Remembering Che

by Aleida March

  Maybe I should have written down my thoughts but I couldn’t. I feared I would never see Che again, or maybe not for many years. I knew that I had to get used to the idea and live with the feeling that it might have been our last time together. We had several separations like this, and each time felt like it was final.

  I always expected my life to be full of anxiety and uncertainty. This time, after experiencing such peace and pleasure at being reunited, I dreaded to think I might never hear from Che again. While he had been in the Congo we were able to communicate once a month. But now?

  I returned to Cuba having been away for a month and half. I traveled from Cairo to Moscow with Oscar Fernández Padilla. My despairing mood was somewhat brightened when I was reunited with my children and able to give them the special gift of the tape-recorded stories read by their father.

  A few days later Fidel’s office called, asking me to pick up a small notebook Che had sent me along with some personal notes. One of the pieces in the notebook was titled “Delivery,” reflecting the sadness and certainty he felt at the prospect we would not see each other for a long time:

  My love,

  The moment has come to send you a farewell tasting of earth (dry leaves, something far away and disused). I wanted to do this with lines that don’t reach the margins—often called poems—but I have failed.

  There are so many intimate things for your ears only that words cannot express, only the shy algorithms that amuse my breaking wave. The noble trade of poet is not for me. It isn’t that I don’t have sweet things to say. If you only knew what is contained there in a whirl inside me. But the shell that contains them is too long, convoluted and narrow.

  They emerge, exhausted from the journey, and in a bad mood, elusive; the sweetest ones are the most fragile and are left behind, shattered, disparate vibrations...

  I’m a useless medium. I would disintegrate trying to convey everything at once. Let’s use everyday words to capture the moment.

  [...] That is how I love you, remembering the bitter coffee every morning, the taste of the dimple in your knee, the ash of a cigar delicately balanced, the incoherent grumbling with which you defend your impregnable pillow.[...]

  That is how I love you, watching the children grow, like a staircase with no history (and I suffer because I can’t witness those steps). Every day, it’s like a stabbing in my side, upbraiding the idler from its shell.

  This will be a real farewell. Five years in the mire have aged me. Now there remains only one last step—the definitive one.

  The siren songs have ended, and so has my inner conflict. Now the flag is raised for my last race. The speed will be such that screams will accompany me. The past has come to an end; I am the future in progress.

  Don’t call me, because I won’t be able to hear you. But I will sense you on sunny days, under the renewed caress of bullets. [...]

  I will keep a look out for you, in the way a dog remains alert while it’s resting, and I will imagine every part of you, piece by piece, and altogether.

  If one day you feel the force of an overbearing presence, don’t turn around, don’t break the spell, just keep on preparing my coffee, and let me experience you in that instant, for always.

  It so happened that fortune smiled on us again. After my constant complaints and Che’s continued resistance, in April 1966 we were reunited in Prague. In this undated letter, he wrote:

  Two letters. It isn’t true that I don’t want to see you and I have not run away [...].

  I came here to get things going and that is what has happened to some extent. I didn’t think it was appropriate for you to come. You might have been detected (by the Czechs or our enemies). Your absence from Cuba would be noticed immediately. Moreover, travel is expensive and this upsets me. If Fidel wants you to come, then that’s up to him (he can weigh up the factors) and he can decide[...].

  Prague was an enchanting city; but the fact that we didn’t have much of an opportunity to enjoy it fully didn’t matter to us. We had to maintain strict discipline, functioning in absolute secrecy. It was enough for us to simply be together again.

  We stayed in two places in that beautiful city: one was the apartment I had stayed in on my way to Tanzania. It was quite small, with only one room with a bed, and a bathroom that was also used as a kitchen and laundry. We stayed there for a week.

  Then we moved to a large, comfortable country house. The owner lived there with her daughter, who had an intellectual disability. They cooked for us and we were there with other compañeros who were preparing to go to Bolivia with Che. These were Alberto Fernández Montes de Oca (Pacho), Harry Villegas (Pombo) and Carlos Coello (Tuma) and others, who visited for work reasons.

