He extended his hand to shake Alberto’s.
“That’s a cool name, Che.”
“You’re a cool kid, I can tell. You’ve given me some great pictures. Maybe I’ll see you in Havana.”
* * *
Chapter 15
At dawn on the fifth day of the rebels’ return to Cuba from Mexico, Batista’s Rural Guard set the sugarcane field ablaze. Fidel, Max, and Gonzalo had been hiding together in the field for the previous four days when they heard the crackle and whoosh of the fire. The flames quickly wove through the leaves, one stalk to another, hundreds and thousands of sugarcane soon writhing in orange and yellow, their silky fibers and spikelet stems swallowed up in the fire. The three rebels could feel the heat rushing towards their hideout. The fire was licking its lips in thick gusts to catch them. They would have to make another escape for their lives. The entire acreage rippled, awful and beautiful, something majestic and overwhelming. They now felt the closeness of death upon them with Batista’s men closing in on the labyrinth of the cane field that had protected them for over four days.
Ninety-six hours earlier, Batista’s army had ambushed Fidel and his eighty-one men as they camped out on the soft soil in a thicket of trees near the foot of the Sierra Maestra mountains. Three rebels were killed in the initial blitz and several more wounded, including Che when a bullet seared across his neck. As Fidel fled with Max and Gonzalo, he recalled the oozing blood spreading across Che’s throat as though trying to choke him. But he survived and fled with the others. Where to, Fidel didn’t know? And where had Raúl fled to? Fidel remembered his younger brother’s wide, mortified eyes, sweeping his rifle around, unable to shoot, wanting to take a shot at the enemy army, but having no target to aim at. As the eighty-one rebels scrambled to pick up shirts and socks and boots and weapons, Fidel escaped with Max and Gonzalo, only two rifles and a knapsack among them.
The three ran panting and gasping into a cane field. Their arms swept and thrashed through the stalks that flung back in their faces. Fanned out in a wave, Batista’s men sent frequent bursts of machine gun fire ripping through the stalks, the bullets tagging the leaves they tore through, piercing holes in the straw. Fidel staggered and bounded forward with the encroachment of death tailing him. Dozens of rounds whizzed around his body. He was driven by terror, but also by the realization that his wrath was just as potent, a vengeful desire that fueled his dream—su sueño—to free Cuba from Batista’s regime and the corruption plaguing the island for decades.
The three finally collapsed and hunkered down in the far north corner of the sugarcane. There, they waited as nearly four days passed with single-engine spotter planes hovering low overhead. They moved very little. They had scant food and water to revive them. They had no reason to hope. But to Fidel this was more than combat and survival. It was an essential test of his revolutionary courage, the formation and charge of his destiny, the indefatigable propulsion of his duty and the aliveness within him that la revolución would prevail.
How could it not, he thought? He had survived Moncada, he had endured imprisonment on Isle de Pines, he had struggled through exile in Mexico, he had nearly capsized with his crew on a leaky boat called the Gramna on their voyage back to Cuba, and now Batista wanted to kill him in a cane field.
His clothes sodden with mud, his face and arms scratched and scraped with blood, his beard fledging along as a sign of loyalty, Fidel knew this dawn of the fifth day in the cane field was his beginning, or his end. He turned to Max and Gonzalo. Max had been thinking of his family, in particular the pride he felt in his only son, Benito, for being so strong and brave with him gone. Gonzalo had no family, so he thought of his studies at la Universidad de Havana, how those days were gone, his law degree abandoned for the sake of la revolución. Their thoughts pushed aside, the three could hear the distant voices of Batista’s soldiers and decipher the far-off pitch of their words: “Quemen! Burn!” Yes, Batista wanted them to burn, quemar. “Burn to nothing! Quemen hasta que no quede nada!” The sun now burned behind the Sierra Maestra. And in the next minute, they could see and hear the vermilion flames snarl and leap, enveloping every last piece of chaff, a hungry beast sent after their scent.
