The Girl from Guantanamo

by Donald Lloyd Roth

  Miguel quickly started up the truck—a 1937 Chevy pickup with over 92,000 miles on the odometer, which was loaded with cane for the mill. With the engine running, he opened the passenger door and ran into the house. Miguel carried Maria to the truck, placed her inside, and took off as fast as possible. He smoothly moved the floor stick shift up through its gears and started on the winding dirt roads he would use to work his way east in the direction of the doctor in Santiago.

  Miguel then waited for two hours in the doctor’s reception area while the doctor tended to his wife. When the door finally opened, the look on the doctor’s face as he entered from the examination room made words unnecessary. The baby had been lost. To make the blow even harder on Miguel, the doctor told him it had been a son.

  When he was finally allowed to see her, Maria was in a stupor, partly because of the sedatives the doctor had given her. As the drugs wore off she simply became inconsolable, crying through the night, heartbroken and silent as Miguel held her hand. He was concerned only with his wife for now. His own grief would have to wait.

  And his own grief would be considerable. It had been necessary for the doctor to perform an emergency hysterectomy to stop the hemorrhaging that threatened Maria’s life. Though he would never say it out loud, Miguel was crushed that he would never have a son.

  Jorge, ever the pragmatist, tried to help in his own way by ignoring his brother’s emotional devastation. He urged Miguel to get back to the work at hand—the harvest. “People like us will never have the luxury of wallowing in self-pity,” he said. “You have to forget about the dead and keep moving or else death will overtake you, too.”

  Jorge had lost his wife, Alicia’s mother, to cholera when the child was just one year old. When he spoke of death and moving on, he spoke from experience.

  CHAPTER TWO

  In what would turn out to be a fateful event, back in 1941 a twenty-one-year-old Miguel Ruiz fought a fifteen-year-old black boxer with quick hands. Gerardo Gonzalez came from Camaguey. Miguel dropped him in the first round with an unusual punch that was half uppercut and half hook. The younger fighter, who weighed no more than ninety pounds soaking wet, came back to overwhelm Miguel with speed and footwork, winning the bout by decision. As Miguel was leaving the cock-fighting ring in the tiny town of Palo Seco where the match took place, the dark-skinned flyweight approached him.

  “Where did you learn that move?” the younger fighter asked him. “That’s the first time I’ve seen a punch like that.”

  Miguel hadn’t really thought about it before. He had received some instruction from his father, but most of his technique was improvised in fights with his older brother, Jorge. Making it up as he went along, he explained that the move was called a “bolo,” a word he learned from a migrant Filipino field hand, that meant “machete.”

  “I developed it cutting sugarcane with a machete,” he said.

  The other kid wanted to learn the technique and offered Miguel some of his winnings if he would teach it to him.

  “Why would I do that?” asked Miguel. “Next time I’m going to beat you with that punch. Then I’ll have a pile of money.”

  Gerardo laughed, “Come on, man, you’re good but you’re a bit too slow. Take the money and it will be our secret. Teach me the bolo punch.”

  Miguel needed the money so he agreed to instruct his rival, and over time the two became good friends. From then on, every time Miguel got back in the boxing ring he was guaranteed a payday as the sparring partner of the fighter, who two years later would turn pro and change his name to Kid Gavilan.

  As the harvest season once again came to a close in 1948, Miguel sought to supplement his income by sparring with his old friend who had sent for Miguel to meet him in Havana. The Kid, who was also known as the Cuban Hawk, had a career that was blossoming with an admirable pro record and a signature punch, “the Bolo.” Although Miguel had taught it to him, Kid Gavilan had developed the Bolo into a devastating weapon. The Kid had been traveling internationally as his reputation spread, and back in 1946, with a record of twenty-five wins, two losses and one draw, Gavilan had his first fight on US soil in New York City. He defeated a fighter named Johnny Ryan by knockout in five rounds. Since that win in 1946, the Kid had been splitting his time between the east coast of the United States and Havana.

