My Lost Cuba

by Celso Gonzalez-Falla

  Our group was made up of men only, women were not allowed. We did not want to be responsible for their safety. They wanted to fight with us, but we thought they could help us better in the villages and cities rather than marching with us up and down the hills. We were different, yet had the same ideas and desires. We believed in freedom and felt desperate to be free. I never fired a gun. We had a few firefights, and I believe we wounded a few soldiers, but I was never a good shot, so they kept me in the back, where I crafted many articles in my mind. As the time passed, the articles became books, although they may never be published. Our group agreed on the important things. Despite our differences, we were the same. We had the same ideals, dreams, harbored the same fears, and believed in the same God. I met some Christians in our group, not Catholics like us. I was ashamed that with all our reading, our culture, and our knowledge of the classics—and I think that you are like me—we knew so little of the Bible, just words we memorized during Sunday Mass. They were a very small group. They came mostly from Havana and Cardenas. They believed in Christ and wanted to help stop the injustices in our country.

  Out here, I also had to learn how to deal with our less fortunate members. I felt like Croesus, because they have worked hard all their lives and have accumulated very little, and are risking everything they have. I felt awkward when they asked me if I had traveled. For them, travel meant taking a trip to Havana. They wanted to learn, to know. They are very intelligent, but I found that they resent the fact that we have been university students, while they struggled to learn how to read and write. We have to change that. Our group was a mixture of students, some professionals, some small businessmen, and a few guajiros that were tired of the corruption and wanted a democratic Cuba. You remember all of our meetings, our discussions, and our writings, and that all that effort yielded us nothing. Here, I felt that, with a rifle in my hand and the ability to fight for what we have always believed, I would be able to cause a real change in the way my Cuba will be governed.

  I’m sorry that this letter is so disjointed. You are the first person I have written to. I wrote my father a note when I left for the hills—the last he will hear from me. He was going to send me to Europe to go to law school. I heard that he is furious and believes that I’m lost forever. I received a package from Havana with medications that were wrapped in newspapers. One of them had a picture of you and Maria Alicia with my parents. It’s great that I have it. We rarely get our hands on papers. Initially, the government flew helicopters and small planes to spot us from overhead, but we were such a small group that we hid quite easily. The people who live in the hills were very generous to us. They helped us with transportation, food, and information. You know that they don’t have that much to share.

  Here’s a strange story for you. My skin is too white for our sun. I grew a beard, wore a large hat, and I was still sunburned, so red that a member of our group who is a doctor ordered me to stay out of the sun! Crazy advice, of course, when one is living outdoors. He has a great sense of humor, but my skin got worse. In the end, on his advice, I was ordered to change from being a soldier to doing what I hate to do. I was told to go to Mexico and raise money for the cause. You and your friends, and your family, and the family of your friends, have it. My family is also included in that group. You all have money. I do what is best for the cause. I have to raise it. Call, plead, and beg. We need more money than we have. We have to be more effective than Castro and his 26 of July Movement. He has money, we don’t. We have to get our message out and we are not succeeding yet. I shaved, looked like a guajiro, and one of our members drove me to Mariel. I was afraid I would meet someone I knew, but thank God, I did not. They took me to a safe house until they found a way to ship me out, so I left from the port in an empty lumber ship. I arrived in Honduras and was able to get my passport from my mother. She knew that I would be there. I have not written or called her. I’m afraid that they might intercept the message. So if you see her, tell her that I’m in good shape and missing her. I caught several rides in cars, trucks, and buses, and now I’m in Mexico D.F. doing what I do the worst, raising money, and what I do best, praying. I’m praying for you and M. A., and I’m also asking you to donate money to our cause. You can give it to our friend. I know you do not love money as much as you love the freedom of our country. Please take good care of E. She has risked so much and is not safe in Havana. I hope to see her in Mexico soon. One strong embrace, your friend and brother in Christ and in what we believe.

