[2012] Havana Lost

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  The Directorio Revolucionario was one of the two major guerrilla groups fighting Batista. They were fighting to restore Cuba’s democratic constitution of 1940. The other was Fidel’s M-26-7, which stood for the Twenty-sixth of July movement, the date Fidel unsuccessfully attacked an army facility in Santiago de Cuba in 1953. The M-26-7 wanted to create a socialist state.

  Luis eyed him suspiciously. “How did you find me?”

  “You were recognized during a trip back from the Escambray Mountains.”

  Luis swore softly. All the effort he’d put into his disguise was for naught.

  The boy seemed to understand. “Do not be worried. Our group wants to help. They know how committed you are.”

  Luis tightened his lips, unsure whether to believe him. “Who is supplying the weapons?”

  “I hear rumors.”

  Luis arched his eyebrows.

  “Businessmen in Havana who see the writing on the wall. They want to foster good will.”

  Luis squinted. “What businessmen?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Americans?”

  The boy hunched his shoulders.

  “Casino owners?”

  The boy hesitated. “As I said, I do not know. But I will be your contact. The only one you will deal with.”

  Luis thought for a moment. “No. How do I know you are not a traitor? An informer? I cannot consider it without more information. Our conversation is over.” He turned and started walking away.

  The boy called out. “Two hundred M-1 Rifles. Fifteen Springfields, ten carbines, and seven thousand rounds of ammunition.”

  Luis spun around and hissed. “You should never say things like that out loud.”

  The boy hung his head. “I’m sorry. I—I only wanted—”

  “To impress me. Get my attention.”

  The boy nodded. “My brother was with Camilo Cienfuegos. He was killed by the army. I asked for this job. To make sure his death would not be in vain.”

  Luis shifted his feet, studying the boy, considering. Finally he said, “You have a lot to learn.”

  The boy made scuff marks in the dirt with his sneaker. It was white, Luis noted.

  “When will the shipment arrive?” he asked quietly.

  “As I said, they are being flown in tomorrow night. We will truck them here from Havana. You will need your own truck to take possession. Whatever meeting point you wish.”

  “And what do they expect in return?”

  “Only your good will once we are victorious.”

  Luis scratched his cheek. “I will consider it. You should stay in Santa Clara tonight. Meet me here again tomorrow morning. So that you have time to get back to Havana before dark if we move ahead.”

  The boy nodded.

  “What is your name?”

  “Alejandro.”

  They discussed a few more details, then Luis briskly exited the park. Batista’s soldiers were gearing up for the battle with over three thousand troops, he’d heard. The rebels were only four hundred. The army would be supported by aircraft, snipers, and tanks. In fact, the army was waiting for reinforcements which were supposed to arrive by train tomorrow. But Che was planning to attack the city before then. Cienfuegos would have been here too, but he was battling an army garrison on the northern coast in Yaguajay. The rebels were outnumbered and outgunned. They needed support.

  Was this offer real? He’d heard reports that Havana businessmen, casino owners, other Americans, the CIA included, were ferrying in arms for both the army and the rebels. Betting on both sides. Luis needed to be careful he wasn’t putting himself in a position to be exploited by both sides. And yet he was already thinking where the weapons should be deployed. He would deliver them to Che and his men, who, if everything went according to plan, would reach the university tomorrow.

  • • •

  Alejandro watched Luis walk away from the park. Everything went exactly as Ramon said it would. The lie about his brother dying while fighting with Cienfuegos clinched it. Ramon would be pleased.

  Meanwhile Luis shuffled down the street, so preoccupied that he failed to notice a figure detach itself from the column of a building near the park and follow him. It would be the most important mistake of his life.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  On the morning of December twenty-ninth a lonely bird chirped as if it might be its last day on earth. Given the circumstances, Luis thought as he made his way home, it might be. Che’s column had reached the university late yesterday. Since then steady bursts of gunfire had rung out, threatening to silence the bird’s song. The flinty scent of gunpowder hung in the air.

