On Captivity: A Spanish Soldier's Experience in a Havana Prison, 1896-1898

Part II

II i as the officer with the key unlocked the door to the new cell, i looked inside and trembled at the sight of a deep cavern inhabited by creatures piled together in a formless mass. they were scarcely visible, like shades of the damned in that sinister hole filled with dense smoke that swirled around the door in search of an exit. i went in and no one responded to my greeting. it was siesta time and the prisoners were sleeping, smoking, or chatting quietly. no one was fully dressed. the majority wore underclothes; some were in underpants; three or four were literally naked. a large number of hammocks fastened to big iron rings on the walls swayed gently in the dim room, blocking passage through it. the walls were gray, the ground was black and oozed moisture, and the faces of the prisoners were a pale color you don’t see in the street or in any penal institution where hygienic practices are observed and prisoners are not deprived year in and year out of air and sunlight. the front half of the cell was about seven meters long and four meters wide. the right wall formed a depression at midpoint, and the space narrowed until it ended in a corner, like a funnel. and forty-five or fifty men had lived there for about as many months! the hammocks were hung in two crowded rows: one was high up, with the hammock cords stretched tightly; another row was low with slack cords, almost level with the ground. One of the iron rings often pulled away from the wall, and the six to eight men it supported crashed to the ground, leaving the men with cuts and contusions. Even so, it was impossible for so many men to fit into hammocks, so that the ones who arrived last had to sleep on the wet ground, stretched out against the base of the walls. light and hygiene were prohibited there. a crust of filth not less than two centimeters thick covered the ground. at the entrance, the high doorsill served as a dike to hold back the pool of dirty water that slowly leaked from a repulsive container where prisoners threw leftovers from their rations and cleaned their plates to use afterwards for scooping out the water they drank from a nearby bucket. along with the stench of the water on the ground, made foul-smelling by the high temperatures in the cavern, other odors combined and mixed together— coming from the “prince of the Congo” soap used by some perverted fancy boys, from the yellow grease used for cooking, from the brandy spilled by the drunks, from tobacco smoke, and from the sweat of the men jumbled together there. to this indescribable mix of multiple fetid odors it is necessary to add the nauseating stench that came out of the corner, which was concealed from sight by a torn piece of linen and into which something was emptied that is better left unnamed, lest your stomach turn with so many offensive smells. 70 / part ii the ovenlike heat and the anguish of that frightful place made me sweat and tremble; i wiped my forehead and eyes repeatedly to dispel the sight of that persistent nightmare, but the vision did not disappear: there were pale, thin, gallows faces; burning, angry glances; brightly colored clothes, ripped shirts, trousers in tatters, worn-out bodies, bald heads; swaying hammocks that rocked the innocent and the perverse, young fellows and men eaten away by the rot of infamous vices, smoke, sounds, snoring; the sound of bottles clashing, laughter; pungent odors . . . time passed and i remained on the threshold of that cave without taking a step. Where could i go if there was no room for me and the door was closed . . . perhaps forever? But i couldn’t stay there either. “Will you let me in?” My voice was probably so weak out of fear and alarm that they didn’t hear me. “Can i come in?” i repeated in a louder voice. a man sat up in his hammock. “Come in under the hammocks. Or do you want us all to stand up to receive you? What a charming young master!” these words completely unsettled me. i bent over until i touched the ground and ventured forward in that forest of hammocks, dragging my valise and rubbing up against the hammock...