My Brigadista Year

by Katherine Paterson

  What a beautiful girl! That was my first thought. She could have been a poster girl for the campaign, with very light tan skin — reminding me of the milky coffee Abuela made for me on the nights before exams. The green beret on her head made her hazel eyes look almost green, her hair was a lustrous dark brown, and her figure, even in boots and uniform, was a match for any Hollywood star.

  While she helped me spread my cot with the simple bedding we had been provided, we exchanged names and told each other where we were from. Marissa was from Santiago de Cuba, but she went to the university in Havana, so we knew some of the same places in the city. She had left university to join the campaign! She didn’t even need her looks to make me admire her. I so longed to go to university, and here was someone willing to leave that cherished opportunity behind to be part of the Conrado Benítez Brigade with kids like me.

  “Have you been here at Varadero long?” I asked, as she seemed to know so much.

  She laughed. “Only two days, but they keep us so busy we think we have been here for weeks. They only excused us from class minutes ago so we could help the newcomers piling off the buses. How many of you were there? It looked like thousands of you.”

  “I don’t know how many,” I said. “But at the station I’d never seen so many people getting on buses in my life, and all of the buses seemed to be headed for Varadero.”

  “That’s great!” She flashed a beautiful smile. “The campaign needs hundreds of thousands of teachers if we’re to get this job done.”

  “But —” I hesitated.

  “You’re worried?”

  “I can read well and write reasonably well, but I have no idea how to teach anyone else. I’m afraid . . .”

  “No, no, you don’t have to be afraid, Lorita. That’s why we’re all here. We can read and write, but we don’t know how to teach someone else how to do what seems so natural to us.”

  “That’s exactly why I’m afraid,” I said, not minding at all that she had used the diminutive of my name. She already felt like my older sister.

  “Believe me, Lorita, the master teachers won’t let you go out into the countryside until they’ve crammed the how-tos of teaching literacy into that beautiful little head of yours.”

  Marissa was so wise and kind in a way that none of the real teachers were, but she had told me to pay close attention, and so I did. After all, my life as a brigadista depended on it.

  The master teacher of our group had to cram a lot in my “little head.” On that first day he gave each of us two books. One was a teachers’ manual called Alfabeticemos, or Let’s Be Literate. In this book were passages we brigadistas would read aloud to encourage our students. The second was the book for the students called Venceremos, or We Shall Prevail. The students’ primer had been carefully researched, he told us, so that the first words the student would learn to read would be words that mattered to him or her and to the building of our new nation.

  There was a picture before each lesson. One was of three farmers taking a break to chat about their work. Another showed young people planting trees in a deforested area. Then there was one of a fisherman showing off his day’s catch. We were told to begin each lesson by using the pictures to encourage a discussion among the students. And we were never to act like arrogant authorities, no matter how our own teachers at home had behaved. The textbook was called We Shall Prevail for a reason, he said. We, as teachers, would be working together in a common cause with those who were our students. “You will be learning, too,” the master teacher said. “Never forget that. You must be courteous, and, above all, respectful and open to all the things your students will teach you.”

  “Suppose someone doesn’t want to learn to read?” a young man asked.

  “Then you must not be impatient. You must slowly win him over.”

  A girl near me asked, “What if a man doesn’t want a young girl for a teacher?” That was my question, too, but I felt then as I did during those first months of secondary school: too shy to ask any questions for fear I’d betray my ignorance.

  “That may be a real problem for some of you,” he said, looking around at the large room full of young people, more than half of us girls. “You girls will have to win them over as friends first. As you work beside them in the fields and in their homes, learning what they can teach you, I believe they will come to realize that you have something valuable to teach them as well. You have been taught in your own homes to respect the authority of your fathers. Respect these men as though they are your fathers; never use a voice of authority with them. Work hard, be cheerful. Teach their children, their wives, whoever in the household is willing to learn. I think the fathers will come to see that they do not want to be left behind.”

  I felt a pang, remembering once more how I had flaunted my papi’s authority — how reluctantly he had signed his name to the permission sheet.

  The master teacher explained every page of the students’ manual to us so that we could explain it clearly to our students. Other authorities gave lectures on agriculture — most of us had never seen sugar cane growing in a field or oxen pulling a plow. Now we were to be working beside the farmers who cultivated the land and provided the food that we had always taken for granted when it appeared each day on our dining-room tables. At our home in Havana, as poor as we felt we were, my mother paid an even poorer neighbor to wash our clothes. In the country, we would be the washerwomen and, to my horror, the doctors, too! A nurse taught us basic first aid, because the nearest real doctor might be many hours away.

  “I hope I’m never called to administer first aid,” I said to Marissa. “I’ve never even put a plaster on one of my little brothers when he skinned his knees. Suppose something dreadful happens.”

  “There you go, Lorita, imagining all sorts of catastrophes. Something may indeed happen, but I’m wagering that if or when it does, you’ll be up to the challenge.”

  She saw the doubt in my eyes and laughed her wonderful laugh. “First of all, you must take that look of gloom off your face. Stand up straight and confront head-on whatever it is. Just standing taller will make you feel more confident.”