Fidel stared at his compañeros, Max and Gonzalo. They rose, slowly. Fidel cradled one of the two rifles. Gonzalo gripped the other. Max held the knapsack with medical supplies, useless if they were shot. In the next instant, Fidel yelled, “Corran! Run for your life!”
Benito had not seen his father for nearly a year. The last time had been a few days before Christmas in 1955, when Max Carbonal had woken Benito in the middle of the night to tell him, “Te amo, hijo.” His father had whispered to him in the dark that night, not turning on any lights. When Benito sat up in bed and asked him what was going on, his father said softly that he had to leave the country. “Cuando?” asked Benito. “Now,” said his father. “Adonde?” questioned Benito. “Mexico,” answered his father. It was the only specificity Max gave his son that evening.
Then, in a moment Benito would never forget, his father told him to take care of his mother and younger sister, and to prepare for the possibility of never seeing him again. Benito pleaded with his father not to leave, but Max explained to his son that he had no choice, that Benito’s mother understood and she wanted him to run, that he had to go into exile now that he’d been released from prison because otherwise he would become a casualty of Batista’s police apparatus—an island-wide crackdown on dissidents, political agitators, rabble rousers, and future revolutionaries—carried out by the infamous Eduardo Vasquez, the torturer with the big ears. In fact, Max told Benito that the police were probably watching the house at that very moment. “It’s that dangerous. I’m leaving through the back door. I’ll miss you. Te amo.” He then asked Benito to lie back down on his pillow, and in the next moment Max slipped quietly out of the room and was gone.
Now over a year later, Señor Carbonal had sent Benito a letter describing his past year of exile with Fidel in Mexico, his subsequent return with Fidel on the rickety boat called the Gramna, his survival with Fidel in a burning sugarcane field, and his current hiding with Fidel in the Sierra Maestra with hopes of overthrowing Batista and his corrupt government through guerilla warfare. But Benito clung most to his father’s words that stated, “I will see you soon.” He longed to see his father, and so Juan, Alberto, and Miguel thought positively about la revolución—about standing up for what they believed in, about fighting for what’s right—as a way to will Max’s return to Benito. They viewed the story that Benito recounted from his father’s letter about his escape with Fidel and Gonzalo in the cane field as heroic, and they admired the rebels’ defiance—their courage, their determination, their selflessness. The rebels seemed fearless of the risks they were taking. They had decided they would liberate Cuba, and Fidel was the charismatic leader they’d follow to the end.
Lucretia was becoming a nervous wreck that holiday season of 1956, her tantrums coming and going, as the rumors of Fidel’s takeover and his plan to set up a government based on socialist doctrine swept across the island.
School was out for the Christmas holiday, and Juan and Alberto had invited Benito and Miguel inside for bottles of Coca-Cola to cool down after playing a pick-up baseball game in the park. They were sipping their sodas and talking about Max and the revolutionaries when Lucretia walked into the kitchen. The late afternoon sun looked dizzy in its setting hours. The last light of the day crept through the windows and made the tile flooring look ornamental in its shine.
“I don’t want you guys hanging around inside here,” Lucretia said.
“We’re not,” said Juan. “We’re taking a break from playing out at the field. Let us finish our refrescos and then we’re heading back.”
“You could ask before bringing your amigos in and giving them everything in the fridge.”
Juan’s cheeks started to turn red, his face rinsed in anger. “Mamá, please, we didn’t know you’d be aquí.”
“Okay, but I don’t want any trouble,” she said, staring them over.
“We’re not causing any trouble,” said Alberto.
“Señora Ramos, we promise to be good. We were just talking about Castro and his rebel army,” said Benito.
Alberto let out an exhausted sigh. His mother looked at him and then back at Benito.
“What about them?” she asked, her hand on her hip.
“Haven’t you heard? They landed on the southeast side of the island. Somewhere near the Sierra Maestra. They escaped a fire in a sugarcane field,” Benito explained.
“Batista says the force has been crushed,” Lucretia contended.
