21 DECEMBER 1960

The joy buzzing through the school on their last day of class before the Christmas break did nothing to cheer Victoria. Rather it was a reminder that there would be no joy this year. They should have been back home by now; they should be packing up the cars to spend the entire Christmas break at la finca.

Instead they were still stuck here, in this miserable country that didn’t feel like the land of the free. Try as it might, it could never replace what she had left behind. And whom.

Papi now said they’d be here until at least Kennedy’s inauguration; nothing would happen now with the holidays, and Eisenhower wouldn’t have time for last-minute actions before he left office. So yet another month here. The prospect that they would at least be home in time for carnaval in February didn’t make it more bearable.

Between the delayed post and Jackie’s censored letters (they’d received only two so far), it was impossible to know if her family was even safe. Oh, how Victoria hated not knowing! She tried to console herself that if something had happened, she’d have heard about it. The Cuban Gossip Network, which seemed to have gained strength in exile, always knew everyone’s business, often before it happened. The thought offered minimal comfort.

First we’re celebratign Christmas Eve wiht my manmans’ family. Tehn Dads’ family are comign down from Georgia for Christmas Day.

Victoria read Phil’s holiday accounts while absently typing Great. Hopefully the sarcasm wasn’t evident. She also didn’t have the energy to correct Phil’s spelling, punctuation, and grammar. It had never made sense to her that “family” was singular, in both English and Spanish. You didn’t have a family if you were alone.

That sounds like fun, Victoria typed. She desperately wanted to add wish I could join you as a not-so-subtle way to invite herself to his family celebrations. After all, weren’t they possibly distantly related?

Except inviting oneself wasn’t proper. And she couldn’t abandon what family she did have here.

“Just warning you, I’m in a bad mood,” Victoria grumbled to Katya upon entering the home economics kitchen. She dropped her elbows onto the counter and rested her chin on her hands before letting out a huge sigh.

“I want to go home. I miss my family. I miss my grandmother, and aunt, and cousin, and other cousins too. I miss my pony and my cat and my grandfather’s farm. And all the food I can eat and don’t have to cook.” Victoria squeezed her eyes shut. If she continued, she’d just burst into frustrated tears. “I don’t belong here. I don’t want to belong here.”

Katya rested her hand on Victoria’s shoulder for a second and then quickly removed it at the sound of Rebecca’s snooty, booming voice entering the room. Now was definitely not the time to sob her sorrows. Victoria inhaled deeply, opened her eyes, and straightened up. Pa’lante and exhale. She had no choice but to keep on going. At least until the end of the school day.

“Hello, girls,” Miss Jiménez said in a voice that was annoyingly chipper for Victoria’s mood. “Seeing it’s our last class of the year, I thought you might like to make some holiday cookies.”

High-pitched squeals emitted throughout the class. Victoria cringed at the shrillness, bringing a hand to her ear. At least Katya next to her had remained quiet.

Miss Jiménez continued. “I’ve got three recipes on the board for you to choose from, but feel free to alter them or use your own recipes. As always, you’ll be graded on preparation, presentation, and palatability. Work in your pairs or individually.”

Victoria read through the recipe selection: sugar cookies, gingerbread, or snowballs. She didn’t know what any of them were. Cuba didn’t have Christmas cookies. Instead, they would have three different kinds of turrón nougat, imported from Spain, made with egg whites, honey, and almonds. Not this year.

When she turned to suggest they make gingerbread together, Katya already seemed to be working on her own cookie recipe from memory. Victoria supposed she couldn’t blame her partner for wanting to stick with her traditions. If anything, Katya understood what it was like being far away from home during the holidays.

Still, it didn’t help her mood to have to make Christmas cookies alone.

“Do you still have family in Russia?” Victoria asked as she measured out the dry ingredients. She refused to take her grievances out on kind Katya.

Nod.

“You must miss them.”

Nod again.

Victoria mixed the spices into the flour, appreciating how the specks added color and texture to the whiteness. “I don’t know how you do it. I miss my family more than anything.”

Katya opened her mouth to respond, but Rebecca next to them beat her to it. “The Reds don’t know what feelings are. I don’t know how anyone could miss, much less love, a Communist.”

“I beg your pardon,” Victoria snapped back. “I was not talking to you.”

Rebecca pressed her lips together, gave an exaggerated eye roll, and returned to her recipe. But only because Miss Jiménez had strolled over to help some other girls nearby.

Lower than her normally loud Cuban vocal cords knew how to go, Victoria apologized to Katya. “I’m sorry for what she said to you.”

Katya shrugged as if to say it wasn’t Victoria’s fault. Then, when she was sure no one else was looking, Katya narrowed her eyes and stuck her tongue out at Rebecca. Victoria stifled a giggle.

Victoria added the creamed butter, molasses, milk, and egg to the dry ingredients to form a sticky brown ball of gloriously scented dough. The instructions said she could either drop spoonfuls onto a cookie sheet or let the dough firm up for a few minutes in the freezer and then roll it out and cut it into shapes. To the freezer the dough went. The idea of using cookie cutters for the first time in her life lifted her dull spirits.

Or maybe it was the pinched sample of dough that made its way into her mouth—the spices mixed with the richness of the molasses tickled her taste buds in a way that made the whole miserable day seem like something that had happened to someone else. And they said ambrosia was the food of the gods.

She tidied up her mess and washed the measuring cup and utensils before returning to Katya’s side.

“Do you need any help?”

But instead of handing her a task, Katya offered her a morsel of her own cookie dough. Victoria’s eyes closed as she savored it. Instead of the ginger and cinnamon she had used, Katya’s spices seemed more complex, with undertones of… cardamom and anise? And sweetened with honey so there was no molasses aftertaste. Different from hers, but just as tasty.

