Even Silence Has an End Part 47

My companions hurried around a pile of torn mattresses. By the looks of it, there wouldn't be enough to go around. William had grabbed one for each of us, and he showed me the spot he'd saved for me.

The guard rattled his key ring. Everyone found a spot, and the guard came by to lock our padlocks and fasten the chains to the posts supporting the beds. Once he had left, I took out my little radio and, as on every evening, tuned in to the Colombian programs. It felt good-to be under a roof, in a bed, upon a mattress.

I woke up at three o'clock in the morning and took out my rosary. It was a Wednesday.

That day I prayed with even greater joy, because I was convinced that my pact with Jesus had been sealed. He has kept his word, He has kept his word, I thought, even if I had absolutely no idea what to expect. I thought, even if I had absolutely no idea what to expect.

Mom's voice came to me at dawn. "I have to take the plane this afternoon," she said, "but I don't want to leave you." I smiled, thinking of Lucho. Tomorrow she'll call me from Rome, Tomorrow she'll call me from Rome, I thought, amused. Melanie, too, came on the air. She was calling from London and I thought there'd be n.o.body to meet me on my arrival, if I should be released now. I thought, amused. Melanie, too, came on the air. She was calling from London and I thought there'd be n.o.body to meet me on my arrival, if I should be released now.

Fabrice came on immediately afterward. From my letter to Mom, he had learned that I could hear the radio messages, so he called in from everywhere, and he always ended up having to put the phone down, because his voice became too emotional. This time he managed to tell me that they were with Marc's mother and that Jo was fighting like a lioness for him. Fabrice had been speaking to me in French, and no one but me could tell Marc.

The guard was already coming along to open the padlocks. To my great surprise, he removed my companions' chains and put them away. Don't go getting ideas. He's going to leave yours on, Don't go getting ideas. He's going to leave yours on, I thought when I saw that it was Oswald at work. However, this time, he removed mine, too. I thought when I saw that it was Oswald at work. However, this time, he removed mine, too.

I looked up at the sound of dishes. A guerrilla came in with a china bowl in each hand, filled with soup. He handed it to my companions, going back and forth every two minutes. Soon they were all silently bent over their plates, focused on fis.h.i.+ng the small pieces of potato out of the bowl.

A sudden stir announced a new arrival. Commander Cesar had just come in and was speaking with each of my companions, courteously, one by one, until he came to me.

Everyone had cleared out, probably as much out of courtesy as out of a desire to make the most of a sunny morning without chains and a good breakfast. I was left alone with the leader of our front.

"We are the army of the people," said Cesar, like an orator.

They're just like the old Colombian political cla.s.s, I thought. He made his statement in due form, explaining why they were keeping the "detainees"-a euphemism for "hostages"-and why it was a good thing they were using drug money to finance their activities, because it meant they would not have to take economic hostages. I thought. He made his statement in due form, explaining why they were keeping the "detainees"-a euphemism for "hostages"-and why it was a good thing they were using drug money to finance their activities, because it meant they would not have to take economic hostages.

I looked at him impa.s.sively, knowing that there had to be a purpose behind everything he was saying. What was he afraid of? Did he want me to serve as witness? Did he want to pa.s.s on a message? Leave himself a way out? Whom were we going to meet? Foreigners? FARC leaders? I sighed. Years ago I would have resisted, would have tried to pull his arguments to threads. Now I felt like an old dog. I no longer barked. Sitting down, I observed.

An hour later Cesar was still going on and on. My soup was cold. I had put the bowl down on the flea-infested mattress where I'd slept. When it seemed he had finished, I asked him what we might expect from the rest of the day.

"Some helicopters will be coming to get you. We'll be going to talk with Alfonso Cano, probably. After that I don't know," he confessed. "Maybe you'll be transferred to another camp."

Marc was by his bunk bed, putting his bowl into his backpack. We were alone in the room. I hesitated, then went up to him. "Marc, I wanted you to know that on the radio this morning I heard that your mother is in London. She's with my family at a forum on peace, or human rights, I think. Fabrice told me she's fighting like a lioness for you."

