“Everything. What was his name? What happened between them? Was he really involved with Castro? Is he still here in Cuba?”
“I’ll tell you what I know, because she wanted you to have the box, the letters. She wanted you to know this part of her life.”
“Then why didn’t she just tell me? I don’t understand why she never mentioned him in all of the stories she told me about Cuba.”
“Perhaps it hurt her to talk about him. And there was probably shame, too. Those were polarizing times for the Cuban people; families were torn apart by political disagreements—including Elisa’s.”
“My great-uncle was disowned for opposing Batista, wasn’t he?”
Even now, my great-uncle is a sore spot for my family.
“He was. Your great-grandfather was one of Batista’s biggest backers—whether out of expediency or true fervor, I do not know. I was too young to worry about those things. But much of the country did not share those views. There were real problems in Cuba before the revolution. There was no justice, no chance of democracy. Those of us who lived behind the gates of the grand estates in Miramar knew little of suffering. We were surrounded by people who looked like us, who had access to education, who possessed wealth. Our lives were parties and decadence, the violence somewhere in the background. But for many Cubans, those were horrible times.
“A movement began within the country. It started, strangely enough, among children of the elites. Don’t forget, Fidel himself was the son of a wealthy farmer. The very people who enjoyed Batista’s largesse discovered their children sympathized with the revolutionaries. Their sons fought for democracy and change, and were willing to spill Cuban blood to achieve it. It would be easy to say that the revolution divided us along the lines of poor and wealthy, but it’s not that simple.
“It’s not shocking to me that Elisa fell in love with such a man, but Emilio Perez would never have accepted his daughter with a revolutionary. And it would have killed your great-grandmother. She was descended from Spanish royalty, and she expected her daughters to conduct themselves accordingly.”
“And my grandmother never told you his name?”
“No. He was from Havana, but I’m not sure what part of the city.”
“Was he her age?”
He sounded older from the tone of his letters—more worldly, certainly.
“A bit older, I think. Most of the men involved with Fidel’s movement were in their twenties or early thirties. Boys, really.”
“What else did she tell you about him?”
“One day, we were supposed to have lunch and go shopping at El Encanto. This was a couple months before everything fell apart. Late October or early November. I went to the house to see Elisa . . .”
chapter twelve
Elisa
NOVEMBER 1958
This time he’s gone for longer than ever before, and the letters arrive sporadically, delivered through subterfuge and random messengers in his absence, read in the privacy of my room when I can sneak away from everyone and escape into his words.
The fighting is intensifying; the tide is turning, Batista is on the defense, his forces and resolve weakening. Hopefully, this will be over soon and he will be gone; hopefully, I will be back in Havana and we will be together again.
I write him nearly every day, my letters tame compared to the stories he tells me, of sleeping beneath the stars, existing on meager rations. He gives me enough detail that I feel as though I am there with him. There’s poetry in his letters, in the manner in which he describes his actions, his fidelity to Cuba, and in his words for me.
I think of you often. I try to imagine you going through your day, laughing with your sisters. I use my imagination to paint a picture of your life. It keeps me company when we’re marching, waiting for things to happen. I never realized war would be so much waiting.
I imagine what our future will look like, where we will live, how we will live together. Attempt to envision what my life will look like when we defeat Batista. I think I would like to go back to practicing law, perhaps become a judge one day. I can no longer fathom a future without you.
I write back to him, the act of committing my pen to paper giving me courage to share all that is in my heart.
I want a future with you, too.
I scour my father’s library for José Martí’s writing, for the men Pablo admires—Locke, Montesquieu, Rousseau; the books are faithful companions as I wait for him. The days between his letters turn into a week, two, and pass by as I spend time with my sisters, shopping with Ana. Alejandro is gone as well, and I can’t help but fear that unseen forces are operating within the country, weaving disorder, and two men I care about—deeply—are involved.
The presidential election is held on November 1, and Batista’s candidate for president, Agüero, wins under mysterious circumstances. Murmurs ripple through the country—suggesting Batista rigged the vote in his favor. We waited and waited for elections, years, years of promises, years of hope for democracy, years of Batista, and it was all a foregone conclusion. Agüero will be Batista’s puppet.
The hope many held in their hearts is now reduced to tatters. After nearly a decade of Batista, we are now to have more of his rule in one form or another. We are fractured between those who are ambivalent to this outcome and those who mourn it. No one seems genuinely happy about Batista—he is not a man who garners great loyalty except perhaps within his most inner circle—but there is a sort of muted relief that envelops my parents.
Our house has become an uncomfortable place, everyone walking on eggshells. The servants smile, but there’s an edge to it now, a simmering anger lingering behind the flash of white teeth. Our nanny, Magda, is a buffer between the family and the rest of the staff, both parent by love and employee in our parents’ eyes. She’s the glue that keeps us together now that the family feels more fractured than ever—Isabel is consumed with Alberto, each day pulling further and further away; Maria is occupied with her games and toys, cocooned in an imaginary world where Cuba isn’t cannibalizing itself; and Beatriz and Alejandro—
They always had secrets as twins, but now I fear those secrets run far deeper and more insidious. I’ve already lost one sibling to this madness; how can I lose another?