“I’m surprised you of all people trust the little Russki.”

Victoria’s eyes snapped open. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Rebecca wiped powdered sugar from her workspace into a small mound, then flattened it like a bug with her finger. “Well, you’re Cuban, aren’t you? Didn’t you have to flee because the Soviets are taking over?”

That wasn’t exactly the case. Fidel had an alliance with the Soviets because he and their dictator, Nikita Khrushchev, were both Communists, but it was mostly Fidel’s rise to power that had made her family have to leave. Victoria lifted her chin as Mami would do to talk down to Rebecca. “I can assure you, Katya herself had nothing to do with me leaving Cuba.”

“But what about her father and her other Russki relatives?” Rebecca sneered. “Or maybe you’re a Communist yourself, here to spy on us.”

The cookie sheet Victoria had been greasing dropped to the floor in a loud clatter. “How dare you!”

“Settle down, girls. There’s no arguing in my kitchen,” Miss Jiménez warned from the other side of the room, having only heard Victoria’s outburst. But as soon as the teacher’s attention returned to a girl crying because the points kept breaking off her star cookies, Rebecca continued like a persistent bicho.

“You Cubans are all the same. Just lounging on the beach in your hammocks, letting the Communist Fidel Castro take over your poor, second-rate island,” Rebecca taunted in a low voice. “And now you’re here, using up all of our resources and taking away our jobs and expecting good Americans to help you out.”

“I beg your pardon!” Victoria folded her arms across her apron. From where was Rebecca getting her information? Victoria didn’t even know where to begin her defense. Peripherally, Katya shook her head, but Victoria ignored her. With every word, her voice became louder. “Cuba is not a poor, second-rate country, and we are not lazy people!”

“Victoria, that’s enough,” Miss Jiménez warned her, but Victoria had no ears for anyone. She had to set the record straight. She had to defend her home the only way she knew how: by being Cuban, loud and honest.

“Fidel, like all Communists, appealed to the working man, promising equality and opportunity, and the demolishment of the middle and upper classes.” Victoria could feel everyone’s eyes on her, but she was past caring if the whole school heard her. “We did not let him take over, and we definitely didn’t want to be forced to come to this un—”

Miss Jiménez planted herself between the two girls and pointed to the door. “Victoria, you may escort yourself to the principal’s office immediately.”

Fine. Just peachy. She pulled at the apron strings only to find them knotted behind her back. Fine. She didn’t have to remove it. She, a proper young lady, who had never before gotten into trouble. She didn’t care about Christmas cookies anyway. Didn’t care about this school. Didn’t care—

“Miss, it wasn’t her fault.” The low, soft tones from Katya hit a register that caused the whole class to turn and look at her. Her moment of bravado gone, Katya ducked her red face and backed away from the class’s intense glares.

“Nyet, Russki, nyet.” Rebecca sneered at Katya, pointing her finger at her as if Katya had acted like a misbehaving child.

“Rebecca!” Miss Jiménez gasped. “You will not be disrespectful to your classmate.”

“Katya and I have just as much right to be here as you do.” Victoria gripped her friend’s hand.

Instead of showing remorse, Rebecca’s expression turned to innocence. “As a concerned American, I’m just doing my patriotic duty. I don’t feel safe having a Russki here. In fact, both of them should just go.”

“That’s quite enough, Rebecca. You may join Victoria to see the principal.”

Katya squeezed Victoria’s hand, providing comfort and support Victoria hadn’t felt in a long time. And Katya had stood up for her at the cost of being harassed herself. She couldn’t let her friend down. With a deep breath and forced calm tone, Victoria tried a new tactic.

“Forgive me, Rebecca and Miss Jiménez.” If there was anything years of Catholic school had taught her, it was how to make a good confession. “I spoke out of line and behaved in a most uncivilized manner. I should not have taken my bad day out on you or the rest of the class. May I please stay?”

Miss Jiménez pursed her lips and glanced at the clock to calculate the time the interruption had taken. None of their cookies had even made it into the oven yet.

“Thank you, Victoria. I accept your apology, and yes, you may stay. Rebecca, do you have something to say, or are you going to the principal’s office?”

Rebecca gasped, seemed to want to argue her innocence, but then sighed. “Sorry, Miss Jiménez, for disrupting your class.”

“Am I the only one who deserves the apology?” Miss Jiménez raised her eyebrows.

Again Rebecca seemed on the verge of arguing before changing her mind. “Sorry, Victoria. Sorry, Katya.”

“Right,” Miss Jiménez clapped her hands. “Preheat the ovens, girls, and hopefully everyone will have time to bake a small batch of cookies before the bell. Snap to it.”

Without time to roll out the dough and use the desired cookie cutters (Victoria had had her eye on the reindeer; if she’d trimmed the antlers, they would look like horses), Victoria spoon-dropped two cookies onto the greased baking sheet. While they baked, she wrapped the rest of the dough in wax paper to take home. Ten minutes later she pulled the tray out of the oven, where her cookies had grown into perfectly round medallions that smelled like heaven.

She served Miss Jiménez the prettiest, most uniform cookie just as the bell rang. On a paper towel, she handed Katya hers. In turn, Katya handed her four of her spice cookies. Somehow, Katya had found the time to bake a whole tray.

“It’s my babushka’s recipe,” Katya whispered, even though Rebecca had hightailed it the moment the bell rang. “My grandmother who’s still in Russia.”

Victoria pressed the still-warm cookies against her heart and gave Katya a kiss of thanks on the cheek as she would have done for Jackie or one of her classmates in Cuba. “Just you wait. Someday, we’ll both be reunited with our families.”