A Love Forbidden (Caribbean Tremors Book 1)

A LOVE FORBIDDEN

by

Alfred J. Garrotto

Caribbean Tremors

Book 1

1

Leah Barton had mastered the school drop-off maneuver at Golden Gate Academy. She double-parked the minivan on the bustling one-way street. Okay, kids. Here we are. By the time she turned to face them, Teddy hung over the seat back to kiss her goodbye. His upper lip sprouted thickening blonde hair, a herald of approaching manhood. You look beautiful, Mom. Give ’em hell today. He fired the words like rapid gunshots. I mean, heck.

That’s better, Leah said with a fleeting frown. I’ll do my best.

Thanks, Teddy. Must be this turquoise blouse. Leah touched her collar. His compliment pleased her. She had risen earlier than usual to give herself extra prep time that television appearances demanded. She preferred radio, an easier medium—for her, at least. It let her focus on her human rights message without concern about how she’d look for television’s unflattering, all-seeing cameras. Fortunately, this was a home game, as she called her San Francisco interview dates. Local shows caused the least disruption in the family’s routine and allowed her to perform the preliminaries at home, not in an anonymous hotel room.

Love ya, Teddy called, as he stepped out the traffic-side door into the mid-October sunshine. He wove his way toward the school gate through a line of drop-off cars. Stopping, he turned back and flashed the American Sign Language symbol for I love you. Leah returned the gesture. Teddy’s unselfconscious affection brought always-welcome rainbows to her days.

Monica put her arms around her mother’s neck and kissed her cheek. Although only two years behind her brother in age, her pixyish gymnast’s frame made her appear much younger. In contrast to Teddy’s blond hair, Monica’s raven locks reminded her mom of Snow White’s. Can’t I go with you? she pleaded, giving it one more try before hitting the pavement.

An impatient parent honked from the rear. Leah glanced at her watch. No, dear. She kissed her daughter on the forehead and rubbed away a faint smear of red with her thumb pad. I’ll pick you up at three sharp.

Monica slid across the seat to the curbside door. I love you, Mom, she said and dashed toward the red brick building that housed the private Golden Gate Academy.

Love you too.

Before pulling into the traffic, Leah risked another honk by daring to peek at her reflection in the rear-view mirror. She brushed a strand of blonde hair from her face and eyed her reflection. Achieving a natural look that suited her best took only modest applications of the Scandinavian skin care products she had used for many years. Walt’s loving description echoed from the past—unblemished skin, high cheekbones, finely curved jaw, a straight nose directing attention to soft lips and a small dimple at the point of your chin.

Having passed her brief inspection, she declared herself ready to focus on the nine-a.m. interview with Jeff Nelson on SFO in the AM. With a shift of mental focus, she went from being the mother of two challenging kids to national spokeswoman for Prisoners of Conscience International.

* * *

Father Javier de Córdova knew nothing of Leah Barton’s October seventeenth television interview. In fact, he knew little about the life of single American mothers who struggled to balance parenthood and career and still find time for a personal life. He had other things on his mind when he got out of bed that Monday morning, National Independence Day in his native Santo Sangre and a festive holiday in his village of Santa Teresita, high on the slopes of Chuchuán volcano.

The day started like every other. After the usual cold-water shower, he ran a comb through his dark, naturally wavy hair that receded just a bit more on the left side than the right. He shaved with the straight razor his soldier-father had used for many years prior to his death. Javier then dressed in a clean black cassock and made his way across the already crowded plaza to the old church, which the ladies’ Altar Society had spruced up for the occasion with mounds of big, brightly-colored passion flowers and clusters of potted palms.

As pastor of Santa Teresita Parish, Javier presided at the festive morning Mass, preaching a stirring homily on patriotism. Love of country begins with loving your fellow countrymen, he told his congregation. Who are your countrymen? With a welcoming smile, he gestured toward the mayor and other village dignitaries sitting in the front pew. Not just President Montenegro and our honorable public officials who wear their well-deserved medals and ribbons at celebrations in the capital and in our village.

