My new business was generating handsome profits, but I needed to find a more reliable way to buy the foods Gustavo’s diet required. I knew a man named Arturo who had been a friend of my mother’s and happened to share our last name. He owned a small farm in Güira de Melena (or Guira, as many people called it), a village east of the city. Castro’s nationalization efforts had reduced his farm by two-thirds, but he still had a few animals and enough land to plant fruits and vegetables for himself and his family.
One Saturday morning, I woke up the children very early and told them to get ready for a trip to Arturo’s house. I warned them not to tell anyone where we were going. The children were excited. The six-year-old, Tania, dressed her brother, while I prepared breakfast. I went across the street to Martina’s apartment and asked her to keep an eye on my father.
We took three buses. One left us at the Paradero de la Víbora, a major bus terminal with a large number of routes. From there, we took another bus to Santiago de las Vegas, and from Santiago a last bus to Guira. The children noticed this last bus was covered by a reddish or brick-colored dirt, and a hint of excitement appeared in their faces. This was the color of the soil in the countryside. It was their first time visiting the farm area of Havana. They had always lived in the city, where concrete ruled.
“In Santiago de las Vegas, it rains every day around the same time,” I explained to my children. Gustavo and Lynette smiled and looked at the expansive fields, wide-eyed, while Tania seemed pensive, her eyes lost somewhere in the vastness outside the bus. The red clay dirt, green vegetation, and deep blue skies were breathtaking.
Between each small town rested acres of farmland, some sprinkled with majestic palm trees, most of them queen palms or palmas reales. These trees provided painters and anyone who saw them with inspiration; they contained the soul of the island. In the towns, we could occasionally hear someone play “punto guajiro,” a unique blend of improvised poetry and guitar, from some of the modest huts lining the narrow roads. What a difference from Havana, with its massive amounts of concrete and its salsa music!
After a couple of hours, we arrived in Guira. When we got off the bus, my five-year-old, Lynette, wiped red dirt from her shoes and said she was thirsty. I told her she needed to wait. Moments later, Tania and Gustavo said they had to use the restroom. I asked them to be patient. We walked on the narrow sidewalk and I looked at the small houses along the road. Many had tiny porches with concrete floors, often with the windows and doors open, and from some, punto guajiro, the sound of the countryside, poured out into the streets. Down the street, we noticed a framboyán tree, tall and proud with orange flowers in full bloom. Tania stared at the tree and asked me what it was called. She had seen a similar one when she stood on our front porch in Santos Suarez. Sometimes she sat in a rocking chair on the porch when the tree was in full bloom, a notebook on her lap and a pen in her hand, writing her stories as if inspired by the calming allure of its beauty. And it was indeed beautiful, as if a painter had painted it. Everything around it seemed lackluster in comparison.
The girls enjoyed the change of scenery, but the boy was restless. After three blocks walking under a fierce sun, his face turned red and sweat dripped down his thin neck. A blue 1950s Chevrolet drove by, lifting red dirt from the road, and he coughed a little.
“Can you hold me, Mamá? I’m tired and thirsty,” he said, his shoulders drooping, his earlier excitement gone.
“Let’s stop at the next house and ask for some water. Agree?” I said. Gustavo nodded.
We entered the porch of one of the small houses, and I said “hello” from the wide-open door. A minute later, a pleasant elderly woman wearing a white cotton nightgown, her hair up in plastic rollers, appeared.
“Good morning,” the woman said with a welcoming smile.
“Good morning,” I replied. “I’m sorry to bother you, comrade. We live in Santo Suarez, in the city. The trip was very long and the children are thirsty. Would you mind giving them some water?”
“Of course not,” she said, “please come in. Make yourselves comfortable.”
The country charm of the stranger made me feel as if I were visiting a relative. The woman disappeared toward the back of the house, leaving us in her cozy and simple living room, which consisted of a small floral sofa, a couple of wooden chairs, and a handmade wooden table. The house smelled like fresh coffee and jasmine. When the friendly woman returned, she held two cold glasses of water.
“I’ll go back for more,” she said after handing me the sparkling glasses.
“No, this is enough. We’ll share. Thank you for your kindness,” I said.
She once again offered to bring more water, but I said we had more than enough. I watched my children drink it fast and leave some on the bottom of one of the glasses for me. Tania handed me the glass with guilty eyes, as if the amount of water they had left me was not enough. I smiled at her, drank it, and thanked the woman again. She placed the empty glasses on the table.
“So, do you have family here?” she asked.
“You could say so,” I said.
Gustavo was sitting on the sofa next to me, Tania on my other side and Lynette next to her. He gently kicked me to remind me he needed to use the bathroom, but I was waiting for the right time to ask. I briefly glanced at him and nodded to acknowledge I remembered.
“Well,” said the woman, “if you are coming for food, be careful. I see guards checking bags at the bus station every day. If you have a relative who lives here, it’s easier to justify your visit. By the way, there’s a restriction in the number of pounds you can take back. I want to say you can only carry twenty-five pounds. I may be wrong.”
I nervously looked at the wrinkled woman and wondered how she knew the purpose of my visit.
“Don’t worry. I understand,” the woman reassured me. She said sometimes other people like me came to Guira to do business with the farmers, but I had nothing to worry about. My secret was safe with her.
Gustavo, visibly bored by the conversation, could no longer wait and asked to use the restroom. I apologized for his behavior, but the woman smiled and said she understood; she had grandchildren of her own. She pointed to where the bathroom was located, and he ran on tiptoe towards it. I was talking to the woman when I heard a flush and the slosh of water refilling the empty tank.
He returned from the bathroom with a smile on his face. Then my daughters and I each took our turn. Everything was impeccably clean. The bathroom, like the house, smelled like fresh jasmine. At last, some relief. Before we left, I thanked the woman for her hospitality, and we continued our journey toward Arturo’s farm.
When we were at the end of the town, we walked down a long, narrow path lined with palm trees and tropical vegetation. I had to carry Gustavo for short intervals because he insisted his legs hurt too much. At the end of the road, I noticed a well-kept old bungalow. I knocked on the door and was greeted by Arturo’s round, smiling face.
“Laura, it’s you,” he said, with the warmth of a father who had not seen his family for a while. “Your children are here too! María Santísima! They’re so big. Come in. Let me tell my wife you’re here. Make yourselves comfortable.”
Arturo was probably in his early sixties. He was short and plump, with a reddish face from working on the farm and thin, snow-white hair. He walked past the living room toward the back of the house. As he did, he announced, “Marcia, you won’t believe who’s here!”
I looked around the small living room when he disappeared. Arturo’s and Marcia’s black-and-white wedding picture was placed prominently above the floral print sofa. A bouquet of fresh flowers in a clear glass vase adorned a honey-colored wood coffee table. Two wooden rocking chairs sat directly across from the sofa.
I could hear the steps of Arturo and his wife getting louder as they approached the living room. She opened her arms and embraced me as she said, “Oye, chica. I can’t believe it. Are these your children?”
I nodded and introduced her to each of the children. She looked at them, and they reciprocated with curious gazes. She was around Arturo’s age, with white, wavy, shoulder-length hair and glasses. She wore a modest, light blue dress and smelled like she had been chopping onions.
“They’re so big,” she said.
“What about Rio? Did he come with you?” Arturo asked.
I realized he did not know. My smile disappeared. I looked down at the blue cement floor.
“What happened?” Marcia asked as she sat on a rocking chair, Arturo on the rocking chair next to hers, and signaled me to sit down.
I sat on the sofa, Tania on my right and Lynette and Gustavo on my left, took a deep breath, and told them about Rio’s departure, the loss of my mother, and the government’s rejection of my petition to leave Cuba. Gustavo yawned and started to doze off while I spoke. Lynette kicked him gently.
“I’m sorry, Laura. Your mother was a good friend,” said Marcia. To change the topic, she added: “You all must be very tired and hungry after such a long trip. Let me make you something to eat.”
I told her not to bother, but she insisted. She did not receive many visitors and was glad to cook for the children. It had been years since the last time my mother and I had visited them. They knew about my marriage to Rio, and about the children, from letters my mother had written.
She asked me to follow her into the kitchen so I could tell her about the rest of the family while she cooked.
“Children,” Arturo said ceremoniously, a big smile on his face. “How would you like to eat some mamey?”
“Arturo, they need to eat first,” Marcia protested.
“Come on, Marcia,” said Arturo, “let them enjoy themselves. It will probably be the first time they see a mamey.” Arturo was like a grandfather with new grandkids. She shook her head in reluctant acceptance.
“It’s true; they’ve never seen one,” I said. “Girls, go with Arturo. Gustavo, you stay with me. You can’t eat raw fruit,” I said.
Arturo dashed out of the house, followed by the girls, and Marcia and I went into the kitchen with Gustavo. Arturo led the girls to a barn situated behind the house. He proudly showed the girls a brownish, football-shaped fruit with rough skin.
“You know what this is?” he asked.
The girls shook their heads simultaneously.
“It’s a mamey. Look how beautiful it is. It is reddish-orange inside. You want to see it?”
“Yes,” Tania said, turning her head shyly.
Arturo took a large knife he kept on top of a long wooden counter and cut a slice. Inside, the fruit was fleshy, with a bright orange-red color and the consistency of a mango. He removed the hard, brown skin and gave Tania the first piece. Tania later told me it was the tastiest fruit she had ever eaten, and that she could not wait to have the chance to eat it again. When Lynette saw her sister’s expression, she asked for some too. Tania reprimanded her for asking. Arturo smiled and cut a slice for Lynette. She anxiously devoured the fruit. The girls were starving.
After the girls ate a couple of slices of mamey each, Arturo gave them a tour of his farm. It was not long before the girls’ shyness had evaporated, and they happily chased the chickens around the yard. Following over thirty minutes of curious exploration, Arturo and the girls returned to the house.
“It’s about time,” Marcia said when they walked in. “The food is ready. Look how dirty you are. Go wash your hands.”
They obeyed and joined us at a handmade wooden table in a small dining room adjacent to the living room. Marcia had made ajiaco, a thick soup made with various potatoes, yucca, boniato (Spanish sweet potato), and beef. She accompanied the ajiaco with rice and plantains. The food smelled delicious! The modest setting and the hospitality of Arturo and his wife made the children and me feel like we were at home.
Marcia was a great cook. The girls ate the delightful meal quicker than they had ever eaten, as if they had not tasted any food for days. Tania said the food in the country was much better than in the city. This was surprising. Unlike her sister, who liked to eat and was much healthier, Tania had a poor appetite and was very thin. It pleased me that she liked this food. She was tired of the rice-and-green-pea standard diet of Havana.
“Arturo, I want to make you a deal,” I said after I finished my plate. “There are things I can buy in the city and bring to you in exchange for vegetables for the children. As you know, the ration cards don’t provide much food, and Gustavo’s allergies are always giving him stomach problems.”
“You don’t need to give me anything, Laura. You can come here any time, and I will give you what you need. Por favor, chica,” Arturo protested.
“I insist, Arturo,” I said. “Otherwise, I will not be able to accept anything from you.”
Arturo shook his head. “Fine, Laura. You are hard-headed like your mother.”
At my insistence, Marcia gave me a list of products that were scarce in the country. Arturo then led me to the barn, where he filled two large sacks with plantains, yucca, red beans, and sweet potatoes. I gave him some money for the vegetables, and Arturo reluctantly accepted it.
“Laura, be careful out there,” he said. “I don’t want you to get in trouble. If a policeman stops you and insists you tell him where you got the food, tell him you have relatives in Guira who are helping raise your children. If you are pressured, as a last resort you may say you are my niece. We share the same last name, so no one will question it. Don’t volunteer any information. Don’t forget.” Arturo spoke like a father giving advice to a daughter.
“I won’t. Thank you for everything, Arturo. If you and your family are ever in the city, don’t forget to stop by. You can stay at my house whenever you like.” I smiled, then glanced at my watch. “Oh, it’s late. I better go now. We have a long walk to the bus station and with the children and the bags, it won’t be easy.”
“Laura, I’d offer to go with you. . .”
“Don’t worry. There is no need. I’ll handle it. I’m getting used to being alone.” I remembered Rio again with melancholy.
“I don’t know what to say, Laura. Please know our home is always open for you and your children.”
I hugged Arturo like I would a father or a dear uncle. He had aged since the last time I saw him. He had seen Berta and me grow during my parents’ frequent visits to Guira. It saddened him that he and his wife were never fortunate enough to have children of their own.
“I better go get my little devils. Marcia must be losing her mind with Gustavo running inside the house.”
Arturo picked up the two bags and carried them inside the house, while I followed him. I thanked them. Marcia kissed the children and me. Arturo embraced each of the children and then me.
“Let me at least carry the bags to the entrance of the farm,” Arturo offered.
I said it wasn’t necessary, but Arturo insisted, and I was relieved. We said goodbye to Arturo again when we arrived to the entrance of the farm, and I thanked him for carrying the bags.
I had not walked far when I realized I would not be able to carry the bags to the bus stop without some help. They were too heavy. That, and the fact that they were over the maximum weight, gave me an idea. I told the girls to carry the lightest of the bags between the two of them. Lynette was heavier and much stronger than her sister and was happy to help. Tania helped out of her sense of obligation to the family. I explained to the girls that they would need to walk about fifty meters behind me. I gave them instructions in case they were stopped by police.
Arturo had told me the regulations allowed those with relatives to ride the bus with a maximum of twenty-five pounds of farm goods, which confirmed what the woman who had given us water earlier that day had told me. Between the two bags, we had a total of approximately fifty pounds. If we divided the load, we might run a smaller chance of having the food confiscated by the police.
We arrived at the bus stop in two separate groups, minutes apart from each other. A policeman dressed in blue was checking the bags of people boarding the bus. I noticed Tania’s nervousness. We looked at each other. She needed to follow my instructions and everything would be fine. In a low tone of voice, Tania reminded Lynette they needed to act as if they were not related to me.
The policeman approached me first.
“What do you have there?” he asked. Without awaiting my response, he intrusively opened my bag.
“My son is sick and I’m bringing some food back to the city for him,” I said nervously.
He looked at me suspiciously. He then used a hand scale to weigh the food.
“Do you have relatives here?” he asked.
“Yes, my cousin lives here.” I tried to remain calm.
“Fine, you can get on the bus.”
I did not know what to do. I did not want to get on the bus without all my children, but I did not want the food to be confiscated either. I moved slowly toward the bus. My daughters tried to follow me, but the policeman stopped them.
“Where are your parents?” he asked.
Unprepared to answer this question, Tania froze. She looked at me with fear in her eyes.
“They’re my children.” I declared feeling defeated. I would now be forced to leave one of the bags. I breathed deeply as I attempted one more strategy.
“Comrade, please. I’m raising my three children by myself. I can’t work because I have a sick father at home. My uncle gave me enough food, so I wouldn’t have to come to Guira so many times. We had to take three buses to get here, and it’s very difficult with three children. . .” The policeman looked at me with doubt in his eyes, and I thought I had lost my battle.
“Do you know we have a restriction on how much you can take on the bus?” the man said authoritatively. I noticed the growing line of people behind us. I felt embarrassed that I was disrupting the flow of the line and was being scolded publicly.
“Sorry, I didn’t,” I lied.
The man hesitated for a moment. Then Gustavo pulled him by the hand.
“My stomach and my feet hurt. Can I get on the bus?” he said innocently.
I smiled at my son. “I’m sorry. He’s not used to walking so much. Well, comrade? Can we get on the bus?” I asked.
The man reflected for a moment.
“Fine, get on, and don’t forget. Next time, anything in excess of twenty-five pounds will be confiscated!” he said firmly.
“Thank you so much. Hurry up, children.”
A few minutes after we sat on the bus, it finally departed. I felt violated. My dignity had been crushed, and my emotions changed rapidly from humiliation to anger as I stared into the nothingness beyond the green-and-red fields of the countryside. Gustavo was sitting next to me, his little face red from the sun. I caressed his brown hair, and his eyes began to close slowly. He tried to stay awake, but lost the battle. He leaned on my shoulder and fell asleep. My anger lingered for a while, but once we left the countryside and the concrete city began to appear, it slowly dissipated. Resignation set in as I peeked inside the sacks full of food for my family. At least, we had enough to eat for the next couple of weeks.
The woman in charge of the CDRs, Carmen, came to my house one day and told me that, from that day forward, I could use her telephone. I no longer needed to make trips to the telephone company every time I had to speak to Rio. We did not have a telephone of our own because this was a luxury only a few could afford. While I appreciated her kindness, I realized this was a way for her to monitor my conversations. Rio called us about once a month. The girls saved their school papers and read them to their father. They sang and recited poems during long conversations from our neighbor’s telephone. The way Tania smiled and told her father how much she loved him when she talked to him, and shrugged when I asked her if she loved me, made me realize how much my attempted suicide had affected her. It was almost as if she was afraid to get too close to me for fear of losing me too.
Tania was in the first grade when I hired a piano professor in the neighborhood to teach her how to play. I wanted Lynette to learn as well, but after a few lessons, she was bored. The professor told me not to waste my money. The piano professor lived three blocks away from our house. He was thin, young, with pale white skin and black hair. He was a gentle man who had style and sophistication. Some people in the neighborhood gossiped about his sexual orientation, but that was not my business. He was a fantastic pianist who taught my daughter how to sit properly and play like a professional.
“Tania, back straight, head up, uncross your legs,” he repeated over and over again. The professor lived in a beautiful house with his mother and sister and had a room exclusively dedicated to his black baby-grand piano. He played professionally and was an instructor at Havana’s Music Conservatory. He provided Tania with classical training, from Bach to Beethoven, as well as traditional Cuban classics.