  The rebels were clearly outnumbered, but they were positioned for maximum effect. Men from the DR and M-26-7 had crept into the city to attack the army barracks. Bombs and snipers were planted strategically so that army troops couldn’t roam the streets. Most of the residents of Santa Clara helped by creating barricades. They had a cache of homemade Molotov cocktails, too.

  Che’s men had advanced on Capiro Hill, the last obstacle to their entry into the city proper. The men expected to be on a suicide mission, but as they approached the top of the hill, they were stunned to meet no resistance. Batista’s troops had fled, taking cover in their barracks and on the train from Havana with reinforcements. The rebels figured the army was buying time for a counterattack. At dusk Che brought in tractors from the university’s agriculture department to destroy the tracks, so that the train would be stuck.

  As dawn broke, Luis, who had been with Che all night, took advantage of a lull in the fighting. He walked home, his rifle slung across his shoulder. His fatigues were stained with dirt and sweat. Francesca was still asleep. She could sleep through anything, he thought as he slipped the rifle off and sat on the bed. His weight on the mattress woke her, and she greeted him with that wanton smile he’d come to expect. How could this woman make him want to take her whenever he saw her? Maybe Ramon had been right. Maybe she was a witch, and he was under her spell. If so, he hoped it lasted forever. She held out her arms. He took off his clothes and lay on the bed. When they embraced, she let out that breathy sigh of contentment he’d also come to expect. She kissed his neck, his ears, his face.

  “You taste salty,” she whispered.

  “It was a hot night.”

  “And earthy. Were you rolling around in the dirt?” She laughed and positioned herself on top of him. Her hands softly brushed his chest. He felt himself harden.

  Someone outside yelled, and an explosion shattered the mood. It wasn’t a direct hit, but it was close. A Molotov cocktail. They heard the clomp of shoes and boots running down the street. Gunfire erupted. The smell of kerosene and smoke drifted inside. Francesca froze.

  Luis tightened his hold on her. They stayed still, not moving for almost a minute. Then he gently pushed her away. In the dim light of dawn he saw fear in her eyes. Fear, and something else. Something sad and haunting, as if she knew what was coming.

  “You need to leave Santa Clara for a while,” he said.

  She was quiet for a moment. Then she rolled off him. “No. I won’t leave you, Luis.”

  Luis snapped, and he stood, a wave of anger flooding through him. He needed to protect her, but she was not allowing him to. “How can you be so stubborn? And selfish? You hear what’s going on out there. You have to think of the baby. What if something happens to you? Or him? I cannot permit you to stay. Our landlady is going south to her family this afternoon. She’s offered to take you with her. It’s settled.” He flicked a hand toward the closet. “You should get dressed and pack.”

  He expected her to react with fury, but she surprised him. She stood, her face hard with determination. “We have never been apart,” she said quietly. “Ever since I left Havana. I told you then I would stay with you forever. In good times or bad. War or peace. This is one of those times.”

  “Francesca, I will be gone all day and most of the night. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate if I thought you were here
by yourself.”

  “Luis, stop this foolishness. You know I can blacken the windows. Turn off the lights. Run to the back of the house and hide. We will be fine.” She patted her stomach.

  Luis tried to choke back his anger. “Francesca, listen. If we win this battle, it will be over. The rebels will be victorious. But the fight for Santa Clara is critical. The most important battle of the revolution. I cannot leave you unprotected.” He stopped. “And if you won’t go willingly,” he added, “I’ll arrange for someone to take you.”

  She planted her hands on her hips. “You still don’t understand, do you? If something happens to you, it happens to me. We go through this together. ”

  His frustration roiled. He’d never told her what he did for the rebels. Partly because she didn’t share his views, partly because it was dangerous to reveal information, but mostly because since they’d left Havana, he had nothing noteworthy to report. Until now. He weighed telling her about the weapons. If it would persuade her to leave and guarantee her safety, it was worth it. He told her.

  “Who is supplying them?”

  “I’m not sure. That’s what concerns me.” He told her about the meeting in the park. “There is always the possibility of a trap. If that is the case, I don’t want you anywhere near.”

