GUANACOLÍA: TESTIMONIO 2
MARÍA del DOLOR
I know who killed the woman. The little French woman. Little, but tough. She took their blows and never gave up, never gave in. She lasted longer than most.
I worked at the prison. I washed the floors and fed the guards. I didn’t look at the prisoners. I didn’t want to get involved. Never looked at their face, nor into their eyes. I just did as I was told. I had to survive, feed my children.
To muffle their cries, to deafen their shouts, I hummed, or sang, or whistled while I mopped the halls. I would clean out a cell only when they had finished; the body disappeared, dumped in some ravine. Sometimes they would tell me I could take clothes for my children from a pile of rags. Tortured rags. I would search and sift, trying to find the ones with the least holes. I would wash—scrub—them in the river, trying to get the stains out. Blood stains always go brown and look dirty. Even days drying in the sun could not bleach them out.
I didn’t want to get involved. I needed the work to feed my children. But the woman was different. Kind to me. She must have known she would never walk out of there because she gave me her sunglasses on her first day. She was kind to me, asked about my children, said she liked my singing, that it lifted her spirits. That’s when I looked into her eyes. I shouldn’t have. I didn’t want to get involved. But with her, I did.
Late at night, when just a few guards sat playing cards and drinking beer, after they’d thrown the broken prisoners into their cells, I’d go to hers. I’d bring her water, tortillas, some beans. At first she ate it all. But then, they broke her teeth, bruised her jaw and she couldn’t eat a thing, just sip some water. I’d wipe her blood-streaked face and she would pat my hand, smile somehow.
The cells around hers emptied and I cleaned them all. They brought in new prisoners, but I didn’t get involved. Except with her.
Towards the end, they smashed her ankles so she couldn’t run and smashed her wrists so she couldn’t write. The last night, I wept as I held her hand. With her face bruised purple and her eyes bruised black, I knew it was her last night. When I stroked her cheek, she didn’t smile and when I looked into her eyes, they floated away.
The next day, I found her cell empty. I left the prison, gathered my children, and sent them to my mother’s house. Then I started my search. Finding bodies was not difficult: so many were being tossed around. But finding her body—her little body—took a while.
I found her on a cliff, dropped like a broken doll. They’d left her head a few feet away, her mouth stuffed with a crumpled pamphlet. Guerilla propaganda, of course.
I closed her eyelids and covered her with an old sheet I’d brought. Then, I did as she had asked. I pulled the tiny, crumpled paper she’d given me out of my pocket and called the Embassy.
I didn’t want to get involved. But with her, I’m glad I did.
I worked at the prison. I washed the floors and fed the guards. I didn’t look at the prisoners. I didn’t want to get involved. Never looked at their face, nor into their eyes. I just did as I was told. I had to survive, feed my children.
To muffle their cries, to deafen their shouts, I hummed, or sang, or whistled while I mopped the halls. I would clean out a cell only when they had finished; the body disappeared, dumped in some ravine. Sometimes they would tell me I could take clothes for my children from a pile of rags. Tortured rags. I would search and sift, trying to find the ones with the least holes. I would wash—scrub—them in the river, trying to get the stains out. Blood stains always go brown and look dirty. Even days drying in the sun could not bleach them out.
I didn’t want to get involved. I needed the work to feed my children. But the woman was different. Kind to me. She must have known she would never walk out of there because she gave me her sunglasses on her first day. She was kind to me, asked about my children, said she liked my singing, that it lifted her spirits. That’s when I looked into her eyes. I shouldn’t have. I didn’t want to get involved. But with her, I did.
Late at night, when just a few guards sat playing cards and drinking beer, after they’d thrown the broken prisoners into their cells, I’d go to hers. I’d bring her water, tortillas, some beans. At first she ate it all. But then, they broke her teeth, bruised her jaw and she couldn’t eat a thing, just sip some water. I’d wipe her blood-streaked face and she would pat my hand, smile somehow.
The cells around hers emptied and I cleaned them all. They brought in new prisoners, but I didn’t get involved. Except with her.
Towards the end, they smashed her ankles so she couldn’t run and smashed her wrists so she couldn’t write. The last night, I wept as I held her hand. With her face bruised purple and her eyes bruised black, I knew it was her last night. When I stroked her cheek, she didn’t smile and when I looked into her eyes, they floated away.
The next day, I found her cell empty. I left the prison, gathered my children, and sent them to my mother’s house. Then I started my search. Finding bodies was not difficult: so many were being tossed around. But finding her body—her little body—took a while.
I found her on a cliff, dropped like a broken doll. They’d left her head a few feet away, her mouth stuffed with a crumpled pamphlet. Guerilla propaganda, of course.
I closed her eyelids and covered her with an old sheet I’d brought. Then, I did as she had asked. I pulled the tiny, crumpled paper she’d given me out of my pocket and called the Embassy.
I didn’t want to get involved. But with her, I’m glad I did.