Pianos were very expensive, but Tania needed to practice. Through word of mouth, I found someone who sold me a very old one. It was an upright model, out of tune, with some broken keys. Still, Tania was thrilled when one day she came back from school to find it in our living room.
I also paid for sewing lessons and singing lessons for the girls. The idea was to keep them busy, provide them with a well-rounded education, and prepare them for life abroad.
Our neighborhood was rough. Some girls would pick up fights with Tania when she went on errands for me. Tania would come home scared at first, “Ana asked her sister to hit me for no reason,” she told me on more than one occasion about a neighborhood girl. They would also curse at her or push her. One day, as Tania was studying on the front porch, a girl threw a rotten egg at the wall. Tania was growing frustrated with this bullying. I wanted to take the children away from the other neighborhood children, whose values I did not share.
In the early 1970s, there was no private education in Cuba. Many of the teachers had emigrated, and women previously engaged in domestic services were given specialized training to quickly elevate their educational level enough to allow them to perform in the capacity of elementary school teachers. These educators were not trained in teaching methods or childhood development. The scant training affected many children greatly, including Lynette.
When Lynette was in the first grade, she was very shy and quiet at school. One day, her teacher asked her to read out loud in class. Lynette practically whispered the paragraph to her classmates, and the teacher insisted several times she should speak louder. Out of shyness or fear, Lynette did not raise her voice enough, causing the teacher to lose her composure and slap Lynette across the face, hard, a couple of times. When my daughter arrived home that afternoon, dressed in her red-and-white uniform, her face was still pink and swollen. I asked her what happened, but she did not want to tell me and played nervously with her fingers. Her sobbing, followed by, “I don’t want to go to school anymore,” validated my suspicion.
I sat with her on the sofa and caressed her long, dark brown hair. She and Tania looked clearly like sisters, but they were still very different. Lynette displayed Rio’s mixture of Chinese and Taíno Indian eyes and complexion. On our block on Zapote Street lived was a Chinese family who ran a laundry from their house. Sometimes, when I took Lynette to their house, they would offer to do our laundry for free. I thought they did this because Lynette looked so much like them. I never took advantage and always paid them for their work, but I liked the familiarity with which they treated Lynette. Her heritage gave her a unique, exotic look. Unlike her sister, who was thin like a stick, Lynette had more meat on her bones, but not excessively so. Her paternal grandmother, Mayda, said that both Lynette and Tania had exotic appearances, but they seemed to be from two different continents: Tania, with her fair complexion, golden eyes, and light brown hair, looked French, according to Mayda; Lynette’s exquisite mixture of ancient bloodlines made her look very Asian.
After I reassured Lynette and spoke to her patiently, she finally told me what had happened. I took a deep breath. I embraced her and told her not to worry. I contacted the school and explained the situation. The principal gave me permission to take her to a hospital to be seen by a psychologist. After extensive questioning, the psychologist confirmed my version of the events, and the teacher was fired. Lynette was traumatized and for some time required the help of a psychologist.
At school, students were segregated based on scholastic achievement. Tania was lucky to have excellent qualifications and was chosen for enrollment in an advanced curriculum. The elementary-school years were especially difficult for children like mine. Teachers told their students that those who had chosen to travel to the United States were traitors, and my children quickly understood their father was included in that definition. In order to avoid additional hardship, and despite my disagreement with communist ideology, I allowed my children to wear the scarf that was part of the school uniform and symbolized Cuba’s alliance to communism. I explained to my children that as long as we were in Cuba, we needed to conform to the government rules to avoid harassment and humiliation.
Every morning, before class, the children had to recite communist slogans such as, “Pioneers for Communism: we will be like Ché.” These slogans were part of a daily system of indoctrination into the communist way of life. Ernesto “Ché” Guevara was an Argentinean guerrilla leader who had fought as a member of Castro’s army from 1956 until 1959. Not only did he help to shape the revolution’s strategy, but from 1961 to 1965 he also held several important posts in the new Cuban government. However, he was more interested in the spread of communism in Latin America, and in 1966 he left for Bolivia to train a guerrilla force. Less than a year after he arrived in Bolivia, Ché was captured and killed. His persona then took a hero status for communists around the world, and his name was woven into the very fiber of the Cuban revolution. Havana was inundated with government billboards with pictures of Ché, Castro, and Camilo Cienfuegos. Like Ché, Camilo was dead. The story the government told the people was that Camilo had left in an overnight flight and his airplane had disappeared. However, many believed Castro had Camilo killed. After fighting in the Sierra Maestra mountains for Cuba’s revolution, his popularity was too strong, much stronger than Castro’s. His death satisfied the need for another revolutionary legend. On the anniversary of his death, the government organized activities in the schools in remembrance of this great “hero” of the revolution.
In addition to the mandatory recital of communist slogans, the children were required to participate in government plays designed to further the communist government agenda. They were taught Russian songs and traditional Cuban songs, although listening to singers who had left Cuba, such as Celia Cruz, had been prohibited. Later, I would consider this to be a massacre of Cuba’s art, music, and tradition. Any discussion against the government was illegal, a continuation of the censorship that had started back in 1959 with the control of the radio, television, and every other form of written and spoken communication. Children were strongly encouraged to report even their parents if they engaged in antirevolutionary activity.
The country’s spirit had been decapitated by the claws of a political system anxious to hold on to an impossible dream, a dream incapable of succeeding because it went against the need of a human being to be free. In this beautiful, “enchanting” place called Cuba we stayed. . . But as the stolen paradise faded, many of Cuba’s historic buildings deteriorated or crumbled, and its people lost the most precious right of mankind: freedom.
After all three of my children were of school age, I returned to work. By then, five years had passed since Rio’s departure. I had learned to be on my own. Sometimes I wondered if it was worth it to continue to wait for a miracle. The wait and the longing for my husband weighed heavily on me. I aged prematurely. Silver strands adorned my long, black hair. The detergent soaps I used to wash our clothes by hand had ruined my nails and dried my skin, but my appearance no longer concerned me.
Eventually, we had the opportunity to buy a washing machine. In Cuba, people could not just go to the store and buy appliances. They had to earn the right to buy them through their jobs. We bought a Russian model (the only model available). It never worked well, but it was better than washing by hand—which was a good thing, as my father was getting sicker each day. Unable to make it to the bathroom on time, he would urinate on the bed or all over his clothes frequently.
My education allowed me to obtain a job right away. I collected and deposited money from several bodegas—tasks that involved walking four to five miles each day. I was prepared educationally to do a far more challenging job, but in the current political and economic environment, working at a grocery store had advantages. They offered split hours, from 8 a.m. to noon, and from 4 p.m. to 8 p.m. This schedule allowed me to teach adult students Spanish Grammar and Math in a small wooden shack three doors down from my house. On weekends, I continued to sell eye pencils, but in the last couple of months, business had slowed down significantly. One day the man who sold me the pencils stopped coming. I never heard from him again.
The low wages and the elimination of private ownership resulted in rampant theft, especially in grocery stores. I felt uncomfortable about the amount of pilfering that went on in the locations assigned to me, but the rationing system provided insufficient food for the intended period. The monthly quota for one person included five pounds of rice, twenty ounces of beans, half a pound of beef, half a pound of chicken, half a pound of fish, two pounds of potatoes, five pounds of sugar, two ounces of coffee (per week), one pound of lard, half a pound of vegetable oil, one lettuce, two tomatoes, four eggs (per week), one bath soap, and one detergent soap, among other restrictions. Cow’s milk was restricted to children under seven. After age seven, each person was entitled to three cans of condensed milk each month. On a daily basis, a family of four could purchase a loaf of bread. The bread was made early in the day and turned hard quickly. To make it last, I taught the children to place the leftovers behind the refrigerator, between the bars of its metal grille. The back of the refrigerator was always hot and made the bread toasty. All rations were subject to availability. Sometimes beef was not available for days.
Grocery-store workers altered the scales whenever they could to take a fraction of an ounce from the food they sold. A fraction of an ounce here and there added up. The workers kept the food they stole. They called this practice survival.
My supervisor was a good-hearted man in his fifties, bald, with eyeglasses and a friendly smile. He sympathized with my situation and adopted a paternalistic attitude toward me. As soon as he thought he could trust me, he coached me on the business of deceit that enveloped Cuba’s economic system. My boss had friends in dairy and poultry stores and introduced me to them. Although I always paid for the food I brought home, I had access to more food than my allocated share, a benefit of working at the grocery store.
One day, I excused myself from the afternoon class and went home to send Tania to a poultry store after she returned from school. Berta and Antonio were at work, and my father was in his room resting after Martina stopped by to cook him lunch. I carefully instructed her on what to do. I could not go myself because I was being watched closely by the people from the CDR.
“Tania, go to this address,” I said, handing her a piece of paper. “Take your sister with you. The store attendant will give you a bag with a live chicken. Give her the money and the ration card. She won’t mark anything on the card. Don’t say a word. After you have the chicken, come home and don’t speak to anyone. Understood?”
She nodded. She was almost nine, but she was mature for her age. The way she looked at me with her beautiful amber eyes reminded me so much of Rio. I knew she was scared. She was a good child whom I had taught not to lie, to believe in God, and yet I made her do this. I could only imagine how conflicted she felt.
The girls walked hurriedly to the store, both wearing the identical outfits I’d had one of my cousins make for them: a pair of white shorts and a short-sleeved yellow top. They both had their hair up in ponytails tied with elastic bands and yellow ribbons. The clouds were gray and heavy in the sky, and I had given them two large pieces of clear plastic to cover their heads if it rained.
As the older sister, Tania grabbed Lynette by her hand. Lynette had a playful personality that contrasted with Tania’s reserved and serious demeanor. They seemed to balance each other. Tania later told me what happened next.
When they had walked about a block, Lynette said matter-of-factly, “I’m afraid of chickens.”
Tania warned her, opening her eyes wide. “Didn’t you hear what Mamá said before we left the house? You want her to get in trouble?”
“No.” Lynette bowed her head. “I don’t like chickens. That’s all.”
Tania tried to reassure her sister, and as she did, she imagined the two of them chasing the chicken down the street.
The poultry-store attendant was standing behind the counter when they arrived. She was a mature woman with short, dirty nails and white hair held up with pins. The place was not much of a store, with hardly enough room for the six-foot-long counter. After Tania introduced herself, the attendant asked unemotionally, “Can I see your ration card?”
Tania handed her the card and the money I had given her. Although there was no one else at the poultry store, the woman acted as if she were scribbling something on the ration card. Tania realized she had not written anything. The woman placed the money in the register, returned the card to Tania, and said, “I’ll be right back.” She then disappeared in the back of the store.
The girls looked at each other, wide-eyed, afraid someone would come in. Minutes later, the woman reappeared carrying a bag.
“Take this to your mother and be careful,” she said.
Tania thanked her and left the store followed by Lynette. On the way back, Tania noticed that the clouds had turned almost black and the wind had become stronger.
“Move faster, Lynette. It’s going to rain.”
“I’m tired!” Lynette protested.
Suddenly, the chicken flapped its wings inside the bag. Tania looked around her to ensure no one was watching and held the bag away from her body. She, too, was scared of the chicken.
“Hurry up. Help me with the bag,” said Tania.
“I’m scared!” Lynette said walking away from her sister and the bag.
“Come back, I’m telling you. I’ll tell Mamá. You want her to get in trouble?”
Lynette walked back slowly toward her sister and said with a tiresome expression, “Fine, I’ll help you.”
The girls secured the bag by twisting it a couple more times at the top and continued their journey. Although the chicken clucked sporadically after that, they made it home safely. I was waiting on the porch when they arrived and breathed a sigh of relief.
Tania handed me the bag.
“Did anyone ask you any questions along the way?” I whispered.
“No, Mamá. I didn’t talk to anyone. Don’t worry,” Tania reassured me.
“You are a good girl, Tania.” I hugged her, but Tania didn’t show any emotion or hug me back.
Tania’s coldness and the impenetrable wall I encountered when I tried to connect with her saddened me. I carried the bird inside, opened a small hole in the bag so the chicken could breathe, and kissed my daughters good-bye before returning to my class. I had left my students working on an assignment and didn’t want to abuse their kindness. They supported me because many were parents or grandparents and understood my situation.
That night after dinner, Tania sat in the dining room and scribbled these words in her journal: “Today, my sister and I bought a chicken outside of our ration card because our family didn’t have enough to eat. If, like Mamá says, there is a God out there who knows everything, I hope you don’t punish me for doing this.” Tania put her journal under her pillow and went to bed. The next day, when she went to school, I read her entry and wept.
In 1970, I was finally able to leave Madrid and travel to New York City, which caused me to become an immigrant once again. When I was in Spain, my knowledge of the language had helped me find work; in the United States, my inability to speak English limited my job options. I found a job at a grocery store in Brooklyn making $120 per week, working from dusk to dawn, six days out of every seven. I lived in the store’s basement, in a tiny room I rented from the owner. Housing was expensive. I would not be able to get a place ready for my family unless I did something else. I could not bring them to this dump. I had saved enough, when I was in Madrid, to allow me to file the paperwork for my family’s visas and send the money to Laura. I was hopeful that soon, they would be able to leave Cuba. While working at the grocery store, I saved as much as I could so I could have enough for a bigger apartment and furniture for them. I didn’t need much for myself.
On the days I did not work, I took the M train to the Lower East Side of Manhattan, and from there, I took a bus into Midtown. The bus was an inexpensive way to see the city. Manhattan was unlike any other place I had ever been, with tall skyscrapers reaching as high as the eye could see. I loved the neon lights, the people going in all directions, the cars filling the streets day and night, and the smell of steaming hot dogs coming from street vendors’ carts. The craziness going on around me and the colorful characters on the streets made me forget sometimes. Other times, I sat on a bench in Central Park watching the people go by and thinking about my family. It was hard to see fathers play catch with their sons or to see couples walking with their children in the park. I envied their happiness.
I did not write to Laura as much as I should have; I tried sometimes while sitting at Central Park. “Dear Laura,” I would start to write. And then, I would look at the happy couples and children who passed by. Overcome by anger and frustration, I would crumple the paper and throw it away. Being in this city had taught me many things. It made me realize that happiness is meant to be shared with those you love. I learned that going back home to an empty apartment or walking on busy streets without Laura or the children by my side made me feel lonelier than ever.
In June, Laura telephoned me with the bad news. The visas had arrived a couple of days after the government prohibited emigration. All the hours I had worked to save the money, all the time spent without my kids, were wasted. Everything was on hold again, and Laura did not know for how long. I went to politicians’ offices to explain my case. I wrote letters to anyone I thought could help me. Nothing worked. I was angry and frustrated. One day, I stopped in a bar and had a couple of drinks. I did the same the next day, and the day after that. I turned to alcohol as a way to numb my emptiness. Cigarettes also did a nice job calming my nerves. I became a functional alcoholic, but an alcoholic nonetheless. I kept Laura’s letters and the stamps from her envelopes, hoping to one day give the stamp collection to my kids. The stamps connected me to Laura in a way I could not explain.
In 1972, a man I met at a bar told me about a job in a factory in Newark, New Jersey, that paid a lot more than what I currently made. I quit my job and moved to Jersey. One night after work, I met a woman who had worked as a dancer at the Tropicana cabaret in Havana and who now danced at a local strip joint. Her name was Aurora. We were both foreigners in this dark, unfamiliar city. We were both lonely. I talked to her about my wife and kids, and she found me to be safer than the losers she had dated. “I’m a free bird,” she said. I said I liked it that way. I didn’t want complications. She understood that nobody could come between my family and me.
After we had been sleeping together a couple of months, most of the time at her place, she asked me to move in with her. I did, as it allowed me to save money. On the day I moved in, as I stood on the metal platform of the fire escape smoking a cigarette, I warned her, “If my wife is able to leave one day, I’ll have to end this.” I took a puff from my cigarette and looked down to the street. I noticed a bum searching through the garbage. I heard Aurora’s steps behind me and then her embrace as she whispered in my ear seductively. “Don’t worry. I’m not the jealous type.” She then made me turn around and kissed me on the lips.
“You’re something else,” I said.
She went inside the apartment, her hips swaying to each side enticingly; she raised her elbows and lifted her long, wavy blond hair, then let it fall over her back and shoulders, making it bounce gently. She turned around and moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and brought her index finger to her lips, playing with it suggestively. When she was by the bed, she undressed slowly, teasing me, showing me, then covering herself. Each time, she revealed more and more of herself until she was completely exposed. She danced for me like she danced at the club and invited me closer. She played with herself to draw me in. I watched her do it, my blood rushing, my eyes following her hands’ search for ecstasy while she moaned and closed her eyes with pleasure. I shook my head, threw the cigarette on the floor, stepped on it hard to extinguish it, and went to her.
She knew how to relax me, how to make me forget. I used her and she used me. We were like two wild animals, savage, unrestrained, taking all the anger we had inside and transforming it into heat and sweat, my fingers buried in her skin, hurting her, filling her with pleasure and pain. After all was over and we lay exhausted in bed, the ecstasy lasted for a while longer, and then the emptiness would soon return.
I did not like what she did for a living, but it was not my place to judge. After all, it was her apartment. I was a guest. Sometimes after dancing at the club, she would go off with some of her better customers. They would meet at motels. She wanted to keep her business separate from her personal life. At first, I said nothing. After we had been together for six months, we argued about it, and she agreed to stop sleeping with her customers. One night, I shared with Aurora some pictures of my wife and kids. I guess I went too long on the details. I looked up to ask her if she had any pictures she could share, but she had fallen asleep on the couch.