  At night we played canasta to entertain ourselves. I didn’t particularly enjoy those card games because I always lost. Che would try to help me—whenever I was in a tight spot he came to my rescue. He was the same when we had target practice. He would stand behind me to correct my stance, never allowing me to look bad in any situation where I was being tested. This was his way of showing me his affection and support.

  I could only ever manage to beat Coello in target practice. He was less dexterous than I was and a terrible shot. We enjoyed his jokes and his cheerful personality. We were all very fond of him. I would joke with him, saying I would take his place in the next struggle, repeating this often to see if anyone was paying attention.

  If the day was fine, we would go on walks through a nearby pine forest; at weekends, we would return to the city at night with José Luis Ojalvo, the compañero who looked after us in Prague.

  On odd occasions, we would break the rules and escape. Once we went to eat at a restaurant close to the apartment, and an amusing incident occurred. We generally ordered beef steak, and Che would put on his best Czech accent. But on that occasion, we wanted to try something different. Confident of his ability in French, Che ordered for us. We were very surprised when the waiter brought us “bistec anglisqui”—what we always ordered. We laughed so much at the waiter’s perfect French. We were happy, enjoying our time alone together and our adventures with the others. Once we went to a stadium to watch a game of soccer.

  I especially remember a day trip we made to a rural area. On our return we stayed in a small, very friendly motel. There, we let ourselves dream a bit, making plans to return some day. But this was never possible. Yet again we had to forego our small pleasures. Similarly, we never got to see Karlovy Vary, a beautiful spa town Che very much wanted us to visit together.

  At the end of May we learned of a possible attack on Cuba by the United States, following the assassination of one of our soldiers guarding the Guantánamo Naval Base, territory usurped by the United States from the time of Cuba’s so-called independence in 1902.

  Due to the seriousness of the situation, Che brought forward the date of my departure, originally scheduled for June 2, the date of our wedding anniversary. I would be lying if I said I was happy to return. But of course I wanted to be with my children and had little choice in the matter. Che decided, in the case of a US attack against Cuba, he would return to Cuba to fight alongside his people.

  The day before I left, I went to a store and bought him some cuff links to surprise him. They were quite small, and I knew he would always be able to carry them with him; and I believe he did, because no one has ever returned them to me. (It’s possible someone has held onto them as a war trophy.) He never knew the cuff links were a gift from me until he returned to Cuba in July 1966 to train the group that would go to Bolivia. He was then overjoyed.

  Che had not considered returning to Cuba after the Congo mission. Again, he was convinced by Fidel’s great power of persuasion. Fidel wrote to Che in Prague, arguing that Cuba was the best place to complete the final phase of the training for Bolivia, assuring him of his total discretion:

  Dear Ramón:

  Events have overtaken my plans for a letter [...]

  It seems to me, given the delicate and worrying
situation in which you find yourself there, that you should consider the usefulness of jumping back here.

  I am well aware that you are especially reluctant to consider any option that involves a return to Cuba for the moment, unless it is in the quite exceptional circumstances mentioned above.

  But analyzed in a sober and objective way, this actually hinders your objectives; worse, it puts them at risk. I find it very hard to accept the idea that this is right, or even that it can be justified from a revolutionary point of view. Your time at the so-called halfway point increases the risks; it makes extraordinarily more difficult the practical tasks that need to be carried out; and far from accelerating the plans, it delays their fulfillment; moreover, it subjects you to a period of unnecessarily anxious, uncertain and impatient waiting.

