My Brigadista Year

by Katherine Paterson

  On and on it went. I didn’t count, but there must have been at least fifty lines echoing this beginning. I mean, just how many times in one poem can you say “My heart is broken into a million tiny pieces”?

  There had been no warning of danger, and if not for the animals, we would never have known. We were in the back room as usual that Monday night. My thoughts by then were not on Maria’s lost love life, whether real or imagined, or even her lack of poetic talent, but on my students.

  Nancy was busy writing and rewriting her letter. She had pushed herself to finish her exams because next month her baby would be born. Writing the letter was proving much harder for her than the rest of the exam. She was something of a perfectionist and could not tolerate a single erasure. “Look,” she said disgustedly, “you can still see the mistake underneath. I need to do it over. It has to be beautiful if it is to go to Havana.”

  Rafael was racing Daniel and his mother, determined to beat them both through the primer, and Daniel was just as determined not to let a six-year-old triumph. I was beginning to have real hope that most, if not all, of my students would complete their three exams before December.

  I was working hard with Dunia, and Luis, as usual, was tutoring Joaquin. The elder Acostas had finally passed their second exams but were struggling with the lessons leading to the third.

  “Nothing but long words!” Joaquin complained loudly. “I can read the little ones, but now they are all as long as a water snake!”

  I could hardly disagree. He had gone from words like house and hill to words like industry and revolutionary government. A bit of a distance for an old man who had first met the alphabet just a few months earlier.

  Luis broke the words into syllables and drilled the old man until he was nearly crying for mercy. But Luis was a stern teacher who wasted no pity. “If you don’t learn these words, you can’t write your letter to Fidel, and poor Lora will go home feeling like a failure. Besides,” he added, “do you want your wife to finish first? Dunia is not letting the long words defeat her. Remember! Our motto is ‘We shall prevail,’ not ‘We tried but the words were too long, so we whined and gave up.’”

  “But even if I learn the words, you say I have to make these little marks over some, but not all of the letters, and to put a squiggle above the en-ye!” the old man complained. “That’s too much for my old brains to remember. I guess those evil Spaniards invented all that as well?”

  “Yes,” said Luis, “I’m sure they did, but now they make good Cuban words. Besides, I think the marks and squiggle, as you say, are pretty. Would you want your language to look as dull and undecorated as North American English?”

  I was almost beginning to think it was a good thing that Luis had broken his leg. He was such a help, and I knew I needed a lot if I was going to get all of them through the last test before the end of the campaign.

  We were deep into our lessons. Veronica was determined to pass her final exam before her son did, and I was in the middle of the dictation section when Luis suddenly said, “Hush!” I stopped reading aloud, and we all listened. “The animals,” he whispered. “Something is out there.” And then we all heard them. The chickens were cackling excitedly, the pigs were squealing, and even the oxen and goats were making anxious bleats. Luis grabbed a crutch and, as he struggled to his feet, whispered, “Douse the lamp, somebody.” Daniel jumped up to obey. Luis pushed back from the table, shoved aside the blanket, and stumped his way into the kitchen.

  The animal protests grew louder. Then we heard shouting and a bam, bam, bam on the front door.

  “Open up! We know you have a brigadista in there!”

  For a moment we sat there, frozen. Then Rafael let out a muffled cry: “Mama.” Veronica put her arm around him.

  “Shh.”

  The banging and yelling continued. Suddenly it was interrupted by Luis’s voice.

  “I will not open my door to criminals. But be aware that I also have a rifle, and if you bandidos try to enter this house, you will not see another morning!” I never knew Luis to own a rifle, but he was banging on the back of the door with something that sounded like the point of a gun.

  There was some muffled talking outside. And again Luis’s strong voice: “If you try to break in, just remember, I’m in the dark and you’re in the moonlight. You won’t see who’s killed you until you reach the gates of hell!”

  There were a few more half-hearted bams on the door and then “We’ll be back!” There were more threats thrown back at the house as, apparently, the insurgents drifted toward the woods. I thought I heard in the distance the sound of a piglet squealing.

