Mission Libertad

by Lizette M. Lantigua

  It just couldn’t be this easy. Something wasn’t right.

  Agent Stewart drank his cup of coffee as he drove on the highway en route to Miami. He picked up his portable radio.

  “Yes?” Stewart said. “What do you have?”

  “Agent Stewart, the wiretaps indicate that the two Cuban suspects are after an image of Our Lady of Charity, and they believe the boy has something to do with it. Apparently his family has connections with the Catholic Church in Cuba, and, as we know, the Cuban government is very afraid that the Catholic Church, always against injustice, will try to bring the government down,” his assistant said.

  “But according to inside information the boy’s parents didn’t go to church. They weren’t affiliated with the Church at all,” Stewart replied.

  “Correct, but the boy also lived with his grandmother, and she went to church daily. That’s all the information we have so far,” she said.

  “The grandmother is still in Cuba, isn’t she?” Stewart asked.

  “Yes, she is seventy-two years old and lives in Havana.”

  “There is nothing suspicious about an old lady going to church in Cuba. The older people have nothing to lose,” he said. “Keep digging and keep me posted.”

  This whole thing didn’t make sense to Stewart. Why would anyone be so concerned about a holy image? Were they afraid the teenage boy was going to smuggle this image to the United States? How could he if he came in a raft with no personal belongings? His parents had no involvement with anticommunist movements, the Church, or any communist groups, according to his information. Then there was the grandmother, but all she did was stand in line for food, visit old friends, and go to church. He had checked out the people she visited and they were just ordinary folks.

  He heard Agent Loynaz on the radio again. He tried to set down his coffee. It spilled on his lap.

  “Y-e-s?” he said, a little irritated.

  “Just wanted to let you know that the family is forty miles ahead of you and still being closely followed,” said Carmen Loynaz, an agent assigned to FCI.

  “Do you have someone on them?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “Good,” Stewart reported. “I will soon be entering South Carolina. Where are they now?”

  “Approaching Georgia,” Agent Loynaz said.

  “Okay, I’d better pick up the pace,” Stewart said. “Thanks.”

  Stewart turned up the radio and sped up a bit. This was a lonely job at times. Everything was top secret. He remembered how his father, who had also worked for the bureau, would leave for days on account of his work. Stewart’s father was an FBI legend. He was known for his highly intuitive sharp mind, his amazing high-speed car chases, and his many successfully closed cases. His father was in more fragile health since his hip replacement surgery, but he had once been a very agile man.

  “Wait a minute,” Stewart said to himself. His father might be fragile now, but he was really something in his day … “That’s it!” He radioed Agent Loynaz again.

  “The reports you have of Maria Elena Jemot, are they all recent?” he asked.

  “From the last ten years,” she said.

  “Check further back,” Stewart said, “during the years right after the revolution. Check her husband as well. I believe he was an attorney who was arrested and died in prison.”

  “Will do,” Loynaz said. “Keep your eyes open.”

  “I will, thanks,” he said, signing off.

  This is the part of his job he enjoyed the most. It could be boring for days, but then one clue and—bingo!— the information started to pour in. He was glad he had such a good team working for him. He hoped this hunch panned out because he had a feeling this was no routine assignment.

  33 TREINTA Y TRES

  Antonio and Jorge had seen the Galleti and Ramirez families loading suitcases into their car the night before they left for Miami. Early the next morning, the spies were waiting on a side street, ready to follow them. Now they sped down the highway after them, keeping a safe distance so as not to arouse suspicion. It was a good thing they had borrowed someone else’s car.

  “You know, Jorge, that old woman, Maria Elena Jemot, is a sneaky old lady,” said Antonio, laughing. “You’ve got to hand it to her.”

  “She is slick, all right,” Jorge said cynically. “I don’t know how she does it. Maybe it’s all that praying she does. She has some superior being protecting her.”

  “What do you think she asked her relatives to do?” Antonio said.

  “I don’t know, but I have a feeling that we’ll find our answers in Miami,” Jorge said. “Look, they’re stopping in this rest area.”