A couple of times, I went to the club where she worked. It angered me to see those sons of bitches all over her, sticking dollars in her G-string or between her breasts. I would close my fists and slam them on the table. I especially hated the private dances. The men were not supposed to touch her, but the women paid the bouncers to look the other way. The more the men paid, the more of her they took. Every time I saw her go to the back with a man to give him a private dance, I knew what would happen. I would leave the bar angry and frustrated. The next day, I would bring it up, but to make me forget, she would dance for me, even more sensually than she danced for the men at the club. This time, she wasn’t restrained by the rules of the club; this time she was completely at my disposal.
As much as I attempted to conceal this relationship, Laura soon learned about it through relatives. One of her cousins in New Jersey had seen me at a grocery store with Aurora. Immediately, she called Laura, who wasn’t surprised. She was the one who had suggested I see other women, but she was jealous and angry anyway. We discussed it. I loved Laura and did not want to hurt her. I swore to her I did not love Aurora; she, Laura, was the only woman I loved. I was truthful when I said this.
Laura was a good woman, much better than I deserved. She could not understand how two people could sleep together without loving each other no matter how many ways I explained it. I promised to be more discrete. Neither one of us knew how long life would keep us apart. We had already been apart for four years. I reminded her about our conversation. I would understand if she saw other men as long as she kept them away from the kids. Deep down, I did not want her to go through with it, but I was prepared to look the other way if she did. Meanwhile, I would continue to do anything I could to get my family out of Cuba. I wanted nothing more than to be with my wife and children.
I was in the kitchen washing dishes, while rice cooked on the stove, when I heard Tania’s voice: “I’m home.” I had taken the day off to take Lynette and Gustavo to the doctor for a regular checkup. When Tania arrived, they were not home. I had sent them to buy a jar of guava marmalade from one of our neighbors who claimed he had made it with the biggest and sweetest guavas he had seen all year. I lowered the temperature of the stove and went to greet her. She wore her school uniform: white blouse, a mustard-colored skirt, and a red scarf around her neck. As I embraced her, she noticed the envelope I had left on the table. She picked it up, peeked inside and saw a picture her father had sent.
Rio was on a boat. He wore a colorful Hawaiian-looking summer shirt; the sun shone bright on his receding hairline. A blonde woman, slightly younger and wearing a strapless red dress, stood near him. There were two other men in the picture who seemed to be part of their group, I was not certain. The woman looked at Rio, not with the eyes of a friend, but with a provocative and flirtatious gaze. They both had big smiles, both carried drinks. The other men did, too.
It was a casual picture, taken in the moment. When I saw it earlier, I had known he and this woman were more than friends. As much as it hurt me, I had opened that door by giving him the option to date other women . . . but that did not make it any less painful. I decided to remove those thoughts from my mind. I had some cooking to do.
“Who’s this woman, Mamá?” Tania asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe a friend of your father’s.”
It was 1977, five months after Tania turned twelve. She was bright, had excellent grades, and was very perceptive.
“She doesn’t look like a friend,” she said.
She tossed the picture on the table and went into her bedroom without saying another word.
The next day was Saturday. Berta unexpectedly told me she was taking Tania and Lynette to the park. I found that unusual. That was the only time she had to wash clothes for her and her husband, and it did not make sense she would use it to take my daughters to the park. I offered to take them, but she insisted she wanted to spend time alone with the girls. I suspected they were hiding something from me.
Gustavo was outside waiting for an airplane to go by. That was his latest hobby. He wanted desperately to have a father and had developed an active imagination. He would sometimes wave at airplanes and yell, “Bye, Papá!” I had scheduled an appointment with the psychologist. As much as I had tried to make my children’s lives as normal as possible, the reminders of their missing father were always there, affecting every aspect of their lives in different ways.
The girls were gone for a couple of hours. I was starting to get worried something had happened when they finally arrived carrying a plastic bag. Tania and Lynette laughed naughtily when they came in. It was a laugh that was more characteristic of Lynette than Tania.
“So where did you really go?” I asked.
“Habana Vieja,” Berta said. “The girls wanted to surprise you.” Habana Vieja was the older section of the city of Havana.
“Surprise me?” I asked.
Tania handed me the bag and both girls looked at me with anticipation.
“Well, open it,” said Tania.
I did. I took one item out at a time: a green bikini top, the matching bottom, and a bottle of peroxide. The last item I later learned they had purchased from a neighbor.
“What do I need all this for?” I said. “I can’t wear this! I’m a married woman. And you want me to bleach my hair? Berta, how could you?”
“Don’t look at me.” Berta said putting up her hands. “It was Tania’s idea.”
“I can’t wear a two-piece swimsuit,” I said, looking at the bikini.
“You’re still young and in great shape,” Berta said. “Those daily walks have done wonders for your body.”
“Are you really suggesting I wear this?”
“Why not?” said Berta. “It’s been nine years since Rio left. Why can’t you feel and look attractive again? Why can’t you also have a life?”
I knew what the word “also” meant, but I had certain values. I did not think it was appropriate for a married woman to go out dressed like that unless accompanied by her husband. But was I a married woman? After nine years alone, sometimes I felt as if I were married to the idea of a man. I did not want to wear the bikini, but the sparkle in Tania’s eyes told me I should please her. I would not accomplish anything by behaving as if I did not appreciate her gesture.
“Fine,” I said after looking at the bathing suit one more time.
Lynette and Tania jumped up and down with cheerful faces. It was good to see Tania smile. She then placed her thin arms around me and thanked me for agreeing to wear it. It had been years since she had embraced me so spontaneously. I glanced at Berta and smiled sadly, then my eyes turned to Tania. I caressed her long brown hair. My beautiful angel. She carried her love for me inside, buried so deep that sometimes she did not know how to uncover it. She was so fearful to lose me too, as she had lost her father, and her fears rose and transformed into anger and resentment of things she could not control.
“I love you, Tania. You are a good girl,” I said with a bittersweet smile, my voice breaking.
“I love you Mamá,” Tania said but then looked away as if she was embarrassed to tell me.
“What about me?” asked Lynette, placing her hands on her waist.
“Of course, I love you. I love all my children equally,” I said.
The girls asked me to take them to the beach the following weekend. Gustavo was not happy when he found out what his sisters were up to. He told me he was going to tell his father, and this made Berta laugh.
A week had passed since the girls had purchased my swimsuit, and they could hardly wait for our trip to the beach. That Saturday, Gustavo’s allergies were bothering him, but Berta, touched by her nieces’ excitement, agreed to stay home with him. We took two buses to Santa Maria Beach, each filled with people packed like sardines, skin against skin, hands grabbing on to metal bars. Sweat and the summer heat mingled in the suffocating metal vehicles.
“Mamá, I can’t breathe!” Lynette cried after a large, tall woman’s overdeveloped buttocks pinned her against another woman’s plump belly.
I pulled Lynette closer to me to free her.
“You have to be a little patient, my love. We’re almost there,” I lied.
We were still far away from the beach. I knew the closer we came to our destination, the more crowded the bus would get. Public buses were the primary form of transportation, and they were scarce. There were not enough of them for the number of people, and even less in summer months when many headed for the beach.
Taxicabs were expensive for the average wage, and very few people owned cars. The few automobiles on the road were either American models from the ’50s or newer ones from the Soviet Union, but the Russian cars were reserved primarily for government officials, and parts from the United States were unavailable. So here we were, at the mercy of this metal sauna, sweating profusely, praying for some fresh air.
We wore our swimsuits underneath our sleeveless tops and shorts. Our flip-flops were not ideal for the conditions, and we lost count of how many times we were stepped on. I carried a large bag with snacks, water, and three pairs of underwear, one for each one of us, and at one point, I thought I was going to lose my bag because of the persistent pushing and shoving.
The bus practically emptied on the Santa Maria Beach stop. I secured my bag as we stepped out of the bus, and we headed for the restrooms. The stalls were all occupied, but that did not matter. Some women changed their children in front of everyone. We did not need to wait for a stall. We removed our tops and bottoms, folded them, and placed them inside a bag. When the girls saw me, they could not believe their eyes. I let my hair down and combed it. My bleached hair complemented my fair complexion and the green bikini.
“Mamá, you look great!” said Tania.
“You do Mamá. You look very pretty,” Lynette agreed.
“Really? Isn’t this too much?” I asked.
“Oh, no. It’s perfect. Come on, let’s go on to the sand,” said Tania.
The girls gently pushed me toward the exit of the restrooms. I blushed, embarrassed by my attire. We had walked just a few steps on the hot white sand when I noticed some men staring at me. I pretended not to notice. Instead, I focused my attention on the beach. In the distance, the aqua-green sea, the blue sky, and the white sand danced together in a spectacular array. I breathed the salty air in.
“God bless you lady,” a man with grayish hair and a Spanish accent suddenly said as he walked toward me. It was not a casual compliment; it was more direct. He was slightly taller than me, a wedding ring on his finger, and a gold chain around his neck. I kept walking, but he was not giving up.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.
This comment upset me.
“Would you please leave me alone? I’m a married woman, and the mother of three children,” I declared, noticeably offended by the man’s remarks. I grabbed my daughters by their arms and kept walking. He followed me.
“There’s nothing wrong with admiring a woman’s body,” he said.
I turned around again, insulted at his insistence.
“I will call for help if you keep following me. Let’s go, girls.” I grabbed my daughters by the hand again and walked faster. The girls giggled, amused by attention I had generated. I was not amused.
“You don’t have to get so upset. I didn’t mean anything by it,” the stranger said, still walking behind me. I could not seem to shake him off and was getting increasingly upset and agitated.
“Excuse me,” I heard a second voice behind me and turned around. “You better leave this lady alone. She is with me.”
A shirtless, tall man, fit, with tanned skin, green eyes, and a pair of white shorts stood next to the man with the Spanish accent. I thought I recognized him from somewhere. He towered over my admirer.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. I was complimenting her. You’re very lucky,” the shorter man said as he walked away at a hurried pace.
“Thank you,” I said as I looked at the green-eyed man with inquisitive eyes. “Do I know you?”
“Yes, you do. I’m Roberto,” he said. “I work with Antonio at the engineering firm and have been to your house a few times. Don’t you remember me?” He paused and looked at me with a smile.
“I’m always so busy with the kids,” I said.
“I understand,” he said. “I’m sorry you had to deal with someone like that. By his accent, I can tell he’s a foreigner. Some foreigners come to Cuba and think they can harass any woman they see.”
“You’re right, Roberto. That’s the way it is these days. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you at first. Now I do believe I remember seeing you, but you were wearing your office clothes.” I blushed.
I had seen many of my brother-in-law’s coworkers but had not spoken much to any of them before. Now that this man told me his name and I connected the dots, I realized I had seen him in the house more often than the other coworkers. Berta mentioned his name frequently, but I did not pay much attention. All I knew was that he was a good friend of Antonio’s.
“Are these your girls?” he asked.
I nodded and the girls smiled. He said he could not believe how much they had grown.
“Mamá, I want to go near the water to build sandcastles,” Lynette protested.
I excused myself and told Roberto I needed to accompany the girls.
“Mamá, don’t worry. You don’t need to come with us. You can talk and watch us from here,” Tania said.
Tania was generally very responsible, and I knew I could trust her. However, she had placed me in a difficult predicament. What would Roberto think? She did not wait for me to respond but took Lynette by the hand, walking away and whispering to her sister, “He’s perfect for Mamá.”
The girls walked toward the edge of the water. I followed them with my eyes. “I’m sorry, I should go with them. I don’t want them to be by themselves,” I said.
“Do you mind if we sit and talk for a few minutes? I promise. I’ll make sure nothing happens to them,” said Roberto.
My eyes remained nervously fixed on the girls. I waited until they sat by the edge of the water before I responded.
“Fine. A few minutes,” I said, glancing at Roberto briefly then focusing on my daughters again.
“You have a beautiful family,” said Roberto.
“Thank you,” I said. “I feel so bad for them. They haven’t seen their father for years. I don’t know if Antonio told you. My husband is in the United States, but we haven’t been allowed to leave.”
I had decided to explain my situation up front to make sure Roberto did not get the wrong idea.
“I know about your husband,” he said. “My wife and children are also in the United States. My father was dying, so she left first. Then emigration stopped and here I am. It’s been nine years.” I noted sadness in his voice
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I don’t think Antonio mentioned this before. What are the chances?”
“Probably not as low as you think,” he said. “Many families were separated. I keep telling myself everything happens for a reason. It helps me. Don’t you think?”
“I have yet to find the reason. You must be miserable.”
“Miserable? No, I stopped being miserable after the first few trips to the Immigration Office. Then, I faced reality; now, I wonder if this absurd wait makes sense. When will it end? What are the chances that people can have a relationship after so many years apart?” Roberto sighed and paused briefly, then continued. “People change over the years. Sometimes I wonder why I continue to fool myself.”
I noticed defeat and sadness in his expression. He wasn’t looking at me any longer. His eyes were lost somewhere in the distance.
“Oh, but you shouldn’t think that way. You have a family,” I reassured him.
“Children soon forget. They’re around the same age as your children now. The more years they stay away from me, the less relevant I become. That’s the way things are.”
“I’m sure they miss you. Your wife probably talks to them about you all the time.” I felt pity for Roberto.
“I hope you’re right. It’s good to talk to someone who understands what it’s like.”
I looked in the direction of the beach and noticed my daughters were still playing in the sand. Roberto seemed to notice my preoccupation with the children.
“They’re fine. I am keeping an eye on them,” he said. “Have you thought of getting remarried, Laura?”
“No, for God’s sake. Never. I would never give my daughters a stepfather. Besides, I love my husband, and my children need their father. Also—” I paused for a moment and then lowered my voice. “I don’t want this—Cuba—for my children. I want them to have opportunities. Have you thought of getting remarried?”
“The thought has crossed my mind. I’ve thought if I were to find a good woman, and if my wife found a good man, why not? Why would we continue to exhaust our youth fighting for something that can never be? What about you? How long will you wait for him? What if you can never leave? What then?”
I stood up. I did not want to believe that this would ever be an option.
“I think I’d better go with the children,” I said nervously. I felt I was too vulnerable to have this conversation.
“They seem fine,” Roberto said as he stood and looked in the direction of the beach, while trying to block the bright sun from his eyes.
“It was nice talking to you.” I tried to remain cordial and extended my hand to shake his.
He took my hand and kissed it gently.
“The pleasure was all mine, Laura,” Roberto said, looking into my eyes. “Can I see you again? Would you like to go out with me to a nice restaurant sometime?”
“Thank you, but I don’t think that’s appropriate,” I replied.
“I know, you’re a married woman. You’ve made that very clear. But, could we go out as friends? How long has it been since you visited a nice restaurant?” He smiled.
“Years,” I confessed, “but I don’t think a married woman should go out with a man who is not her husband.”
Roberto, appreciating my honesty, said with a smile, “I understand. I hope you and your children enjoy your day at the beach,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate what you did for me today.”
I left Roberto standing under palm trees and walked in the direction of the beach. When I was near my daughters, I turned my head and noticed he was still where I had left him, looking in my direction. I turned toward the beach and focused my attention on the girls’ sandcastle.
The girls and I stayed at the beach a couple of hours. While on the bus going home, I felt energized. The idea that a man could feel attracted to me excited me. However, I needed to act with caution. Getting my children out of the country was the only thing that mattered.
We were exhausted by the time we arrived home. Tania and Lynette ate a piece of hard bread that had been toasting behind the refrigerator and went to their rooms. I asked Berta about Gustavo’s allergies.
“He coughed a little, but I gave him some Benadryl and he felt better,” she said.
Berta seemed preoccupied. I asked her if there was something wrong.
“It’s our father. He’s getting worse,” said Berta. “I don’t know how long we’re going to be able to deal with this situation. His mattress is disintegrating with his constant urination on the bed. The floor next to his bed is wasted, and now—you won’t believe what happened now.” Berta seemed embarrassed.
“What did he do?” I asked.
“Well, when you left, Gustavo was still in bed, so I went back to my room. When I got up, Papá was walking around the house naked. He is losing his mind.”
She paused for a moment.
“It’s one problem after the next. The other day when you were at work, the neighbors brought him back. He was lost, and the neighbors found him a kilometer away from home. I feel really bad, but with you working so many hours and me. . .”
“You what?” I asked.
“I’m four months pregnant, Laura,” she said with a bittersweet smile.
“Why didn’t you say something before? Does Antonio know?” I said, embracing my sister.
“He knows I’ve not been feeling well,” she said. “I’m so small, he thought the puffiness on my stomach was related to female problems. I wanted to tell you first. What are we going to do?”
“First, we’re going to tell the father of the baby. Then, you are going to get off your feet, and let me finish in the kitchen. You have to take care of yourself,” I said with a smile.
“What do we do with Papá, Laura? Who’s going to care for him in his condition? He’s not even safe when we sleep. With his dementia, I’m afraid he may do something to one of the children.”
It was obvious Berta had been thinking about our father’s situation for a long time. I was so busy, working twelve hours a day and never had time to talk.
“What do you want to do?”
“We need to place him in a nursing home,” said Berta. “I know this is difficult. I’m not suggesting this without having considered other options. There aren’t any. We both need to work. Our father will be better in a place where nurses can help him. That is why I’m not happy about my pregnancy. I was even considering an abortion.”
“Oh, Berta, don’t say that again,” I said as I embraced her. “We can manage. We always have.” I paused and pulled away from her. “As far as Papá is concerned, the idea sounds so horrific. I never knew what you were going through.”
