chapter nineteen
Marisol
The next morning, I’m equal parts nerves and anticipation. We’re headed to Santa Clara today, and I can’t wait to meet Magda. Earlier as we lingered over coffee in the hotel room—our hands linked, Luis’s lips brushing against mine, his free arm wrapped around my waist—I called to let Magda know we were coming, a lump forming in my throat at the emotion in her voice. I can’t believe I’ll finally meet her.
I follow Luis outside to his car, waiting while he holds the door open for me, as he walks to the driver side, uncoiling his long frame into the front seat. The engine comes to life in a series of fits and starts, a few whispered prayers from Luis, the caress of his fingers against the dashboard.
“Are we going to be okay to get to Santa Clara?”
He grins and shrugs. “We’ll find out.”
After a few words for the Virgin Mary the car settles into a rhythm, the engine plugging along as we pull out onto the road.
I struggle to push aside my worry over our future. Over the risks Luis is taking with his writing. The danger I’ve brought into his life.
“So what answers are we looking for here?” he asks, our bodies tucked against each other.
One night has changed so much—the brush of skin against skin, the mingling of breaths, has rearranged space and time. Our hands are linked, resting against the convertible’s worn leather seat, our bodies as close as the car’s interior will allow. It’s the most natural thing in the world now to accentuate our drive with casual touches—his hand running through my hair, my head on his shoulder, our legs against each other.
“I don’t know,” I answer. “I’m hoping my grandmother trusted Magda, confided in her. And I’m excited to see Santa Clara. He fought there. At least, I think he did. His last letter mentioned he was joining Che.”
“In the Battle of Santa Clara?” Luis asks, his tone laced with interest, the history professor back in full force.
“Yes. What do you know about it?”
“It’s romanticized and vaunted as the turning point of the revolution. Batista had three thousand men in Santa Clara. They had tanks, machine guns, mortars. There were three hundred rebels.”
And my grandmother’s love was one of them.
“By all accounts, the rebels should have been annihilated. They were outgunned, outmanned. Batista knew the importance of defeating the rebels once and for all, and this was supposed to be his chance. Instead, it became his Waterloo.”
“What happened?”
“In the end, it wasn’t the guns that decided the victory, but rather the spirit of the men. At least, that’s what the history books say.” Luis shrugs. “The Cuban military was tired. They’d been fighting their own citizens in skirmishes for a very long time. And it was difficult to ignore the abuses of Batista’s regime. The rebels simply wanted it more. And the locals helped the rebel forces.”
“Did anyone die?”
“Yes—although that is disputed. There were injuries and some deaths, but as with so much involving the government, the truth has been obfuscated. Truth in Cuba is constantly being redefined so much so that it is now meaningless.”
“Are there sites to see surrounding the Battle of Santa Clara?”
Maybe I’ll include it in my completely neglected travel article.
“You can visit the train tracks where the battle took place, the box carriages and bulldozer that derailed the train. Santa Clara is a shrine to Che. There’s a museum in the city, and he’s buried in a mausoleum under a giant bronze statue of himself. The last, most important battle of the Cuban Revolution, and he was the one to lead it, not Fidel.”
“That had to burn.”
Luis laughs. “Yes, I imagine it did. You can see why there’s so much speculation about rancor between the two, concerns that Che’s legacy would overshadow the bearded one’s, suspicion that Fidel played a role in his death in Bolivia.”
“I would like to see it, if we can. Visit the town, get a feel for the place where they fought.”
“This isn’t just about finding the perfect resting place for your grandmother, is it? You’re looking for something for yourself, too,” Luis says, glancing at me again.
“I guess I am.” I stare at the countryside surrounding us. “I came here to learn about my family’s history, to find the perfect place to spread my grandmother’s ashes, but now I’m more confused than ever. When my plane touched down, I thought I’d come home. I’m as Cuban as I am American, as I am Spanish, and yet, until now I’d never been here. I don’t have a tangible connection to this place; my grandmother, my great-aunts kept Cuba alive for me, and now my grandmother’s gone, her sister Isabel deceased, my remaining great-aunts growing older, and my sense of being Cuban is slipping through my fingers.
“Yes, there’s a strong Cuban community in South Florida, and I speak Spanish, and ring in the New Year with grapes and a bucket of water, and eat lechon asado, and listen to Celia Cruz, but there’s an aimlessness to it all. I’m not grounded in anything; my feet didn’t touch Cuban soil until I was thirty-one years old. And now that I’m here?