  “Really?”

  “Try it!”

  I straightened up. I did feel more confident.

  “And that smile of yours is the greatest asset you have. Don’t forget to include that.”

  I had been in Varadero less than a week when the disastrous news came like the roaring of a hurricane wind on a cloudless day. Three of our airfields had been attacked by planes with insignia painted on them to make it seem they were part of our own air force.

  As soon as I had a free moment, I raced to find Marissa.

  “What’s going on?” I asked her. I needed someone to make sense of the bombing. Bombs belonged in huge world wars in Europe and Asia, not on our island.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “But Batista no longer has an air force. Those must have been planes from the United States.”

  “But they had our national insignia painted on them. That’s what the news said. That’s why our forces didn’t shoot them down before they attacked.”

  “Even at Pearl Harbor, the Japanese flew planes with the rising sun on their wings,” she said quietly.

  “What?” I didn’t understand her meaning then, but later I realized that she thought that it was a cowardly act to make people think the airplanes about to kill them were friendly ones.

  The bombings were frightening enough, but two days later, on April 17, we learned that early in the morning a large rebel force had landed less than a three-hour journey south of Varadero along the Girón shore at a place known as the Bay of Pigs.

  We were at war.

  Marissa did not have to explain to me that the United States was behind it. Where had these insurgents gotten airplanes and landing craft and weapons if not from our hostile northern neighbor? And why were there U.S. warships patrolling dangerously close to Cuban waters?

  “But why would a powerful country like
the United States decide to fight a little country like ours?” I asked Marissa.

  “They are afraid,” she said.

  “But what do they have to be afraid of?” It didn’t make sense to me. We were only a small island in the Caribbean, and they were the most powerful nation in the world.

  “It does seem ridiculous,” she said. “But they are crazy afraid of Communism. Even of socialism. I think they are terrified that Fidel will join up with the Soviet Union to oppose them.”

  “I see,” I said, but I really didn’t see at all. Why would a country that fought to gain its own freedom oppose our effort to be free? And why would a nation with leaders like George Washington and Abraham Lincoln, heroes whom we had studied about in school, want to support a terrible man like General Fulgencio Batista? Because they were afraid? Truly? It was hard for me to believe such a thing, even if Marissa did.

  Our master teacher and many of the other leaders left immediately to go to the front. They had served in the revolutionary army, and they were ready to fight the invaders.

  Before the day was over, parents began to arrive to demand that their children return home. My own father arrived just before bedtime. He had borrowed Ramón’s car to get to Varadero. “You must come home,” he said.

  I had never before disobeyed my father. But I couldn’t leave. I stood up as straight as I could and tried to smile. “Papi,” I said, “I have signed on for the year. If I leave, it will be like a soldier deserting.”

  “You are not a soldier,” he said. “You are a little girl.”

  “I am a member of the Conrado Benítez Brigade, and I am nearly fourteen,” I said.

  “Not until November,” he said, correcting me. “You won’t be fourteen for many months. And you will not have your quinceañera for another year and a half.” He sighed, as though he knew the futility of that argument and tried another. “Oh, Lorita, you promised that if things got too bad . . .”

  “But it’s not bad at all here,” I said. I had trouble looking into his face. It was too sad. “And certainly not too hard. I am learning how to be a teacher. My country needs me.”

  “We need you, Lora.” He was almost whispering. “We need you to be safe at home. We lost Roberto to the revolution. We cannot lose you. You know it would break your mother’s heart and send your beloved abuela to her grave.”

  I ached to see the sorrow and fear in his eyes, but even as I trembled inside, I remembered to stand up tall to show him I was determined. “If it gets too bad, too hard, I will come home, like I promised.”

  “That might be too late.” He shook his head sadly. “The insurgents did not hesitate to kill Conrado Benítez.” But my stiff spine must have convinced him that I would not give up, so he gently stroked my hair, kissed my cheek, and turned to go.

  I called after him: “Give my love to everyone.”

  He looked back at me.

  “I love you, Papi,” I said.

  “But you no longer obey me,” he said softly. I watched him leave the room, and then I went to my bed and wet it with the tears of the child I still was.

  The next morning, I said to Marissa, “I stood tall and tried to smile. At the moment it helped, but then after he left, all I could do was cry.”

  “Of course you cried,” she said. “You love your papi.”

  While the battle raged on the southern beaches, we brigadistas were determined to continue on as though nothing had happened. Our group joined the class of one of the women master teachers. Our lessons went on as though nothing was more important than the war against illiteracy that we had sworn to fight. Of course, at mealtime, we gathered around to hear the latest news, but then we went back to work. We had joined an army, and we had to spend our time preparing for the campaign.

  At first it seemed as if the invaders would triumph, but our military rallied. Only two days after the initial assault, the enemy began to flee to the boats that had brought them to our shore. And on April 20, the teachers who had left for the front returned to Varadero. The war was over. Many prisoners were taken, but a few, carrying their North American – made weapons with them, escaped into the mountains and joined the insurgents there. No need to be afraid, I told myself. If our militia could defeat an invading force backed by the powerful United States, they could surely protect us brigadistas from a few roving bandits. I told Marissa how glad I was that I hadn’t gone home with Papi.

