 Tired of the everyday grind? Ever dream of a life of romantic adventure? Want to get away from it all? We offer you escape. Escape, designed to free you from the four walls of today for a half hour of high adventure. You are in a Mexican cantina, listening to a man speak his hate for you in word and music. While somewhere in jeopardy without your knowledge and beyond your reach is the one you love, who may lose her life, or the man who sits across the table hating you, is the only one who can save her. Listen now as escape brings you E. Jack Newman's exciting story, El Guitareiro. In Casauda I learned love, and I learned hate. I learned of gentleness, and I learned violence. Above all, I learned that it is a place of an infinite and exact simplicity. There was a poet in a cantina. Me, there was a woman. There was the excusable arrogance of feeling young and creative. And lastly, there was El Guitareiro. So this is the place you hide at night after I've gone to sleep? Not hiding, working. We interrupt this program. We have interrupted this program for the latest on the prisoner of war exchange in Korea. We switch you now to Freedom Village, Korea, George Herman reporting. And then Private First Class Raymond Medina. Private First Class Raymond Medina, who says only that he is from New York and doesn't specify whether that is city or state. All of these are in fine shape. Additionally we have Corporal Richard O. Morrison of Burlington, Iowa. This address is 1001 South Fifth Street. His parents are Mrs. and Mrs. G. H. Morrison. He says tell Mom not to worry that he's looking forward most to getting new glasses. He looks fine. He says his trouble is bad diet. Then we have already given you the names of Carl Kirkhausen of Washington Heights, New York. Of B.F.C. Robert C. Stell of Baltimore, Maryland. He is from the Savo Third Field Artillery. He was a prisoner of war for 28 months. Also, B.F.C. Armand Nolan. He comes from Rexville, New York. He was in the 38th Infantry of the 2nd Division. He was captured at Kunu Re. That's over two years ago. Also, B.F.C. Marvin L. Brown of Oklahoma City. There are going on now in this huge H shaped tent here at Freedom Village. Another series of three interviews. We hope to have additional names for you very shortly. But that's all we have at the moment. So this is George Herman at Freedom Village, returning you now to the United States. This bulletin has come to you from CBS Radio News. Stay tuned for further news from Korea. We now resume our schedule program. Buenas noches, guitarero. Yo quiero la música. Sientase, por favor. What do you write? Just notes. Has been told to me that you are a famous man. That you are a poet. I am. A poet. Don't you approve? I do not know of what you write. Sit down and I'll tell you. Do you drink? I have been known to drink. Will you drink with me? My name is Luis Caras. I will drink with you. My name is John Webster. What do you drink? Tequila. And we both drink tequila. Vengo, señor. Sometimes it is Paul or Frank. But mostly it is always John. In my country, your people are always Manuel. Señor. It has a noble sound, this work of yours. What have you written so far? It's not complete. I sat down so you would tell me, poet. Here. Read it. I cannot read. I am writing of your land here. I say that it is a gay land, full of gay people. That it has color and sound and smell. Every man knows that. I told you it wasn't finished, Guerrero. I write that the gayity is brief. The gladness is pitiful. I write that sadness is the true and the real. I write that here people live with their elementals. Life. And death. Food. Sleep. That's about all I've written tonight. It is not much. Gracias. Por favor. You have spoken of your work. What is your love? Since we're being so down to earth, a woman. Undependable. This one's dependable. She's my wife. She is of your blood, from Chapala. Her name is Inés. Do you have a love? I have been known to love several women. Why is it over a drink a man talks of a woman? Good question. Shall we drink? Salud, poet. Salud, Guerrero. This woman. How do you know you love her? What? Would you fight for her? Die for her? No, you would not. What do you know of life, poet? Of the sadness or this death? Or this gladness you write about? How can you feel if you only stand and look? How can you see? Why do you hate me because I'm an American? Americanos are good people. Why did you talk to me tonight? Ever since I lived once in Chapala, I have always wondered about a poet. I am glad I have a last-seem one. Buenos noches, poet. Buenos noches, Guerrero. That. Arbol. Arbusto. Arbol, tree. Arbusto, bush. How about that? Gorion. A sparrow is a gorion? Yes. A sparrow is