“You’ve all moved on. There’s a modern Cuba now with a rich history, and emerging cultures, and experiences. And I’m not part of that. None of my family are. We left, and we haven’t been able to return, and we’re stuck in stasis in the United States. Always waiting, always hoping, wondering, praying that we would wake up and see a headline on the news that Fidel had died, that the government has admitted this was a terrible mistake, that things will go back to the way they were. As exiles, that hope is embedded in the very essence of our soul, taught from birth—
“Next year in Havana—
“It’s the toast we never stop saying, because the dream of it never comes true. And if it does one day, what then? There are Russians in the home my ancestors built. What will we return to? Is it even our country anymore, or did we give it up when we left? I’m trying to understand where I fit in all of this.”
I take a deep breath, the pressure building in my chest.
“I walk down these streets, and I look out to the sea, and I want to feel as though I belong here, but I’m a visitor here, a guest in my own country.”
Luis takes my hand.
“Then you know what it means to be Cuban,” he says. “We always reach for something beyond our grasp.”
We make good time, arriving in Santa Clara an hour before Magda expects us. We head first to the Tren Blindado—the monument to the turning point in the Battle of Santa Clara when Che and some of his rebel forces derailed the armored train containing reinforcements for Batista’s forces, ultimately defeating them.
“There were two major efforts in the Battle of Santa Clara,” Luis explains. “The battle led by Che to take the train involved a small group of his men. The larger contingent fought near Capiro’s Hill.”
We pay the entry fee and take a quick tour. I snap a few pictures—the infamous yellow bulldozer that derailed the train, the railroad cars lying around like broken dolls.
I try to envision the man from my grandmother’s letters here, holding the mortar in his hands that’s now affixed to the wall, contained in a glass case. Did he think of my grandmother as he fought? Did he know how much this battle would determine Cuba’s future?
We bypass the museum and mausoleum where Che is buried, although his statue is impossible to miss, looking down at us, a colossus in bronze.
We make our way to the Loma del Capiro, the infamous hill where the second prong of the battle took place. It has the added advantage of looking down over the city, providing a panoramic sweep of Santa Clara.
Two flags fly—the Cuban flag and the flag of Fidel’s 26th of July Movement. Below them lies the city where the revolution took place—
It looks like it’s been forgotten and neglected, the buildings in a state of disrepair.
Tourists mill around, snapping pictures and chatting in different languages.
“The events here happened almost sixty years ago, and yet, it feels so personal,” I murmur to Luis, ducking my head to avoid the crowd.
I look into his eyes, searching there, trying to read the emotions in his gaze. He’s so guarded at times, adept at hiding what he thinks and feels. I suppose in a country like this, that shield is a necessity—the difference between life and death. But there are hints—no matter how good he is, his feelings lingering beneath the surface, the passion and conviction in his voice unmistakable.
He yearns for a different Cuba, too.
Magda Villarreal lives in a small apartment near the Parque Leoncio Vidal. Her home is one of many stacked on top of one another and smashed together in a squat building with a crumbling facade. We climb the stairs to her floor; her living conditions are a stark contrast to the Rodriguez home in Miramar.
It’s loud, even in the hallway, the walls offering little privacy between residents. There’s a faint odor in the air, damp lingering in the floor, ceiling, and walls. Trash litters the stairwell. The railing is cracked and broken in places, the steps chipped, tile chunks missing.
“Is it—”
“Like this in most Cuban apartments?” Luis finishes, his tone grim, his voice low.
I nod.
“It’s even worse. By Cuban standards this isn’t bad at all.”
Even in a country where everyone is supposed to be equal, there are clear disparities between those who have little and those who have less.
Luis knocks on the door to Magda’s apartment, and we wait, the sounds of her footfalls padding across the floor growing louder and louder until they stop. The door swings open, and a short woman with dark skin and dark hair sprinkled with gray greets us on the other side.
I’ve never seen pictures of her, none remain, but there’s that same sense of recognition I had when I saw Ana Rodriguez for the first time.
Magda’s eyes well with tears.
“Elisa’s little girl, come to see me.”
Her hand shakes as she takes mine, her frail fingers gripping me, a tremor in her grasp, the bracelets on her bony wrist clanging together.
“I never thought I’d see any of them again, and now you’re here.” Her lips curve into a smile. “You have the look of your grandmother.” Her eyes twinkle. “And perhaps a bit of Beatriz.”