  “If you are that suspicious, why go through with it?”

  He didn’t answer for a moment. “Because I want to make a contribution.”

  Francesca was quiet. Then she went to their bureau, opened the drawer, and pulled on her slip. It was getting tight across the middle. She came back. “Yes, it very well could be a trap. Then again, it might not. And in the end, it might not matter. Whoever is providing the weapons is working toward the same goal as you. At least for the moment. You cannot refuse the deal.”

  “Which is why you must leave for a few days.”

  She whipped around. “Luis, I am not leaving my home. Not again. Not without you.” She finished dressing in a red skirt and white blouse.

  Luis tried to contain his frustration. He had never met such an obstinate woman. He was about to tell her that when another Molotov cocktail exploded outside. Francesca winced, but then went into the kitchen to start breakfast. Eggs, tortillas, and plantains. She had turned into a wonderful cook. He had expected the daughter of a Mafia boss to be a spoiled princess, but she took to the life of a worker like she was born to it. It was impossible to remain angry at her.

  She was at the sink washing up afterwards when he caught her around the middle, pulled her to him, and kissed her belly. It was starting to have that rounded look. “This will be the most adored baby ever, you know.”

  She put down the saucepan and slipped her arms around him. The wanton look came into her eyes again. “When did you say you have to leave?”

  “I have a meeting at the Parque Vidal.”

  “How soon?” Her hands caressed his shoulders and moved down his arms.

  He felt himself respond. “Not that soon.”

  • • •

  News of the battle of Santa Clara reached Havana that night. After the rebels bulldozed the railroad tracks late that afternoon, the army’s train derailed, and most of the troops surrendered. That meant the enormous cache of ammunition on the train was now in rebel hands. Tony Pacelli crossed his arms as he waited at a private airstrip outside Havana. His load from Miami, which was due to land in a few minutes, might be superfluous. The rebels wouldn’t need them.

  Fortunately, that wasn’t the goal of his mission. But it might change things on the other end. Luis Perez might cancel the meet; he might laugh at the paltry amount of arms he was getting compared to the cache on the train, which, rumor said, were packed in boxes labeled “Property of U.S. Army.” To make things worse, there was the possibility Perez wouldn’t show at all, and Tony would miss his opportunity to take him out.

  A thick cloud cover spat out a light drizzle, obscuring the view. Tony shifted, feeling droplets of moisture on his cheeks, his neck, his hair. The damn pilot better know where to land. This was an airstrip known only to a few Havana “businessmen.” In fact, he should have alerted Lansky he was planning to use it, but he’d somehow forgotten to call.

  A hushed but distinct buzz whined in the distance. One of the men with Tony lit a few flares and placed them on both sides of the landing strip. Within a minute, the buzz became a drone and finally a shriek. A bulky shape emerged and descended from the gloom. It was a Piper Comanche. Landing gear materialized, the plane landed and coasted to a stop at the end of the strip. Then it turned and taxied over to Tony’s Cadillac and a pickup truck parked mid-strip. The smell of fuel wafted over the men at the vehicles.

  Tony’s men surrounded the plane. The door to the plane opened. A stepladder appeared. A small wiry man exited the plane and clattered down the steps. Tony walked forward to greet him.

  “So?” Tony flipped up his hands.

  “Smooth as silk,” the man replied. “Everything is under control.”

  “Good.” Tony slipped his hands in his pants pockets. “Is the cargo everything you said it would be?”

  The man smiled. “That… and more. Our friends were especially generous this time. Two days ago, apparently, there was a heist at an armory in Kentucky.”

  Tony nodded. He hadn’t asked the identity of these “friends” when he made the arrangements, but he had an idea who they were. Santo Trafficante, Lansky, and Carlos Marcello from New Orleans had all been known to cultivate contacts in the CIA when their interests aligned. The Cuban revolution was one of those times. Both organizations had a vested interest in making sure Fidel, when he did come to power, would be a friend. But relations between the organizations were—to put it mildly—precarious. Tony wanted Santo to guarantee that the CIA wasn’t mounting a sting operation designed to net him and other casino owners. But Santo told him the CIA wanted assurances from Tony that he wasn’t trying to swindle them. It was hard to tell friends from foes. Everyone was playing the Cuba card.

