THE HANDS
Knock by knock
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It was in Santa Clara that we started to talk through the walls. It was our first Christmas Eve there.
They gave us the bones. The guards’ leftovers.
When I sat in the corner facing your cell, I felt the touch of your body. I started scratching at the wall with my nail. You understood immediately and scratched back, as if to say, “I’m here.”
Yes, where we both got calluses.
…
I transmitted the first signal I could think of.
1 knock
2 knocks
3 knocks
4 knocks
5 knocks
And so on. 1 = A, 2 = B, 3 = C … The alphabet.7
Then, the only word fit for such a day.
6
5
10
8
3
8
4
1
4
Happiness.
Then a signal, indicating the message was sent.
1
4
2
Then, I waited. I didn’t know if you could understand what I had said.
…
I started to repeat the words, but you started to scratch, in a calm but determined manner, like you were telling me to shut up.
Then, after a long, anxious silence, you responded.
B
I
E
N
And you repeated my first word back to me.
F
E
L
I
C
I
D
A
D
Happiness, indeed.
When we finished transmitting the first word and gave each other the “all good” signal,
Yes. It was late afternoon, night was about to fall, and I knew that the “clothes-makers”9 were coming.
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That night, I eagerly awaited my food: there was lamb. I knew it was lamb because I recognized the bones.
It was something I had been thinking about. We already had a scarce system of communication, with only two signals. Ta-ta-tara-ta-ta-ta, meaning “I’m okay.” And the dry knock, meaning “danger.”
I sat against your sounds, back to back, a wall in between, facing the peephole (to watch the sentinel). I bent my right arm behind my back, scratched, then knocked on the wall with the knuckle of my middle finger.
F
E
L
I
C
I
D
A
D
A
D
B8
2
8
5
12
6
5
10
8
3
8
4
1
4
But it was short-lived.
there began the non-routine movements.
The unmistakable engine. Soon, they were cutting our hair and shaving us. There was a doctor with them, doing nothing.
7. The alphabet used by Rosencof and Fernández had only 23 letters, missing H (which was always silent), K (which was only used in loanwords), Ñ (replaced with N), and Q (a rare letter with a sound covered by C). Thus, 8 = I, L = 10, T = 17 …
8. The use of ADB to mean “all good” is of unknown origin. Possibly from “anda todo bien,” meaning “everything’s going well.”
9. Originally “roperos,” literally “clothes-ers.” Possibly a euphemism for prison staff in general, including but not limited to those that would come to fix up or procure prison uniforms.