  “No,” she said. “Had you left, you would never have forgiven yourself for deserting the cause.”

  I will always remember the thrill of receiving my uniform and equipment. Dresses with frills and flouncy skirts were from my past life. Even the more severe pleated skirt and white blouse of my school days were left behind. Now I would wear the uniform of a brigadista. We were issued two khaki shirts and two pairs of trousers, a pair of sturdy boots with a change of socks, an olive-green beret, and a leather belt.

  On our uniforms, we were to affix two badges, one large and one small, which I cherished. In the center of each badge was an open book upon which sat a large letter A and a pencil. In an arc above were the words THE ARMY OF LITERACY, and below our identification as CONRADO BENÍTEZ BRIGADE. There was a slot at the top of the large plastic badge, and our shirts had epaulettes, one end sewn to the shoulder and the other buttoned down. Marissa showed me how to thread the epaulette through the slot and then rebutton it to keep the badge secure. The small metal ones we pinned to the front of our shirts. Some people later moved theirs to their berets, which, I must confess, gave them a rather jaunty air. I wasn’t quite bold enough to do that.

  In addition to our uniforms, we were issued our teachers’ guide, our book of readings, copies of Venceremos and pencils for our students, and a rucksack for carrying our supplies. Each of us received a check for ten pesos for personal expenses — paper and stamps for writing home, toothpaste, soap — that sort of thing. We were not promised wages for our work — I had never expected to be paid — because we were a volunteer army. We were instructed to give our ration cards to our hosts, because they would be feeding us.

  To my surprise, each of us was also issued a hammock and a huge lantern. “The campesinos will not have an extra bed for you,” the master teacher explained. “Nor will they have any electricity. Classes will most likely be held after the workday is done. You will need a bright light to study under.”

  The day she was to leave for her assignment, Marissa sought me out. “I have something for you, Little One,” she said. Then she took the necklace of Santa Juana seeds that always hung around her neck and hung them around mine. “I strung these myself,” she said. “Wear them for good luck.”

  “But they’re yours! You need them for yourself.”

  “I’ll string myself another set when I get to the mountains.” She patted the beads on my chest. “I don’t want you to forget me.”

  “I could never forget you,” I said, the tears starting in my eyes.

  “Oh, shush,” she said, wiping my cheek with her long fingers.

  So while beneath my shirt I wore the rosary Abuela had given me when I made my first communion, over my shirt I always wore the necklace of Santa Juana seeds that had once belonged to Marissa. I was proud to wear those beads. Santa Juana, or Saint Joan, as she is known to English speakers, was a warrior saint, and the seeds from her namesake bush are thought to bring good fortune.

  I thought I would not be able to get through my days at Varadero without Marissa, but I hardly had time to miss her, for two busy days later, I, too, was on my way. All of us who arrived on buses on the same day now piled into other buses and rode away. The bus I’d been loaded into drove south for about three hours, and then, because we were going into the mountains, we were transferred to large open trucks.

  The thirty brigadistas who made up what was to become my squad were so crowded on the truck bed that at first we thought we couldn’t sit down. But after the truck hit its first bump, we were all sprawled on top of one another. No one was hurt. We laughed
and each person found a tiny spot to sit. We scrunched together on the rough plank flooring, so tightly packed that no matter how rough the road, we hardly swayed.

  Perhaps all of us were afraid. I know I was. In fact, I was afraid that the persons on either side of me could feel my trembling. I had never been farther from home than the one-hour bus ride to Varadero. Now I was traveling into the Escambray Mountains — the truly unknown — except for one fact. It was in these mountains that Conrado Benítez had died.

  Once we left the main highway and secondary roads, the way ahead became more of a track through the forest than a real road. I could see the trees looming over me when I craned my neck to look up, but that was all I could see of the forest from my place in the middle of the truck. Anyone or anything might be lurking in the shadows on either side.

  Eventually the track became so narrow that heavy branches were brushing the side of the truck and the sun was blotted from view. Then someone began to sing the anthem of the campaign. I could feel my spirits lifting. In English, it won’t sound anything like that wonderful song with which the mountains rang that day.

  We are the Conrado Benítez Brigade;

  We are the vanguard of the revolution.

  With our books held high, we march to our goal,

  To bring literacy to all of Cuba.

  To the plains and the mountains we brigadistas will go,

  Living with the people of the homeland,

  Fighting for peace.

  Down with imperialism; up with freedom!

  Through the alphabet shines the light of truth.

  For Cuba! Cuba!

  Study, work, rifle!

  Pencil, primer, manual!

  With literacy! Literacy!

  We shall prevail!

  The first time I had heard the anthem, I was puzzled by the word rifle. I certainly never expected to carry a rifle. I had never even held a gun in my life, much less shot one. But Marissa explained to me that there were militias with rifles in the remote mountain areas. Fidel had promised our parents that the militia would protect the literacy brigade. And our men tried. But this is a big island, and there are many hiding places for those who would do evil.