The mayor acknowledged the compliment with solemn nod. His pewmates sat a bit taller and, by reflex, adjusted the symbols of their offices and awards.

The countrymen you are called to love are those who live in your own homes. They sit beside you here at Mass this morning. This had become Javier’s standard Independence Day theme, but he meant every word of it. Nothing had happened recently in the capital, his highland region, or the world to make him believe that people of all classes and positions no longer needed that universal message. He closed the liturgy by leading a rousing rendition of De Colores, sung in his strong, if not always on-key, baritone.

A parade followed the Mass. Javier stood on the front steps of the church shoulder to shoulder with His Excellency the Mayor. First in line appeared a group of grade school children stepping smartly to the monotonous beat of the local high school drum corps.

After the marchers, came the obligatory procession of local religious and social organizations with their colorful array of banners and sashes. Proud members carried garlanded statues of favorite saints, life-sized pictures of the president, or some hero of the 1901 independence movement that severed the island’s colonial relationship with Spain. Although the day had rapidly warmed to discomfort, Javier waved and sprinkled each passing group with holy water.

These were his people, his friends and neighbors. He had ministered to them and them since his ordination seventeen years ago.

* * *

Both Leah Barton and Father Javier de Córdova were on Juana Santiago’s mind that mid-October Independence Day. It hadn’t been a good week for Juana’s boss, the president of Santo Sangre.

Juana had been a bright, beautiful Georgetown graduate when she first came to work for President Montenegro’s chief political advisor. A 1980 coup had brought Montenegro and two fellow colonels to power. The new assistant immediately attracted the president’s eye. It didn’t take long to get her in his bed. As a reward, he promoted her to the official position of private secretary to the president. Her unofficial role—Montenegro’s most trusted counselor.

For twenty plus years, Juana had accompanied him everywhere, except to his horse ranch and private home, which Señora Anastasia Montenegro y Castillo ruled as tyrannically as her husband ruled his island nation. Juana’s absolute loyalty to the president, though it seemed admirable to many, created an undercurrent of danger, depending on one’s point of view. Bureaucrats at all levels of government understood that the road to the president’s ear passed through his secretary’s office. Being in Juana Santiago’s good graces became a prerequisite to gaining presidential favor. Conversely, if you turned Juana into your enemy, the saying went, transfer your family to Miami and your money to the Cayman Islands.

Juana had advised Montenegro against spending thousands of cruzeros wining and dining a delegation of European and American bankers. Determined to win them over, the president rejected her counsel. Dutifully, she sat to the president’s left at the elegantly silvered and crystaled table in the state dining room. When the money men announced over dessert that they would have a hard time convincing their directorates to extend further credit, the news came as no surprise.

With an air of nonchalance, the president disguised his fury. Puffing to life a fresh Cuban cigar, he let his chestnut eyes range from one man to the next. Gentlemen, perhaps you can tell me . . . why, a command more than an inquiry.

Apparently, the bankers had pre-selected Herr Wenger of the Central Bank of Bonn to justify the bad news. I speak only for the firms we collectively represent, Your Excellency, but frankly there is a new spirit in international banking today. It is not like when money was plentiful and lenders willing, eager even, to invest in developing nations. If it were up to me personally, there would be no problem, but as responsible fiduciaries, we must be sensitive to our investors’ growing displeasure with your administration and certain of its policies and . . . practices.

Herr Wenger paused to dig out another spoonful of Le Mystére, an elegant ice cream, almond, and fudge dessert that had been the hottest (or coolest) delight in Paris last summer. An increasingly negative balance of payments makes your country a not-so-attractive and, shall we say, riskier investment these days. Wenger paused to let his explanation sink in. In addition, we are feeling pressure from a growing element among our stockholders who are shall we say . . . uneasy about the deteriorating state of human rights in Santo Sangre.