  Once again the Kid sent for him, and Miguel reported for duty at the gym in Havana.

  Gerardo waited until they were in the ring and warmed up before stating very matter of factly, “I’m going to live and train in Miami for at least the rest of my career, and then who knows how long.”

  Gavilan threw a flurry of punches and waited for Miguel to react. He waited some more, but Miguel’s reaction was not forthcoming. In fact, Miguel seemed to be pretending he hadn’t heard him.

  “Want to come?”

  Miguel kept moving, parrying with The Kid as he silently considered the ramifications of such a move—on him, his family, his brother, and his niece, Alicia.

  His brother’s words echoed in his mind. “Keep moving or death will overtake you, too.” The irony was not lost on Miguel. The advice meant to keep him in the fields, accepting this fate for the rest of his life, was leading him toward another life altogether. He felt something he hadn’t experienced in quite a while. Hope.

  The sugar business didn’t look very promising at the moment. Prices had once again been artificially depressed by the mills’ foreign owners. For many generations, sugar represented both the essential Cuban export as well as the source of his country’s humiliation and subjugation as a colony by US business interests. The idea of going to the United States as part of the entourage of a Cuban athletic phenomenon would mean a great deal in the way of prestige. He also felt that for Cuba it would make a very loud statement to the United States and the rest of the world. A Cuban champion was here, and he was not going to be taken advantage of! It was an irresistible opportunity to be part of something that important.

  Miguel touched his gloves to those of future boxing legend, Kid Gavilan, and said, “I’m in. When do we leave?”

  Miguel arrived at the farm after midnight. He had drunk very strong coffee at the last rest stop on the bus route and needed to burn off some energy. He told himself that it would be best if he walked for a while but, truth be told, he wanted to smell the smells and see the sights under the nearly full moon that night because he already missed the place he was planning to leave, the place he had lived his entire life.

  He lit the cigar Gerardo had given him for the long bus ride, savoring the taste, enjoying the increased mental focus tobacco always brought him. He knew what he had to do the next day, and he knew it wouldn’t be easy. It was, however, the right thing, the only thing.

  He moved across the property like a phantom. At a certain point he was joined by the dogs with their tails wagging happily in the moonlight at the prospect of being taken for a walk. It had always amazed him that despite having many square miles of open farmland to roam, the dogs preferred to be walked by a human.

  When they stopped for a group pee at a favorite tree, Miguel joined them in marking the trunk. They visited the barn together where it seemed to Miguel that they had interrupted a secret meeting of great importance between the oxen and the horse, who were standing with their heads close together in their adjoining stalls, keeping mum, he assumed, until the three animals once again had privacy.

  After a while, he noticed a light on in his brother’s kitchen and with his canine entourage made his way onto Jorge’s porch, purposefully stepping on a creaky board to get his attention.

  “Who’s that?” asked Jorge as he poured himself a coffee.

  “It’s me. You up?”

  By the time the sun came up the brothers had been round and round, with Jorge using every argument he could think of to convince Miguel not to go. They had fought to a stand-off.

  Miguel was winning on logic, but Jorge had him on the ropes with guilt. The relationship between the two had always bee
n warm and supportive; after all, they were lifelong business partners as well as brothers. But things got heated when Jorge brought up the subject of the children.

  “And what about the girls? You would separate them, just like that?” Jorge asked.

  It was a low blow, but Miguel was prepared for it. In fact, it was part of his strategy, and Jorge had walked right into his trap. He wanted it to seem like it was his brother’s idea, not his.

  “You’re right, Jorge” he replied. “Great idea! Come with us to Miami. Let’s sell the farm.”

  You would think Miguel had just suggested with a straight face that his brother amputate both legs and an arm. It was an excellent reversal. Now Jorge was on the defensive, but it wasn’t having the desired effect. Jorge, the more mercurial of the two brothers, doubled down in his opposition.

  “Are you crazy? This is our livelihood; this is our farm. What happens when that punch-drunk egomaniac starts losing fights? He can’t win forever, Miguel. What are you going to do, wash dishes in Miami? Is that the kind of father Pilar will be proud of?”