  Elvira stood quietly in front of Mike’s desk. After reading the letter Mike smiled at her and said, “Please sit down. You’re safe. I’ll be back in a few minutes. I want to give you something to take back.” He went to Lustre’s office and closed the door behind him. He wrote on a piece of paper and gave it to Lustre: “How much cash do we have in the safe?”

  Lustre wrote back: “Five thousand dollars and ten thousand pesos.”

  Mike nodded and wrote: “ Give me two thousand dollars. I’ll pay you back.”

  Lustre opened the safe and counted out the cash. Mike went back to his office and gave Elvira an envelope with the dollars.

  “Be careful. God bless you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and gave Mike a kiss on the cheek.

  — 32 —

  December

  AFTER THE PRESIDENTIAL elections ended, the anti-Batista groups met in Miami and united against his rule. At the same time, the United States abandoned its support for the Batista regime. The CIA helped Castro with radio equipment to operate Radio Rebelde. The Red Cross International went to the war zone in the mountains of Oriente. The news from Havana and from the Sierra Maestra painted different and unreliable pictures.

  By this time, Paulino had moved in at the Gomez plantation. Elena would be celebrating her first married Christmas, and nothing but a traditional Cuban Noche Buena supper would do. Julieta asked Elena to handle it, and she accepted. The menu was centered on the roasted pork, and the rest was easy: black beans and white rice, yams, yucca with mojo, fried plantains, and for dessert, membrillo, nougat, and coconut flan.

  Elena picked the piglet in the pigpen, but now she had to have someone kill and clean it. Paulino, squeamish at the sight of blood, said he didn’t have the correct knife or skill to do the job, and recommended Manuel, who accepted with pleasure, honored to be the man of the house. Elena asked Cristina whom to invite to the party, and to her surprise, it was Dr. Rico. The sisters always had exchanged gifts on the day of the Three Magi, the 6th of January, but Paulino wanted to exchange gifts on Christmas day, complete with a Santa Claus and a Christmas tree. He talked so much about Santa Claus, his red-and-white robe, his sleigh and reindeers—sorely out of place on the island—that to Julieta and Cristina, he became an absolute nuisance.

  “In Havana we do this,” “in Havana, we do that,” he went on, day after day. Finally, they cornered Elena and pleaded, “You have to do something about Paulino!” Elena took him aside and lovingly reminded him, “Querido, you are not in Havana. You’re now living on a plantation in the middle of nowhere. We know that our Reyes Magos will come on January 6th, but I have yet to see reindeer and a sleigh in Camagüey.”

  With such gentle coaching, Paulino bought a crèche and a Christmas tree and placed them in the living room, and forgot, at least for this year, Santa Claus and his red-nosed reindeer.

  DURING A FAMILY dinner at Don Miguel’s home, Adelaida asked where they were going to celebrate the coming of the New Year. In the past, the sisters had gone to the country club, while Mike went from party to party, but Don Miguel had not celebrated it since his wife’s death.

  “Papi, would Patricia and you join us this year at the country club?”

  Before her father could answer, Jose Maria interceded, “Adelaida, Lourdes and her children are with Julio in Miami. Are you sure it’s good for us to go out while he’s in exile?”

  Don Miguel said, “Why don’t we celebrate at my house? Estrella will prepare the dinner, I’ll hir
e a bartender, and Patricia will plan the menu. I have plenty of champagne and wine. Adelaida, bring your children, and if they get tired, they’ll sleep in your old room. Maria Alicia, let’s invite your parents, your sisters, and their husbands as well. Patricia, invite Carmen and Pepe. Jose Maria? What about your parents and your sisters? Do they have any plans? Invite them. Let’s see whom else you may want to include. If half of the people accept, we’ll have a great party.”

  New Year’s Eve in Havana was a warm night. Carmen and Pepe were the first to arrive. Carmen wore her newest creation, a red dress copied from a Balenciaga design, and Pepe had a new Italian red tie to smarten up his old blue suit.