Marc had gone on closing his bag while I was speaking. Finally he looked up, his gaze so gentle that I was ashamed of my official tone. He thanked me, and I went away so as not to prolong a tete-a-tete that might turn awkward.

Outside, there was the clatter of approaching helicopters. All my companions were already there, looking up at the clouds, searching the sky. I began sweating at once, my stomach in a painful knot. My body was reacting as if it were a military raid. "How stupid. . . . I know it's not and yet I react all the same," I mumbled. My mouth felt furry, and I was still trembling when old Erminson screamed at us to return to the barracks with our backpacks. He made us walk single file into the billiards room. We were being searched. Yet again.

There was one guard for each prisoner, so the search went very quickly. They confiscated anything that could cut, even nail clippers. Mine were in my pocket and survived the raid. Still in single file, we were taken down to the bongo. bongo.

I had an a.s.signed guard following close behind, a girl I'd never seen before. She was very nervous, and she would scream at me, sticking the end of her rifle into my ribs.

"Take it easy, gently," I said, to calm her down.

We crossed the river in the bongo bongo and moored on the opposite sh.o.r.e, by a field of coca behind a little shack. In the middle of the coca field, a gra.s.sy expanse surrounded by a fence seemed to be the spot the guerrillas had chosen for their helicopter pad. There were two choppers circling high above, disappearing into the clouds and reappearing immediately afterward. One of them began its descent. It was all white, with a red band beneath the rotors. The sound of the rotor became deafening and seemed to take on the same rhythm as the pounding in my heart. The closer it came, the more the vibrations spread through my body. It landed, and the door opened immediately. and moored on the opposite sh.o.r.e, by a field of coca behind a little shack. In the middle of the coca field, a gra.s.sy expanse surrounded by a fence seemed to be the spot the guerrillas had chosen for their helicopter pad. There were two choppers circling high above, disappearing into the clouds and reappearing immediately afterward. One of them began its descent. It was all white, with a red band beneath the rotors. The sound of the rotor became deafening and seemed to take on the same rhythm as the pounding in my heart. The closer it came, the more the vibrations spread through my body. It landed, and the door opened immediately.

Enrique had ordered most of his troops to stand in a circle all around the enclosure. The guards were looking ill-tempered, and their nervousness was as tangible as the hot air s.h.i.+mmering just above the ground. We prisoners were gathered in a group; we had instinctively cl.u.s.tered against the barbed wire to be as close as possible to the helicopter, so we couldn't be overheard by the guards. I stayed slightly to the rear. I was wary.

Several people jumped out of the chopper. There was one very tall man, with a white cap on his head, who walked bent to one side, as if he were afraid the wind from the rotors might knock him over. Another thin man with a blond beard ran behind him, along with a little woman in a white lab coat, holding forms in one hand and a pen in the other. A st.u.r.dy guy with very dark eyes and a piercing gaze walked along the side. He looked Arabic. Behind and to the left was a dark little man with a movie camera in his fist; he wore a white vest and a Che Guevara T-s.h.i.+rt and was filming everything. Next to him was a young reporter wearing a red bandanna and brandis.h.i.+ng a microphone, visibly trying to speak to the commanders.

"Are they Europeans?" My companions nudged me, eager for an answer.

I was trying to get a good look at them, but my sight was affected by the glare. And it was hotter than a furnace.

"No, they're not Europeans."

The tall man with the white cap stopped just on the other side of the barbed wire and bombarded us with stupid questions, while his acolyte took notes.

"Are you in good health?"

"Do you have any infectious diseases?"

"Do you get vertigo in airplanes?"

"Do you suffer from claustrophobia?"

He wasn't interested in anyone in particular, and he went from one person to the next without waiting for any answers.