“Maybe we should wait a little longer,” said Berta. “We don’t need to make a rush decision. You don’t know how much it pains me to take him out of his own home.”
I nodded in agreement that we should wait. A nursing home was the last place I wanted to take our father.
Later that evening, when Berta communicated the news of her pregnancy to her husband, he had mixed emotions. On one hand, the idea of becoming a father appealed to him, but on the other, he knew a child would complicate their lives, especially if the opportunity to leave Cuba became a reality.
Approximately a year after the first conversation about moving our father to a nursing home, we reluctantly made the decision. He weighed over three hundred pounds by then and could hardly walk. Each day, it was more difficult for my sister and me to care for him, especially given our demanding schedules. By that time, Berta had already given birth to an eight-pound baby girl. To make the transition less difficult, Berta, my children, and I accompanied him to his new home.
The government institution was depressing, from the urine smell to the elderly men and women lying on soiled sheets. Tania hid her face in her hands when she saw an old man walking down the hallways almost nude. I wanted to turn around and take my father back home. Berta saw it in my eyes and reminded me we had no choice. I was uncomfortable. I had not made peace with this decision. He deserved to die with dignity, but I did not know how to make that happen.
We spent a couple of hours with my father, helping him adapt to his new surroundings. Berta talked to the nurses: “Please make sure he stays clean and comfortable,” she said. “When I come tomorrow, I’ll bring guava marmalade for you and your family.” The women looked at each other, wide-eyed, and agreed to take extra-good care of him.
When it was time to go, with tears in his eyes, my father looked sadly at everyone from his wheelchair.
“Are you leaving me here?” he asked.
It was one of the few moments in recent months when he seemed lucid. He was such a vibrant man once. I kissed him on the forehead, trying to hold back the tears.
“We’ll be back tomorrow, Papá. I love you,” I said.
One by one, each one of us kissed him and left him in his wheelchair, and he watched us walk away.
I came back to see him the next day. Everyone in the family did, but after he entered the nursing home, he was never the same. He seemed to deteriorate more rapidly and was visibly depressed. Berta didn’t agree with my observations and said I was imagining things and that he was going to be fine. It pained her to admit that moving him to this place had pushed him into depression.
A year after we moved my father to the nursing home, he passed away. I told the children he died of pneumonia. Tania thought he died of sadness.
My visits to Immigration became a ritual, especially after the government-sponsored protests stopped. These trips were a thread that connected me with my dream of reuniting my family. Tania noticed my sadness each time I returned, but she was unable to express her emotions. It was as if she had no real feelings or had become immune to the desperation of my routine. I asked her occasionally if she loved me, and each time she answered with an impenetrable silence and walked away. Distancing herself from me and my obvious grief became her method of surviving.
Tania enjoyed her writing and her music. She played the piano for hours, not only her assignments but music she heard on the radio. She could play almost any song she heard by ear. I thought this talent was a gift, but the piano professor disagreed. “As long as you continue to play by ear, you will never become a serious pianist,” he told her. Tania was stubborn. Each time the professor introduced a new piece of music, she would refuse to play it until he played it first. Once he did, she could replay it with little effort.
It had taken some convincing for the piano teacher to continue to teach Lynette after he’d initially told me not to waste my money on lessons for her. She attended classes for several months, but she mocked her professor’s elegant demeanor, especially each time he left the room. She moved her hands dramatically on the keys as if she were going to fly away. Her attitude made him very angry.
“If your daughter insists on this behavior, I will not teach her anymore,” the professor told me on a couple of occasions.
I talked to Lynette at home and punished her when she did not behave, but it was of no use. While piano lessons provided Tania with another creative outlet, for Lynette they translated into comic relief. Finding humor in every aspect of life was ingrained in her fiber. In that sense, she resembled Rio.
A few months after my father died, Berta became pregnant with her second daughter. Her first daughter had just turned one by then. By that time, our house was in such disrepair that during Berta’s pregnancy a large piece of the ceiling fell on her and nearly killed her. Unfortunately, repair materials and paint were hard to come by. A couple of months after Berta gave birth, she bought some wood trusses on the black market to reinforce the ceiling. So much history around us was crumbling while we tried to hold on to our humanity. Antonio continued to hide in the back bedroom to listen to Voice of America radio, and Tania faithfully joined him. Maybe listening to this radio station from the United States made her feel closer to her father. She never told me, but one day I found one of Rio’s pictures hidden in her journal. She loved him despite being angry with him about his relationship with another woman.
My children asked me often about the life awaiting them in the United States. I related the stories Rio shared with me about New York City, a vibrant place full of people from all over the world, and cars, music, restaurants, and skyscrapers as tall as the eye could see. I told them it was a place where dreams could come true, the home of the Statute of Liberty. “One day, we will visit her—your father, and all of you, as a family,” I would tell them. In her journal, Tania imagined a magical place, a place where she would not have to hide to express herself or to listen to Voice of America, where she could travel anywhere she wanted without restrictions or without anyone from the CDR asking where she went; a place where no one would tell her that her father was a traitor.
The more I read her journals, the more I realized the imperative of leaving. I could not risk her becoming an adult in Cuba. She was too bitter, too damaged by the life she had been forced to live. I felt she was like a pressure cooker waiting to explode, a time bomb. Any adult caught writing what she wrote would end up in jail.
Our neighborhood had become a rough place to live, especially for my family. With the exception of the family across the street, which included a high-ranking member of the Communist Party, and the family in charge of the Committee for the Defense of the Revolution, we lived better than most. Many in the neighborhood had noticed the differences and resented us, especially knowing that Rio was, by their definition, a traitor.
Three professionals lived in our house, and despite our disagreement with the system and our lack of participation in voluntary services or other civic duties, we were able to get by, because Berta’s and Antonio’s skills were in demand. As an architect, Berta worked for the Russians and designed their houses. She told me I could not share this with anyone else. It was supposed to stay a secret, perhaps because the government provided Russians with beautiful, nicely painted homes while Cubans’ homes deteriorated day by day with no available materials to fix them. But the Russians were appreciative of Berta’s work and showed their gratitude through gifts, like tins of cookies and perfume. Tania loved the gifts Berta brought home.
With money coming in from three adults, I could purchase goods in the black market and continue to buy food from the farmers. Although economically, our family had access to more consumer goods than many, socially and politically, our lives were more restricted.
Toys could be purchased at only one time during the year: every January, first come, first served. The quantities and types of toys varied. Not only was saving the money to buy them difficult with so many other priorities like food, but the process of making this annual purchase was a major ordeal. I had to spend the night waiting in line along with hundreds of other people. The secret to buying the best toys from a very limited supply was to be the first to enter the store when it opened. In prior years, I had arrived to the line too late and had to buy the toys no one else wanted. I was sad to see the disappointment in Lynette’s and Gustavo’s eyes. Tania no longer cared about toys, not since she was about seven.
This year, I was one of the first ones in line, and my efforts paid off.
A few minutes after the store opened, I had my hands on a brand-new, red bicycle. I fought my way through the crowd that still waited for their turn, evading the jealous looks of parents trying to reach the counter to pick their toys. It was the only bike available that year. I could not wait to get home and show it to Gustavo. I bought Lynette a new doll, and after that there was no money left.
Gustavo’s eyes sparkled when I arrived with the shiny red bike. I had never seen him so happy before. “Can I ride? Can I?” He was jumping up and down with excitement.
“You have to be careful out there. Agree?” I warned him as he had never ridden a bike before.
“I’ll be careful. I promise. Thank you, Mamá.” He kissed me and went outside with his bike.
“Tania, please watch your brother,” I said. “I will shower and try to get a couple of hours of sleep. I’m exhausted.”
I went to the bathroom and looked at myself in the small mirror above the sink. I had bags under my eyes from the sleepless night, and my clothes were dirty from sitting on the floor and leaning against the dirty walls.
That Sunday morning, Berta was in the kitchen preparing breakfast for everyone. A few neighborhood kids, many shirtless on a cool January morning, played catch outside with a homemade ball. When they saw Gustavo and his bike, they all gathered around him like a pack of wolves hovering around fresh meat.
“Can I ride? Can I?” the kids cried almost in unison.
“Mamá bought me the bike. I want to ride it around the block,” Gustavo said, looking at the kids nervously. He was nine but short and thin, and he lacked the street savvy necessary to survive in this neighborhood. The kids had dark complexions from being outside shirtless in the sun. Gustavo spent most of his days indoors.
“Hey, go back to play and leave Gustavo alone,” Tania yelled from the porch when she noticed that her brother was surrounded.
The kids reluctantly dispersed, only to gather a few steps away. Gustavo then attempted to ride his bicycle but fell a couple of times, triggering malicious laughter from the kids. Gustavo was embarrassed.
“Gustavo, wait. I’ll help you,” Tania yelled, and ran to him.
She held his bicycle in place while he tried to balance himself. The kids kept laughing at him, and Tania stared at them defiantly. Finally, after a few attempts, Gustavo successfully took off. His face lit up with pride, but the kids threw sticks at him as he passed by.
“Stop it, or I will tell your mothers,” Tania warned the kids.
They continued to laugh but stopped throwing sticks. While Gustavo rode his bicycle around the block a few times, Tania noticed the kids had sat down on the edge of the sidewalk and were sadly watching him go by.
“Gustavo, come here now,” she ordered her brother the next time he passed near her.
“Is Mamá calling me?” he asked. His face was red and sweaty.
“No, but I think you should let the other kids ride your bike for a little while. Don’t you think?” asked Tania.
Gustavo reluctantly got off the bike. Tania signaled the kids to come over, and they walked slowly toward her with some apprehension. When Tania told them of her intentions, their faces lit up.
“You can only ride on this block, okay?” she warned them.
Tania allowed each kid to ride the bike. Like Gustavo, they had difficulty at first but eventually managed to balance themselves. They were all happy, including Gustavo. At last, he felt like one of the boys in the neighborhood.
Gustavo’s happiness didn’t last long. A week after I bought him the bike, he ran into the house crying.
“My bike. Someone took it,” he cried.
Tania was at the typewriter in the dining room. “What do you mean? Who took it?” she asked him.
“The kids in the neighborhood, they stole it,” he said, with tears rolling down his cheeks. Tania was furious. She dashed out the front door and saw Monica, a dark-skinned girl Tania’s age, who lived a couple of houses down the street. Her two sisters were with her, and when they saw Tania, they started to laugh among themselves, while they pointed in Tania’s direction. It was clear to Tania they knew about the bike.
“Monica, do you know who took Gustavo’s bike?” Tania asked her.
“No,” she said. “Even if I did, I would not tell you. I’m glad it was stolen. I’m glad.”
Monica’s pleasure was evident. It was not the first time she had ridiculed Tania. She was one of the kids who told her often that her father was a traitor. Tania could not contain herself. She ran across the street and asked her about the bike again. Monica pushed Tania who grabbed her by her hair, pulling on her braids as hard as she could—so hard, the hair was cutting her hands.
“Did you take my brother’s bike? Tell me where his bike is! Tell me,” yelled Tania.
Monica’s two sisters jumped in and kicked Tania. Another sister who saw the fighting joined Monica’s side. Now, there were four sisters against Tania. They kicked, pushed, and slapped Tania, but she didn’t feel any pain, as her anger numbed her. People in the neighborhood rushed out of their houses, but no one intervened. They all watched.
Tania could not think. She pulled Monica’s hair with one hand and hit her sisters with the other. She kicked Monica furiously and seemed immune to the punches and kicks she was receiving. Pure adrenaline drove her and blinded her. She wanted Monica to confess, to apologize for laughing, to bring back her brother’s bike. She wanted her to pay for all the humiliation her family had suffered.
“Stop it right now,” said an adult’s voice behind her.
She was still holding on to Monica’s hair. A tall woman came up behind Tania and held her arms until she let go. With her arms pinned she was unable to defend herself and all four girls kicked her and laughed.
“So you are the daughter of that traitor,” the woman said. Tania realized that she was the girls’ mother. “Look at her, Miss Perfect!”
Tania detected hatred in her voice. The girls continued to kick her wherever they could. Tania was exhausted but kicked them back, her arms restrained by the girls’ mother. She pushed forward to free herself, but the woman was stronger. Finally, she heard my sister’s familiar voice.
“What’s going on here?” Berta yelled. “Leave my niece alone! What are you doing?”
“You need to teach your little niece some manners,” the mother of the four girls yelled as she released Tania.
Tania’s face, arms, and legs were bruised and bloody. Her clothes were torn, and her hair was in disarray. Berta looked at the girls and their mother with disgust, grabbed Tania by the hand, and brought her back inside, Tania’s head high. She didn’t want to admit defeat. Although that fight never brought back Gustavo’s bicycle, it changed her reputation in the neighborhood. From then on, the kids would think twice before calling Gustavo names.
Rumors about Tania’s fighting circulated throughout her school. The despicable gusana had finally shown her true colors. Tania didn’t care. I never punished her for fighting in the street. I knew that if Tania had not stood up for her brother, other kids would have continued to pick on him because they would have considered him an easy target. I only wished that I had been there to defend her.
Tania’s bruises didn’t disappear for a few days, and she was lucky she didn’t have any broken bones.
My palms were sweating with anticipation when the bus left Lynette and me by the deserted country road. On each side of us were expansive green fields with red soil and scattered palm trees. Once the bus disappeared in the distance, only silence remained, interrupted by our footsteps and the chirping of cuckoo birds. I did not know which way to go, as there were no signs to guide my way and no one to ask.
I decided to cross the road and go in the same direction as the bus. We walked almost two kilometers under the burning sun, which was now high in the sky. It must be noontime. A lot of time wasted in this journey. My shoulders were sore from the load I was carrying, and now I did not know where I was going, or whether I would be able to find Tania. The directions the school staff had provided were not detailed enough.
Lynette said she was thirsty and needed to use the bathroom. I took a deep breath and asked her to wait a little longer. We continued to walk over patches of wild, overgrown grass and dirt on the side of the road, occasionally lifting red dust with our shoes. The vegetation grew thicker as we walked. Lynette started to do the funny walk that said she could no longer wait to go to the bathroom. I told her to do her business behind a shrub and I would guard. That was the only choice. Once she did, we continued to walk.
After another five minutes, I thought I saw something in the distance. The glare of the sun made it hard to know for sure, but there appeared to be a small dirt road ahead, off the paved main road. I shared my suspicion with Lynette, and she agreed. It was a road! Its appearance energized us, and we picked up our pace. The vegetation at the roadside was now thick, like a forest. At last, we arrived to the intersection. Inconspicuously nailed on the wide trunk of a banyan tree, beneath its canopied shade, was an improvised cardboard sign with the words “Escuela al Campo” and an arrow pointing toward the dirt road. Lynette and I smiled at each other. The relief of knowing where we were made the bags feel lighter than before.
It was the second Saturday after Tania’s departure to School in the Fields. A couple of months into the school year, all the students were separated from their parents and sent to this program for forty-five days. During this period, the government forced seventh- through twelfth-graders to work in the countryside approximately eight to ten hours a day, five days per week. The Department of Education required schools to maintain a certain percentage of attendance. In Tania’s school, that meant 100%. Failure to attend this mandatory activity was a negative mark in both the students’ records and the records of the school administrators.
Lynette and I walked about a kilometer on the country road. We had seen nothing but wild shrubs, almond trees, banyan trees, and other trees I did not recognize. No sign of the camp, and I was becoming impatient. We walked a few more minutes.
At last, we saw a metal gate that marked the camp’s entrance. As we approached it, we noticed students dispersed in various areas on the other side of the gate, some sitting, others standing on a grassy slope. I could not see Tania when we first went through the gate, although many students looked curiously in our direction. At last, in the distance, I noticed a hand waving at us. It was her! Lynette and I ran toward Tania and she ran to us. We had never been apart from each other, and it felt as if Tania had been away much longer than ten days. I embraced her first, and she reciprocated enthusiastically, unlike the “out-of-obligation” manner she often had. Then the sisters hugged one another. Lynette reached up to rub her older sister’s head and said, as she typically did, “My little sister!” It was her way of telling Tania she loved her.
Tania led us to a series of long benches, and I sat next to her, Lynette at my other side. I placed my bags on the grass and looked at Tania. She was thinner, her skin darkened from the exposure to the sun. She wore a pair of beige pants and a pink, short-sleeved top. Her clothes looked too big on her. I caressed her long, brown hair. Noticing dark shadows under her eyes, I pulled her lower eyelid down to check for anemia. Tania did not look well to me. Something was wrong.
She did not say what had happened right away. First, she complained about the daily split-peas-and-rice diet. She found dead black bugs in the rice at every meal. The first day, she did not want to eat. The next day, she realized that if she did not eat, she would have no energy to work in the fields all day long. She learned to set aside the bugs and eat the rest. Her work clothes were still dirty. She hoped to wash them on Sunday if she had more energy.
“The doctor told me I have pneumonia,” she said.
“Pneumonia?” I asked. “How can they make you work with pneumonia?”
She shrugged. I shook my head and touched her forehead. She did not seem to have a fever. The nurse had given her penicillin shots. I was upset no one had called me to tell me, and decided to complain to the administrator before I left the camp.
“How is life here?” I asked.
She said she did not like it. The students slept on bunk beds inside a long rectangular structure with a dirt floor and a metal roof and walls. At night, the mosquitoes reigned over the camp. She was glad I had given her a can of repellent spray. Some students who did not have repellent did not fare well. One of Tania’s classmates was bitten so harshly she developed a severe allergic reaction. She said the girl looked like she had chicken pox.
