by Lee Jackson
PART X
23
The next morning, they flew to New York and rented a car for the fifty-mile drive through the Palisades to West Point. During the trip, Atcho told Isabel everything he could about his experiences in Cuba. The result was a glossed-over explanation of how he became a resistance leader, and why he chose to hide his whereabouts while in prison. Though Atcho noted fleeting, troubled expressions cross her face occasionally, Isabel seemed to accept his story. When he had finished telling it, she sat in quiet contemplation, and then her muted mood passed.
Bob told Atcho that he was to be an honored guest at the reunion. Realizing that his value to his Soviet controllers was already rising, he was apprehensive about attending the three-day event. But he also wanted to go.
Bob drove through a set of stately gates that Atcho remembered well, into West Point, by the golf course. They admired the steep, tree-covered hills around the small valley, and passed officers’ housing, the commissary complex, and reached a section of road that passed by the cemetery where many famous graduates were buried, including General George Custer.
A little further on, Atcho strained to look over a low wall on his left where the Hudson River was visible. Far below was the old fieldhouse and athletic grounds where he had practiced soccer as a young cadet. To the right, around the bend, was the Catholic chapel. As a cadet, Atcho had marched to this place for Sunday services. Now he shrugged, refusing to contemplate the existence of God. They passed another row of stately houses and rounded a bend. He gasped at the view spread before him. “It’s changed!”
“Yes, it has,” Bob agreed. “During the early seventies, they tore down most of the old barracks and built bigger ones. There are a lot of new structures, including the library and a huge mess hall.” He pointed to an elegant, tree-shaded mansion set off by itself. “You’ll recognize the Superintendent’s house. It’s the same as always.” Bob pointed in another direction. “See that statue of General MacArthur? There’s also one of General Patton by the library. I’ll point him out when we pass. Look there.” He indicated a massive, brick building down the hill to the left. “That’s Eisenhower Hall, an activity center for cadets.”
The sedan wound around a wide parade field bounded by monuments, then turning onto Thayer Road, rolled between barracks and academic buildings. Cadets in class uniform, faces clean-shaven and serious, scurried in all directions on both sides of the car. Recalling his own days of studious activity, Atcho smiled.
As promised, Bob pointed out the bronze statue of ‘Blood-n-Guts’ Patton directly across from the library. The car continued beyond the buildings, past more residences overlooking another segment of the Hudson, toward the gate leading into Highland Falls. Just inside the portal was their destination, Thayer Hotel.
Bob parked the car across from the entrance of the old Gothic structure, and the trio walked into the lobby. Atcho observed the ornate furnishings, and fine block paneling in the lobby. Then, he checked in at the desk. “Your luggage is already on its way up to your room,” Bob told him. “If you don’t mind, we’re going to settle in at my friend’s house. We’ll come back for you in an hour.”
Atcho kissed Isabel’s cheek, then, welling with pride, watched the couple exit through the front door. An hour later, showered and smartly outfitted in dark dress slacks and tweed jacket, Atcho met Bob and Isabel in the hotel lobby. The elegant restaurant at the far end was subdued. Soothing piano music played in the background and Atcho remembered how much he had relished sparkling crystal, polished silver, and luxurious dining.
He noted that Isabel seemed fidgety and then decided he was being overly sensitive. The day had been active, and she was probably tired. After dinner, they sat back to wait for coffee. Atcho enjoyed the soft music, and his doting gaze took in his lovely daughter.
Isabel dropped her eyes and glanced at Bob, who gave a slight nod.
Isabel began. “We have something to tell you. We didn’t mention it before, because we didn’t want to spoil things.”
Atcho’s heart sank. Somehow he had known this happiness could not last. “What can be so bad?” he asked.
“We’re being transferred,” Isabel said. “I’m sorry, Papa. When Bob chose his first assignment, we didn’t know you existed. So, he picked Germany. We’re leaving right after Christmas and New Year’s.” Isabel was close to tears.