  What can be the point of that? There is no question of principle, honor or revolutionary morality involved here that would prevent you from making effective and thorough use of facilities that you can certainly depend on to achieve your goal. No fraud, no deception, no tricking of the people of Cuba or the world is involved in making use of the objective advantages of being able to enter and leave here, to plan and coordinate, to select and train cadres, and to do everything from here that you can achieve only with great difficulty from where you are or somewhere similar. Neither today nor tomorrow, nor at any time in the future, could anyone consider it wrong—nor should you in all conscience. What would really be a grave, unforgivable error is to do things badly when they could be done well; to have a failure when all the possibilities are there for success.

  I am not insinuating, not in the least, that you abandon or postpone your plans, nor am I letting myself be carried away by pessimistic considerations due to the difficulties that have arisen. On the contrary, the difficulties can be overcome, and more than ever we can count on having the experience, the conviction and the means to carry out those plans successfully. That is why I think we should make the best and most rational use of the knowledge, the resources and the facilities that we have at our disposal. Since first hatching your now old idea of further action in another setting, have you ever really had enough time to devote yourself entirely to this matter, to conceiving, organizing and executing your plans to the greatest possible extent? [...]

  It is a huge advantage for you to be able to use what we have here, to have access to houses, isolated farms, mountains, cays and everything essential to organize and personally lead the project, devoting 100 percent of your time to this and drawing on the help of as many others as necessary, with only a very small number of people knowing your whereabouts. You know perfectly well that you can count on these facilities, that there is not the slightest possibility that you will encounter problems or interference for reasons of state or politics. The most difficult thing of all—the official disassociation—has already been done, not without paying a price in the form of slander, intrigues, etc. Is it right that we should not extract the maximum benefit from it? Has any revolutionary ever had such ideal conditions to fulfill their mission, and at a time when that mission acquires great importance for humanity, when the most crucial and decisive struggle for the victory of the peoples is breaking out? [...]

  Why not do things well if we have every chance to do so? Why don’t we take the minimum time necessary, even while working at the greatest speed? [...]

  I hope these lines won’t annoy or upset you. I know that if you analyze what I say seriously, your characteristic honesty will lead you to accept that I am right. But even if you come to a completely different decision, I won’t feel disappointed. I write to you with deep affection and the greatest and most sincere admiration for your brilliant and noble intelligence, your irreproachable conduct and your unyielding character of a whole-hearted revolutionary. The fact that you might see things differently won’t change these feelings one iota nor affect our collaboration in any way.5

  I have always regarded this letter as testimony to the incredible bond of loyalty and respect that existed between these two men, two intransigent guerrilla fighters—an eloquent answer to the many lies and slanders spread about them.

  I received a brief note from Che addressed to my nom de guerre. He reproached me for tearing out the page of his copy of El Ciervo on which the author, the Spanish poet León Felipe had written a dedication to him:

  Josephine, my love,

  I will soon experience another warm and salty shower, related to my clandestine status.6

  You have mutilated my copy of El Ciervo and I cannot forgive you. If I get the chance, I’ll take my revenge.

  A warm kiss, because it is very new and full of hope. Another big one for the children.

  Your Ramón

  Che returned to Cuba around the time of the July 26 celebrations when many visitors were arriving at the airport, making it less likely he would be identified by journalists. But as always there was a slight hitch. When he arrived, Santiago Alvarez had a crew filming the arrival of various celebrities. Two compañeros from Piñeiro’s office, Juan Carretero and Armando Campos, had to intervene and go to ICAIC to ensure that the film was destroyed.

  Many years later, Santiago, a well-known documentary film maker, enjoyed narrating the story of how the two men had come to his studio and asked to see the film shot at the airport. With so many reels of film to watch, the search took a very long time. Moreover, poor Santiago didn’t know what they were looking for. Eventually, they found the images of Che in disguise, and those sections were cut from the reel. This remained a secret for decades.

  In my view, this was probably unnecessary, because Che was totally unrecognizable. Before leaving Prague, he put on thick glasses and padding around his body, which made him look corpulent and slightly hunched over; he generally appeared much older than he was.