The wake-up call at the camp was at 5 o’clock every morning. Tania and her schoolmates had approximately fifteen minutes to get dressed and be ready for the inspection. Those who did not pass inspection were embarrassed publicly. For fear of ridicule, many students in the camp slept in their work clothes. The two pairs of Tania’s work pants were dirty with dried-up mud, as it had rained two days that week. She told her sister, “My pants are so full of dried mud, they can stand up by themselves.” That was not far from the truth.
She had a hard time sleeping because she wore her uncomfortable work pants to bed, and also because she was afraid to miss the wake-up call (not to mention having to fend off the voracious mosquitoes).
At 6 a.m., after a quick breakfast consisting of a piece of bread and a cup of milk, Tania and her classmates lined up in front of their appointed leaders, recited the mandatory socialist mottos, and were off to work. They were picked up by an open wagon attached to a tractor around 6:15 and taken to the fields. The cold morning air in the open wagon always made Tania shiver. She thought this was how she had developed pneumonia.
The work consisted of picking coffee, tomatoes, okra and other vegetables in the fields, or pulling weeds from the long rows of tomato plants. Each student was assigned a specific quota, and the duties changed frequently. I had never seen Tania talk for so long, and her willingness to share her experiences pleased me, except that I was unhappy about the tasks she was obligated to perform. She showed me her hands, and I caressed the cuts she’d received pulling weeds from the tomato fields.
As she talked, I noticed Lynette’s hand reaching into my bags. I shook my head slowly, and Lynette crossed her arms and made an angry face. Realizing she was hungry, I interrupted Tania’s conversation, which had now shifted to stories about her friends.
“Are you hungry?” I asked Tania. “It’s already late, and I brought lunch. It must be cold by now.”
Tania’s face lit up at first. Then she looked at one of her friends, who sat on the grassy slope alone, playing with the grass.
“Mamá, do we have enough food to share with Maria?” Tania asked. “Her father doesn’t come to visit her.”
Tania’s compassion touched me. Maria, one of Tania’s best friends, was a tall, slim, and attractive young lady with more than her share of family problems. Her mother was a schizophrenic and an alcoholic, and her younger brother was mute and emotionally disturbed. He would jump around aimlessly, emitting loud screams. Sometimes when Tania visited, she noticed that he had been restrained with a rope because he would hit himself repeatedly. It saddened Tania to see Maria’s embarrassment when her brother had his tantrums. Her father worked all day to care for his family, and on the few occasions she saw him, he barely spoke. That left Maria and her sister. They seemed to be the most normal people in their family, although they were both deeply affected by their situation.
Maria and her family shared a tiny apartment. After she and her sister became friends with Tania and Lynette, they spent more time at our house. Tania would often play the piano while Maria sang. She had the voice of an angel. They became like sisters, while Lynette and Maria’s younger sister grew close.
Tania went to ask Maria to join us, and I reached inside the bag and took out four containers: white rice, black beans, ground beef, and fried plantains. Realizing it was not enough for four, I began to split it the best way I could, taking the smallest serving for myself. At first, Maria was embarrassed to join us, but Tania convinced her. We all ate hungrily, taking big spoonfuls at a time.
“It tastes delicious!” Tania said. “Thank you, Mamá.” Maria echoed her words.
“I stayed up late last night cooking the rice and the beans,” I said. “This morning, I warmed up the food, cooked the beef, and wrapped the entire meal the best I could to keep it warm. Too bad it is almost cold,” I said. Tania told me not to worry. She loved it and was happy to eat food that reminded her of home.
Maria had spoken very little. She seemed distant, as if buried in thought. I talked about the family: a cousin of Tania’s, a teacher, had returned from Angola after a two-year assignment teaching farmers’ children how to read and write. I whispered to Tania, “I think they were sent there to spread revolutionary ideas.” She nodded. Two of her cousin’s coworkers had died of an unknown disease, and all the Cuban teachers who were in Angola were shipped back to Cuba. We talked about Berta and Gustavo. I had been unable to bring him with me due to his allergies.
We finished our lunch and I gave Tania the bags of food I had brought her: five cans of pressure-cooked condensed milk, a can opener, a can of harina lacteada fortificada (a special fortified malted cereal that made the milk thick and delicious), cookies from Berta’s Russian friends, bananas, bread, and other snacks Tania could keep under her bed. Tania gave Maria two of the cans of condensed milk and some bananas. She wanted to share some of the other snacks, but Maria refused to take anything else.
We walked to the barracks, and I helped Tania put the food away under her bunk bed, where she kept all her belongings. I noticed her pile of soiled work clothes and offered to wash them to allow her to spend time with her sister. Later, when I rejoined the girls, Maria was no longer with them. Tania excused herself when she saw me. She was going to the barracks and would return soon. She brought back one of the cans of condensed milk I had brought her from home, already opened, and a spoon. Pressure-cooking had thickened the milk and changed its color. It looked like thick caramel. Tania scooped some and swallowed it with pleasure, while Lynette’s eyes followed the spoon as it went into her sister’s mouth full and came out empty. I had told her not to ask her sister for food because we had more at home.
Time went by too quickly. It would soon be time to go, so I left the girls together and went to speak to the director. A bald man with glasses came out from one of the buildings to speak to me, and I complained about the living conditions and requested an explanation as to why Tania was forced to work with pneumonia.
“Comrade, you don’t understand. The Department of Education has certain quotas that must be met. We cannot violate the existing procedures,” he explained.
I tried to reason with him, asked him if I could take Tania home for a few days until she recovered. It was not possible. She was required to stay in that hell hole regardless of her health.
Soon after sunset, the camp director announced over loudspeakers that visiting hours had ended and parents needed to leave. Before I left, I embraced Tania and held her close. She let me and did not push me away. I kissed her forehead.
“Please take good care of yourself. I’ll miss you,” I said.
“I’ll miss you too,” she said.
As Lynette and I walked away, I looked back a couple of times until I could no longer see Tania. She had stayed at the gate, watching as Lynette and I disappeared in the distance.
Lynette and I stood on the sidewalk in front of the school, facing the street where, as on other days, shirtless boys played catch with homemade balls. We were waiting along with dozens of other parents and relatives.
I was anxious. The forty-five days the students had spent away from home had taken a toll on Tania and her classmates. One of the students would not be returning. No one had noticed she was missing at first; her body was not found until hours after she had fallen to her death in a hole in the ground. Some had said that the hole, which was over forty feet deep, was covered with grass, making it difficult for her to see it. The little confidence I had about the safety of the camp had evaporated, and I could not wait to have Tania at home again.
At last, we saw a yellow bus turn the corner, windows down, students’ hands waving. Two more buses followed the first one, all full of students. I searched for Tania through the open windows, but I could not find her. Maybe she was on the opposite side. The buses parked and the first one was permitted to release its students. I rushed to them, my eyes scanning the teenagers who happily waved to their relatives; Tania was not among them. Then I heard her voice from inside the second bus: Mamá! I could not see her. The students began to pour from the second bus, their shoes spotted with red soil from the countryside. At last, Tania’s stick-thin figure appeared, her brown hair falling in natural waves over her shoulders.
Lynette and I rushed to her, barely allowing her to get out of the bus. I threw my arms around her, pressed my face against hers. “I missed you so much! Welcome home, my princess,” I said, taking her aback. “My princess” was what her father called her. Sometimes, the way she acted suggested she believed it. When she was nine, she told me she had found a tall boy in her class to carry her books for her during the eight-block walk home because they were too heavy. He had been doing this for several weeks when I found out. Other times, when she was typing a story, she would ask Lynette for a glass of water. Her sister would always protest: “I’m not your maid!” But she always brought her the water.
Tania and her sister embraced. Lynette called her “my little skinny sister!” making Tania laugh. As I looked at Tania, it was clear she had changed not only physically but in other ways: the confidence with which she smiled, the way she said, “One second. Let me say good-bye to my friends.” And then, the assertiveness of her steps as she returned. While we walked home, Tania looked around her as if she were looking at the neighborhood for the first time. She did not seem like the child who had left home forty-five days earlier. I watched my daughter proudly, and yet with sadness, realizing she was all grown up.
When Tania entered our house, Gustavo, Berta, her two daughters, and Antonio welcomed her with big smiles. I had planned a small welcome celebration. A week before, I had visited Arturo and his wife in Guira and had traded soap and other items for goods from his farm. I then prepared a feast of black beans, white rice, plantains, and chicken. Tania told me that having a warm, homemade meal after forty-five days of watery split-pea soup felt heavenly to her. I observed with pleasure as she devoured the entire meal in minutes. Everyone else was still eating when she finished and told me how delicious it was.
Then, we heard a knock. Tania jumped up and headed for the door. I heard it creak as it opened, and then a male voice. Moments later, Tania reappeared in the dining room with Antonio’s friend Roberto. Berta and Antonio acted surprised to see him and asked him to join us for lunch. At our insistence, Roberto sat down at the table, while Berta went to the kitchen to get him a plate. Roberto was dressed neatly, in a perfectly pressed white shirt and blue slacks, his hair combed tidily.
“Let me bring you a glass of water,” I said, and headed to the kitchen. Berta and I passed each other along the way. She carried a plate full of steaming black beans, white rice, chicken, and plantains and placed it in front of Roberto. Moments later, I brought him a tall, cold glass of water.
I had not seen Roberto very often since the day we crossed paths at Santa Maria Beach; the times I did see him, he and Antonio were either going over engineering projects or heavily engrossed in political discussions.
“Come, chico, eat,” Antonio said. “I’ve never known you to be shy.”
Roberto smiled and scooped a forkful of rice and beans into his mouth. He complimented the food and said he had not eaten that well in ages. We had a pleasant meal, except for Gustavo’s occasional misbehavior. He kept playing with his food, and I had to scold him a couple of times. He had a terrible appetite, which always made it difficult to find suitable food for him. The last thing I needed was to have Gustavo play with the food I had worked so hard to obtain.
“Have you heard from your wife and children lately?” I asked Roberto, trying to show some politeness. Until then, I had remained mostly quiet.
“She wrote recently. She and the children are fine. How about your husband?”
“He’s fine,” I said. “He sent me pictures of him at Disney World, a very pretty park in Florida.” Those were not the words I wanted to say, not the way they came out, full of resentment. Berta, noticing the course the conversation had taken, got up.
“Children, can you help me with the dishes?” Berta said.
My children followed her to the kitchen and Antonio took his daughters to the bathroom to wash their hands and faces. Now that Roberto and I were alone, I felt somewhat uncomfortable.
“Your husband seems to be enjoying himself, Laura. You should do the same,” Roberto said matter-of-factly.
“I don’t have time for myself. I have three children to worry about,” I said.
“Would you mind if I take you to a nice restaurant?” he said suddenly. “Please don’t say no. I know your position and respect it. Let’s go out as friends.”
“I don’t know,” I said. I remembered Berta’s words the day before, when I had been preparing Tania’s meal for the next day: Stop acting like Mother Theresa, live a little.
Taking advantage of my hesitation, Roberto moved to the chair next to me and asked me out again, acting more assertive than before. I wondered if Berta had planned this.
“I insist. Listen, I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at seven, and I will not take no for an answer,” he said.
I took a deep breath. What was wrong with going out to dinner after nine years alone? I did not understand why I was so hard on myself.
“Fine. We’ll go out, but only as friends. Agree?” I said. I accepted not because I really wanted to go, but out of compassion for Roberto, who was lonelier than me; after all, I had my children and my sister’s family. He had no one.
Roberto nodded in agreement, and I stood up.
“Where’s everybody?” I asked. “Let me go to the kitchen and see what’s going on.”
Berta was in the kitchen washing dishes. My girls and Gustavo were playing with their cousins in Berta’s bedroom, and Gustavo insisted in jumping on top of the bed to get Antonio’s attention, who was trying to read. Antonio had hardly managed to read a couple of pages when I walked in and told Gustavo to go play outside.
Moments later, Roberto and Antonio were reviewing some drawings over a cup of coffee, and then Roberto left.
The next day, he arrived promptly at 7 p.m. wearing a gray coat, white shirt, and black dress pants. I had explained to my children that Roberto and I were going out as friends, but my daughters thought otherwise.
Earlier, the girls had helped me select an outfit for that evening. I wore a simple, sleeveless black cocktail dress and black heels. Tania colored my hair blond to cover the white roots. The girls also insisted in setting my hair up in rollers. While they helped me get ready, I felt more like one of their school projects than their mother. The hair, the makeup. I was unrecognizable, and they seemed pleased with their work.
“You look beautiful.” Roberto said when I walked into the living room, with Tania and Lynette walking behind me.
“Thank you. You look very elegant yourself. The girls found this old dress,” I said, looking at my daughters and shaking my head. “I have not dressed up in so many years. I feel very uncomfortable. I can hardly walk on these heels anymore.”
“You truly look lovely tonight. Your daughters did a great job.” He smiled and the girls giggled. I kissed my daughters goodnight. Roberto and I went out to the front porch, where Berta and Antonio sat in the rocking chairs.
“Oh, my. You look great! You two have a lovely time,” Berta said. Antonio didn’t say anything. He just waved good-bye.
“So, where are we going?” I said as we walked down Zapote Street. The sun, setting in the west, had turned the afternoon a rich orange color.
“It’s a surprise. All I can tell you is that you will have a wonderful time.”
When we arrived at the bus stop, we took bus number 37. It was Sunday night, and we were lucky the bus wasn’t overly crowded. We stood for five minutes holding on to the metal railings until a couple of seats became available. We sat and spoke about the weather and our families, a comfortable conversation. Roberto got up at one of the bus stops in the El Vedado neighborhood.
“We are here,” he announced. The bus had stopped near 17th Avenue and M Street.
We exited the bus and had walked a few steps when he turned to me and asked politely, “Miss, may I escort you in?” He offered his right arm to me, and I took it. Soon, we were in front of the FOCSA building, a high-rise in El Vedado.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked.
“Just come with me. You’ll see,” he said. We walked in and entered the elevators. Roberto pressed key number 25.
The small, cozy, elevator was dimly illuminated by yellow lights. I felt a tickle in my stomach as it ascended to the twenty-fifth floor. When its single door opened, Roberto, my hand still on his arm, walked to the attendant who was standing at the entrance of the restaurant, a few feet from the elevator.
“I have reservations for two,” he said.
The attendant asked him for his name then said politely, “Welcome to La Torre Restaurant. Your reservation is ready. Someone will accompany you to your table shortly.”
My palms were sweating now. Everything around me seemed so luxurious. The panoramic views of Havana, visible through the glass walls of the restaurant, were breathtaking. I never knew Havana looked so beautiful at night. Its lights, unevenly distributed, died by the seawall, where the sky and water merged in infinite nothingness. Tall buildings with diverse styles of architecture, from neoclassical to baroque to colonial, stood majestically, defying their state of disrepair. Smaller buildings rested quietly in the distance, illuminated by yellow streetlights.
The idea of enjoying a meal at this very exclusive place made me uncomfortable, especially when I thought of my children. I could never afford to take them to such a place. Why would Roberto spend a small fortune to give me this pleasure? I took a deep breath. I needed to relax and enjoy myself.
A waiter dressed in a white jacket led us to a table with a view of the city. An exquisite white-linen tablecloth and a full set of shiny dinnerware adorned the square table, and a candle in a thick glass lantern burned slowly in the middle. The menu included a wide selection of international dishes. We took a few minutes to review it, then ordered our meal. Soft music played in the background as we engaged in lively conversation. I made him laugh with stories about my children. We spoke about places we had visited years before and about our career choices. We enjoyed being with each other.
At the end of the meal, the waiter asked us whether we wanted dessert. “No, thanks,” I said politely. I didn’t want Roberto to continue to waste his savings on me. He insisted, selecting a confection he thought I would enjoy made with honey, custard, and almonds. It was delicious. He had made me feel like a princess, and I could not thank him enough for the wonderful night.
When we left the restaurant, it was already past ten.
“Can we take a walk by the waterside?” he asked.
“It’s so late. I should go home,” I said, fearing what could happen if we found ourselves alone.
“Let’s have a short walk. You’ll enjoy it. I promise.”
I smiled and nodded my head.
We walked slowly toward the shore. The warm breeze and the smell of the salt of the sea relaxed me. A few lovers sat on the seawall contemplating the shoreline, perhaps dreaming. When we were finally in front of the immensity of the ocean, I closed my eyes to capture the moment. For a minute, I imagined a large ship rescuing me from the jail Cuba had become and taking me to the land beyond the sea.
“What are you thinking about?” He interrupted my thoughts.
“Oh, it’s nothing. I’m imagining what it would be like to cross those waters.” I smiled shyly.
“Do you miss him?” For the first time that night, he had brought up my husband.
“I do,” I responded with a tone of sadness.
“Do you think he loves you as much as you love him?”
I looked down. I didn’t want to answer that question. How could I? For nine long years, I had cried for him. Losing him to the claws of death would have been preferable to living my life separated from him. It would have been more definite, more conclusive. Year after year, he swore he loved me, but I had a hard time believing it whenever I pictured him in the arms of his lovers. Tears filled my eyes, and before I could contain myself, I sobbed uncontrollably.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said, as if afraid he had ruined my perfect evening. He gently placed his arms around me and kissed my hair.
“I have waited so long to be near you. For years, I have noticed your suffering, which was my suffering. I have watched you in silence. My desire to comfort you grew each time I saw you shed a tear for him,” he said.
He tenderly held my face between his hands and caressed me, as if trying to wipe away my sorrow. He was so close to me the air we breathed gently collided. I trembled with fear when I felt his touch. I feared letting go, losing control, allowing him to conquer my heart.