Atcho’s reflexes jerked as though he had been shot and his face went white. “I’m sorry,” Isabel persisted. “Please don’t be upset, Papa. We would love for you to come with us, but regulations controlling refugees won’t allow that.”
Atcho felt hot. He reached for a glass of water, and as he did, caught a glimpse of his son-in-law’s face. Bob was studying him with a curious expression.
“We’ll be in Germany for three years,” Isabel went on. “You can’t come over because you have to stay in the United States or lose your refugee status. Please understand.” She wiped her mouth with a napkin. “We’ll come home every chance we get.”
Feeling Bob’s intense scrutiny, Atcho spoke brusquely. “Of course I understand. You caught me by surprise, and I’m disappointed, but I’ll be fine. Let’s don’t spoil the evening. There’s so much I want to know about you.”
“Me too, Papa. I can’t even believe that you are back in my life, and don’t want to lose you again.”
“You won’t. Besides, New Year’s is still a ways off. Lots of time to get to know each other.”
They lingered over dinner, listened to the music, and engaged in light banter. Bob was interested to know details about the Bay of Pigs, but had enough sense not to make that a major topic of this conversation. “But, you’re gonna tell me sometime,” he laughed with a broad grin.
It was barely eight o’clock when Atcho reached his room and stood at the window looking over the Hudson River. Despite the news about Bob and Isabel, he enjoyed the scenic landscape, and slowly, the taste of yet another disappointment left his mouth.
The night was still fitful, though. He dreamed he was back in Russia. Again, he tried to smash his way through the invincible, dark glass and confront a faceless, menacing General Govorov, to no avail. “Govorov!” he shouted. His own voice awakened him.
Bathed in sweat, he slowly came back to realization that he was at Hotel Thayer at West Point, New York, in the United States of America. Once more, he was astonished at the fact that, after nearly twenty years in prison, he was free. Not free, he corrected himself. Only the bars are gone.
The phone rang, and Atcho answered. Isabel greeted him. “Papa, we let you sleep late this morning. But we want you to have lunch with us at our favorite restaurant on the other side of the river, upstream from Poughkeepsie. It’s one of our favorite places. Bob proposed to me there.”
“What time is it?” Atcho’s voice was gruff, both from sleep, and because a lump still formed in his throat whenever his daughter called him “Papa.” He still could not believe that she was nearby, talking to him, and wanting to be with him.
“Just past nine.”
Sunlight streamed through his sixth-floor window. “I want to jog through West Point, if that’s all right with you. I’ll be ready shortly after noon.”
“Good! We’ll pick you up at twelve-thirty in the hotel lobby.”
A few more words passed between them, then Atcho hung up. The phone rang again. Thinking Isabel might have called back, he softened his tone when he answered. It was the desk clerk.
“Sir, we’ve a special delivery letter requiring your signature. The courier is on his way up.”
“Special delivery?” Atcho was surprised. “Very well,” he answered quickly. “Thank you.”
Almost immediately, there was a knock on the door, and when Atcho opened, the messenger was there. Atcho signed the form and took the envelope. Unexpected as it was, it seemed ominous. The messenger left. Atcho closed the door, slit open the envelope – and froze when he read the black words in bold relief against pale ivory parchment:
Atcho, Don’t forget why you are here.
Your friend, General Govorov.
“You son of a bitch!” Atcho bellowed. “Couldn’t you leave me alone long enough to enjoy my daughter before she leaves for Germany?”
He placed the note on the antique desk and crossed to the matching dresser, pulled open several drawers, and rummaged until he found a wool running suit Isabel had bought for him, then he looked into the closet for the new pair of running shoes. He changed quickly, and considered his appearance in the mirror.
His hair was still jet black but with streaks of gray, and had been trimmed to its former refinement. Age and deprivation had sharpened the lines of his features. His frame was thin from the four weeks in La Cabaña, but his muscles were hard and his chest still conditioned from training at the dacha outside Moscow. He grimaced at what he saw, and resolved to rebuild and stay in good physical shape.