“I don’t believe anything los periódicos report,” said Benito.
“I don’t either,” added Juan.
“How would you know?” questioned Lucretia, her tone divisive, as she shifted her feet and put her other hand on her opposite hip.
“Because my father’s with the rebels,” said Benito.
“Benito, you don’t need to say anything about them . . .” said Alberto, before his mother cut him off.
“With them, con ellos?” said a stunned Lucretia.
“Sí, with the Castros, Fidel and Raúl,” Benito went on.
“Really,” she said. “Well, I don’t want any of you talking about them in this house. In fact, you boys won’t be talking about Fidel when he takes everything from us. We’ll be as pobre as the peasants. What will you say then when you have nothing to eat and nowhere to sleep?”
At that instant, Florencio came into the kitchen, his briefcase in one hand, his keys in the other. Over the past months, he had been arriving home from work earlier and earlier. Having been listening in the hall outside the kitchen, he slammed his briefcase on the wooden counter and turned to his wife.
“Lucretia, stop it. You’re over-exaggerating. Castro cannot fight Batista’s army of forty thousand soldiers.”
“The talk is, Señor Ramos, that Fidel is fighting guerilla-style,” said Benito. “We’ve learned about covert warfare at school in la clase de historia. Fidel’s rebels will blend in with the people and carry out blitzes against the enemy . . .”
“Enough with this nonsense en mi casa! Benito you should be ashamed of yourself for talking this way.” Lucretia’s hands shook, on the verge of hysterics.
“Muchachos, take your talk elsewhere,” said Florencio. “We don’t need to discuss an overthrow of the government right now.”
“What if it happens?” stated Juan, his words flinty.
“Hijo, I’m telling you and Alberto and you’re friends,” cried Lucretia. “I don’t want to hear any talk about revoluciónes or about Castro or guerillas. The way I’m treated . . . !”
“This isn’t about you!” Juan cut her off.
“Vaya!” she railed, and stormed out of the kitchen. “Go trust in Castro! What do I care!” she yelled over her shoulder.
“Muchachos, out,” said Florencio, his voice soft. “Vaya to someone else’s house.” He looked at his sons. “I’m not upset with you. But I need to take care of your mother.”
The boys exited the kitchen, holding their Coca-Cola bottles. They hopped down the steps at the front door porch and lulled down Calle Santa Cantalina.
“Wow, your mom can get really mad,” said Benito.
“She’s been like that most of our lives,” said Juan
“Do you think anything she says makes sense?” asked Miguel.
“Ella no sabe. She never knows what she’s talking about,” said Juan.
“Well, like she was trying to say,” said Miguel, “if everything changes and the communists take over, things will change. My dad has a good job with the phone company. He may lose it?”
“All I know is my father is fed up with Batista,” said Benito. “That’s why he’s been part of the opposition. I’m not worried. He’ll take care of me and my mom and sister.”
“That’s what I’m trying to say, Benito,” said Miguel. “What about the rest of us? What if we end up with nothing?”
“The revolutionaries are not crooks. They believe in taking care of everybody.”
“Exactly,” said Juan. “My mother is exaggerating.”
In the late afternoon sunlight, the many palm trees along the street threw down green-tinted shadows over the neighborhood. The boys were quiet for the next block as they walked through those elongated shadows and down Santa Cantalina towards Benito’s house, where they had dropped off their gloves and bats before heading to the Ramos brothers’ house for refreshments. When Alberto had finished off his Coke, he hurled the bottle across the street. It exploded in an awesome pop like a gunshot against the opposite curb.
“What’d you do that for?” asked Juan. “Now go pick up the pieces and throw them away.”
“You go do it.”
“Don’t make me tell you again, Alberto.”
“Don’t make me kick your ass.”
For the first time in their lives the brothers felt a bolt of anger ignite between them, two currents seared with opposing force on each side. Both looked so shocked that neither knew how to calm the lightning strike of the other. They stared at one another, and then Juan lifted his hand and pointed his finger into Alberto’s chest.
