We were in a chamber the size of a small room, approximately twelve by fourteen. Three of the sides of this area were walls of rough-hewn concrete blocks, the sturdy, original walls of the sub-cellar. The fourth side was a solidly jammed mass of debris where the ceiling had caved in to separate us from the rest of the sub-cellar. Over our heads, part of the original ceiling remained, slanting at about a thirty degree angle and mixed with all sorts of rubble. It angled downward from its original twelve-foot height to about seven feet. Thus there was ample headroom in the area.
The first thing I did was to investigate the artificial wall which had been created by the explosion. I tried moving some of the smaller slabs of concrete. They wouldn’t budge. I looked for a hole in the mass of rubble. There was none. I stooped down and leaned my weight against the lower part of the debris.
The mass shifted-but not the way I’d hoped it would. There was a rumble and the whole wall tumbled farther in toward the small area in which we were trapped. The girls screamed and scampered away toward the opposite wall, fleeing the sudden shower of rocks and dust which I’d brought about. I quickly stopped pushing. I was afraid I’d cave the whole damn wall in on us.
Next I turned my attention to the ceiling. It looked even less secure than the wall had. In a way, though, this was lucky for us. There were four or five small holes tunneling upward from it. These were undoubtedly the source of the air which was keeping us from suffocating to death. None of these holes was bigger in circumference than the size of a man’s head. I climbed on top of one of the overturned bins for a closer look at one of them.
I shone the flashlight into it and stretched my neck. Dimly, at the other end, I could make out that the small tunnel widened. It was hard to tell because it was night, but I guessed that it extended to the surface. I investigated each of the other holes in turn. At least three of them seemed to penetrate all the way through the roof of debris covering us. However, it was obvious that any attempt to widen one of these holes would bring the entire mess crashing down on us.
We couldn’t rescue ourselves. If we were going to be saved, help would have to come from above, from outside. But was there anybody left alive who would be interested in saving us? And if there was, would they guess that we were alive and trapped down here?
I sighed to myself, got down from my perch, and looked over the interior of the area in which we were trapped. A good part of the floor-space was taken up by three large bins which had been overturned. One of them contained bottles of champagne. There were perhaps thirty-odd bottles still left intact. The second rack also contained bottles. The liquid in them was colorless. They were labeled in a foreign language. I couldn’t read the labels, but I recognized the language. It was Russian. I opened one of the bottles and took a small swig. Vodka. I turned my attention to the third rack. It contained a hundred or more small jars of black caviar. These jars also had labels printed in Russian. I commented on this to Dawn.
“It figures,” she told me. “At one time Castro entertained a Russian trade commission in this house. I suppose they sent this stuff as gifts in return for the hospitality. Champagne and caviar,” she added bitterly, “while the peasants starve under the glorious Castro Communist rule.”
“Don’t be bitter,” I told her. “This is a lucky break for us. At least we won’t starve to death, or die of thirst. We could last for a month on this stuff. And the way things look, we may have to do just that.”
“If we don’t suffocate,” she observed morosely.
“We won’t,” I assured her. “There’s plenty of air reaching us. I checked on that.”
“But what are we going to do? Can’t we dig ourselves out or something?”
“Nope. Too risky. The only thing we can do is wait and hope. Meanwhile, there’s no immediate cause for concern. So we all might as well relax and see what daylight brings.” I smiled at her with a confidence I didn’t really feel. Then I turned the smile on each of the other three girls in turn.
They were game kids. They smiled back. One held the smile longer than the others, looking at me with frank, dark, Latin eyes. “Since it looks like we may be here a long while,” she said in Spanish, “should we not introduce ourselves? I am Rosita, Mr. Victor.”
“Hello, Rosita. That’s a good idea. Only call me Steve, will you? This situation doesn’t exactly call for formality.”
I took a good long look at her. Any man would have. She was really something to look at.
Rosita had long, black hair reaching to her high, plump buttocks. She was a small girl, petite, but stacked. Her features were Latin and aquiline, her complexion olive. She was slender, and her breasts and hips were too large for her small frame. I guessed that few men would complain about that. Certainly I wasn’t one of them.
She was vivacious and saucy. Her manner was openly flirtatious. Dressed in a simple low-cut peasant blouse and skirt, all in all Rosita was a picture of steamy Cuban allure. I tore my eyes away from her as Dawn introduced me to the other two girls.
The first of these was Brigid. She was as different from Rosita as night from day. As tall as Dawn, but not nearly as well-built, Brigid looked like a fashion model. Her breasts were very small, her hips slim, her hair close-cropped and red as flame. When she muttered a few words of acknowledgment at the introduction, I detected the lilt of an Irish accent. But there was none of the warmth I’d come to associate with the Irish. Brigid was cool and composed and there was a light in her dark green eyes which said she neither trusted nor liked men, and added that I was no exception.
There was no such light in the eyes of the fourth girl. She shot me a look which was as frankly sexy and appraising as Rosita’s had been. This seemed to annoy Brigid. I began to formulate a vague suspicion about these two and their relationship to each other. However, it was none of my business and I didn’t let it show as I said hello to Selma.
Selma was as American as apple pie—a wedge from a Brooklyn Automat, since Selma hailed from Flatbush and it showed in the pert, nasal way she talked. She was a friendly type with silver-blonde hair teased like the coiffure of a suburban housewife and providing a neat contrast to the unruly, tawny-gold mass of curls tumbling about Dawn’s face. Her figure was lush—maybe a little too plump in spots, particularly around the thighs and haunches—but juicily erotic nonetheless. The brief Baby Doll pajamas she was wearing enchanced this impression.
I gathered that both she and Brigid must have been startled from their beds by the air-raid siren. The redhead was also wearing pajamas. Only hers were full-length, Chinese silk, and they fit her like the skin of a reptile. I noticed that she was holding Selma’s hand as the latter continued to grin at me.
I had enough troubles. I turned away from the two of them and back to Dawn. “We’d better conserve the batteries on that flashlight,” I told her. “The best thing would be to turn it off and all of us get some sleep. Maybe daylight will show us a way out, or bring some help.”
Dawn agreed, and we settled down. I curled up in one corner, Dawn in another, Rosita in the third, and Brigid and Selma together in the fourth. I killed the light. Everything was very quiet for a while. Then I heard muted whispering from the corner where Brigid and Selma were. I couldn’t make out the words. But after another few minutes I could hear the rustle of their bodies and then the sound of rapid breathing. I fell asleep listening to it.
I woke up with an armful of Cuban curves. It was Rosita. Her lips were intimate against my ear. “Listen to those two go at it,” she murmured. “It’s disgraceful.” She was speaking in Spanish, and it took a moment for my sleep-drugged brain to make the translation. “I don’t understand how women can get satisfaction from each other,” she added. She was breathing very heavily and her breasts were hot against my chest under the thin peasant blouse she wore.