I got closer to look at the laminated ID badge hanging from his neck: INTERNATIONAL HUMANITARIAN MISSION, it read, written against a pale blue background bearing the logo of a dove with its wings spread, like the one on a bar of Dove soap. This is a trick, This is a trick, I thought, in dismay. The men were obviously foreigners; they might be Venezuelan or Cuban. Their accent, in any event, was Caribbean. I thought, in dismay. The men were obviously foreigners; they might be Venezuelan or Cuban. Their accent, in any event, was Caribbean.

This was no international commission. There wouldn't be any releases. We were going to be transferred G.o.d knows where. We'd still be prisoners ten years from now, I concluded.

The man with the white cap had given an order to unload some crates of soft drinks from the helicopter; acting the grand gentleman, he gave them to Cesar.

"These are for your troops, companero, companero," was what I managed to lip-read, and then they gave each other the prescribed greetings. The guards were posted every two yards in a circle around us. There must have been sixty or more. Obviously Cesar had brought in new troops. They were proud, standing to attention, eagerly observing everything going on. Enrique wasn't talkative; he was withdrawn in comparison with Cesar, who was lapping it up, full of himself.

The man with the white cap addressed us in what was meant to be an authoritative voice, declaring, "Muchachos! Let's be quick now. We can't stay on the ground any longer. We have a commitment to the FARC, and we're going to make sure it's respected. Everybody has to get into the helicopter, hands tied. Line up. The guards have the handcuffs we brought. I ask you to please cooperate, so we can guarantee the success of our mission." Let's be quick now. We can't stay on the ground any longer. We have a commitment to the FARC, and we're going to make sure it's respected. Everybody has to get into the helicopter, hands tied. Line up. The guards have the handcuffs we brought. I ask you to please cooperate, so we can guarantee the success of our mission."

Unexpectedly, and for the first time ever, there was a rebellion among the hostages. No one wanted to get into the helicopters. All the prisoners protested. We would not accept from these strangers what we'd been tolerating for years from the guerrillas.

The guards readied their rifles, in case we needed reminding. Some of my companions lay down on the ground, kicking whoever approached. They were viciously handcuffed by the guards and forced at gunpoint to climb into the aircraft. Others wanted to testify to the camera and were pushed away again, hands tied, and forced into the helicopter in turn. The guard who was binding our hands was a young guy with a violent temper. He bound my wrists so tightly that he nearly lost his balance. I didn't say a thing. I was crushed by the thought of what might be next.

The nurse offered to help carry my backpack. I refused outright. Those images they were filming, endlessly, were meant to convey to the world the picture of a humane guerrilla movement. I wanted no part in their game. I didn't say a word, and I climbed into the helicopter like a beast going to the abattoir. Inside, on every seat there was a white parka. We're going to the paramo, We're going to the paramo, I thought, biting my lips. I thought, biting my lips. To Alfonso Cano, To Alfonso Cano, I concluded. I concluded.

I was sitting between Armando and William, very near the door, because we were the last ones to board. I had my backpack between my legs, and I was trying in secret to pull off my handcuffs to get my blood flowing again. That was fairly easy, since it was a system not unlike the straps for suitcases used in airports.

"Put them back on. It's not allowed," warned Armando, shocked.

"I don't care," I answered testily.

Enrique took his seat, and the door closed. The helicopter took off. I looked through the porthole behind me: The guerrillas were standing at attention, watching us leave. Soon they became tiny, until they were a line of black dots in the greenery. We could overpower them and take control of the helicopter, I thought, looking toward the c.o.c.kpit.

The nurse came up to me again and offered me something to drink. I didn't want anything from her, for she was taking part in an operation to prolong our captivity. I rejected her coldly, irritated by her friendly look.

Then I saw it. A quick movement, and Enrique fell out of his seat. The big Arab was on top of him. My companions were kicking him. I didn't know what was going on. I couldn't even dare to believe what was happening. My thoughts seized up. My brain was blocked. Nothing seemed coherent.