very important. It is? Back home, where there's a telephone wire to look at, or a tall building you can't look beyond. I suppose there's a sparrow in the sky. I'm accustomed to that. But here, the flight of a sparrow becomes a thing of vast importance. We all have that same sparrow, that same fleeting beauty at home. Everywhere. It is everywhere. Like love. Like our love. Yes. That's what I was speaking of. Our love. Darling, I met Luis Carras. In Quitarero? Yes. He is contemptuous of me. He has great anger. Since I talked to him last night, I began to question everything I do. All I've done. When I came to Mexico, I called myself a poet. And yet, after two minutes with him, I feel I've been accused of lying to myself. I think he made me afraid that I have never really lived or known joy or sadness or never completely seen anything in my life. Oh, he is wrong. Did you speak of me? Yes. He asked a question about you. A question that made me think that I might not even know how to love you. I do, I do, I know I do. Hold you and I'd love you and I would die for you. And it came in the form of an old truck covered with dust rattling down the road toward us. Two men in the driver's seat looking out the grimy windows. I was still holding her in my arms. But what my time? Los Men, they want something of us. There will be no outcry, Senor. This is a gun. You will come with us, Senor. Not just a minute, if it's money you want. Yes, it is money we want. Senor. Stop it. He'd die if you make this difficult. In the car with our Carlos. Come, Senora. Look here, I'm an American. Do not go to the police, Americano, or she dies. Go back to your hotel. Get away from us. Oh, it's you. See, what do you want? What are you doing here? I have come to speak with you. We've already spoken. We have disturbed each other. Yes. Yes, now go, I'm in no mood for you. Go on, get out, huh? Do you hear me? I heard you, poet. What do you want of me? I have decided. All I want you to stop watching. Get out of here. A man came to me and said I was to come to you and explain that it will cost you ten thousand dollars. Where is she? This man knows. I do not know where she is. Who is he? Where can I find him? She's a man I never before have seen. But I am sure that the police would make him angry. My wife's been taken, she might be harmed. If you know who he is, how I can get her back. Tell me. Tell me as quickly as possible. Then what? Then perhaps this man will come to me and perhaps I will come to you to collect the money for him. That is all. It is simple, poet. Perhaps you will write about it. He stepped out into the night. The one man who could help me get her back. The man who hated me more than anything on earth. We will return to escape in just a moment. But first, today more than ever, a man capable of surprise air attack could leave chaos in his wake. That's why all Americans should be in the ground observer corps, volunteering a few hours a week to guard our skies. Be a ground observer, contact your local civilian defense office and join up immediately. And now, back to escape. The Hotel Dominguez in Casa Oda. There is a hill. And on it there is a path that a man may walk and look out upon the sprawling village and listen to the sounds of the night from the cantina. On that path the air is sweet and the sky is a warm blanket. And it is a pity that a man has to leave the path and go down into the cantina. I went down to see Yogi Paredo. Poet? Hello. You are being away. I had to drive to Las Notres this afternoon. The question is, do you have news, poet? I wired New York last night. They arranged a credit transfer to the bank of Mexico in Mexico City. The money was flown into Las Notres this afternoon. That's why I went there. And you have it? Yes. Here. What about the other? The police. I've talked to no one but you. No one knows she's been kidnapped. No? Believe me, I've done everything you asked me to do. All I want is her now. When can I have her? That is not up to me, but up to the man who will see me as he has promised. He will have to have the money. Well, when he brings her to me, he can have the money. That is not the way he wishes to do it. He asked that I give him the money. No. He assured me that it has to be counted and divided and that these things take time. If I give you this money, how do I know I'll ever see her again? I am only an emissary. If you don't wish to do business with me, do it elsewhere, poet. Here. Take it. I think you have learned something. You are right, Luis. I have. Hate. That is good for a man to know. What happens now? This man will come to me and take the money. When? He did not say when. You must wait, poet. Patiently. I waited. And there