Finally, unable to contain himself, he kissed my lips passionately. I felt his warmth, his desperation. I surrendered myself to him at first, his body pressed against mine, his arms now firmly around my waist. As Roberto kissed me, I closed my eyes to convince myself it was Rio who was kissing me. I needed to believe it was him. The pleasure I felt terrified me. In a way, after so many years alone, the idea of being loved and desired by someone like this man appealed to me. Then I thought about my husband and the happy years we’d had. How could Roberto expect me to give him my heart when it belonged to someone else? Roberto had unknowingly brought me to the promenade by Havana’s waterfront, not far from the place where Rio had asked me to marry him—all I could think about was Rio.
“I can’t Roberto. I can’t.” I stepped back, freeing myself from his arms.
“Why? Why can’t you?” he asked.
“This was a mistake,” I said. “I never should’ve accepted your invitation.”
“No, it’s my fault. I’m sorry, Laura. I broke my promise. I thought I would be able to be near you and control my impulses. But there is a simple fact I have been denying myself. I love you,” he said.
“You can’t love me. Your loneliness is making you confuse your emotions. You have a beautiful family,” I said, wiping the tears from my face.
“At first I thought it was true. I thought I was confused. But no, not anymore. Tonight, as I watched you during our meal, I knew. Your eyes, your love for your family, and your loyalty to a man who doesn’t deserve you . . . I knew then I wasn’t confused.” A tear rolled down his cheek. “I am tired of being alone,” he said. “Aren’t you?”
“It’s best if we go now,” I said. “As much as I would like to love you, you know I can’t. Please understand.”
It was clear Roberto did not want to understand. We walked to the bus stop in silence, and remained like that until we arrived at my house.
“Thank you for the lovely meal. I enjoyed our time together,” I said. Then, noticing his sadness, I begged him, “Please, don’t be angry at me.”
“I’m not angry,” he said. “It’s not your fault. Good night.”
I said good night and watched him walk away with his head down. I waited until he disappeared in the distance.
From the moment I walked in, various clues told me the electricity must have been off for a while: the strong smell of kerosene throughout the house, the Chinese kerosene lamp on the dining-room table, the water gathering at the bottom of the old, green Frigidaire refrigerator. Before I had a chance to pour myself some water, the door to Berta’s room opened. She came out buttoning her light blue robe and yawning.
“Did you just get here?” Berta said, closing her door behind her and noticing the wind-up clock on the kitchen counter. It was almost midnight.
“Yes,” I said keeping my voice down.
“Let’s go into the living room,” my sister said. “I want to know how your date went.”
I whispered in her ear: “It wasn’t a date. Stop imitating my daughters.”
She glanced at me as if she did not believe it and signaled me to follow her to the living room. We sat on two chairs near the window, where the moonlight entered through the open shutters.
“Well, tell me. What happened?” Berta said. She acted like a teenager speaking to a friend.
“What do you want me to tell you?” I asked. “We had a nice dinner. That’s all.”
Berta knew me well. She only had to look at me to know when I was lying.
“Did he kiss you?” she asked.
“Am I being questioned?” I said. “Why do you think he kissed me? Is there something you know that I don’t?”
“Well. You know; men talk. I know he likes you. So, tell me. Did he?” Berta smiled with a naughty, almost juvenile expression. I took a deep breath.
“Yes, he kissed me,” I said, “but I stepped back. What kind of woman do you think I am?”
“The normal type,” said Berta, shrugging her shoulders.
“Berta, I’ll be frank with you,” I said. “When he kissed me, I didn’t expect it. It was so sudden. I can’t lie to you. I enjoyed it, in part because when I closed my eyes I imagined it was Rio who was kissing me. Besides, what do you expect? How many years has it been since I’ve felt the intimacy of a kiss? I don’t know what to tell you. He’s a good man. Under a different set of circumstances, I would definitely consider him as someone whom I could love one day. But I can’t, not now. My life is too complicated as it is. Besides, I love my husband.”
Berta shook her head and crossed her arms.
“I can’t believe this! Do you think that if you continue to tell yourself you love Rio, you will believe it?” asked Berta. “How can you love him after all these years, especially knowing he has lovers?”
“You know perfectly well the terms of those relationships,” I said. “Rio will never leave his family, not because of any woman. He treasures his children.” I paused and stayed silent for a moment. Pensively, I looked outside through the open shutters, then slowly turned back to Berta. “It’s ironic, you know? The only thing he ever wanted in life was to have a family. Since his father died, that’s all he dreamed of. And look at him now. His children are growing up without him.”
“Laura, you cannot destroy your life out of pity for him,” said Berta.
“It’s more than that,” I said. “Rio was abandoned once when his mother left him at the orphanage. I won’t do that to him. Call me irrational, but every time I look at my children, I see him in them. Something tells me that we will leave one day. The government is allowing people with relatives in the United States to leave. There is a long wait, I know. It may take months, even years. But if I’ve waited this long, why not wait a little longer? Do you think I want to see my children live and raise their families in a place like this? Look at poor Tania, forced to work in the fields away from us, and your husband, having to hide to listen to a radio station. Is that what you want for your children?”
“Fine, I understand your point,” said Berta. “I hate to see you sad all the time. You’re consuming your youth, and that’s not fair to you. What’s wrong with having a relationship with him now with the mutual understanding that one day you will leave? Isn’t that what your husband is doing?”
“I don’t want to break Roberto’s heart,” I said. “What if we fall in love? His family needs him. One day, he’ll leave too. He cannot trade his freedom for someone else, and neither can I.”
Berta yawned.
“I try and try, but I cannot fix the world,” she said. “Oh, well. I guess you have a point. Let’s go to bed. It’s getting late and we have to get up in a few hours. I’m glad you had a nice time. Good night, Laura.”
Berta went back to her room and I remained sitting by the open shutters. If that night had proven anything to me, it was that I would never leave Rio, no matter what. I owed it to my children to remain focused on leaving. I had discovered that human beings had tremendous capacity to adapt in order to survive. Roberto and I had demonstrated we were both survivors; our paths had crossed, but they had never been meant to grow together.
I picked up my fumigating equipment, like I did every day, and left my Miami apartment to go to work. When I sat inside my old blue Pontiac, I checked the list of clients I needed to visit that day and assigned each a number based on their location. I lived in the Hialeah area, and one of the houses on the list was about twenty-five miles away. I made sure I had enough materials given the size of this particular house.
I showed a friendly and happy façade to my customers, who often told me they enjoyed my sense of humor. I had discovered over the years that by telling myself I was happy, I could trick myself into believing it. Around noon, after completing some smaller projects, I arrived at the imposing residence, which, to me, looked more like a castle. It was a two-story white mansion with an elaborate red-tiled roof, an impressive fountain in the front, and a small lake on one of the sides. I noticed a mother duck and three ducklings coming out of the water. I stopped briefly to admire the birds, the beautiful gardens surrounding the lake, and the natural stone walkways. At the entrance of the house, three steps led up to a front porch. I did not know much about architectural styles, but the home looked like those I had seen in southern Spain when I ventured close to the Mediterranean Sea.
When I made it to the porch, a porter abruptly appeared and asked in a rude tone what I wanted. I said I had been sent by my employer to fumigate the house. The porter let me in, told me to start with the second floor, and led me to the stairs, all along looking at me with the face of someone who did not have many friends.
I walked toward the beautiful white-marble stairs with ornate, varnished wood railings that matched the ones I had seen at the entrance. When I arrived on the second floor, I noticed a long corridor with rooms at each side; I counted a total of eight. I could hear voices from inside some of the rooms. Discretely, I knocked at the door on my left and very soon a man appeared. I introduced myself and the man acknowledged he was expecting me. He was around forty-five, thin, fit, and dark-complected. He let me into the room. In front of me was a beautiful library: wall-to-wall books on one side, a dark wood executive desk, and two plush brown sofas with red throw pillows. I began to work and the man followed me.
“Are you Cuban?” he asked me.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
He was silent for a moment as he watched me apply the chemicals, then asked me if I had relatives in Cuba.
“Yes, my wife, three children, my mother, and several aunts and cousins. I have not been able to see them in almost ten years,” I said.
He wanted to know why my family and I were apart; I told him a summarized version, while I focused on my work. I finished spraying the room and entered a bathroom, which appeared to be of a Roman style. I had never seen such a beautiful bathroom before, and I had fumigated hundreds of homes. The man continued to follow me. I entered a spacious, well-organized walk-in closet that was the size of my apartment bedroom.
“Be careful with the clothes,” he warned me.
“No problem,” I said.
He asked me my name. I responded: “Rio, sir.”
He said he was Cuban, too. I did not say it, but he sounded South American to me. I was not sure from where in South America, but definitely not Cuba. I wondered if it was the slow, calculated manner in which he spoke, so different from the rapid-fire delivery of most Cubans.
“Rio, would you like to visit Cuba to see your family?” he asked. “I can tell you miss your wife and children.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “That is what I want most in my life, but going back is a dream. Until now, I could not visit, even if I’d had the money. As you know, Cubans were not allowed to go back. In the last couple of months, the viajes de la comunidad started, and people can go back to see their families again, but it’s very expensive. It will be a long time before I can save enough money.”
He looked at me with more curiosity than before, scratched his ear, and asked, “Is there a woman in your life here in the States?” I told him there was one when I lived in Jersey City. She was part of the past now. Nothing serious. I was lonely.
The more I talked, the greater his interest.
“Rio, sit down and stop walking with all that equipment,” he said.
He pointed to a red chair. Red was the predominant color throughout the house.
“I can’t sit down,” I said. “If I take too long, I will get fired.”
“Rio, sit down and listen to me,” he insisted. “When I’m done, you tell me yes or no.”
His words sparked my curiosity. I put down my equipment and sat where instructed, intrigued and nervous at the same time. Not that I had much of a choice. He did not look like the kind of guy who took no for an answer.
“Listen, Rio,” he said, looking me in the eye. He was clearly measuring my every move. “My wife is going to Cuba in March. I can’t go with her; I have a business to run. Besides, even if I did not have a business, I still couldn’t go back. The Cuban government would kill me. In 1961, I fought against Castro’s government at the Bay of Pigs. As you can understand, going back would mean a death sentence for me.”
I laughed and explained that I, too, had fought at the Bay of Pigs, but on the opposite side. At the time, I told him, I had fought for the Cuban government, but when I realized Cuba was turning to communism—or rather, its precursor, socialism—I decided the system was not for me. I enjoyed freedom too much.
“I was a kid back then and anxious to fight in a war,” I explained.
The man smiled. He understood. He said he knew Castro had fooled many people.
“Hey, Rio, I have not told you my name,” he said. “People call me ‘Meñique,’ you know, like the smallest of the fingers. People call me that because of my size, but don’t let that fool you. I’m very quick with my gun.” He paused, raised his shirt, and pointed with a chuckle to the piece he carried. “Don’t worry, I’m the best friend you can have. I can also be the worst of enemies.”
I was not sure where that was coming from. Did he want to help me or threaten me? Meñique paused for a moment. It was as if he was reading my reaction.
“Look, I know I talk too much, but I need you to understand who I am and where I’m going with this,” he said. “As I mentioned, my wife wants to go to Cuba and take our kids with her. She’s going to see her mother. I’m a very jealous man, but I want to make sure nothing happens to her. I’m not a very trusting man, but for some reason, I trust you. This is my proposal. You go with her, help her with the luggage and the kids. I’ll give you $300 for the passport and the visa. I will pay all your trip expenses and will give an additional $200 for your family. You will live here with us. I will hire you as my family’s bodyguard. There are two furnished bedrooms near the children’s room. You can pick one. I will give you one day off per week for your personal issues. Given that you do not have family in Miami, this arrangement should not be an issue.”
Meñique gave me additional instructions about where to go for the passport. I remained silent.
“Well, you’re not saying anything,” he said. “What do you think of my proposal?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “I’m confused and thankful at the same time. You don’t know me, and you are trusting me with your family?”
“I don’t need to know you to know I can trust you,” he said. “I only have to look a man in the eye to know what he’s thinking and who he is. After fighting at the Bay of Pigs, I went to a school to become a CIA agent; then I went to Vietnam, where I got shot. When I returned, I was disabled. Bay of Pigs hurt me physically and mentally, but Vietnam made me crazy. I take pills for my nerves. I’m much better now, but not completely. But enough about me. The point is, I know how to read into people. What do you think of my proposal?”
“Sir,” I said. “I have never been afraid of anything, nor do I have anything to lose.”
Meñique smiled. “I think you and I are going to be very good friends. I need you to give me your contact information. Let me bring the $300 for the passport.”
I stood up. “Well, I better finish the job,” I said.
“Don’t worry about finishing,” he said. “When you move, you can do the rest.”
I left the house with a big smile on my face, although deep down I was a little on edge, not knowing what to expect. The idea of seeing my family again after so many years wiped out any concerns about this unusual and unexpected arrangement. I did not know exactly when I was supposed to move. That detail had not been discussed. Everything had been so informal and sudden.
Afterward, I communicated by telephone with Meñique on a regular basis, keeping him informed of the progress on my travel arrangements. Jobs did not come easily, so I kept the one I had while I waited for the visa and my passport. One day, during one of my calls, he asked me when I was moving.
“Whenever you want,” I said.
“Tomorrow, then,” he said.
I quit my job. I was on a month-to-month rental and called the owner to tell him I was leaving. As for my personal belongings, I did not have anything worth saving that I could not fit into my car. I packed a few boxes that evening, and what I could not carry I gave to a charity.
When I arrived at Meñique’s house the next morning as agreed, he came down with his wife and twin boys. She was the typical Cuban woman, long black hair, curvy body, and provocative smile. She smelled of expensive perfume and wore three elaborate gold bracelets around her wrist. She looked like a goddess. Behind her, the two boys, black-haired like their parents, laughed and played with each other.
“Rio, this is my wife, Vanessa,” Meñique said. “You’re welcome to anything in this house except for her. She’s mine, and whoever tries to put a finger on her is dead.” He said this jokingly, but I knew he meant it. “José, come over and help him with his things. Rio’s moving with us.”
José appeared, and I recognized him immediately. He was the porter or security guard (I was not sure) whom I had met the first time I visited the house. His salt-and-pepper hair and the wrinkles around his eyes told me he was probably in his fifties. My eyes briefly focused on a long scar on his neck that I had not noticed when I first met him. He looked at me with untrusting eyes and reluctantly took two of my bags to carry them upstairs.
I was assigned a bedroom with two windows overlooking the front of the house. The room was huge, double the size of the room in my apartment. It was like a studio, with a queen-size bed, a reclining chair, a television set, wood floors, and a private bathroom.
When I looked out the window of my new room, and then at the gun I now carried, I realized that a new chapter of my life was starting. I was not sure what to expect.
When I lived in Meñique’s house, he was sometimes visited by men in Armani suits, dark glasses, and expensive cologne. They locked themselves in the library and stayed there, sometimes up to a couple of hours. I wondered what went on behind those closed doors, but I minded my own business. My job was easy. I accompanied Vanessa and the kids to the store and the movies, or stayed home with the children if Meñique and Vanessa went out. I watched those children like a hawk. Nothing went on around them that I did not know about.
Like typical five-year-olds, Henry and Ronnie were full of energy; but they were afraid of clowns. I learned this when their mother hired one for their birthday party but had to send him away shortly after he arrived. As soon as the boys saw the clown’s red hair and painted face, they ran upstairs to their bedroom, hid under their beds, and refused to come out, no matter how much their mother talked to them. She asked me to come upstairs to see if I could convince them to get out from under the bed. I sat on the floor between their beds and reassured them everything was going to be okay. “Come on. I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” I said. Moments later, on either side of me, I saw their legs come out from underneath the bed, followed by the rest of them. They did this in a coordinated fashion, as if they had planned their exit. They both walked up to me and hugged me, almost at the same time.
From then on, Henry and Ronnie began to call me Uncle Rio. After I left Spain, I had never imagined I’d be a baby-sitter again, but I was paid well and could not complain. As time passed, Henry and Ronnie became closer to me, which gave me a sense of how life would have been if I had been able to raise my son. Being in their company made me think about Gustavo and my daughters. It angered me sometimes that I was caring for children who were not my own, but I could not let these thoughts affect me. I was on a job that required all of my focus. I needed to protect this family, although from what, I was not sure.
Meñique was a simple and generous man with a wife who ensured everything marched to perfection. Every day, two women came to the house: one to clean and another to cook. Vanessa made the boys clean up after themselves and was a calming influence on her husband whenever something angered him. Meñique occasionally played chess with me after the children went to sleep, and we talked about the Bay of Pigs and Cuba. One day, we went to the gun range together. The way he nodded when I hit the center of my target repeatedly told me he was impressed with my skills.
“When you get back from Cuba,” he said after we left the gun range. “Let’s talk. There is something important I need to tell you. I know I can trust you.”
I was not sure how to respond, but I nodded.
A month later, the day I so anxiously awaited arrived. It was March 31, 1979. It had been almost three months since the last time I had spoken to Laura. I tried to call a couple of times, but she worked so many hours each day, we could never connect. I left messages with the woman of the CDR at first, then decided to stop trying to reach her. It was better if I surprised her.
When Vanessa, the boys, and I left the house that morning, a driver waited for us outside to take us to Miami International Airport. He opened the passenger door for Vanessa. The children sat in the back with me. As we drove away, I noticed a car following us, the same car that followed Vanessa and her husband when they went out. I kept an eye on our surroundings, especially during traffic stops. Not having my gun with me had me on edge.