Magda walks beside me and Ana as we drift through the store, our gazes lingering on the glittering jewelry ensconced behind glass cases. It seems incredibly indulgent to go shopping in times like these, but without these amusements to pass the time, the days grow stagnant, the waiting and wondering and tension unbearable.
“What do you think about this necklace?” Ana asks, pointing out a pretty set of pearls on display.
“More your style than mine, but pretty. They’d look nice with your new yellow dress.”
She smiles. “They would, wouldn’t they?” She lingers over them while Magda and I drift to the next set of cases, the next display of exquisite jewelry.
“I wish Beatriz would have come with us,” Magda whispers to me.
“Me, too.”
“What did she say when you invited her?” Magda asks.
“That she already had plans.”
I didn’t ask what they were; at the moment, it hardly seems in my best interest to inquire considering how much we’ve all been sneaking about lately.
“Plans.” Magda’s expression is grim. “She needs to spend less time up to no good and more time trying to find a husband.”
I can’t help but grin. “You sound like my mother.”
Magda and my mother are strange allies in the house. Their attitude toward me and my sisters might be different, but they work in concert, Magda a gentler, more affectionate version of our mother.
“Your mother knows what she’s about. And for as smart as she is, Beatriz can be incredibly foolish.”
“Headstrong,” I say, feeling the need to defend my sister.
Her expression softens. “Yes. Headstrong. And a bit stubborn, too.”
My lips twitch. Beatriz is undeniably stubborn.
I reach out and squeeze Magda’s hand, the familiarity of her touch a comfort in these tumultuous times.
Ana joins us, and all talk of Beatriz ceases; Magda, too, shares our mother’s devotion to protecting the integrity of the Perez name.
I wander off, half-heartedly looking at jewelry while Ana buys the pearls.
“Elisa.”
I turn at the sound of my name, at the faint pressure against my elbow.
My brother is suddenly in front of me, and for a moment, seeing him here in a store we accompanied our mother to when we were younger, it feels as though we have both gone back in time to when things were simpler and we weren’t divided by ideology and war.
Alejandro looks better than he did outside our home the day he saw me with Pablo, but he’s still unkempt, his appearance so different from the urbane brother I remember.
“What are you doing here? How did you find me?” I whisper, my gaze darting around the store. Magda and Ana are thankfully preoccupied with the pearl purchase.
His expression is grim. “I was waiting for you outside the house. I saw you leave with Magda and followed you. I need to talk to you.”
He pulls me into a corner so Magda and Ana can’t see us. “I heard a rumor the other day; they say Batista has arrested some rebels. Fidel’s men.”
My heart turns over in my chest. “No.”
Not Pablo.
“He’s alive. They’re holding him in Havana. In La Cabaña.”
My legs tremble. Batista’s prison is notorious.
“They say he’s being questioned on Fidel’s movements.” Alejandro’s voice lowers. “Did you know he was Fidel’s eyes and ears in the city?”
I suspected. That Pablo is on Batista’s radar is a death sentence.
Despite the ideological differences between us, Alejandro’s still my big brother, and in this I can’t help but search for reassurance.
“What will happen to him?” I ask.
Alejandro’s silence is answer enough, even if it’s not the one I wanted.
“They’ll kill him, won’t they?”
He nods.
That’s the thing about families. They always tell you the truth, even when you’d almost prefer the lie.
“What can I do?” I ask.
I’m not sure how much more helplessness I can stand.
Alejandro’s gaze narrows. “Do you care about him?”
The words are clogged in my throat behind a morass of fear and guilt. “I do.”
“Then there’s one person who might be able to help.”
If helplessness is my Scylla, then the solution is most definitely Charybdis.
* * *
• • •
I hover on the threshold to my father’s study. I’ve never done this before, never used my family’s influence in such a blatant, flagrant attempt to secure what I want. I’ve been in a daze since my brother came to see me, panic flooding my veins. My father is seated behind his enormous desk, papers spread before him. I wince at the sight of the newspaper shoved into a corner. Has he already read about the arrests? How will I convince him to throw his weight behind freeing Pablo?
He looks up from his desk, and his eyes widen in surprise. This study is my father’s domain, and we tiptoe around it, reluctant to bother him when he’s working, when it’s clear he has little time for our frivolities.
Let him think this is a whim, nothing more. Don’t let him see my heart is breaking.
“Elisa, what can I do for you?”
“I have a favor to ask,” I answer, nausea rolling around in my stomach.
A brief look of annoyance crosses his face, but he waves me in. “Come in.”
I close the door behind me, crossing the Persian rug, and take a seat in one of the antique chairs opposite his desk. The corsair, captured in yet another painting, stares down at me from his place of prominence behind my father. This iteration of him is more dour than the one in the upstairs hallway. They say the corsair was once threatened with the gallows; perhaps this portrait was captured around that time. I now have an uncomfortable familiarity with men who look as though they are on the precipice of hanging by one means or another.