  Patricia had supervised the table in the dining room. The silverware was polished, and the best crystal and dinnerware were laid out. The room felt festive with flowers, and the dining room table was set as a buffet with ham, turkey, sweet potatoes, vegetables, cheeses, and fruits, including the traditional grapes, all arranged on silver platters. Estrella had made empanaditas, ham croquettes, cheese balls, and boiled shrimp to pass around as hors d’oeuvres.

  Patricia let herself into the kitchen. “Oh, Estrella, it’s magnificent!”

  “I haven’t prepared this kind of feast in years,” Estrella said. “I was worried I had forgotten how.”

  “I can’t imagine a more beautiful table.”

  Estrella warmly smiled at her. “It’s important for a family to celebrate together.”

  “Yes, I agree. I love it.”

  The white wine and the champagne were chilled, and rum, brandy, and the whiskey waited at the bar. The cocktail hour was prolonged. Some sipped champagne, and the group merrily laughed, forgetting their troubles for a moment, believing they could celebrate a New Year full of joy. The reality of what was happening in their country was set aside. They were nervous thinking about it. They believed that they had experienced similar situations before, but no one knew just how fast changes were occurring and their consequences. They were grateful that present events had not disastrously affected them as yet.

  They ate and drank as Don Miguel served his best vintage wines. After dinner, Patricia played records, and they danced on the terrazzo floor of the back terrace as they waited for the New Year. They all had noisemakers and small funny hats, and a few minutes before midnight they rushed to the library to watch the countdown on the TV’s Channel 4. Each had a handful of grapes to be eaten one at a time with each chime of the clock as it marked the arrival of the New Year. The help watched the TV from the hallway, and when 1959 arrived, Don Miguel kissed Patricia, and Maria Alicia kissed Mike, and even Maria, full of champagne, drew El Gordo’s face close and gave him a full kiss on his lips.

  The streets of Havana were full of the sounds of celebration. Sirens blared along with the horns of the cars; buckets of dirty water were thrown out into the street to get rid of the bad things of the old year. At Don Miguel’s party, the family and guests created their own cacophony for the New Year with their noisemakers, shouting:

  Feliz año nuevo!

  HAPPY NEW YEAR!

  •••

  BEFORE MIDNIGHT, NOT too far away at Columbia’s Cuban Army airfield, several army transport planes were prepared for departure. Their pilots had checked the weather for all the nearby islands and for the southern part of the United States. Finally, they left for Ciudad Trujillo in the Dominican Republic. The dictators had closed a deal. Batista carried enough dollars with him to please Trujillo.

  The news of Batista’s departure spread like wildfire among his closer followers. Some raced to the Columbia airfield to try to find a seat on a plane, others called their diplomat friends to ask for political asylum, while others, unaware of Batista’s departure, were abandoned. Earlier that afternoon, a column of Castro’s forces had entered Santa Clara led by an Argentinean doctor with a sparse beard and an asthmatic condition. He took control of an armored train, and after that, they only encountered light resistance. That night, Santa Clara became the first city occupied by the rebels.

  DON MIGUEL GOT a phone call from Pepe around two o’clock. The party was going strong.

  “Miguel, Batista has left the country.”

  “When?”

  “A few hours ago. I have it from a very good source.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I am. He and his family, with some of his closest friends, boarded a plane at the Columbia airfield. I’ve heard a provisional government is being assembled. Che has taken over Santa Clara. Trinidad is now in control of the Second Front of Escambray.”

  “Thanks for calling. Let’s see what happens now.”

  Mike noticed that his father had a worried look after the short telephone conversation.

  “Papa, what’s the trouble?”

  “Batista’s left Cuba—” Don Miguel walked to the middle of the dance floor, raised his hands to stop the dancing.

  “I heard from a trusted source, my good friend Pepe Torros, that Batista has left the country, and that a provisional government is been assembled until the newly elected president is inaugurated. That’s all I know.”

  The group looked at each other with disbelief. Patricia stopped the music. Drinks were neglected. What had happened? They gathered in small groups. The men got together. No one was prepared for this outcome. They all knew about Castro, but his 26 of July group had not been able to call for a general strike, and they weren’t the only group fighting against Batista. Who would take over control?

