I want to do is to speak to my children wherever they are."

* * *

When Esteban was nearing Guantanamo the trial was coming to an end. He had heard with horror the proceedings against his father and realized the great injustice that was being committed. How could they find his father guilty? He realized how blind the people had become during these times of Revolutionary fervor How could anyone find his father guilty of anything but simple- mindedness? For that is what his father had become in the last few days of his life. After Esteban's mother had died something had snapped in his father and he began to live in a surreal world of his own and had begun a slow journey into senility, something that only those close to him could see.

Esteban realized that only by a miracle would he be able to make it to Caimanera in time to see his father. He still had another twenty minutes to travel to Caimanera.

As he sped through the semi-deserted streets of Guantanamo, he heard his father's voice come over the air waves. "Father! Oh, father!" He gassed the accelerator in an attempt to reach Caimanera before the rebels took his father away. He turned the radio's volume up as his father began to speak. His voice came strong and clear.

* * *

"My children, wherever, you are, listen to me closely. Your father has been condemned to death by this court today here in the city where you have lived most of your lives. Although I am innocent in the eyes of man, and most importantly, in the eyes of God, I do not condemn this court that has sentenced me to death. I forgive them their mistake, and although I do not want to die, yet I will go to death with courage." He paused, looked around the crowd and smiled. The crowd and the newsmen did not know what to make of the old man. He was either very brave or very foolish who did not yet realize that soon he would be facing the wall of a firing squad.

"My children," he continued, " were I guilty of the crimes of which I am accused, I would say to you: Go away from Caimanera, and hide your shame. Go where no one knows you and hide the shame which your father has inflicted upon you. But no, my children, that is not the case. Your father is innocent before God. Your father has not committed any crimes worthy of death, and thus when you walk around the streets of Caimanera, or wherever you are, do not fear to look at men in the eyes. Do not lower your head in shame, but lift it up with pride knowing that your father is a man who will die at peace with himself and above all at peace with God and with a clean conscience, for he dies an innocent man."

* * *

The only link Esteban had with his father was suddenly cut off when the radio stations resumed their regular programming. Esteban stepped on the accelerator until it reached the floor. The road from Guantanamo to Caimanera was hilly and in some places was full of holes left over from the battle of Caimanera. At such high speed, Esteban felt the jarring effect of the car each time he jerked the wheel around to avoid the large potholes on the road. By speeding toward Caimanera, he was hoping to at least be able to see his father, talk to him, plead his case and even embrace him one last time before the Revolution carried out the unjust sentence. But when he was only about three kilometers from the outskirts of town, near the city cemetery, his hopes faded away. In the distance Esteban saw a road block set up by the rebeldes and as he approached the road block all traffic had come to a complete stop. One side of the road was blocked with military trucks leaving only one lane of the two lane road open to traffic. Already there were several cars in front of him. Esteban suddenly realized that the last hope to see his father was fading away. In his desperation, he convinced himself that if he could talk to the guards they would let him pass. As soon as he stopped the car he jumped out and rushed toward the nearest guard who believing himself threatened squared off in self-defence.. "Alto! Stop where you are or I'll shoot!" The guard aimed at Esteban with his rifle as he spoke.

In his distraught state of mind, Esteban did not realize that his frantic run toward the rebeldes was mistaken as an act of defiance. Esteban stopped and begged the guard to let him pass. "Por favor, let me go on to the city." He pleaded while the guard continued to aim his gun at him. "I must see my father before they take him away."

Several soldiers who came to aid their companion when they saw the commotion encircled Esteban pointing their guns at him. The passengers in the other cars were now attentively looking on.

"In the name of the Virgen Santa, I beg you, sirs, let me pass through. I have not seen my father for several months and now they are taking him away." He pleaded with them.

The soldiers and the spectators near by who heard him needed no explanation. They also had their radios tuned in to the trials and had apparently heard the last words of the condemned man who addressed himself to his children. The bystanders there realized that this poor, desperate man, must be one of the condemned man's children. All the soldiers must have understood at once the pleading of this man, because almost instantaneously they lowered their rifles. They no longer felt threatened. Some of the people shook their heads with understanding, others shook their heads with scorn.

"We can't let you pass." One of the soldiers spoke up apologetically. "We have orders to stop the traffic until all the trucks come through."