  Miguel didn’t think before he answered, he just spat out the first thought that entered his mind. “Pilar will have a better life in the United States than Alicia will have in Cuba.”

  He regretted saying it before the words even left his mouth, but it was too late. The damage had been done. Jorge was understandably sensitive about the subject of his daughter since he found it difficult to care for her by himself.

  When Alicia’s mother died, Jorge took it very hard, falling into a deep depression which he treated with alcohol. For a while it looked like he was determined to join his wife in the grave by drinking himself to death. Maria had to pick up the slack in Alicia’s childcare for about two years while Jorge went through his grieving process. Even after he had regained a semblance of emotional stability, he was never quite the same as a father. Maria, who had been like a mother to both girls, was the one who convinced him to pull out of his self-pity for the sake of his daughter. Jorge felt he’d been a failure as a father and secretly resented both Maria and Miguel for their strength, as it reminded him of his own weakness.

  That morning, when Miguel had tried a similar tack, appealing to Jorge to do what would be best for Alicia as Maria had done, it came out wrong. He lacked his wife’s gift of subtlety, and it only made matters worse.

  Jorge was done arguing. “Fine. Go then.”

  Miguel tried again, pleading with Jorge to bring Alicia and come to Miami, but it was no use. As far as Jorge was concerned, the conversation was over.

  CHAPTER THREE

  For twelve-year-old Pilar, Miami in 1952 was like a fantasy from one of her storybooks come to life. Two things stuck out: everybody looked very different, and everybody seemed to be having fun all the time. People dressed in what Pilar’s mom called “magazine clothes.” Women wore large floppy hats and oval sunglasses as big as their cheeks. Men wore striped suits with twotoned shoes.

  Miguel rented a modest two-bedroom, two-bath ranch style house in the little Havana area. The house was painted green with a flat gray asphalt roof. The front entrance led into a combined living room and dining area, with a den off to the side. The kitchen was small, with a four-person table and a door that opened to the side of the house onto a patio with a portable barbecue grill and a redwood picnic table. The den held two family favorites, a rotary phone with a private line and a black-and-white, twelve-inch Dumont TV in a large wooden cabinet.

  Pilar’s bedroom was small. It had a single maple twin bed under the window and a matching dresser, but to her it was perfect. Miguel had painted the walls pink and the doors powder blue. But what she liked most was the tiled bathroom that had a large claw-foot tub. Small house or not, indoor plumbing was a pleasant upgrade from walking to the outhouse on their farm in Cuba.

  On the weekends Miguel would take her to glamorous Miami Beach. The drive was an event unto itself. First, they crossed the long causeway over Biscayne Bay. Every few minutes a road forked off from the causeway onto a small island. The most amazing thing was that the islands, named Palm, Hibiscus—and Pilar’s favorite, Star—were all manmade.

  Every island was spotted with huge mansions. Pilar had seen beautiful houses in Havana’s upscale Miramar district, but never so many right next to each other. Every house was on the water, and most had boats docked just off their front yards. “They don’t even need their cars to go places, Papa!” she would say.

  Once Miguel eased onto Lincoln Road, the main drag of Miami Beach, things really came to life. The streets were buzzing with activity. All the restaurants had outdoor seating, and the seats were always taken. Every building was a different color—pink, gray, blue, orange, burnt red, and aqua. Pilar imagined that the man who painted them used every color in his box of crayons, just like she tried to do when she colored pictures. And the art deco buildings with their intricate design flourishes looked like they were molded out of clay.

  On one side of the road was a never-ending row of hotels. They had grand entrances with neon signs that glowed even during the daylight hours. The hotels all had evocative names like The Surfcomber, Sherry Frontenac, and The Sagamore. Some of them had curved windows on the corners, while others featured large balconies. People streamed out of these buildings carrying towels, toys, and picnic baskets as they headed for the beach across the street.