  I can’t remember if it was that same day that Celia Sánchez called to tell me she would pick me up in a few minutes. If I wanted to, she said, I could bring Ernesto with me, our youngest child, whom Che had hardly had a chance to get to know. He was only one month old when Che left for the Congo. I didn’t need to be told where I was going.

  I collected a few essential items while I waited for Celia to pick me up in her car. This was my first visit to San Andrés de Caiguanabo in Pinar del Río, an extraordinarily beautiful place Fidel had selected for the training of the small group of combatants that would accompany Che to Bolivia.

  I had to return home the next day, because my prolonged absence would provoke rumors or questions. I was told I could return whenever circumstances allowed. At this point, it was critical that nothing should get in the way of the plans.

  None of that worried me, of course, and I enjoyed our clandestine encounters. The most important thing for me was to have him nearby, away from danger and among compañeros and friends, beyond the reach of an enemy bullet or a breach of security that would undermine his project.

  I traveled to see him whenever I could. Sometimes I stayed a bit longer, and Che allowed me to take part in the training exercises with the other compañeros. We went for long hikes in the strong sun; the men would be encumbered with their backpacks and weapons, and I would be as free as the wind, following Che as in the old days.

  Sometimes we would compete with the rest of the group to see who arrived back first at the starting point. Che usually walked slowly, but without stopping to rest, and if we did stop, we did not sit down. In that way, we left many compañeros behind.

  In August, I took little Celia with me. She was only three years old and was sick with a sore throat. Che was delighted to see her and enjoyed playing with her, even though she was unaware she was with her father. We took some beautiful photographs that day. In the last letter he wrote to the children, sent for Aliucha’s birthday, he wrote, “Celita, help your grandmother around the house and stay as lovely as you were when we said good-bye, do you remember? I bet you do.”

  On one of our hikes in the mountains of Pinar del Río, as we descended a cliff, the rock I was holdi
ng onto came away and I fell backwards, landing about half a meter from the edge. Che quickly came to my rescue. Luckily, I only sustained a few scratches and we continued on our way, arriving back before the rest of the group. When they passed the spot where the accident had occurred and saw blood stains on the rocks, the compañeros became concerned. But they started joking around when they found us sitting waiting for them.

  On another occasion, we went out at sunset on horseback with some compañeros. My horse suddenly slipped and I found myself hanging from a small tree, very close to a precipice. Somehow, the horse fell into the ravine. When he saw what had happened, Che had to rescue me again. He checked that I wasn’t injured, except for some scratches and torn pants, and went off to rescue the horse. I returned to the house on his horse.

  To test the effectiveness of his transformation into “Ramón,”7 Che went to visit a group of his former soldiers. I wasn’t allowed to go with him, because they might then guess the identity of the stranger. So I stayed hidden behind a window in order to watch their reactions. Che was introduced as a Spanish instructor, a friend of Cuba. No one recognized him, even though he told some jokes, until one of them, Jesús Suárez Gayol, realized it was indeed Che.

  Their faces reflected the euphoria they experienced, knowing that the troop would be led by their leader. It was a small, select group, many of whom had faithfully collaborated with Che, not only in war but also in the greater struggle, which was the construction of a new society. Some, like Octavio de la Concepción de la Pedraja (Moro) and Israel Zayas (Braulio) had been with Che in the Congo. Others, including José M. Martínez Tamayo (Papi), Harry Villegas (Pombo) and Carlos Coello (Tuma), were already in La Paz, preparing conditions for the arrival of the rest of group, those “with stars on their foreheads,” as Che described these most dedicated and courageous men.8

  While the training proceeded in San Andrés, I sometimes cooked for the entire group and this brought everyone together as a happy family. A bit of affection and unity are always important in such moments. I particularly recall Moro. He was a little overweight and trying to diet; sometimes he would only get popcorn to eat. But when he saw the others feasting on what I had prepared, he abandoned his diet and ignored the many jokes made at his expense.