  With so many unanswered questions, everyone decided that it was better to return to the safety of their homes. Mike offered to drive Maria Alicia, but after thanking him, she left with her parents.

  Georgina, Estrella, and the bartender started the cleanup, and Mike, his father, and Patricia retreated to the relative quiet of the library. They could get no TV signal and Radio Reloj, the twenty-four-hour news radio, did not broadcast information about Batista’s departure.

  Mike suddenly became somber: What did this mean? What about Maria Alicia and him? He wished he had Laureano’s phone number in Mexico to call him and give him the news.

  His father was worried: What would happen to his friend, the minister? Would he be able to leave? Comillas, would he return? Esmeralda, where was she? Would she be released?

  “My son, tomorrow is going to be a difficult day. We don’t know what’s happening nor how it will affect us. We have to be clearheaded tomorrow. We don’t know how people will react.”

  Mike kissed his father good night and went to his room. Yet he couldn’t sleep. He put on his robe, went to the library, and called Maria Alicia.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

  “Are you kidding? I couldn’t go to sleep.”

  “Me neither . . .”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Anxious. I’ve never had this sort of unnerving experience before. Father remembers when Machado was deposed. Houses of the Machadistas were looted. Do you think it’s going to happen this time?”

  “I don’t know. I’m happy that we’re having a change, because we had to have it, but my father is worried. He’s experienced upheavals before.” Her voice changed as she considered what it meant to her. “This time it might be different. I feel optimistic. We needed the change.”

  “Let’s pray we’ll have a better group of leaders. Maybe everything will change for the better.”

  “You know what I think. Maybe all the talks we’ve had in the past, the meetings, the thinking, and the articles will create a better Cuba. I have to go back to the farm. Paulino and Fernando are going to be very happy. I don’t know what’s going to happen to our sergeant, though. As soon as he knows, he’ll go into hiding, but where?”

  “Father told Mother on the way back that this is the best thing that’s happened to Cuba. He also wants to go back to his plantations and sugar mill. He hasn’t heard anything from his managers.”

  “I haven’t heard from Ricardo, either, but there’s no phone at the farm. Maybe I’ll get
a telegram tomorrow.”

  “Mike, you should get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be quite a day.”

  “Love you, good night.”

  “Love you, too,” as she hung up the phone.

  HAVANA SLOWLY FOUND out about Batista’s departure. The G2 station where Fernando had been held was ransacked. The streets became filled with people, many who wore red shirts with black slacks or skirts. Young people drove in their cars, waving Cuban flags and shouting, “Batista is gone. Viva Cuba Libre!” The police disappeared. Neighbors congregated on the sidewalks in front of their houses as flags hung from their balconies.

  Mike couldn’t sleep. He wandered to the back terrace with a glass of milk in his hand, sat down, and took a sip. The moon faintly illuminated the grounds, outlining the mango and avocado trees in the backyard. He thought: We’re starting a new era. Maybe Cuba will be democratic again. Maybe we’ll have a good government. Maybe . . . but time will tell.

  He slowly walked back to his room, and before he went to sleep, he said a short prayer to the Virgin of the Caridad del Cobre:

  Little Virgin,

  You can talk to Him.

  He’s your son.

  Please don’t abandon us now.

  We need you more than ever.

  Have Him grant us what we need:

  We need Peace,

  We need Love,

  We need Kindness,

  Only you can intercede.

  Without His help we are powerless,

  Please don’t forget us . . .

  Amen.

  Epilogue

  MIKE AND MARIA Alicia married in 1959 and went to the United States after the final confiscation of the farm in 1961. Mike obtained his master’s in Business Administration and accepted a position with a Wall Street firm. Maria Alicia became the mother of two boys, and worked in real estate, becoming a successful broker in Greenwich, Connecticut. She sold her business in the eighties. Mike retired. They have never returned to Cuba.