Montenegro’s face revealed none of the anti-European, anti-American bigotry boiling beneath the surface of his calm exterior. Friends, I am amazed that you could have been so taken in by the slanderous rumors, emanating mostly from the Amsterdam headquarters of Prisoners of Conscience International and its puppet affiliates around the western world, particularly in the USA and Italy. He spoke in an almost fatherly manner. After an extended pause, the president resumed his tactful defense. I thought surely, Herr Wenger, that men of your position and intelligence would be able to separate fact from POCI’s idle and malicious gossip.

Juana had given the plump, balding Wenger and his smug colleagues credit for too much intelligence. She considered the Americans even bigger hypocrites than the Europeans.

Montenegro picked his words carefully, handling each like a hand-grenade with the pin pulled out. And, what if I were to make . . . adjustments . . . to our way of doing things?

Wenger’s expression didn’t change. Of course, we would take any action on your part as cause to reevaluate our conclusions. In time.

Juana reigned in her seething dislike. She hated to see a man of Montenegro’s greatness reduced to a groveling inferior before his own inferiors. They wouldn’t treat the presidents of the United States or Russia this way or the oil-rich Middle East royalty.

Let’s meet again in the morning, the president said, before you depart our beautiful country. I will confer with my cabinet tonight. Perhaps, there are stones we have not yet turned to satisfy your institutions.

2

A swarm of butterflies danced in Leah’s stomach, as she waited off-set among the snake-like cables, banks of spotlights, and robotic cameras. Three minutes to showtime. How her life had changed since she accepted the position of USA director of Prisoners of Conscience International three years ago. From a behind-the-scenes, part-time volunteer, Leah had become a strong voice for justice and a sought-after veteran of the local and national talk-show circuit. Yet, before every public appearance, she had to battle these winged spasms. They only abated when she began discussing the cause that, after her family, held priority importance in her life.

Kati, Jeff Nelson’s efficient assistant producer, stepped to the foot of the movable bleacher seats to warm up the crowd. She provided upbeat instruction on live-audience etiquette and told everyone to applaud, whistle, and yell when Jeff himself made his charismatic entrance.

A circular rotating platform provided three focal areas for the set: den, kitchen, and exercise room. The designers had appointed the den, now lighted and facing the audience, with bookshelves, a curtained window, and photo collage depicting recognizable Northern California landmarks. In the middle of the room, a low table separated two comfortable armchairs.

Leah took this time to review her own set of last-minute instructions. After her most recent TV appearance her secretary Sandy had pointed out her boss’s nervous habit of tucking her shoulder-length hair behind her left ear. Leah knew that a steady gaze, conviction in her voice, and the absence of nervous tics helped support the truth of her words. And sway audience opinion. Don’t play with your hair! climaxed a litany of instructions she issued to herself.

At one minute to nine, a hush settled over the studio. The second hand wound again to twelve, and the audience exploded right on cue, as the good-looking host trotted onto the set.

We’re on, kids! Leah breathed, summoning all her powers of communication and persuasion to the ready.

When the applause subsided, also on cue, Jeff Nelson went into his introduction of the day’s featured guest. We are honored to have with us this morning the Director of the USA branch of Prisoners of Conscience International. And she’s based right here in our own beautiful City-by-the-Bay. The words spilled from him like rich olive oil tumbling over a leafy salad. "We’ll be discussing the disturbing topic of political prisoners around the world and what we, as ordinary citizens, can do to help release people unjustly imprisoned. So, let’s give a warm SFO welcome to Leah Sinclair Barton!"

Leah exhaled the breath she had held for nearly a minute. Letting her facial muscles relax into a pleasant smile, she stepped confidently onto the carpeted platform. She shook hands with her much taller host, who invited her into an upholstered chair to his left. Charged and ready to go, she composed her hands in the lap of her wool skirt.

Tell me first of all, Leah— May I call you Leah? Jeff’s tone conveyed a professional intimacy.

Certainly.

Can you tell us what Prisoners of Conscience International is?

We’re a non-politically aligned organization dedicated to exposing, opposing, and eradicating human rights violations and false imprisonment.