The tall man in the white cap stood up, the Arab was holding his position, on top of Enrique. All I could see was the victory of these giants over the man I had hated so much. Everybody turned around to look at them. The colossus threw his white cap in the air as he yelled with all his might, "Somos el ejercito de Colombia! Estan libres!" "Somos el ejercito de Colombia! Estan libres!"98 The sound of the engine filled my head with vibrations, and I couldn't comprehend what was going on. The words took some time to penetrate the carapace of incredulity that had hardened over so many years around my brain. The words soaked in like the first rains after a long winter, gradually filling me through layers of pain and despair that had grown rock hard inside me, and with those words came back a surge of power, rising like lava, deep from my entrails, burning its way out, about to explode.

A long, long, and very painful cry came breaking through like a burst of flames wanting to reach the skies, forcing me open, like a mother in childbirth. When I finished emptying my lungs, my eyes opened to another world. I had just been catapulted into life. A rich, intense serenity flooded over me. I felt like a lake with deep waters, its surface reflecting an image of snowy peaks all around.

I kissed my rosary in an inexpressible elan of grat.i.tude. We were hugging, whimpering with tears. William was clinging to me and I to him, suddenly afraid and breathless in front of this void of freedom opening up before us. As if we were about to take flight, our feet on the edge of a cliff.

I turned my head away. My eyes met Marc's for the first time on the other side of life, in the world of the living, and at that precise moment I saw the kindred spirit I had discovered in the jungle, when we were in chains and had written to each other. Marc smiled. What we became is what we are, What we became is what we are, I thought. I thought.

At my feet, curled up like a fetus, his hands and feet bound, lay Enrique. No, I didn't like our violence, nor the kicks we had given him. That wasn't us. I took William's hand. Next to me he was weeping.

"It's over," I said, caressing his head. "We're going home."

EIGHTY-TWO.

THE END OF SILENCE.

William put his arm around my shoulders. Only then did I realize that I, too, was weeping.

But in fact it wasn't me crying-it was my body that had gone to pieces trying to become whole again, through tears, submerged by a mult.i.tude of disparate and disconnected feelings colliding. I walked barefoot for a few more moments on the planks of precious wood they had cut with the chain saw in the camp of horror and which was now rotting in the past with the thousands of trees sacrificed during those six and a half years of waste. I thought about my body that had not regained its female functions since my near death and which now seemed to have stopped hibernating at the most inopportune moment. It was the first time in my life that the thought of it made me happy.

My companions were jumping around Cesar's and Enrique's rec.u.mbent bodies in a war dance of our victory with shouts and cheers. I watched as Armando was singing in Enrique's ear, "La vida es una tombola, tombola, tombola!" "La vida es una tombola, tombola, tombola!"

The helicopter's going to crash, I thought, startled by a rush of adrenaline, suddenly fearful that our euphoria would disturb the aircraft. I sat back down, tense. What if the curse still followed us? I imagined the accident, I couldn't help it. "How soon do we land?" I screamed, hoping for someone to hear. I thought, startled by a rush of adrenaline, suddenly fearful that our euphoria would disturb the aircraft. I sat back down, tense. What if the curse still followed us? I imagined the accident, I couldn't help it. "How soon do we land?" I screamed, hoping for someone to hear.

In the c.o.c.kpit the mechanic turned around with a huge smile, showing me five fingers.

My G.o.d, I thought, I thought, five minutes! That's an eternity! five minutes! That's an eternity!

The tall man with the white cap stood before me and lifted me from my seat in a bear hug that took my breath away. He introduced himself. "Major in the Colombian army," he said, telling me his name. He had the build of a Thracian gladiator, I thought immediately.

He put his mouth up to my ear, his hands cupped. "I left my family over a month ago to take command of this mission. I couldn't tell anyone anything- we were sworn to the utmost secrecy. My wife kissed me before I left and said, 'What you're doing is incredibly important. I know you're going to get Ingrid. My prayers go with you. You'll succeed, and you'll be back. And remember that whatever happens, I know I have shared my life with a hero.' . . . I wanted you to understand, Ingrid, that we've all been behind you, every day, bearing your pain like our own cross, all Colombians."

