The farthest I can stretch my memory is back to the day Noel died. I have no recollections of anything that happened prior to that day. I still remember my little brother sleeping on a strange bed. At that age I had no idea what a coffin was. He looked so lovely in his attire. I can’t say how I felt about it all, as I likely didn’t grasp the situation. Perhaps I was indifferent or even amused by the sight of him sleeping on that peculiar bed, with two laurel leaves covering his eyes. I think I was confused because the neighbours kept coming into the house and talking to my parents. I might have been in shock when some men put a lid on the coffin that held my little brother, and were going to lift it to take him away. Then I saw my mother dash toward them, like a wild animal. She then hugged the coffin, clung to it, and began to scream like a crazy woman. I must have felt very frightened, realizing that something terrible was happening, when I noticed that my father was crying too. I had always thought that men don’t cry. I would see my father cry once more, many years later. Eventually, when my mom calmed down, those men lifted my little brother’s coffin and placed it inside a horse-drawn carriage that was waiting outside. Then they took him away.
Noel passed away from cholera. Until his last day my father regretted with certain bitterness the fact that back then we were poor. He firmly believed that if we had had money to take him to a private hospital, we could have saved him. Although I know I never saw Noel again, I am uncertain if I ever asked my mother questions about where my little brother was or when he might be back. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just imagining it. How can I remember? That was in 1958; I was only three, and Noel was two. It’s possible my memories were shaped by my mother’s frequent retelling of that occasion. What might have etched that event into my memory was witnessing my father cry, a sight I likely had never seen before. As I said, that day remains my earliest childhood memory.
One year later, in 1959, the nation was still under the grip of the ruthless dictatorship of Rafael Trujillo, which had begun in 1930. We lived in a state of constant fear as the regime systematically targeted, tortured, and assassinated dissidents. You had to watch about what to say and whom to associate with. A neighbour, a close friend, or even a family member could easily report you to the authorities for having anti-government views. Then one night, the secret police would storm your house and take you to La Cuarenta, a torture facility located on 40th Street in Santo Domingo. There you would endure brutal torture methods such as burning with cigarettes, electric shocks, beating with hammers or baseball bats, even having your fingernails ripped out, all in an effort to force you to betray your collaborators, if you had any. Should you survive the torture, they would ultimately kill you and dump your body in the Caribbean Sea. Leaving your family with no hope of ever seeing you again.
In January 1959, the Cuban revolutionaries successfully removed the dictator Fulgencio Batista from power. On June 14, Dominican exiles, with the support of Fidel Castro, launched an invasion of the Dominican Republic on three different fronts, with the objective of overthrowing the dictator Rafael Trujillo. The rebels made their way to Estero Hondo and Maimón by rowing from ships anchored offshore, while a smaller contingent landed a C-46 transport aircraft in Constanza. However, the Dominican armed forces, tipped off by their own spies, thwarted the sea assault. In Constanza, the majority of the rebels were captured or killed. The failed invasion intensified the regime’s repression of the people. Anyone suspected of having any connection with the barbudos (the invaders) faced capture, torture, and execution.
My father was a peasant who, in 1947, at the age of fourteen, left the family farm to seek a better life in the city. In 1959, he had a wife and four children (actually three; Noel had already died), and was living in extreme poverty. He did not engage in any political activity; he would simply work selling lottery tickets to provide for his family. He was just an ordinary man trying to get by. However, for reasons unknown to him then, the SIM (Military Intelligence Service), the secret police, known as calieses (thugs) by the public, started to harass him. They would stop him on the streets, ask him strange questions, watch him, and follow him around in their black Volkswagen beetles called cepillos. My father, scared and anxious, approached one of our neighbours, Sergeant Collie, a member of the regular police, to share his concerns. It may have been naïve and unwise, but my father genuinely believed Sergeant Collie was a good man. Sergeant Collie confirmed that the secret police had something on him, although he didn’t know exactly what. He advised my father to be careful, watch his own shadow, and stay away from strangers. This situation continued for several months, until my father found out why the secret police had him under surveillance.
Rivas was a prominent and respected lawyer in the city of Santiago, known for his overt opposition to the government. The regime had not assassinated him due to his old age and the fact that he posed little real threat. There was also the likelihood that his death would incite significant public outrage and international condemnation. My father often visited him at his office and his home to sell him lottery tickets. During those visits they would engage in various discussions and eventually developed a friendship. My father told him about his encounters with the secret police, and Rivas, who was a declared enemy of Trujillo, warned him that he might be under surveillance because they were friends. He strongly advised my father to stop visiting him, to refrain from speaking with him again, and to ignore him if they happened to meet on the street. My father followed his advice, and thereafter, he was left in peace by the secret police. My father’s encounter with the secret police ended uneventfully, but he could have easily met a fate similar to that of so many others. He might have vanished one night without a trace, and we would never have known what happened to him. In 1961, the dictator Rafael Trujillo was shot and killed when a group of dissidents ambushed his car on a highway outside the capital city of Santo Domingo. That caused a popular uprising that led to the whole regime’s downfall. In the aftermath, my father and Rivas resumed their friendship.
In the time and place where I grew up, I was taught that men don’t cry. My father didn’t cry back in 1959 when he was intimidated by Trujillo’s secret police, or when he was sent to jail in 1964. But I didn’t live up to that standard the day I went to visit him in jail. A neighbour, to whom my father was renting a house, had a grudge against him and falsely accused him of hiding illegal firearms in our house. Although no formal charges were filed (our house was never searched, and no guns were found), my father nonetheless spent one week behind bars. That’s how nonexistent our human rights were. Being well-connected with the authorities gave some individuals the power to get someone else in trouble. When my mother and I stepped into the room where he was waiting, I immediately ran into his arms and broke down in tears. I wished I could have been stronger for him, as I suppose he needed that kind of reassurance. But I couldn’t do better. I was only nine.
My father didn’t shed a tear that day. I’m sure of it because, unlike the first time, which I only vaguely recall, the second and last time I saw him cry is indelibly engraved in my mind. It was the summer of 1969. My little brother Hugo was gravely ill and had been suffering for months. He got hurt while playing on the bench of the carpenter who was repairing our house. He tripped and fell, landing hard on the bench and damaging his pancreas. He underwent three surgeries, but the doctors ultimately lost hope and sent him home to die. A neighbour, who worked as a nurse, came by several times a day to inject painkillers into his bloodstream. However, once the effect of the medication wore off, he was left in excruciating pain. At one point his body had deteriorated so much that he was literally just skin and bones.
One Sunday morning, which I remember vividly, my father was at my little brother’s bedside, trying to console him, while I stood nearby. Suddenly my father lost control and stormed out of the room, heading to the backyard, screaming like a madman that he could no longer bear to see his son in pain and that he wished for his son to die so that he could finally find peace from his suffering. I was stunned. I followed my father outside, where he was sobbing in distress. Yet again, I felt helpless, unsure how to comfort him. I simply stood there by his side, keeping him company. I didn’t know what else to do. I was only fourteen. The harsh reality was that every member of our family, including my mother, felt the same way about my little brother’s condition. But my brother recovered; he lost the school year, but he survived. He still holds a unique place in our hearts because, as my mother often expressed in her colourful language, we snatched him from the grip of death. Death had claimed Noel, but it could not take Hugo.
© William Almonte Jiménez, 2015