Even as the guard spoke, Esteban heard the sound of diesel engines in the distance. It was too late. His father was already on his last journey out of Caimanera. When Esteban heard the sound of the engines, he moved toward the road facing in the direction of the city. The soldiers pantomimed his every move. The trucks were approaching quickly. Esteban knew that this was the only chance he would have to see his father and in his desperation he decided that he had to stop the convoy at all costs.

* * *

When the trial ended, the prisoners were escorted to the military truck for their trip back to Guantanamo to wait the execution of their sentence. A jeep for the judges and a car with cameramen and journalists were also added to the convoy making the return trip to Guantanamo. One television journalist commented into his microphone that the canopy that served as roof on the truck that carried the prisoners had been removed, apparently to give the crowd and the television camera crew one last good look at the condemned men on their way out of town.

The carnival atmosphere resumed with force while the vendors rang the bells of their ambulatory carts with pandemonium as they peddled their merchandise. No one had yet left the Square. The crowd had an insatiable hunger to witness the torment of these men that had served under Batista and although many had been ordered to come to the trial, now that it was over, no one was forcing them to stay. But stay they did. They wanted to see this affair to the end. And almost as if on cue, when the prisoners entered the truck, the crowd began their chant of hatred and death once again. The prisoners looked lethargic and oblivious to their surroundings. They no longer hoped. They knew that the end of a horrible nightmare was nearly over. As the town receded from view, the prisoners, the guards and the drivers settled into their seats for the short trip to Guantanamo. Some three kilometers outside of town, the drivers saw the road block ahead but knowing that the traffic had been stopped until their convoy passed through, they proceeded without slowing down.

They were nearing the road block when the driver on the lead truck saw a man run from the side of the road and jump in the middle of the road criss-crossing his hands back and forth and shouting for the truck to stop.

"What is that damn fool doing!" he cursed slamming on the breaks. The soldiers and prisoners in the back of the truck were launched forward and cursed the driver under their breath. Some of the guards looked ahead to see what was happening but were jolted into their seats as they tried to get up. When the truck finally slowed to a crawl they saw a group of guards on the road ahead hauling a man away from the middle of the road. When the white haired old prisoner saw the man they were hauling away, he stood up and holding unto the metal frame of the truck with one hand while stretching out the other, he yelled: "Esteban, my son!"

"Father, father!" Esteban recognized the voice of his father. He screamed as he launched forward stretching forth his hands in an attempt to reach the hand that his father, from the truck was stretching out to him. A guard in the truck forced his father to seat again, while the soldiers on the ground held Esteban down.

"Please, stop the truck. Please! Please!" Esteban pleaded with a cry as he saw the loved one he desired to touch, even one last time, vanishing away perhaps for ever. His well-planned attempt failed, and now the harder he tried to get away, the stronger the guards' steel-like grips held him still. The soldiers motioned for the trucks to continue. And just as quickly as the trucks had slowed down suddenly, they quickly moved away from the road block. As the trucks moved away, in the distance, the voice of the old man was heard once again call out for his son, but he was no longer seen because the guards surrounded him. Esteban, overcome by the guards and by the hopelessness that filled his soul, was no longer trying to set himself free from the grips of his captors. He bent his knees and fell to the ground, tears of rage and grief streaming down his eyes. When the guards released their hold on him, he hid his hands in his face crying and whispering, "Father. Oh, father, why have they done this to you?!"

Although the soldiers were clearing the road block, no one had yet moved toward their cars. Resting there on his knees, surrounded by the guards and onlookers on the other cars, the crowd kept looking at this helpless, broken hearted man whom the Revolution had touched in a very personal and appalling way. At that moment there was nothing that anyone could do or say to console him.

* * *

Some weeks later, the people of Caimanera still talked in whispers about the words spoken by Juan Martinez. Some of those witnessing the event said that they had seen several women crying as the old man spoke and those who had known him well were ashamed to even admit that they had attended the trials and had shouted "PA-RE-DON" along with the rest of the crowd. To admit they had been there, was in a way, admitting that they had consented to the death of a senile, defenseless, innocent man. But life went on, and the trial in Caimanera eventually took its place in the annals of the stormy history of a country where the governments, for the most part, had been either abusive or corrupt, and many times both.