  Antonio swerved into the side lane to go into the rest stop.

  “Let’s get more coffee,” Antonio said. “I am beat.”

  “I should be sleeping while you drive so we can switch later,” Jorge said.

  “Okay, stay in the car. I will get coffee for myself,” he said, putting on his sunglasses and pulling the hood of his jacket over his head so no one would recognize him.

  Only ten miles away Agent Stewart was talking again with Agent Loynaz.

  “We found a lead to some interesting information,” Agent Loynaz said. “The grandmother, Maria Elena Jemot, was in favor of the revolution right at the beginning, like many others. But as soon as the government declared themselves socialist she started peacefully working underground with the Catholic Church.”

  “Interesting,” Stewart said. “I knew there was something more to this lady.”

  “She helped seminarians and people trying to get off the island, and was instrumental in the Pedro Pan movement,” she said.

  “Hmm, Operation Pedro Pan,” Stewart said, “when 14,000 Cuban children were smuggled out of Cuba to escape communism and were taken care of in this country by the Catholic Church …”

  “I will keep researching and let you know of any new developments,” Loynaz said.

  “All right, thanks,” Stewart said and continued driving.

  34 TREINTA Y CUATRO

  After another stop, Sonia took the wheel until evening. Then Rosie continued driving until they arrived in Miami.

  “We are not far,” Tommy said to Luisito.

  “How long?” Luisito said.

  “I don’t know, but we are close. When I see palm trees I know we are getting close to my Abuela Maricusa,” Tommy said.

  “I hope she is waiting for us with hot chocolate and churros,” Sonia said.

  “What are churros? A typical Miami food?” Luisito asked.

  “No, they’re a pastry eaten in Cuba with hot chocolate or café con leche. It’s really from Spain, but many countries claim it because it is so good!” Rosie said.

  “I remember eating churros as a child,” Elena said. “In fact, I had forgotten all about them until now.”

  “You are going to love them,” Tommy told Luisito who by now was quite hungry just thinking about it.

  It was already dark when they drove through the streets of Miami. They saw mostly one-story ranch homes with aluminum fencing.

  “Look, Abuela and Abuelo are waiting for us on the porch!” Tommy exclaimed.

  As expected, hugs and kisses and hot chocolate awaited them. My cousins were right, Luisito thought. The hot thick chocolate was delicious, especially when he dipped the churro into it. Maricusa had guest rooms prepared for the parents and the sunroom ready with cots and sleeping bags for the kids. Luisito, exhausted from the excitement and the long day, fell asleep in seconds.

  The next morning Luisito woke to the strong aroma of Cuban coffee and cheerful noises coming from the kitchen: the percolating of the coffeemaker, the sizzling of huevo fritos (fried eggs), the popping of the toaster, and the constant opening and closing of the refrigerator. It was breakfast time, all right!

  “After lunch let’s go to the grocery store to get some things,” Maricusa said to Rosie.

  “No, Mami,” Rosie said, sensing her chance. “Make me a list and I w
ill go with the kids. You can stay here and continue cooking.”

  “Do you remember where the grocery store is?” Manuel, Tommy’s grandfather, asked her.

  “Of course I remember,” Rosie said.

  Meanwhile, the family ate breakfast and chatted about Christmas, about the process of obtaining Abuela’s immigration papers, and, of course, what to do when Cuba was free again.

  “I’ll go back to live in my house in el barrio of Milagros in Havana,” Maricusa sighed.

  “Ah! It’s probably a cuarteria, a squatter home, all in disrepair thanks to the revolution!” José said.

  “You are absolutely right, I’ve passed by it,” Elena said.

  “I will buy a vacation beach home in Varadero. I will renovate it and spend my summers there, but I’m not going back there to live,” Rosie said. “The United States is my home now.”

  “Hey, stop dreaming for a minute and come outside to look at the gallinas, the hens,” Manuel said to Rosie. “This is where I got the eggs you just had for breakfast.”