was no news that night or the next night. I spent the time, the crawling minutes, remembering all of what she meant to me, feeling with great hunger the nearness that was her. Somewhere in the waiting, I learned pain. The man has asked me to bring you a message, poet. What? This about your transaction. Did you see him? Did you give him the money? I did all that. Come on, come on, what? This man said to me that he wants more money. Ten thousand dollars more. Oh, that is inhuman. He explained to me that it was simple for you to get the first, so he would like another. But he promised he'd give it back to me if I paid him. He did not refer to that. He merely said that he would contact me this night again and that he's most anxious for your answer. I haven't got it. I don't have the sense of the opinion that you can get it. But I can't. I haven't anymore. I paid him all the money I had in the world all I could raise. You wish for me to tell him that? Tell him I just can't get it. He will probably kill her. But I will tell him what you have said, poet. Where is she? What have you done with her? I have done nothing with your woman. I am only an emissary. No. You've been lying. You're in with him. You planned it. You hate me and you want to take something away from me. How does it feel to be a helpless little man, poet? Not even able to write of your own helplessness as you have written of others. The ones with their sadness. How does it feel to be one of them? Can you write of it? Where is she, Luis? You'll die if you don't tell me where she is. Poets love anything but their words and themselves. Tell me? This is a knife, poet. He stops you, huh? No! I told you the knife would stop you. Poet. The dawn of any morning is a cold time. Even if the sun promises want to come. This dawn was unfamiliar. It was cold, true. But it was away from things I knew. A woman with an Indian face was bending over me. Who are you? What? You're awake, poet. This is Senor Amelia. She has bound up your wounds. She's expert in this. She wants to know how you feel. I feel... All right, I guess. She was a slight wound. I could have done worse. Can you stand, poet? Oh no, he's not that sick of a woman. Poet, I like you no better now than I did four hours ago. Something stopped me from killing you as I could have. Now it is important that you stand on your feet and live. We will get the woman. We? That is what you want, this woman? Yes, yes. We will get her together. He made me walk for an hour in the gathering daylight. He gave me no help. No words. But led me across that hill in the back of Casada. And beyond it to a dry, rocky valley. And as we crossed the dirt road, we came inside of an adobe. Besided, we set a battered truck. Wait, poet. After I spoke with you last night in the room, I met one of these men who have taken your money and your wife. I told him what you said. Then I followed him to this place. The woman is in there. Are they? Are they with him? See, they got her. There are two of them and two of us. Here's a knife for you and I will keep this one. Are you ready? Poet, I'm ready. Quitadero, I'll go in first. Do you know how to use a knife? I learned. From you. I've come from my wife. Come on. He is not so good. Try there. It's locked. It's all over, Casada. I learned love, learned of gentleness, learned of violence and the terror of simplicity. Luis Carras taught them to me because he hated me and he will always hate me. But he learned what he had never been sure of. A poet will fight and die for a woman he loves. And that is of vast importance to El Quitadero. Under the direction of Antony Ellis, Escape has brought you El Quitadero by E. Jack Newman starring Eddie Firestone as John Webster and Jack Krushen as Luis. Featured in the cast were Lillian Biles Charlie Lung and Herb Ellis. The special music for Escape is composed and played by Leith Stevens with guitar sequences written and played by Jose Barroso. Next week. Bored at dead ship drifting aimlessly in the endless reaches of the Indian Ocean. While the three men who are your companions unaware of your innermost thoughts are making their own plans for the division of treasure, which because you are a woman can mean life or death for you all. So listen next week when Escape brings you the derelict adapted by Larry Roman. Tomorrow night listen for the Lux Radio Theater starring Dan Daly and Deborah Padgett. Also tomorrow night listen for the Lux Radio Theater and Deborah Padgett. Also tomorrow night Frank Lovejoy stars on suspense both on most of the same CBS radio stations. This is Roy Rowan speaking. And remember America is listening with 14 million kitchen radios and listens most to the CBS Radio Network.