I was hanging on his words, clinging to him, as if in his arms I could be safe from all misfortune.

I gave thanks to G.o.d, not for releasing me but for this this release. For the selfless love of these men and women-whom I had never met before and whose sacrifice had given a transcendent meaning to all that I had lived through. release. For the selfless love of these men and women-whom I had never met before and whose sacrifice had given a transcendent meaning to all that I had lived through.

An immense serenity came over me. Everything was as it should be. Out of the porthole behind my seat, the little village of San Jose del Guaviare, in a garden of greenery, grew larger and larger beneath my feet. There is the oasis, the promised land. There is the oasis, the promised land. I thought. Was it possible? I thought. Was it possible?

The door opened. My companions leaped out of the helicopter, jumping over the bodies of the two subdued men. Enrique looked unconscious, stretched out on the floor in his underwear. I felt a pang. There was nothing to cover him. He would be cold. The woman who had played the nurse during the operation took me by the arm. "It's over," she said gently. I stood up and squeezed her tight. She pushed me toward the door, and I jumped with my backpack onto the tarmac.

At the end of the runway, the presidential airplane was waiting to fly us to Bogota. A man in uniform opened his arms to me. It was General Mario Montoya, the man who was responsible for Operation Jaque. His exuberant joy was contagious. My companions were dancing, waving their handkerchiefs around him.

In the airplane he filled me in on the details of the operation and the preparations made to ensure its success. In the depths of the jungle, the helicopters had been painted white, in a secret camp where for one month the team had rehea.r.s.ed the operation down to the smallest detail. They had intercepted communications between Cesar and Enrique, and their leader, Mono Jojoy. Jojoy thought he was speaking to his subordinates, but it was the Colombian army. Cesar and Enrique in turn thought they were getting their orders from Jojoy, not suspecting that it was Montoya's men. The initial order was to identify the group of hostages under Enrique's command and then to put us all together in the same group. When they saw that their orders had been carried out, they took their bold enterprise one step further, ordering Cesar to put us in the helicopter belonging to the fake international commission. They had copied the procedure that had been set up for unilateral releases at the beginning of the year. The operation seemed to follow the same logic as the previous ones, and it worked. The death of the FARC leaders.h.i.+p, Manuel Marulanda and Raul Reyes, made the premise of an interview with the new leader, Alfonso Cano, believable, which explained why Cesar and Enrique were so eager to travel in the helicopter. Like a giant jigsaw puzzle, all the pieces came together just as they should, in the right place at the right time.

I listened to the general. He was describing my children in detail and giving me news of Mom and my sister.

"Does my family already know?" I asked.

"At exactly one o'clock this afternoon, we announced the news to the entire world."

Then, without thinking, I asked for permission to go to the toilet. He said nothing, just looked at me. "You don't need to ask permission anymore," he whispered. He courteously stood up and offered to take me there.

I changed and braided my hair in a real mirror, behind a real locked door, and I laughed at the idea that I'd never again have to ask permission.

We were about to land. I found Marc toward the front of the plane, lost in his silence. I motioned to him, and we went to sit in a corner with some empty seats. "Marc, I just wanted to say . . . I want you to know that those letters that I didn't give back to you, I burned them-"

"It's not important," he said gently, interrupting me. Our hands clasped, and he closed his eyes to murmur, "We are free."

When he opened his eyes again, I found myself saying, "Promise me that when you are back in your life, you won't forget me." He looked at me as if he'd just found his bearings in the sky and a.s.sured me with a nod. "I'll always know where to find you."

The plane landed, and General Montoya greeted the minister of defense, who was still standing at the entrance to the aircraft. I had not seen Juan Manuel Santos in many years. He kissed me affectionately and said, "Colombia is celebrating, and so is France. President Sarkozy is sending a plane. Your children will be here tomorrow." Then, without giving me the time to react, he took me by the hand and led me out of the plane. I went down the steps in a dream. On the tarmac a hundred or more soldiers cheered our arrival. All those men and women in uniform kissed me, and I was giving myself to them as if I needed their gestures, their voices, their smells to believe that this was real.