  “Only in Miami can you have chickens as pets in your backyard,” José said, laughing.

  Rosie followed her father out the door to see the hens. But she missed the last step and fell to the ground. Her flip-flops flew into the air. She cried out in pain.

  “¡La niña se cayó!” Manuel shouted.

  “Who fell?” Tommy said.

  “Your mother! Quick, get some ice!” Manuel said.

  “Honey, are you okay?” José asked.

  “I think I sprained my ankle,” Rosie said.

  José helped her to the sofa and put her feet up.

  “Bring the ice,” Maricusa said. “She will be fine.”

  “Now, don’t do anything. Just rest,” Miguel said.

  The family gathered around her, staring in concern at her foot with a bag of ice on it.

  “Well, Sonita,” Maricusa said, “you will have to go to the supermarket and pick up the food I need.”

  “No, I’ll go,” Rosie said, trying to get up. This was the perfect chance to take Luisito to the shrine of Our Lady of Charity and speak to the priest in charge.

  “No way, honey,” José said. “You can’t go like that. I will go to the grocery store.”

  Luisito realized this was their only opportunity to go to see the priest.

  “I will go with Sonia,” he blurted out.

  “Let’s go!” Sonia said quickly.

  “Wait,” Rosie said, trying to think quickly. “Give me a piece of paper so I can write down the driving directions for her.”

  “There’s no need. I will just tell her,” Maricusa said. “It’s really easy. You take this road down to ninety-eighth street. Then you take… .”

  “Mami, let me write it for her,” Rosie said.

  Sonia gave her mother a piece of paper. Rosie wrote on it while the family all discussed the easiest way to get to the grocery store.

  “Come here,” Rosie said. “Let me give you a kiss.”

  “They’re only going to the grocery store,” laughed José. “You’d think they were embarking on a dangerous journey.”

  “Oh, be quiet,” Rosie said, forcing a smile. Ay, Dios mio, what am I doing? she thought.

  35 TREINTA Y CINCO

  Sonia, Tommy, and Luisito rushed to the car before anyone could have a change of mind.

  “Why do you all have to go?” José asked. “Tommy, you stay, and let’s help Abuelo with the lawn.”

  “I want to go with them,” Tommy said. “I’ll help when I come back.”

  “Yeah, right,” José said. “Those kids will probably end up at the mall. They won’t be back right away.”

  “Oh, let them have fun!” Maricusa said. “They’ll only be young once.”

  Sonia backed the car out and drove two blocks to the nearest stop sign. She pulled over and opened the paper her mother had given them. The paper was folded like a greeting card. It had directions to the grocery store on the front, and on the inside it had instructions on how to get to the shrine.

  “This is easy,” Sonia said. “I’ve never driven to the shrine, but I’ve come every time we visit. It’s right by Mercy Hospital. There are signs pointing to the hospital all over the main road. Super easy!”

  “Okay, well, let’s get it done,” Tommy said.

  Luisito couldn’t feel completely calm until he had delivered his message. He hoped it would benefit Abuela or Cuba somehow.

  Following the directions on the paper, they arrived at the shrine with only one or two wrong turns. The pathway to the shrine was lined with royal palm trees. Luisito stopped in awe as he gazed at the architecturally unique church with the ocean as a backdrop. They walked up several steps toward the light blue cone-shaped building that resembled the silhouette of the statue of Our Lady of Charity with her triangular dress. Upon entering, Luisito immediately noticed the large painted mural behind the altar. It was an illustration of the history of Cuba with portraits of patriots, founding fathers, and saints. In the center, the Blessed Mother held the child Jesus. The priest’s chair was made of Cuban palm trees. Under the altar, in the foundation of the building, sand from each of the six Cuban provinces was buried.

  He saw several groups of people kneeling and looking at the tabernacle while their lips moved silently, as if they were holding a private conversation with God or the Blessed Mother. Many clutched rosaries, as he had often seen Abuela do back in Cuba.

  A short nun in a gray habit saw them watching the people and approached them.