Traffic was heavy on our way to the airport and the rain was not helping, but we made our flight on time. When we boarded the plane, Vanessa and her children sat in the same row, next to each other. I sat across the aisle. A man who seemed to be in his twenties sat next to me. I had noticed him staring at me earlier, before we boarded the plane; now he was staring again.
“Your face is familiar,” he finally told me. “At first I wasn’t sure how I knew you, but now I believe I remember.”
He paused for a moment. “Are you Cuban?” he asked. I nodded. I looked at him, trying to figure out if I knew him, but nothing registered. He had dark brown hair and brown eyes, and was dressed in a long-sleeved white shirt and dark blue trousers. No tie.
“I hope I don’t make a fool of myself,” he said. “Ten years ago, at the airport in Havana, do you remember giving up your seat to a boy?”
I smiled sarcastically and said, “How can I forget?” I scratched my arm. All of a sudden, I had this urge to scratch myself. Probably my nerves.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“My family and I have spent over ten years apart because of what I did,” I said pensively.
He looked at me with hesitation. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. I’m very sorry,” he said.
“Why would you be sorry?” I asked, then I looked at him again, at the familiarity with which he looked at me and added, “Wait it minute. Was it you?”
“Yes, I am that boy you helped ten years ago,” he said. “My name is Rodolfo. My mother’s name is Ana. Remember her?”
I nodded. “What are the chances?” I said, truly surprised. I shook his hand and told him my name.
“I cannot thank you enough for what you did, but I too have not seen my mother for over ten years,” he said. “I grew up with my aunt and uncle in Miami; they were like parents to me. They sent me to the University of Miami to study Electrical Engineering. Now that Cubans can go back, at last, I can see my mother again. My life would not be what it is today without your help.”
I looked at Vanessa and the children. The boys were coloring and Vanessa had her eyes closed, so I went back to my conversation with Rodolfo.
“Does your mother know you’re coming?” I asked.
“I’m surprising her,” he said. “What about your wife?”
I explained she did not know I was coming either. I took a deep breath and thought about the day I had given up my seat to a much younger version of this young man during my initial attempt to leave Cuba, and about everything that had happened afterward. For years, I had played that moment over and over in my head, full of regret. My unselfish act had hurt the people I loved most. I had been angry at myself all these years, and now, I was not sure how I felt.
“I have a favor to ask,” he said. “Would you mind if my mother and I visited you and your family? I would like to thank your wife in person. It is not every day that one gets the opportunity to thank someone for changing his life.”
“That isn’t necessary,” I said, “but if the two of you want to stop for coffee, that’s fine. Where in Havana does she live?”
“Santos Suarez, very close to Santos Suarez Park,” he said. “Are you familiar with that area?”
“Today must be a day for coincidences,” I said. “My family lives on Zapote, between Dureje and Serrano streets. Do you know that area?”
He did. We exchanged personal information. There was not enough time to do much else. Our flight from Miami to Havana was short. When we arrived, I first accompanied Vanessa and the children to her parents’ home in El Vedado, then took a taxi to the house in Santos Suarez. I had two pieces of luggage full of gifts for the family.
I was anxious, especially as the cab approached the Santos Suarez neighborhood. When I looked around me, the area seemed smaller, more run down. Wood trusses supported some of the front-porch ceilings. It was nighttime when I finally arrived at the house on Zapote Street, and the front porch lights were on. On the porch, I noticed two old rocking chairs with peeling green paint. I remembered the times I had sat on this porch with Tania on my lap and Laura next to me. Over ten years had passed, time I would never recover.
I knocked on the door, not knowing what to expect. Moments later, the door opened and a shoeless teenage girl with long, brown hair appeared. I recognized her right away and my eyes filled with tears, but I reminded myself I needed to keep it together.
“Is your mom there?” I asked.
She looked at me briefly, realizing who I was, but like me, not knowing how to react. She slowly opened the door.
“Mamá, there is a man here asking for you,” she said, carefully measuring every word, as if she were speaking in slow motion.
Laura was lying on the sofa watching the black-and-white television set with my children. She did not look toward the front entrance and continued to concentrate on the program.
“Do you know what he wants?” asked Laura. Now Lynette and Gustavo were standing and looking in my direction.
“Mamá, you should come over,” Tania said, using the same slow delivery as before.
Laura mumbled something I could not understand, put on her shoes and looked toward the door. Our eyes met for a few seconds, seconds that moved very slowly. Neither of us could believe we were in each other’s presence. For a moment, I thought I was dreaming or that I was on a movie set. Here, in this modest living room, was everything I had ever wanted in my life, and I could not move. I was frozen. Suddenly, Laura screamed my name and fainted. I dropped my luggage and rushed to her side. Tania ran toward the back of the house and returned moments later with a glass of water for her mother. As Laura took sips of the water, all she could do was repeat, “It can’t be true; it can’t be true.”
“It is true! I’m home,” I said.
We both cried, laughed, and kissed. The children stood by us, watching this stranger kiss their mother. At last, when Laura recovered from the shock, she said, “Rio, these are your children. Tania, Lynette, Gustavo, this is your father!” I embraced each one of them, all of us with tears in our eyes. I was finally home.
Word spread throughout the neighborhood quickly and, within minutes, my house was full of neighbors who took every empty space in the living room and most of the front porch, making me feel like a museum piece.
I looked at my children, whom I had seen in the pictures their mother sent me. Nothing felt real. I could not believe how much they had grown: Tania had just turned fourteen. She was thin, too thin. Lynette was almost thirteen and heavier than her sister, and Gustavo eleven. He was thin, but not as thin as Tania, and looked a lot like I did when I was his age, except that his skin was lighter, like his mother’s. Gustavo would not let go of my hand. He looked at me with proud eyes and dragged me outside, pushing his way through the sea of neighbors.
“Come over here, Papá,” he said.
Hearing him call me “Papá,” in person, felt much better than hearing that word over the telephone. The way his eyes glowed made me feel like I was the richest man in the world. I followed him to the front porch. The neighbors surrounded us. When we were in the middle of the crowd of more than fifty neighbors, he raised my left arm and said, with a mixture of tears and a smile, “You see? I have a dad! This is my dad!”
I embraced him and said. “It is true, my son. You have a dad who loves you more than anything in the world.”
It felt good to be home with my family. Berta, my sister-in-law, came to greet me and introduced me to her husband, Antonio, and their two children.
“At last!” Antonio said with a friendly smile. “The man of the hour! Chico, I’m glad you’re finally here. It’s about time!”
I laughed, shook his hand, and thanked him for caring for my family. He had been like a father to my children; in a sense, he had been their father. As soon as he married Berta, he had inherited my three children. I am sure this was not what he had in mind, but he had treated my children like his own, and that, I would never forget.
After the neighbors went home, our entire family sat in the living room and talked until midnight. Berta and her family went to bed first. My children then followed, and Laura and I stayed in the living room alone, which gave us the chance to speak more privately. We were older now; Laura was almost forty and I was forty-two, and time had changed us. Laura was no longer the innocent, idealistic woman I had left. Her long, black hair had turned completely white during my absence, but her daughters convinced her to bleach it and cut it shoulder-length. Her skin was tanned from walking four to five miles every day to pick up money from the grocery stores assigned to her. Some wrinkles had begun to appear, although I had more wrinkles than she did. But she was still beautiful; my children were beautiful, and on this day, my life was complete.
I turned off the lights in the living room and opened the shutters slightly to let the glow of the moon in. We sat next to each other on the sofa and held hands.
“I still can’t believe you’re here,” she said, caressing my hand. “I was not prepared. I look horrible! No makeup, my hair is a mess, and my nails, they look awful!”
“I like you just the way you are now. You don’t need to hide behind makeup.”
I caressed her hair, kissed her soft cheeks, her lips.
“Thank you for waiting for me and for raising our children,” I said.
“You should thank me,” she said, crossing her arms.
“I know, I know. You had a very heavy burden. I’m sorry I was not here to help you.”
We embraced each other in silence. After a few moments, she said: “There is something I don’t understand. How you were able to get the money to come to Cuba? I hear it is very expensive.”
“I will tell you all about it tomorrow,” I said. “Now, I just want to enjoy this moment with you.” I stroked her face gently and she smiled. Another quiet moment of contemplation followed as we looked at each other, not with the discomfort of a first date, but with soothing reassurance and the calm of a mature couple brought closer together by hardship.
“All these years, I have kept every letter you have sent,” she said.
“Me too, not only your letters, but all the stamps. I have a big collection.”
We both laughed.
“I’m sorry,” said Laura, “I know I wrote often. I didn’t want you to miss anything about the lives of the children.”
“Your letters kept me going. I’m glad you sent them,” I said, pausing briefly. “About my life, I hope you know that no matter what happened, you are the only woman I love.”
Laura lowered head for a moment, then she slowly raised it and looked into my eyes.
“Rio,” she said. “Some things should remain unsaid. The fact that you are here with your family and didn’t move on with your life is enough for me.”
“I don’t deserve you, but I’m thankful you are my wife and the mother of my children. But enough about all that serious stuff. I think you and I have some catching up to do.”
Laura looked at me inquisitively. “I don’t like the way that sounds. What are you up to now?” she said playfully.
I stood up, lifted her in my arms, and carried her to our bedroom. She protested and asked me to put her down, while she tried to contain her laughter, afraid the children would see us. When we were behind closed doors, we once again started where we had left off over ten years before, as husband and wife, and lost ourselves in each other’s arms, this time with the desperation of a reignited passion, like a fire out of control. Just like that, with the passion born out of true love, we gave ourselves fully to one another, in heart and soul.
Rio whispered some words I could not hear to a man who worked at the hotel, slipped a five-dollar bill into the man’s shirt pocket, and signaled us to follow him to the elevator.
“You can only visit the room for a few minutes,” Rio told the children once the elevator doors closed. We did not understand why at first. The elevator door opened on the third floor, and we walked quietly down a long, beige-tiled corridor. Rio stopped in front of the last door and opened it. When we entered, he explained in a low tone of voice that the government required Cubans visiting their families to book a room, regardless of whether they intended to use it. No local Cubans were allowed in visitors’ rooms.
“So, Papá,” Tania said in a sarcastic tone of voice. “Does that mean we are not good enough just because we happen to live in Cuba? Are they afraid we’ll infect the room with fleas?”
Rio and I looked at each other and remained silent. Lately, Tania had traded her previous shyness for a “take-no-prisoners” demeanor. She had few filters and little patience for nonsensical government rules. This scared me; if she spoke like this in front of other people, she could be labeled an antirevolutionary—another reason why it was important for us to leave Cuba.
Rio changed the subject. “Well, what would you like to eat?”
He sat on the bed and Tania sat next to him. Lynette and Gustavo could not stay still and they turned each of the lamps in the room off and on, opened and closed every drawer, turned on the color television and stood in front of it in awe. This was the children’s first visit to a hotel, and they had seen a color television only once before, when the neighbor across the street, who was of Mexican origin and the wife of a world-renowned songwriter, invited them in for some cookies.
“Spaghetti,” my oldest daughter replied with a look of boredom. My other children agreed.
“Are you serious?” he said. “Don’t you want a steak? I wait over ten years to see my family, wanting to give you the best, and you want spaghetti?”
The children shook their heads, almost in unison, Tania with disgust. They did not care for steak; they hardly ate it, and when it was available, we did not have appropriate condiments. They loved spaghetti because the only times we could afford to go to a restaurant, we visited the Pizzería Sorrento in Santos Suarez, a few blocks away from the house. They loved the spaghetti there and could never have enough of it.
“Okay then,” he said. “Spaghetti it is. Let’s go to the hotel restaurant. I will order spaghetti with ham and lots of cheese.”
Gustavo opened his eyes wide when Rio described what he was planning to order, and Rio laughed and patted him on the back. We spent a few more minutes in the room and went downstairs for lunch. When we arrived at the hotel restaurant, I noticed we were the only customers there. The maître d’ promptly took us to our table. While Rio ordered our drinks, my eyes remained focused on the aqua-green waters of the beach, visible through a long row of large glass windows. I was lost in thought looking at the ocean and did not pay attention to what Rio was ordering. Moments later, the young male waiter returned holding a large round tray with a mojito for Rio, a piña colada for me, and soda for the children. Rio watched my expression and smiled mischievously when the waiter placed my drink in front of me. I shook my head—over fourteen years had passed, and he still remembered the drinks we ordered on our first date.
Our waiter remained standing in front of us after serving our drinks and curiously looked at Rio, at first with an awkward silence. Moments later he asked, “Are you from the United States?”
Rio nodded. The waiter smiled and his eyes sparkled. “You’re lucky,” he said. “Is this your family?”
“Yes. This is my wife, Laura, and my children, Tania, Lynette, and Gustavo. I had not seen them in over ten years. I just arrived yesterday,” said Rio.
The waiter signaled to two other restaurant workers, who were standing around waiting for customers, to come over, and he related our story to them. They asked Rio questions about life in the United States. As Rio talked about New York City and Miami, they seemed intrigued and excited at the same time. The familiarity with which Rio spoke to the restaurant workers caused them to treat us with excellent care. The waiter served each of my children a mountain of spaghetti topped with melted cheese, chunks of ham, and red sauce. Rio and I each had bistec a la milanesa, and each of us gave a piece of our steak to the children. They ate everything we gave them.
Once we had finished our lunch, Rio paid a cab to take us to his mother’s house in Marianao, one of Havana’s municipalities. She knew we were coming and was preparing dinner: her signature yellow-rice-and-chicken dish with fried plantains, a favorite of my children. She lived in a small, white, two-bedroom / one-bathroom home surrounded by a small parcel of land that wrapped around the front and side of the house. She had planted a row of roses near the entrance, and around the house, she had planted plantain, mango trees, and anything her land could bear, making the best use of the available space. My children always said that her yard looked like a forest, and they loved visiting their grandmother and playing hide-and-seek under her trees. A resourceful woman, accustomed to being on her own, she traded the roses and plantains she grew in her garden for chickens and rice.
Rio looked at me nervously when the cab left us in front of his mother’s house. He slowly walked toward the gate, opened it, and had only walked a few steps when his mother, who had seen him from her window, ran out toward him. Rio smiled when he saw her. Mother and son embraced.
“I missed you so much!” she said with tears in her eyes. “You don’t know how much I prayed for you, Rio. I am so thankful you’re here, son.”
She kissed him, and he kissed her as he wiped a tear from his face. We went in, and she showered Rio with her attention. “Sit down, son. Let me bring you some coffee, or do you prefer water?” Rio told her not to worry; he drank coffee at the hotel.
Moments later, she excused herself and told Rio she was going next door to tell her sister and her family he had arrived. She returned with six relatives: her sister Consuelo and Consuelo’s husband, daughter, son-in-law, and two young granddaughters. While Consuelo’s family greeted Rio, Mayda went to the kitchen to check on the rice. Lynette followed to watch her cook. Her home smelled of sweet plantains and spices. Rio brought tables and chairs from his aunt’s house, his uncle gave him half a dozen beers to share between the two of them, and around seven that evening, we had a wonderful family meal. Rio ate, drank, and made jokes. In a strange way, it was as if no time had passed.
Later that evening, when we returned home and cuddled in bed, he said: “This has been the best day of my life.”
Almost every day during Rio’s stay, we visited relatives or stayed home together, playing board games or watching television. The children loved to wear the clothes their father had brought them, especially the girls, who enjoyed modeling their dresses in front of the bedroom mirror. I asked Tania to save some of her dresses for her fifteenth birthday celebration.
I wondered how Rio was able to spend so much money on the children. His fumigation job did not pay well. After I asked him a couple of times how he had found the money for the trip, Rio told me he was working for a wealthy man doing security work. Rio was well paid, and he had accompanied the man’s wife and children on this trip.
“What type of business does he have?” I asked. He said he was not sure. The evasive way in which he talked about his new job made me suspect its legitimacy. I could not get that thought out of my head.
On the fifth evening following Rio’s arrival, the children, Rio, and I were sitting around the dining-room table playing dominos with a new set Rio had brought from the Unites States when someone knocked at the door. It was past 9 p.m. and Berta and her family had already gone to bed. It was unusual for someone to visit our house that late. Intrigued, I walked past the living room to the front door, opened it slowly, and peeked out.
“Good evening,” said a young man with brown hair and brown eyes. “I hope I have the right house. Are you related to Rio Valdes?”
“I’m his wife,” I said.
“I’m sorry I came this late. I need to speak to him,” he said.
The way he was dressed, in a long-sleeved white shirt and dark blue pants, and the way he spoke Spanish—with careful pronunciation, not fast like Cubans spoke, so fast that they left foreigners’ heads spinning even if they thought they knew Spanish—all this told me he was not a local Cuban. I asked him to come in and sit down. When I returned with Rio, Rio seemed pleased to see him.
“I’m glad you could make it. Rodolfo, right?” asked Rio.
He nodded.
“Let me get you some coffee,” Rio said.
“No, please, it’s not necessary. I’m only here for a few minutes,” Rodolfo said solemnly.
Rio introduced me to Rodolfo, the young man who had unwittingly been the reason for our long separation. Rio had told me about him a couple of days before, and I did not feel resentful. He had been just a child, and none of us could have anticipated what happened later.
“I thought your mom was supposed to come with you. What happened?” Rio asked.
Rodolfo looked down. “She’s dead,” he said.
I slightly opened my mouth in shock and put my left hand over my chest.
“Oh my! What happened?” I asked.
Rodolfo did not respond at first, and I saw his eyes glisten with sadness. I sat next to him and embraced him. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said. I patted him on the back.