“I’m going to ask you one more time. Go pick it up before . . .”
Before he could complete his sentence, Alberto swiped his brother’s hand off his chest. The tension shattered, and seething emotion raced through their bloodstreams. Alberto felt as though he may have thrown a punch, but he never had a chance because Benito grabbed him from behind in a lasso hold, and Miguel did the same on Juan. Both brothers breathed heavily as their friends pulled them apart. Their hearts thumped with fury and confusion, but after they both blinked away the static charge, they knew no animosity existed in the encounter. Once their adrenalin subsided, Benito released his grip on Alberto, and Miguel let go of Juan. Alberto shrugged his shoulders a few times to resettle his shirt. Juan rubbed his eyes, fighting back tears. Alberto glanced at his brother and then turned around and crossed the street. When he got to the shattered pieces, he picked them up carefully with his left hand and gathered them in the fold of the upturned bottom portion of his shirt, cuffed like a tiny hammock held up with his right hand. When he had as many of the shards collected as he could, he looked back across the street to where Juan, Miguel, and Benito had been watching him. “I got ‘em,” he said, his voice cracking up. “I’m gonna go throw them away. I’ll see you guys later.” He turned around and headed back up Santa Cantalina. Juan had no idea where his little brother was going. The need to run after him was urgent, choking him up. He felt as though a claw was ripping him open. He wanted to burst out in tears. He loved his brother so much.
“Come on, Juan. Let him go for a while. Everything’s gonna be cool,” said Benito. “All right? You all right?”
“Yeah,” mumbled Juan. “I’m fine.”
The first thing Alberto did when he got to Emilia’s house was ask if he could throw away the broken glass. She took him to the kitchen and showed him the trash bucket.
“What are you doing with broken glass?” she asked.
“Nada,” he said, not making eye contact with her.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I can’t come over?”
“Alberto, what happened?”
“What? I just decided to come over. Nothing’s the matter.”
“You said that twice. So something’s definitely bothering you,” she said.
He looked at her. “My mom was acting crazy with us again.”
“What’d you guys do now?”
“Nada.”
“Alberto?”
“It’s the truth. Nothing. Me, Juan, Benito, and Miguel began talking about la revolución and about Fidel, and my mom doesn’t want to hear any of it. And my dad doesn’t know how to handle her. It’s not his fault. It’s not Juan’s fault. It’s not my fault. God, yo no sé. I don’t know.”
&
nbsp; Emilia sidled up to him and put her arms around his chest. “I’m here,” she said, kissing his cheek.
“It’s nothing really. We’ve been dealing with my mother’s tantrums since we were little boys. That’s not really what’s bothering me.”
She waited, her arms around him, her head on his shoulder, until he spoke again. “I just had a fight with my brother and I feel terrible. I started it. I shouldn’t have started it.”
“The broken glass?”
“It was really stupid. I threw a bottle across the street. He got really mad and told me to pick up the pieces.”
“You did, didn’t you?”
“I wasn’t going to do it at first. I don’t even know why I threw it in the first place,” he said. “I’m just so afraid the world’s gonna change and we’re not gonna be able to stop it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about us. Nuestra música. If this stuff with Batista and Fidel gets any worse, who knows what’s going to happen? People are talking about leaving for America. I’ve heard my parents discussing it. Talking about going to live with my Abuelos Huberto and Evelina, my dad’s parents, in Miami. They left years ago. I think about how much I missed you when I went to Mexico for a few days. I can’t imagine leaving you forever.”
“Oh, Alberto, I’m scared too, but I try not to think about it. I pray each day. Don’t you?”
“I’ve never prayed much. Neither has Juan. We’ve always been against our mother. She loves the church. So we try not to like anything she does. We do the opposite. She hates Fidel, so that gives us every reason to like him.”
“Lo siento. I’ve never heard you talk this way about your mother before,” she paused. “I think you should make up with Juan?”
The Ramos Brothers Trust Castro and Kennedy Page 12