The minister handed me a cell phone. "It's your mother."

If you believe what you say, words become reality, I told myself, for I had imagined this moment so many times. I had wanted it so badly and waited for it for so long. I told myself, for I had imagined this moment so many times. I had wanted it so badly and waited for it for so long.

"h.e.l.lo, Mom?"

"Astrid, is that you?"

"No, Mom, it's me, it's Ingrid."

Mom's happiness was just as I had imagined. Her voice filled with light, and her words seemed to flow on from the ones I'd heard at dawn on the radio that very day. We had never left each other. I had lived through these six and a half years of captivity hanging on to life from the thread of her voice.

We left Tolemaida, this military base a few minutes from the capital, where we had made a stop. During the flight to Bogota, I closed my eyes in an exercise of meditation and saw again everything I'd experienced since my capture, as if in a film screened at high speed. I saw my entire family, just as I'd pictured them during all those years we'd been apart. I had an inexpressible fear, as if I might not recognize them anymore, or they might brush past me without seeing me. Papa was almost more alive for me than they were, or at best they were as far away from me as he was. I knew I had to resolve to bury him for good, and this was still very painful. I would need my sister's help to mourn him. How could I possibly accept him as being dead when I was coming back to life? That was an immense task awaiting me. I would have to find out myself, in my home among my loved ones, knowing all the while that I was now so different, almost a stranger for them.

My greatest worry was reestablis.h.i.+ng the connection with my children, to found our relations.h.i.+p on a new basis, to create trust, complicity, and start from scratch while delving into our past to restore the codes of our love. My son was still a child when I was captured. What memories might he have kept of his mother from his childhood? Would there be room for me in his life as a young man? And Melanie-who was Melanie? Who was this determined, thoughtful young woman who insisted I not give up? Would she be disappointed by the woman I had become? Could she, could I, recover the intimacy that had bound us so deeply before my disappearance? Papa was right: The most important thing in life is family.

This new world, about which I knew nothing, had meaning for me only in my family and through my family. During the years of agony, they had been my sun, my moon, and my stars. I had escaped from that green h.e.l.l every day, carried away by the burning memory of my children's kisses, and so that the memory of our past happiness would not be confiscated, I had buried it in the stars, near the constellation of Cygnus that I had given to my daughter when she was born. Deprived of everything, I had devoted my energy to the coming happiness, of hearing the voice of my son change into that of a man, and like Penelope I had woven and unwoven my work, waiting for that day to come.

Only a few more hours and I would see them all-Mom, my children, my sister. Would they be sad to see me so worn down by captivity? I took a deep breath, with my eyes closed; I knew that we were transformed. I saw it when I looked at Willie, Armando, Arteaga. They were all different, as if radiating from within. I must be, too. I kept my eyes closed for a long time. When I opened them again, I knew precisely what I would do and say when I came off the airplane. I felt neither impatience nor fear nor exaltation. Everything I had thought during those interminable cycles of marches and camps, season after season, was ready, was ripe in my heart.

At last the door opened.

On the tarmac Mom was waiting, intimidated by so much blessedness, and on her face, as if she would have liked to hide them from me, were the traces of her years of suffering. I liked her new fragility. It was familiar to me. I descended the steps slowly, to have time to admire her, to love her better. We embraced with the energy of victory. A victory that we alone could understand, because it was a victory over despair, over oblivion, over resignation, a victory solely over ourselves.

My companions, too, had disembarked. Armando took me by the hand and led me along. We looked forward with our arms around each other's shoulders, as happy as children, on clouds. I felt with a s.h.i.+ver that everything was new, everything was dense and weightless at the same time, and in the explosion of light everything had disappeared, been swept away, emptied, cleansed. I had been born once again. There was nothing left in me but love.

I fell to my knees, looking ahead to the world in front of me, and I thanked the heavens for everything that was still to come.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

To Susanna Lea, who inexhaustibly sustained my writing and my soul.