  When only the chirp of insects broke the silence of the night, Luis came back into the bedroom. Daniel relit the lamp and revealed Luis standing in the doorway with a broom in his hand. He dropped it and gave an embarrassed titter. “I guess I can let go of my weapon now,” he said sheepishly.

  For a long while, we sat silently around the table. Finally Daniel stood up. “It’s safe to go,” he announced. “And we have animals to care for in the morning.” We all went out to watch them go, peering anxiously toward the dark forest. When they disappeared into the shadows, we stepped back in and Luis bolted the door. On her mattress, Isabel turned over with a sigh. I looked down. The little girls had slept through it all.

  “Sleep if you can, Lora,” Luis said. “The animals will wake me if there’s danger.”

  It was a hot October night and the air in the small back room was stuffy. But I lay shivering in my hammock, as cold as a fish on ice. From the woods, an owl screeched. I jumped. I won’t be fourteen until November 5th. I am too young to die. I don’t think I said the words aloud, but they were pounding as noisily in my head as if I had. I pulled my almost-forgotten rosary out from under my nightdress and tried to smother my fear with a succession of whispered Our Fathers and Hail Marys. Dear Mother of God, don’t let me die out here so far from my own mother. Even, even if they don’t kill me, won’t I be putting my beloved new family in danger just by being here?

  It’s too hard! The thought hit me like a bullet to the chest. I had promised to go home when it got too hard.

  By morning, I had made up my mind. Luis’s leg was nearly healed. He could take over my teaching job. I had done the work I’d come to do. There would be no shame in leaving a few weeks earlier than scheduled. Next Sunday, when I went to the meeting, I would tell Lilian about the threat. I had the feeling she would be more sympathetic than Esteban. I’d ask her to send word to my father. In the meantime, I wouldn’t say anything to the family. I would work harder than ever, and then when my father came to fetch me, I would tell the Santanas that I must go home.

  I told myself that it was not only my own safety that I was fearful for. As long as I was in their home, they were all in danger. This time the insurgents had made off with a small pig and a few chickens, but when they came back — who knew what they would do? A broom banging against the door might not fool them a second time.

  Veronica was the only one who expressed grief for the lost chickens, but the little girls cried over the piglet. They had named him Oscar, and Emilia was sure he hated being kidnapped by those “bad men.” Rafael was happy that at least Gordo, his favorite pig, was much too fat to be carried away.

  By Wednesday, someone — Daniel? Joaquin? Veronica? Surely not Luis, still on crutches until the doctor came in November — had gotten word to Esteban about the incident. Word came back that all brigadistas were to stay in their houses until further notice — not to go outside, not even to go into the close-by fields to work.

  I caught up on my diary notes. I started to reread Pride and Prejudice. I was glad all over again that I had brought the original English. It would take much longer to reread than if it were in Spanish. Veronica and Rafael were doing the outdoor work, so I did as much of the housework as she would let me and taught the eager Emilia the entire alphabet in one day. Luis was tutoring Rafael when his son could be spared from the field, so I couldn’t
be of much help there.

  There was, of course, no meeting on Sunday, but to my surprise, Esteban appeared at our door that afternoon. He asked me to come outdoors and speak to him privately. It was a relief to get out and smell the fresh air and see the sun shining on the fields and woods. Veronica and Rafael were bent over the bean patch. I longed to join them.

  “Lora . . . Lora?” I turned my attention to Esteban.

  “I’m sorry. It just feels so good to be out of the house. It’s such a beautiful time of year.”

  “Yes,” he said. “But maybe not for you.” I must have looked startled.

  “I know you’ve had a very frightening experience. Lilian reminded me that you’re still only thirteen. No one will blame you if you go home a little early.”

  “Go home?” I hadn’t asked to go home — yet. “Go home?” I repeated myself, trying to untangle this unexpected twist. It was supposed to be my decision, not Esteban’s.