  After Miguel parked his old pickup truck alongside far more stylish cars, father and daughter would join the parade to the beach. Pilar had never seen so many people in one place. Kids played with balls, and teenagers walked arm-in-arm. Everyone was smiling.

  Their afternoon routine at the beach was always the same. They would spread out their towels and then head straight to the water’s edge. What Pilar loved best about the water was that it slowed her father down. Miguel would wade ankle-deep into the water and point up the beach. That was the signal for Pilar, still on the wet sand, to take off running. Miguel, slowed down by both the sandy bottom and the water, would try to keep up with her, but he never could.

  After their race they would collapse on their towels to warm up in the hot sun and dry off in the soft breeze. When they had both caught their breath, Pilar would wait for a quiet moment and say, “Papa?”

  Miguel, with his face down on the towel, answered with a grunt.

  “I’m faster than you,” boasted the little girl in a whisper.

  They ended their mornings by walking to the Howard Johnson’s hotel soda fountain and ordering egg creams with an extra splash of chocolate syrup. This American concoction became the official drink of her childhood, though Pilar never understood the odd name because the fizzy beverage had neither eggs nor cream in it.

  They would then walk to the gym where Kid Gavilan trained, and Miguel would work for the rest of the afternoon. The gym was located in a second floor loft near the corner of Fifth and Washington Streets. A boxing ring was in the middle of the room. Light streamed in through tall windows.

  Pilar loved going to the gym with her father. She helped out by collecting sweaty towels and taking them to the laundry, and filling water bottles. But what she liked most were the burly, friendly men who hung out at the gym. They would frequently hoist her on their shoulders so she could see what was happening in the ring.

  Many of the men hanging out at the gym wore dressy suits, had big stomachs, and didn’t look to Pilar like they could have ever been boxers. Pilar especially remembered these well-dressed men because they treated her so well while they constantly talked about Cuban politics. They were upset with President Batista, and from what she gleaned they did not want him to lead Cuba. He had, according to one of the men, been very popular when he had been president in the past. Now after an absence of a number of years he ran for president again. Even though he might win the election, it appeared he suddenly decided to violate the Constitution and seize power three months before the election was to be held. There was a lot of excited talk about a young Havana University law student named
Fidel Castro who had been getting involved in politics and speaking out against Batista’s unlawful seizure of power. Many of the men admired the young firebrand who had brought several lawsuits against the government. Although the lawsuits had not changed the government, they helped Fidel Castro to recruit supporters for a new group he called The Movement. The Movement had become the subject of many passionate conversations around the gym.

  Pilar remembered one of the men at the gym had a different opinion from most of the others. His name was Salazar. Salazar said that it didn’t matter who called himself the president of Cuba. “What really matters in the end is money,” said Salazar. Maintaining good ties with the US, which Batista was doing, was the key to prosperity. If the relationship with the US was good, everything else would be, too. Miguel told Pilar that nobody took the time to argue with Salazar’s point of view, because even if Salazar was correct, “that didn’t make it right.”

  In spite of this, Pilar liked Salazar because he always brought her chewy candies called Dots, which he taught her to toss up in the air and catch in her mouth.

  For those first few years that Pilar lived in Miami, her trips to the beach with her father were the exclamation points coming at the end of long weeks. Her first year of school life was difficult since she didn’t understand many of her teacher’s instructions. But Pilar worked hard to perfect the English her mother had started teaching her when she was little, and before long she became quite fluent in her second language.

  A turn of events in her social status occurred during her second year in school. At recess, the boys, in an effort to both act macho and flirt, would challenge the girls to running races. For weeks, Pilar watched. Then one day she was invited to the join the group of girls who raced against the boys. She outran the fastest boy and became an instant hero among her female classmates. Not wanting to over-celebrate and rub it in the losing boy’s face too much, she approached him after the race and extended her hand humbly in a gesture of good sportsmanship. But her gesture was not accepted in kind. The sore loser instead blamed a supposed ankle injury for his loss, but everybody knew the truth.