Five minutes later, he left the hotel and began his morning run. He had become accustomed to exercise in Russia, but the lack of it while imprisoned this past month in Havana had made him lethargic. Though bright sunshine had streamed through his hotel window, ground fog hung in pockets in the hills and valleys. The October air was cool, and trees blazed with gold, yellow, and the russet colors of autumn.
Pushing thoughts of Govorov from his mind, he expanded his lungs, appreciating fresh air in a way he had not known in twenty years. He headed along Thayer Road, stretching his legs to full length, and exulting in his body’s response to strenuous demands.
The soft sound of running water caught his ear. At the first intersection, he turned onto a road that angled downhill to his right, and jogged toward the river. Rounding a bend, he saw pockets of mist hovering over the surging Hudson. The ground leveled out, and Atcho ran parallel to the river, now coursing on the other side of a wide field. Ahead was a long, low building he recognized as the old train depot, and he sprinted the last yards to reach it.
It was a typical old-time train station. Before the advent of automobiles and buses, it had been West Point’s main transportation terminal. A canopy hung over the long, narrow platform and a glass-paneled door led into the main lobby. Trains had long since bypassed this place, but the depot, now obsolete, evoked a certain reverence.
Atcho imagined thousands of cadets who had passed through this quaint place during the Academy’s long history. He remembered newsreels of young graduates, commissioned early to fill manpower requirements for World War II. The film clips had been taken at this very spot as young officers loaded onto trains amidst a celebratory send-off by the remaining Corps of Cadets. Similar scenes had taken place during the First World War, and probably the Civil War.
He peered through the windows at tables and chairs spaced around the interior. From the looks of it, the old station was now used for cadet parties and other such functions.
Recalling the revelry of his youth, he sighed, and sat on a bench on the platform picturing great generals and presidents – Grant, Lee, Eisenhower, Patton, MacArthur – arriving here as young men. They too, must have been full of energy, high ideals and matching ambitions. Atcho wondered how often, during their illustrious careers, they had been compelled to compromise principles, and how they had reconciled such departures with their consciences.
A passing runner called to him. Aware that several joggers had gone by while he was looking over the depot, Atcho returned the greeting. How great it feels, he thought, to be able to move around freely, and be alone!
Startled at his own sentiment, Atcho suddenly realized that the last time he had been alone was during the hours before his capture at the Bay of Pigs. He contemplated his own definition of “alone.” Certainly, he had spent time in the box on the Isle of Pines and in isolation at La Cabaña. However, sitting in front of the old station, he felt a sense of solitude that, despite the frequent passing of joggers, was both liberating and comforting. The difference is that I want to be here.
Remembering that West Point had also been the site of Benedict Arnold’s treachery, Atcho wondered how his classmates, the alumni association, and Isabel would react if they knew about his own double life.
Suddenly melancholy, he rose to his feet and jogged toward a set of tennis courts. He veered right and walked until he found a bench on the bank of the flowing Hudson River. For several moments, he stared into the dark water while mists dissipated. They seemed like ghosts, dancing in slow rhythm with images of what could have been. This was the place where he had proposed to Isabel’s mother.
Slowly, Atcho stood, turned away from the river and jogged to the road. It climbed steeply toward the academic complex. Expanding his lungs for more oxygen, Atcho pushed to a harder pace. He reached the level of the parade field, and found himself near the library. Crossing the street, he approached the tall statue of General Patton standing silent vigil over West Point and all the precepts that made it a venerated place.
He touched the base of the statue. Strong chords of an old West Point song sounded through his mind:
The long gray line of us stretches,
Through the years of a century told,
And the last man feels to his marrow,
The grip of your far-off hold.
He pictured a file of proud figures in gray uniforms, their faces offering hope and encouragement, and he glanced again at the bronzed, battle-hardened visage of General Patton.
“I’ll do my best,” he muttered. Then he walked across the street and entered the library. A glass case hung near the checkout desk. Atcho studied the collection of class rings displayed inside, recalling that the tradition of wearing them had begun at West Point. Then he ambled to a corner where yearbooks and graduate directories were kept.