  “Many people find hope here,” she said. “They pray to be reunited with their families. They pray for a free Cuba.”

  Luisito nodded, still watching the people. He knew exactly how they felt.

  “Can I help you?” the nun proceeded to ask.

  Luisito focused on what he had come to do. He asked the nun if they could see the Cuban priest.

  “I believe he is resting,” the nun said. “Father René de Jesús is not as young as he used to be, and it is a very busy time of year.”

  But Luisito couldn’t take no for an answer.

  “He is expecting me,” he said, bluffing. Maybe he wasn’t lying, he thought. The priest could very well be expecting him for all he knew. “I bring him an important message from Cuba,” he added.

  “Well … come with me then. I’ll see if he’s in,” the nun said, eyeing him doubtfully.

  They went to an office in the entrance to the shrine, where she made a phone call. She mumbled something to the person on the other end of the phone, then looking at Luisito she asked, “What’s your name?”

  “My name is Luis Ramirez Jemot. I am Maria Elena Jemot’s grandson. I recently arrived from Cuba by raft.”

  The nun’s features softened as she realized he was a Cuban rafter. She whispered into the phone again. Then she hung up the receiver and motioned for them to follow her. They went outside and downstairs to some offices beneath the chapel. They walked down a hall and into a small office with a desk, a phone, two chairs, and many pictures hanging along the wall. A colorfully painted wooden plaque of Our Lady of Charity stood out.

  “Please wait here for Father René de Jesús. He will be right with you,” she said, pointing to the chairs.

  “Is that Father René de Jesús?” Luisito pointed to a picture on the wall.

  “Yes, that was taken on the day he was ordained. The woman in the picture is his mother. She passed away a few years ago. A very nice and holy woman.”

  The nun walked away, closing the door behind her. Her words echoed in Luisito’s mind. The priest’s mother had passed away. Then who was the mother who was waiting for him in Italy?

  At that moment a gray-haired man dressed in black came through the door. A gold cross hung around his neck. With a kind smile he asked, “Who is Maria Elena’s grandson?”

  “I am,” Luisito said, “and these are my cousins. I arrived recently by raft from Cuba. I live in Maryland now, but my abuela told me to deliver an important message to
you.”

  Luisito was so anxious to fulfill his promise that he didn’t even give the priest a chance to sit down.

  The priest interrupted Luisito by stretching out his hand and shaking Luisito’s.

  “Father René de Jesús Suarez, a servant of God and yours,” he said, pulling Luisito into an embrace.

  “I last saw you when you were a baby,” he said, to Luisito’s surprise. “We received word after you left the island and we prayed for your safe journey.”

  The priest then shook everyone else’s hand as he explained how he had known Luisito’s grandparents for many years. He had been in the seminary with his great-uncle, Abuela’s brother, who had died before Luisito was born.

  “You should be proud of your grandparents, especially of your abuela, who, after your grandfather’s death, continued to help her people through the Church.”

  Luisito took a deep breath. He had waited so long to deliver this message for Abuela. He only hoped he had made it in time. “My abuela told me it was very important to tell you the Scripture verse Exodus 32:1–35. She also told me that your mother is waiting for you in Italy. This is what she told me before our escape, but I don’t understand. The nun just told me that the lady in this picture is your mother and that she passed away several years ago.”

  The priest paced up and down, pondering Luisito’s message.

  “I understand what she means about my mother,” he said. “I don’t understand the Exodus part. I’ll have to think about that.”

  The priest explained that he was aware that there was a plan to smuggle an original replica of the statue of Our Lady of Charity from Cuba to the United States through the Italian embassy. Arrangements had been made to bring the statue to the exiles in Miami, but he didn’t know it had already been accomplished.

  “Why did they have to smuggle the statue? Why couldn’t they just make another replica?” Tommy interrupted the priest.

  “Well, it wouldn’t be the same,” Father René de Jesús said. “This statue was carried in a procession around the island every year. It is from Cuba, and bringing her from the island means a lot to Cubans.”