  At that moment, Emilia came running out of the house and grabbed the leg of my uniform. “Lora! Lora!” she cried. “Isabel can do the ABCs all the way to g! I taught her myself! I’m a teacher just like you!”

  Little Isabel came out, her hand in front of her face. “Say your alphabet for Lora, Isabel!” her sister commanded.

  Isabel said something behind her hand. Emilia snatched it away from her face. “Lora can’t hear you! Say it again!”

  I knelt down beside her and put my arm around her. She smiled a tiny smile and whispered into my ear, “A-b-c-ch-d-e-f- g — that’s all I know.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I whispered back, and kissed her cheek. I was conscious of Esteban watching us, so I stood up. “Will it be too dangerous for them if I stay?”

  He shook his head. “We can’t be sure, but I don’t think so,” he said. “The militia will keep a close eye if I ask.”

  I stroked Isabel’s hair and smiled at proud Emilia. “I can’t leave them,” I said. “I promised.”

  It proved to be Oscar that led to the capture of the insurgents who had threatened our home. They made the mistake of butchering the piglet, and the smell of roasting pork and the sight of smoke alerted the militia to the bandits’ location. Juan and the other young boys were gleeful when they talked about it. “They didn’t even get a bite of meat before they became a feast for the vultures.” Juan was chortling as he said this. I put my hand in front of my mouth, afraid I might throw up.

  I never had the heart to tell Emilia and Isabel what had happened to their beloved Oscar. Of course, the children were farm raised. They knew perfectly well where their occasional dishes with meat came from. Even I had seen chickens slaughtered. And before I left, a piglet and a small goat would join celebrations, and not as guests. It was the idea that the bandidos had made off with Oscar that distressed the little girls. I could not tell them about his ironic end. They would not have cheered.

  Poor Maria! She was still lamenting her mistake of sending the picture of herself and Enrico to her parents. “Now he hardly speaks to me. ‘Just friends’! What does it mean to be just friends?”

  She nearly drowned poor old Bonita with her tears. “Writing a poem didn’t help at all,” she said. Fortunately she didn’t ask me for my opinion of her poetry. It might have set me off, and no one with a broken heart wants a friend laughing in her face. She was so unhappy those days.

  As for me, the next few weeks proved to be my happiest time in the mountains. First, there was my fourteenth birthday, on November 5. Somehow the family knew the date, and that night after our lessons, they told me to close my eyes and wait. After much giggling, Emilia and Isabel came to the back room. Each of them took one of my hands, and they led me carefully around the mattresses in the front room and out the door. “Now you can open your eyes,” Emilia said.

  I opened my eyes to a large bonfire blazing in the yard in front of the house. There were a lot of people standing there. A few people tried a ragged English version of “Happy Birthday to You” (somehow it’s a song people think can only be sung in English), but soon they abandoned the attempt and burst into a song our music teacher in school had told us was beloved by the people in these mountains. Its refrain, “Son de la loma,” means “They come from the hills.”

  Juan, and then Maria, were there with their own students. I could see in the firelight that even in the midst of her own sadness, Maria was smiling for me. Esteban and Lilian were there, too. The folks from the neighboring farms had brought food and drink. We danced and sang until late into the night. The campesinos taught us mountain dances that we city kids had never seen before, and Maria urged Juan and me to show our friends dances that we did in the city. Well, to be honest, I was stumbling all over my feet trying to follow Maria’s lead. Among all her other assets, her ability to dance absolutely shone. Everyone was laughing and clapping with delight.

  I didn’t care how poorly I danced. I had never felt so honored or so happy. Lying in my hammock, feeling too full of food and music to sleep, I thought how close I had come to missing this night of nights.

  Two days later, Bonita came galloping, or as close to galloping as the old mare could manage, with Daniel on her back. “The baby is coming! The baby is coming!” he cried, which meant that they had sent him to fetch Veronica to help Dunia with the birth.

  “May I come?” I asked Veronica shyly.

  She looked at me. “You won’t be afraid?”

  “No, I promise. And I won’t get in the way. I just want to be there.”