  Tony gestured for his men to unload the weapons. He turned around. “Suarez, where are you?”

  Ramon, hunched over the wheel of the pickup, jumped down and trotted over.

  Tony looked him up and down. “Are you ready?”

  Ramon nodded. “Si, Señor. Everything is in place.”

  “You’re sure you know where she is?”

  “I followed Perez to their home. I can find it in the dark.”

  “And your boy?” Tony motioned to Alejandro who was helping the men load the weapons into the bed of the truck.

  “He is ready. He will meet Perez and transfer the weapons.”

  “Good,” Tony said. “I will meet you at the prearranged place.”

  “Si, Señor Pacelli.”

  Tony went to his Cadillac and got into the back seat for the drive to Santa Clara. With luck they would make it in about two hours.

  • • •

  Frankie yawned as she washed the dinner dishes. Being pregnant was more tiring than she’d expected. She was able to come home early—the bank closed at noon because of the fighting—and washed their clothes. Now she went into the back yard to take the dry clothes off the clothesline. She tried to blot out the noise, but the occasional shatter of glass, distant bursts of gunfire, shouts, and car horns made it impossible. She went inside quickly to fold the clothes, murmuring a prayer that Luis was safe.

  It was a crazy, unpredictable time. A friend at the bank said her mother, a teacher, had been visited by a couple of rebels. Dirty and smelly, they’d shown up without warning at the house. They were wearing fatigues, and their rifles were slung across their shoulders, while rosaries hung from their necks. Her friend’s mother was terrified until one of them confessed he’d been her student years earlier. The teacher relaxed and offered them coffee. They stayed for an hour, drinking coffee and eating cookies, chatting about everything and nothing. Then they thanked her for the coffee and left.

  Frankie went into the bedroom and put their clothes away. Wh
en she was home, safe and secure, she could shut out the fighting. She, too, could drink coffee and eat cookies, ignore the chaos. Inside, her world was smaller. More ordered. And once the baby was born, it would shrink more. There would be only the three of them. Their family against the world. She ran her hand tenderly around her belly.

  She had to make sure there was nothing but love and safety around them. If God allowed her to.

  She realized she’d said another prayer. She hoped God was listening. It had been a while since she’d gone to church. Like her, Luis was Catholic, but not observant. She didn’t miss mass, communion, or sermons. They’d made her impatient. But if He was going to protect them, Frankie figured she owed Him something.

  Feeling strangely peaceful, she ran hot water for a bath. Afterwards she’d curl up in bed. With luck, Luis would be home before morning. Hopefully he would tell her what happened. She was delighted he was finally beginning to confide in her. They would be true partners. In life as well as love. Sharing their dreams, their plans, their children. She hung her robe on a hook, took off her clothes, and was about to get into the tub when she heard her front door burst open. An eruption of machine gun fire strafed the walls followed by shouts and exclamations in Spanish.

  Frankie grabbed a towel and froze. No one broke into her house. She wrapped the towel around her and hurried into the front room. Three men, their faces masked by bandanas, quickly surrounded her, all of them pointing machine guns at her. In the face of such imminent danger, her courage evaporated, and her skin prickled with dread.

  “Don’t shoot!” She screamed. “I am unarmed.”

  One of the men grabbed her. She could barely keep the towel where it belonged.

  “Stop!” she begged. “Don’t hurt me. I am pregnant. Estoy embarazada!”

  The man who grabbed her loosened his hold, but only for a second. Then he ordered one of the other men to take off his shirt. A camouflage shirt. The man stripped it off and held it out. Frankie snatched it, and, with the first man still holding her arm, awkwardly turned away. She dropped the towel and took her time getting the shirt on, trying to think of something—anything—she could do to break free, but she knew it was futile.