Selecting the most up-to-date volume, Atcho flipped through it until he located his father’s name. Turning to the page indicated, he found a biographical sketch. With fond memory, he read the four-line description of his father’s service record in Europe. Then he looked up his own name, and saw that Eduardo Xiques had died in a fire in 1960.
He sighed and replaced the directory, then rummaged until he found the yearbook for his graduating class. He searched its pages for photos of his former company, smiled to see his own young face grinning out of the page, and continued perusing the book.
He turned to the section on sports. West Point had been a football powerhouse in those days, and the undefeated season, captured on film, reflected the dominance of the team. He turned another page, noting with amusement a photograph of himself in soccer uniform. He was in mid-air, right leg extended, the blur of a ball being driven off his foot between two goal posts. The caption made him laugh. “ATCHO SCORES!”
That was the Princeton game. In his mind, Atcho heard again the call of spectators chanting his name to urge him on. He scrutinized their faces, trying to match them with fading memory. Only one face looked familiar, but he could not place a name to it, and then he realized that the angle of the picture showed him only the attendees from the Princeton side. Glancing at his watch, he decided he should start back to the hotel.
The letter from Govorov rose in his mind again, and he felt foolish that he had not anticipated a reminder of the Russian’s control. He spent years setting me up for this. He’s not going to allow me to feel independent very long.
24
The next few days were spent with Isabel and Bob attending homecoming festivities, where Atcho became reacquainted with former classmates. He found his old Texan roommate, Mike Rogers, and learned that he had left the army and occupied a senior position in the Secret Service. “Somehow I’m not surprised,” Atcho told him, alert to the prospect of enlisting Mike’s help. “You always were circumspect about everyone.”
A number of graduates had read or seen news accounts of Atcho’s plight in Cuba, and made a point of seeking him out to welcome him back to the United States. They seemed genuinely pleased to see him and offered whatever help might be useful to settle into his new country.
Atcho
was amazed at the levels of society his classmates had attained. There were a few generals, many colonels, and more lieutenants colonel. A number had resigned early in their careers, or had recently retired. Some had transferred into other military branches.
Among civilian members were congressmen, presidents and senior executives of major companies, entrepreneurs, attorneys, doctors, and engineers. They worked in industries as diverse as paper manufacturing and defense contracting.
Several classmates expressed a desire to help him find work and asked to be contacted when he was settled. Although grateful for the concern, Atcho felt growing unease as he sensed Govorov’s plan begin to work. Relishing the warm camaraderie he had missed for so many years, he was determined to enjoy the festivities in spite of it. He marched in the parade honoring the oldest living West Point graduate, and attended the football game with the same thrill he had known as a cadet.
On Saturday evening, Bob and Isabel drove him to Washington Hall for the homecoming ball. Atcho was excited. He had seen the new mess hall flanked by granite barracks only from a distance, and was eager to see the interior.
As the car approached the complex, he silently complimented the craftsmen who had engineered and built the structures. The buildings were larger, more imposing, and more representative of the modern era than those he recalled from his sojourn here. Yet the architecture remained Gothic, and maintained the aura of strength and vitality that he remembered.
As he walked up the steps leading into the building, he looked off to his right. There in the grass on a massive marble pedestal was a life-sized statue of George Washington surveying the parade field. The Father of his new country had also pushed to create the Military Academy at West Point. Atcho continued up the stairs and walked in awe through arched, wooden doors, past the foyer, and into the cavernous dining hall. It was a huge room with a six-story ceiling. Hundreds of tables, each capable of seating ten people, were spread throughout several wings, and block paneling covered the walls to a height well above a tall man’s head. A huge mural, highlighting battle scenes, adorned the far end of one wing, and flags of each state hung around the ceiling of the entire hall. Below them were large oil paintings depicting famous men and events associated with West Point. In the center, a stone bridge rose tower-like to the rafters. Atcho recognized it as the preserved main entrance of the original mess hall. He marveled at an organization capable of feeding four thousand hungry cadets three twenty-five-minute meals a day.