Jeff looked at his audience. That’s an ambitious goal,

Accustomed to being dismissed as a quixotic dreamer, tilting at distant, unreachable windmills, Leah held her ground. Ambitious, yes. but not unrealistic. In a series of media seminars on how to get your point across during a live interview, she had learned the art of stating her points in twenty-second bites, or less. Beyond twenty seconds, a media coach had told her, people start counting the flowers in the vase on the table next to you.

Jeff, she said, looking first at him, then into the camera. Half of the one hundred and fifty-four-member nations in the UN hold political prisoners, contrary to the United Nations Charter. Many of these countries accept death as the penalty for politically related offenses. At least sixty nations sanction torture as a method of punishment or to obtain confessions.

Jeff appeared stunned by Leah’s summary. Had her words genuinely moved him? Or, had the polished interviewer mastered the art of faux sincerity? I had no idea, he said. Tell us what you’re doing to change things.

In 1965, Leah continued, a Belfast human rights advocate, Nathaniel Roundtree, called together a handful of Protestant and Catholic professionals who were disgusted with the rights abuses in Northern Ireland and other parts of the world. They didn’t know if they could do anything to stop the atrocities, but they had to try. The only weapon at their disposal was more powerful and more feared than the missiles in any military arsenal on earth.

Leah paused to let Jeff and the audience guess the answer. I give up, he smiled, giving her an opening.

Information—the simple truth. Leah stopped her hand, just as it reached for the few strands of hair begging to be tucked behind her ear.

We take our freedom so much for granted, Jeff said with pursed lips and a slight shake of his head.

Leah observed her interviewer with some amusement. Of all the talk show hosts she had met; his boyish mannerisms and speech seemed the most practiced.

Jeff leaned back in his chair and ran his hand along the side of his head, careful not to displace a single reddish-blond strand. I want to pick up on something you said. If Prisoners of Conscience International—

We use the acronym, pronounced ‘poh-see,’ for short, Leah interjected.

If POCI was founded in Belfast, why is it headquartered in Amsterdam?

People on both sides of the conflict in Northern Ireland believed in Mr. Roundtree’s ideas, but found it too dangerous to promote them openly in that political climate. Leah cocked her head slightly to the right maintaining steady eye contact with Jeff. In 1970, the leadership decided to move to Amsterdam. They found an ideal location across the canal from Anne Frank’s house, an international symbol of the kind of injustice we oppose.

The floor director gave Jeff a hand sign indicating a break for commercial. Leah, I’m anxious to find out how you got involved with POCI. Smoothly, he turned to face the camera. First, we have to do some business. Then, we’ll be right back with more of this important and fascinating story.

Leah welcomed the opportunity to dab the perspiration from her forehead and relax her neck and shoulder muscles. She took a discreet peak at her compact mirror to make sure her lip gloss hadn’t smeared.

After the break, she resumed her personal story. The summer after my junior year at Cal—1971—I spent a few weeks traveling alone in Europe. I’d been totally involved in the anti-war turmoil on campus and just wanted to get away from it all. Amsterdam had the reputation for being the most tolerant city in Europe toward student-travelers, so I migrated there. She sensed the first-come-first-seated audience gradually warming to her.

A junior-year lark? An acidic note in Jeff’s voice warned Leah to get to the point, fast.

I got to Amsterdam the night a student riot broke out on the Dam. People scattered in every direction. I thought, ‘God, it’s Berkeley all over again!’ and caught a streetcar heading away from the Royal Palace. Using a combination of sign language, school German, and restaurant French, I asked people on the car where I could find a youth hostel. A man in front of me said in perfect English, ‘Get off at the next stop, and go across the canal. There’s one on the corner.’

The next morning, Leah continued, I discovered I was only a few doors from Anne Frank’s house. I’d devoured the book and seen the play and movie too. I opened the door and went up the narrowest, steepest stairway I’d ever seen. At first, the black-and-white photos on the walls fascinated me in an eerie, haunting way. I couldn’t believe that Anne Frank had walked and played on the very floor under my feet, during her family’s confinement. The actual floorboards. Then, I made my way up to the loft, where she and Peter van Daan spent so much time together, gazing out of that tiny window at the sky, dreaming of freedom. Hoping for it. Waiting.