I laugh, the sound muffled by the emotions clogging my throat. “I’ve heard that. Thank you so much for inviting us to your home.”
Magda ushers us into the tiny apartment, motioning for us to sit. She chats with Luis for a moment, asking about his grandmother, the affection in her voice obvious. I look around the apartment as they talk; the space is filled with framed photographs of her family and friends. A small table covered in a white cloth sits in a corner, painted figurines atop it. They share the space with a few photographs, a crucifix, rosary, several candles, and a cup filled with what looks to be water.
Despite Castro’s desire to ban religion in Cuba, people have found ways to honor their faith, both in the pews of the Cathedral of Havana and here, with this offering to the Santeria gods and goddesses. It’s a quiet act of defiance, but a powerful one all the same.
Magda excuses herself for a moment, returning with drinks. She settles on the chair opposite us, the fabric fraying at the edges. By looking at her, I never would have guessed she’s as old as she is, and her manner is that of a woman a decade or so younger.
In all the stories my grandmother told me of Cuba, she always spoke of Magda as the woman who raised her, a surrogate mother of sorts, and now I understand that was another thing my grandmother and I shared—our lives were shaped by strong women who raised us as their own.
I answer Magda’s questions about my great-aunts, my grandmother, telling her the story of my grandmother’s ashes. The emotion that snuck up on me before, the grief, is absent in this little room, and instead I am filled with joy talking about my family. I can easily imagine my grandmother next to me, interjecting throughout this conversation, sharing confidences and stories. I hear her in Magda’s voice, see her in Magda’s eyes. That’s the thing about death—even when you think someone is gone, glimpses of them remain in those they loved and left behind.
Luis sits beside me, sipping his espresso, his knee resting against mine, his presence reassuring. An hour passes as we catch up on each other’s lives, and then I ask Magda about the letters.
“I have some questions about my grandmother. Ana thought you might be able to shed some light on them.”
“Of course, what would you like to know?”
“I found a box of my grandmother’s things.” I tell her about the letters. “Did you know about him?”
“Yes.”
I lean forward in my seat.
“Well, I knew some of it,” she clarifies. “Those last days—their last days in Cuba—were heartbreaking for Elisa. The last day I saw her—”
A tear trickles down her cheek.
“What happened?”
Magda sighs. “The family left. It was a terrible day. We weren’t supposed to know, of course. They pretended they were going for a trip. They would do that—your great-grandmother and the girls. Go to Europe or America to shop. They were careful; all it took was the wrong word overheard and repeated to the wrong person. Especially for a family like the Perezes.”
She makes the motion of a beard over her face.
We all know who the bearded one is.
Fidel.
“I knew, though, when I looked in my girls’ faces. Isabel took it the hardest at first. Her fiancé stayed behind. Isabel was never one for talking about her emotions. Eventually her sisters would pry whatever was bothering her out of her and she’d open up to them, but it took time.
“Beatriz was angry,” Magda continues. “She was always fired up about something. Your great-grandfather loved her best; no matter how hard he tried to act like he loved his girls equally, you could tell. She drove him crazy, but he loved her. They got into a fight in his study the night before they left. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but you couldn’t help but overhear—the whole house listened to them carrying on. She didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to give Fidel the satisfaction of winning.”
That sounds like Beatriz.
“Maria was the baby, of course. The girls all tried to shield her as much as they could. Alejandro—”
Her voice breaks off as she makes the sign of the cross over her body.
A lump swells in my throat. I’ve grown so used to my great-uncle’s name evoking that same reaction among his sisters.
“Your grandmother was my favorite,” Magda whispers conspiratorially. “I didn’t have children then; I hadn’t met my husband yet. Elisa was mine as much as she was your great-grandmother’s. In those days, the nannies raised the children. Not like now. I dried Elisa’s tears. Held her when she was in pain. And after what happened with that boy—”
My heart pounds.
“The revolutionary?”
“Yes.”
“Please. What did she tell you about him?”
Magda’s expression darkens. “He was trouble; I knew it from the first moment she mentioned him.”
“Did she tell you his name?”
“No. She never did.”
Disappointment fills me. We’ve come this far in our search only to be back where we started.
“She didn’t want to tell me about him at first, of course, but then she didn’t have much of a choice,” Magda continues. “She was scared, and she needed help with the baby.”
It takes a moment for her words to register, to hear them over the white noise rushing through my ears.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
She blinks. “I assumed that was why you wanted to know about him, because of the baby.”
“What baby?”