My father leans back in his chair, studying me over his black-rimmed reading glasses. “What do you need?”
My father is an imposing man in both his public and private life. He’s never been cruel, but he’s not the sort of man who invites confidences. Still, I’ve always believed him to be fair. He must know Batista’s actions are wrong. I’ve never viewed him as a blind supporter, but rather as a man willing to do anything to survive, a father and husband willing to sacrifice his integrity to protect his family. I take a deep breath. “I have a friend. He’s in La Cabaña. Can you secure his release?”
I have the novel experience of seeing true shock on my father’s face. He gapes at me, his mouth hanging open like a fish. If I could have avoided this, if there were anyone else I could ask, I would have, but my brother is right, in this I need someone with the kind of power our father wields.
“What did you just say?” he asks, a knifelike edge to his voice.
There is a delicate balance to this, the art of giving away enough to convince him to intervene, but not so much that he will lock me away in a convent somewhere. “My friend is being held in the city. No trial, no charges.” It’s a struggle, but I fight to keep any emotion from my voice, to stick to a dry recitation of the facts. My father will not be swayed by sentiment, and in this case, I fear any affection I show for Pablo will condemn him rather than save him. “He’s innocent,” I add hastily.
The lie slips out with far too much ease.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
“He’s a lawyer, a good man. From a good family.” I swallow. “Please.”
My father blinks, momentarily in a stupor. “You want me to do what?”
“They will kill him. They’re probably already torturing him. I thought perhaps—” A tremor racks my body. “I thought you could use some of your connections to see if he could be released.”
“How can you ask me this?” my father sputters.
I reach now for some thread of courage I didn’t know I possessed, the same courage I admire in those around me—my brother, Pablo, Beatriz.
“Because it’s the right thing to do. Because he’s a good man who has been put in an untenable position. He hasn’t done anything wrong. You know what’s happening in Cuba, how paranoid Batista is. You raised us to know right from wrong. What Batista is doing is wrong.”
“Not you, too.” A wealth of sorrow fills my father’s voice.
My breath hitches.
He’s silent for far too long. When he does finally speak, I am surprised by the fear flickering in his eyes, stamped all over his face. We never talk of Alejandro, but now I see a glimpse of the weight of my father’s loss.
My parents have always loomed larger than life—my mother so glamorous and elegant, my father exuding power and authority. He looks smaller sitting behind his desk, as though recent events have overwhelmed and diminished him. It is a terrifying thing to see fear in your parents’ eyes.
“What is your role in this, Elisa? Are you involved with the rebels? Is this your brother’s doing?” He whispers the question as though the walls have ears. Perhaps they do these days in Havana.
“No. Not at all.” I force a smile, praying he believes me. “He’s just a friend. Really more of a friend of a friend. Nothing more. I have nothing to do with the rebels.”
“Is this some boyfriend of yours?” His face reddens, his expression turning thunderous.
“No, r-really, just a friend. Someone who was caught up in something.�
�� My voice shakes as I tell my father his name, as I shatter the secret I’ve kept for so long. “He has friends from the university, and their activities have drawn Batista’s notice. He hasn’t done anything wrong.”
My father studies me quietly, and when I think all hope is lost, he sighs. “You need to be careful. I am not oblivious to the goings-on in this house—your sister’s relationship with that boy Alberto, or Beatriz—” His voice trails off. “Batista is under a great deal of pressure right now. He had hoped the election would satisfy the people, but it has not.”
“Because the people know it was little more than a sham,” I mutter.
My father’s gaze sharpens, his hand hitting the desk with a loud rap. “Do not think that because we live like this, you are exempt from Batista’s gaze. You are correct. He is afraid, and a man who fears his people is a dangerous one indeed.”
“How can you—”
“Support him? Please. Spare me the youthful condemnation. How do you think I keep this family safe? Do not come for my help and then cast stones at me for the manner in which I am able to deliver it. The rebels abhor abuses of power, but do not presume that they wouldn’t do the exact same thing as Batista if given the chance.”
He removes his glasses, rubbing his face, his shoulders hunched over, as though he is tired of this conversation, tired of Batista and Cuban politics.
“I will make a few calls,” he says after a pause, “but I cannot offer any promises. If I do this, though, you will make me one—whatever exists between you and this boy, you will stop it. Immediately. I have a duty to protect your mother, your sisters, and I will not shield you if your actions endanger this family. You will not see this boy again. You will not do anything to bring us shame, to attract Batista’s ire—am I understood? If you do, you will no longer be my daughter.”
I clear my throat, pushing past the unshed tears, the fear, the panic, the shame.
“Yes, sir.”
I’m dismissed with a curt nod and a clipped, “You may go now.”
My legs shake, a prayer running through my mind as I walk to the door.
Next Year in Havana Page 15