I know the exact spot. You’re bringing back lots of memories.

So, you had a junior-year lark too? she asked with an innocent smile.

Touché! Jeff grabbed his left shoulder as if to cover a stab wound and laughed out loud. I deserved that. Getting the interview back on track, Jeff led into the next part of her story. Tell us what happened in that upstairs room.

Leah took a deep breath, refocused, and moved on. I heard a wailing siren. It stopped in front of the building. The walls closed in on me. No matter how many times she related this event, the same terror and lonely desperation grabbed her by the throat. Suddenly . . . I morphed into Anne Frank. I heard the stomp of heavy boots rushing up the wooden staircase—rifle butts pounding on the bookshelf that concealed the entrance to our hiding place—the look of horrified resignation and despair on everyone’s faces. My father. My mother. My sister. Peter. And why? What had I, a fifteen-year-old done to deserve this?

Jeff stared at her. The slick TV veteran had disappeared amid the emotion. Beyond the banks of lights that nearly blinded her, the studio audience had slipped into the silence.

Don’t stop now, please, Jeff urged.

I stumbled down the stairs, clutching at the walls for support, hardly able to breathe. Outside, I lay down on a bench to let the blood flow back to my brain.

At a signal from the floor director, Jeff threw his hands up in a gesture of resignation. It’s time for another commercial break. As soon as the camera’s red light went dark, Jeff leaned over and whispered, Dynamite story!

Two minutes later, they were on again. We left you on the bench outside Anne Frank’s house, Jeff said, providing Leah with an open field on which to play out the remainder of her story.

I looked across the canal and saw a sign: Prisoners of Conscience International, World Headquarters. I went over and said, ‘What can I do to help?’

During the next break, Kati collected questions from the audience. Leah wanted to eavesdrop, but Jeff insisted on engaging her in idle chit-chat. You look great in that outfit, he began. Turquoise. Good choice for the cameras.

Leah thanked him without stoking this off-camera turn in their conversation. The red light on the Cyclopean Camera rescued her.

We have a caller named Carmen in Menlo Park, Jeff announced after reading the name off a prompter mounted atop the camera. Carmen, are you there?

Yes, Mr. Nelson. Carmen spoke with a thick Central American accent. Leah guessed the woman to be in her 30s or 40s. "I would like to ask Mrs. Barton, do you ever feel yourself to be in any personal . . . peligro— How do you say it? Danger?"

Leah watched her ratings-sensitive host leap at the opportunity to send the interview in a controversial new direction. Sounds like you have a reason for asking that question, Carmen, Jeff prodded. Can you tell us what it is?

I served as director of the Human Rights Office in San Salvador. Leah had heard this voice before. Not this very one, but others like it. In it she heard the terror of men and women who constantly looked over their shoulders in public, who ducked at the sound of a car backfiring. Years of suffering and first-hand knowledge of terrible atrocities muted the caller’s tone.

I fled to this country after they murdered my father and brother, Carmen said. Now, I have reason to believe the death squads are no longer bound by borders but are active right here in California.

Jeff looked at Leah, eager for her response. Carmen wants to know if you feel personally threatened by your work. After all, you put heat on some pretty bad guys around the world.

The question had never come up in any of Leah’s previous interviews. No, I don’t consider myself to be in any danger.

Leah had read reports of suspected death squad activities within the Central American refugee community. San Francisco police and the FBI suspected that the recent murder of a Taiwanese-American newspaperman had been the work of agents of his former country’s repressive government. As yet, no proof of the allegations had surfaced.

There’s one major difference in our situations, Leah suggested. I haven’t traveled to a country POCI has targeted. Except for issuing an annual report on conditions in individual countries, POCI maintains a low profile. None of the letters our volunteers send mention affiliation with POCI. We never take the credit when a prisoner of conscience is released. Does that answer your question, Carmen?

Yes, but please— Great urgency constricted