  “Then come along,” she said. Daniel gave us the horse. He wouldn’t be needed, so he would walk. I climbed up on Bonita’s back behind Veronica, and off we went, faster than I’d ever ridden before.

  “Watch the branches!” Veronica warned.

  I, of course, had been watching the path for snakes, but I heard her warning just in time to duck.

  Being there when Nancy’s baby was born — oh, how can I explain it? It was being allowed to witness a miracle. He was a squalling, little wriggly boy. They let me hold him while they tended to Nancy after his birth. That was when I decided. I would go back to the city and get the education I needed to become a doctor. My country needed more doctors, and I wanted not only to help heal; I wanted to help bring new life into the world.

  On the 15th, the real doctor came and took off Luis’s cast. His leg was ashen and shriveled, but the doctor was confident that the bone had healed well, and he was sure that with exercise, the muscles would grow strong and Luis would be “as good as new” or “maybe even better with a doctor like me,” he said with a laugh. (I told myself that when I became a doctor, I would not brag, not even as a joke.) My now mature fourteen-year-old self was sure that doctors and priests as well as teachers should always be sincere and humble.

  We were still gathered at the base camp on Sunday, November 26. Our work was done, and Carlos was leading the singing. Maria and Isora were, as usual, getting us all into the dancing. By this date, many of the campesinos were joining us as soon as they heard the music.

  We didn’t hear the hoofbeats, but suddenly there was the horseman riding into the village. He leaped off the horse, raced over to Esteban, and pulled him out of the circle. The music stopped as suddenly as if someone had pulled the plug from a radio. The man was in a militia uniform and was whispering, but his gestures were huge and wild. To a person, we all stood there, just staring. What was wrong? Something terrible must have happened. My heart felt like a stone banging in my chest. Little Isora grabbed my hand. I squeezed hers. Not to reassure but to share the fear.

  At length, Esteban nodded and turned back toward us. He cleared his throat. “It’s bad news,” he said. “One of our brigadistas has been murdered.”

  Someone — Maria, I think — let out a cry. I was too frozen to make a sound.

  “His name,” Esteban continued, “is . . . was . . . Manuel Ascunce.” He looked around, wanting to see if the name meant something to any of the squad. No one spoke, so he went on. “He was working and teaching on
the Palmarito coffee farm. His campesino host was also killed.” He waited to let us take in this cruel fact before he continued. “The funeral for Manuel will be tomorrow in the capital.”

  Isora let go of my hand and began to sob, as did many of the others. Even the boys were seen to hide their faces so their tears would not show. Maria was weeping openly, but my sobs choked in my throat. I knew how terrified I would have been had the bandits gotten past our door.

  “We are —” Esteban began, but had to stop to clear his throat again. “We are all devastated by this news. And perhaps frightened.” As he said this, he seemed to be looking at me and little Isora trembling at my side. “But I believe we must carry on.”

  “¡Venceremos!” I think it was Carlos who called out our familiar slogan. We shall prevail! And then we all echoed the shout. Even I was somehow able to get the syllables past my parched throat. “¡Venceremos!”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Esteban. “Yes, truly. ¡Venceremos!”

  The details of the killing became clearer on subsequent Sundays. Manuel Ascunce was sixteen years old. He was barely two years my senior, but in courage much, much older. A band of insurgents appeared at the farm where he was teaching, and Manuel, hoping to save his students, stepped forward. “I am the teacher,” he said. But they took both him and Pedro Lantiqua, his host father, whom they knew to be a strong supporter of Fidel, away to the forest, where they tortured them, killed them, and hung their bodies from an acacia tree.

  Manuel has become a celebrated martyr, the brigadista who gave his life to the cause. Later, schools and hospitals would bear his name. But I’m sorry to say I knew that day in my heart that I would rather be a live coward than a dead hero.

  There was a great parade, a somber celebration, in Havana. Brigadistas and ordinary citizens crowded the streets of the capital as the body of Manuel Ascunce was carried to his grave. Those of us so far away could not be there, but all that day he was in our minds.