His eyes were fixed on the floor for a while and finally he said, “She was buried two days ago.”
Rio and I remained silent. Rodolfo took a long, deep breath. “If I had only told her I was coming, she would be alive.”
Rio and I exchanged glances. We now understood.
“How did it happen?” I asked.
He told us. After Rodolfo left, and his mother, Ana, had learned she could not leave Cuba once Castro prohibited emigration, she went through periods of depression. She tried to maintain a positive outlook about the possibility of reuniting with her son one day, but as the months turned into years, she lost all hope. She turned to alcohol. Two days before Rodolfo was scheduled to arrive, she jumped off a third-story balcony to her death. Rodolfo had arrived just in time for her funeral.
Rio once told me there was a saying in the United States: “No good deed goes unpunished.” I had never heard that phrase in Cuba, even though Cubans have tons of other sayings. We live by them. This one bothered me, not only as someone with a Catholic upbringing who was always taught to help others, but because in Cuba we had a very different one, which I lived by: “Ház bien y no mires a quién.” This does not translate well into English, but “Do well without regard of whom you help” may be one way to translate it. The point is that there, in front of Rio, were the products of his “good” deed.
We stayed up late talking to Rodolfo. We asked him if he wanted to sleep on our sofa, but he told us he would go back to his hotel and wait for the day of his flight.
That was the last time we saw him.
The two weeks that Rio was supposed to be in Cuba went by very quickly. On the day before he was scheduled to leave, Rio made a decision. “I’m not leaving,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“No, I’m not leaving. If my family cannot be with me in the United States, I will stay here.”
We argued. I told him he could not do that, the government would not allow it; he could go to jail. In no uncertain terms, he said, “I’m not going to the airport tomorrow.”
Later that day, Rio called Vanessa and shared his plan with her. She understood and said she would do the same if she were in his place. Rio told her to thank her husband and to apologize to him. She assured him she would take care of everything.
I had mixed feelings about Rio’s decision. I was happy Rio was home, but I did not want to give up the only opportunity I had to take our children out of Cuba. Their futures depended on that. I was afraid for Tania, in particular. She personified the “antirevolutionary” spirit. Her writings were becoming increasingly incriminating of the communist system. In one of her poems, titled “A Foreigner in my Land,” she wrote:
Tía Berta works for the Russians.
“It’s a secret,” she tells me.
She designs their houses.
New houses, not like the one
Where we live, with its peeling walls
And forgotten paint.
Beautiful houses like those
In the North-American movies we seldom see.
Today, Tía Berta brought home perfume
And a box of cookies.
A Russian woman gave them to her.
Delicious cookies! Make my mouth water
When I think of them.
I wish I were Russian.
Poems like these were dangerous. Castro had jailed many writers for writing negative things about the government. I decided not to tell Rio about my fears, in part because I did not believe his plans to stay would be successful.
The day of the return flight arrived and true to his word, he did not leave. When two days later nothing had happened, the children were joyful, thinking their father would be able to stay. Before lunchtime on the third day, however, as I had anticipated, their happiness ended. An official car stopped in the front of our house.
Moments later, I heard a knock on the door. When I opened it, two officers in green uniforms, with holstered guns, stood in front of me. One of the men was plump with salt-and-pepper hair, the other much younger with shiny black hair.
“Is Rio Valdes here?” the younger man asked.
I nodded.
“We need to talk to him,” he said.
Rio was in our bedroom and came out in his white undershirt to talk to them.
“I’m Rio. Is there a problem?” he said, knowing full well there was.
“You’re in this country illegally,” the younger man said. “We’re here to take you with us.”
The men wanted to know why he had not left as scheduled. He explained the reasons. Lynette and Tania, who were helping me set the table for lunch, walked into the living room when they heard the exchange and stood there, Tania looking at the officers with an angry, unrelenting stare. Lynette lowered her head and her normally cheerful expression changed to sadness.
“We’re sorry, compañero. You can’t stay,” said the older man. “Pack up your things now and come with us.”
Our son dashed out of his room when he heard what was going on and ran to his father. He threw his arms around his waist and held him tightly.
“Please don’t take my dad! Please don’t take him,” he cried.
The younger officer pulled Gustavo away abruptly, held Gustavo’s arms behind his back, and said authoritatively: “Stop interfering! Your father is coming with us.”
Gustavo, with eyes full of tears, kept begging the officers not to take his father. Lynette wept with emotion now; Tania remained angry and wiped a solitary tear from her face. Rio asked the officers politely to set Gustavo free.
“I will go with you after I talk to my son,” he said.
The officer let Gustavo free, and Rio and his son embraced.
“That’s okay, son,” Rio said as he patted him on his back. “I’ll take care of everything, you’ll see. Please take care of your mother and your sisters. Don’t forget. You’re the man of the house now.” Rio paused for a moment when Gustavo started to weep again, this time with more emotion. “Come on, wipe those tears off your face. Men don’t cry. Look at me. No more tears! I will go with these men now.”
Rio stepped away from Gustavo and went to our bedroom for a shirt, his personal documents which he kept in a brown leather bag, and a small suitcase with some of his clothes—but not all. He told me to sell the rest to help with household expenses. The men followed him. Moments later, the officers, one on each side, took Rio away and the children watched their father leave their lives once again.
When I woke up, I was in a hospital in Miami. I wasn’t sure why at first, and I had a terrible headache. My right arm was sore from the IV hooked up to it, and my legs were uncomfortably warm from the sun filtering in through the partially opened window shades.
A nurse walked in and noticed I was awake.
“You’re finally back with us, Mr. Valdes. Good morning!” she said with a friendly smile.
My head was a little foggy and the brightness in the room bothered my eyes.
“What happened to me?” I asked.
“You fell and hit your head. You had a very high blood-alcohol level when you were brought in,” she said.
She placed a gray blood-pressure cuff around my left arm. With the stethoscope’s earpieces in her ears, she placed the round metal end under the cuff and squeezed the pump several times. She then allowed it to deflate slowly.
I was confused at first about what had happened, but then I slowly started to piece my memories together. After the Cuban government officers picked me up at our Zapote Street house, they took me to a building where I was questioned for several hours. They thought I was an American spy and wanted to know who my contacts were in the United States. They did not want to believe that the only reason I had stayed was to be with my family. Quite frankly, with so many Cubans crossing the Florida Straits and risking their lives to leave Cuba, who in their right mind would want to go back? After unsuccessful attempts to get a confession, they took a different approach. They brought me a bottle of rum and told me that drinking it would help me feel better about leaving my family. They probably thought that getting me drunk would loosen my tongue and make me come clean about my true intentions. Still, I drank. I wanted to forget. I remembered being inside the plane later and asking for more drinks. Everything was a blur after that.
“I need to go,” I said.
The smile disappeared from the nurse’s face as she replied, “I’m sorry, Mr. Valdes. You need to wait for the doctor to release you first.”
“No, I need to go now,” I said. “Unhook me or I will do it myself!”
I called Vanessa before I left the hospital and explained I was coming back. She said she would talk to her husband. When I arrived, Meñique and Vanessa were not at home. I went to my room and lay down. I still had a headache. I must have dozed off for a while; I was awakened by a knock at the door, followed by a voice that called my name. I was still half-asleep and could not make out whose voice it was. “Come in,” I said.
Meñique, Vanessa, and their children entered, the couple wearing expensive blue jeans and red tops, the boys in beige pants and blue polo shirts. The children, happy to see me, jumped on me and hugged me. Meñique shook my hand. “Welcome back, brother.”
I thanked him for all he had done for me, but he seemed to notice my sadness.
“Come on, Rio,” he said. “Cheer up. You’ll see them again soon.” He paused briefly and handed me a small bottle of pills. “Here, I take these myself. Take two, rest for a couple of days, and don’t think about anything else. You will see things differently tomorrow.”
At Meñique’s house, I felt the affection of a brother. The children loved me like an uncle, and his wife was very fond of me. Out of respect for her husband, of course, I kept my distance. A week after my return from Cuba, Meñique called me to his office. He sat behind his desk and asked me to sit down.
“Look Rio, I know you have seen a lot of movement in my house, and that you suspect something is going on,” he said. “I have not come clean with you, but it is time I do.”
He paused and rubbed his face. He seemed preoccupied. I was worried about what he was about to tell me. True, I was curious, but sometimes, it was better not to know certain things.
“Listen,” he said as he looked into my eyes, the same way he did when he had first met me, as if he were trying to read me. His elbows were on his desk, his fingers crossed below his chin.
“I have a business that is not exactly what you would call legal,” he said. My fears were about to be realized. I mentally braced for his next words. “I deal in narcotics.” These words echoed in my ears as he continued. “I hired you because I thought you had all the qualities I needed for someone who would live with my family, in my home, and could protect my wife and children when I am out on business. You are an expert shot, a good man, honest, discrete. You have cojones and are as crazy as I am. I know you like adventures, except that this is not an adventure. It is reality. Now that you know about this, if you want to leave, you can go through that door, and we will never see each other again, but it is important I tell you that this is when I need you the most.”
Meñique stood, served himself and me some scotch. I stayed silent and sipped at my drink.
“Police know a lot about the people that I am in business with, and for the first time in my life, I’m afraid,” he said. “What do you think of all this? Can you help me? Are you in?”
He looked into my eyes.
“Yes, I’m in,” I said without hesitation. I knew he expected nothing less. A man like him would not just let me walk away.
“Look, I need you to take the children to school. I don’t have money to pay all the men who watch the outside of the house anymore. I will keep two porters and you. I have a lot of money in foreign banks, but I can’t make any movement of cash now. The police are investigating the banks. Some people owe me money, but they left Miami. I’m fucked.”
I told him that I would care for his family, but I was very worried. I’d had a lot of adventures in my life, but nothing like this. I returned to my room and searched for the bottle of pills he had given me when I returned from Cuba and took two. I did not want to make a decision with my nerves on edge.
I was conflicted and, for the first time in my life, afraid. I had seen a lot of movies about narco-trafficking and I had an idea what I would be exposed to. Part of me hated the idea that Meñique was dealing in something as damaging to families as narcotics. At the same time, I wanted to help the only person who believed in me, who had helped me when I’d had no one. Now that he did not have access to money, I could not just walk away.
About a month later, in early May, the economic situation at the house worsened. I told him that I would continue to live there but I that would find a job to help out. Vanessa began to drive the kids to school and pick them up herself. They needed to cut expenses. I went to work in construction a few miles away from the house. The construction job paid well and I gave Meñique $100 every week to help out.
One day, he called me and asked me to begin to sleep with my revolver near me. He had pressured someone who had returned to Miami and owed him money. He and this man had a disagreement that had almost ended in a shootout. He knew how these arguments typically ended among the people he dealt with, and he was afraid for his family.
“If something happens to me, please help my wife and children. They should be fine economically. I have my pension from the veterans, but they will need to sell the house.”
I did not like to hear what I was hearing.
I thought about Laura. She had never been convinced that the wealthy man who had funded my trip to Cuba made his money through honest means. After I left Cuba, every time we spoke over the telephone, she kept asking about the nature of his business. I had told her the truth during one of our telephone conversations. “I will not accept filthy money in this house. I don’t care if we starve. You quit that job now!” she said. She had never spoken so sternly before. She did not realize this was not a business where one could just walk away.
*****
I was at work when the Miami Dade police came to the construction company and asked for me. My fears had been realized: Meñique had stopped for a cup of Cuban coffee at a cafeteria on Miami’s Calle Ocho (8th Street) when some men drove by and fired into the establishment. The police asked me to come in for questioning; I told them what I knew, which was not much. Despite my disagreement with Meñique’s life in narco-trafficking, I thought of him as a friend and was devastated about the news of his passing. But I also realized this was my way out.
As I had promised Meñique, I stayed at the house and helped Vanessa while she sold it and moved to Coral Gables. She and the kids were inconsolable. I helped them as much as I could, but one day, after she had settled into the new place, she called me. She wanted to see me. It had been a few months since her husband’s passing.
I rang the bell and waited. In front of me stood a tall set of elaborate, dark oak double doors. I heard footsteps, and the door on the left opened slowly. I didn’t see her at first. She stayed behind the door and asked me to come in. When I did, she closed the door behind us. There she was, standing in front of me in a transparent negligee and golden high heels, her long, black hair cascading over her shoulders.
“I need you,” she said. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.”
She was a beautiful woman, but this was a line I was unwilling to cross. I didn’t want or need complications. It was not fair to Vanessa, her children, or my wife. As hard as it was to walk away, I did. It was time for each of us to start a new chapter of our lives.
WHEN I WAS A CHILD, my mother often told me about the power of a single person to change the world. As I went through the various stages of my life, from being a university student to a mother, this always stayed with me, and I tried to change the world in small ways by helping others: from tutoring students, to helping a blind man cross the street, to giving a quinceañera (sweet-fifteen) party at my house for Tania’s friend Maria, to carrying heavy bags for the elderly. I had passed these teachings to my children, so they would pass them on to their children.
Fidel Castro had changed the world, too, but in a different way, by separating families and eliminating freedom in my country. In 1980, a group of twelve Cubans (to which I will refer as the “group of twelve,” although some claim it was six) committed an act that would change the lives of thousands, including my family.
After more than twenty years since the triumph of the revolution, Cuba had become a dissenters’ pressure cooker. These dissenters were desperately looking for a way to leave the country. I no longer felt as if my family and I were the only ones who opposed the government; many others, exhausted from being afraid to speak up, were coming out of the shadows. People were tired of the increasingly meager rations, of their sons or daughters resorting to prostitution as a way of obtaining a pair of jeans or a decent meal from tourists, of the lack of any form of freedom (including the ability to travel out of the country). The inaccessibility of “tourist-only” places, like the diplotiendas (government-owned consumer-goods stores—unique one-stop shops that sold ham, cheese, chorizo, canned fruits, and other foods Cubans had not seen since the revolution) made Cubans feel like second-class citizens in their own country. The viajes de la comunidad that had allowed people like Rio—wives, husbands, cousins, brothers, sisters, uncles, and aunts—to visit their relatives in Cuba had lifted a veil. These visits had opened a window to the outside world, showing the people inside the time capsule Cuba had become that there was another world out there, one with unimaginable possibilities.
In April 1980, less than two months after Tania’s quinceañera celebration, the group of twelve crashed a bus through the gates of the Peruvian Embassy in Havana to ask for political asylum. When embassy officials refused to turn this group over to the government, Fidel Castro ordered all embassy security guards removed from the entrance, resulting in the flooding of the embassy with over 10,000 asylum-seekers, including many women and children.
When the news broke out, about ten of my neighbors rushed to my house. People who had never said anything to me about their desire to leave Cuba were now telling me they would follow me to the embassy if I decided to go there. I did not want to make a rush decision and monitored the situation closely over the next few days. During this time, the conditions at the embassy deteriorated rapidly, according to the mixture of limited government news and rumors: some said that two people had died, that there was insufficient food, water, or bathrooms. The unsanitary conditions could soon result in the spread of disease. Castro had offered safe passage for people to go home but no one wanted to leave the embassy, afraid they would not be able to go back. Tempers flared, fights broke out; there were rumors of rape.
I shared the group of twelve’s desperation, but I could not expose my family to those conditions. Over the next few days, after work, my sister and I stayed glued to our black-and-white television set to watch the news. On the night of April 20, as I sat on the sofa with her after a long day of collecting money and balancing deposits from each of my assigned bodegas, Fidel Castro made an unsuspected announcement. Those who wanted to leave could do so from the Port of Mariel, as long as they had someone to pick them up. Castro must have realized that this was an easy way to remove some of the pressure from inside Cuba. I could not believe what I was hearing. Twelve years had passed since Rio’s departure, and now, this group of twelve had set in motion a series of events that had led to this speech. My sister and I exchanged glances.
“Did I just hear what I thought I heard?” I asked.
My sister nodded and smiled. This was our chance! There was no time to lose. I dashed outside and rushed to Carmen’s house, which was located about half a block away (Carmen was the woman in charge of the CDR). I knocked on her door frantically. The moments I waited for it to open seemed like an eternity. I didn’t pay attention to the time. It was late, too late for visits.
Some of my tension was relieved when the short, plump sixty-plus-year-old, with her glasses and short, wavy white hair, appeared. She was wearing a light green cotton nightgown and she yawned as she opened the door.
“I’m sorry to wake you up, Carmen. I have an emergency and need to call Rio right away. Would it be possible to use your telephone? It is very important,” I said.
“Yes, of course. Please come in,” she said. “Make yourself at home.”
She did not ask me at first about the nature of the emergency. Her house was dark, except for the glow of a table lamp. I noticed the black telephone beneath the lamp, rushed to it, and picked up the handset, uncovering the rotary dial, its ten numbers arranged in a circle, the finger-stop. The numbers seemed to glow against the blackness of the telephone. I carefully dialed each number, then waited for the dial to return to its normal position so I could dial the next one—but when I’d dialed the whole number, I couldn’t get through. I must have called Rio dozens of times. Each time it seemed as if it was taking longer for the dial to rotate, and still I could not get through. Everyone was calling their relatives and the lines were busy. Carmen noticed my desperation as I kept redialing over and over, taking deep breaths in between. She asked what was going on. I explained what Castro had said.
After years watching the kids speak to Rio over the telephone, something must have changed in her. She walked toward me and patted me on the back, while I continued to redial.
“I am glad for you and the kids, Laura. It’s time,” she said.
I thanked her. Moments later, I was able to connect. I did not wait for him to say anything, afraid the communication would cut off.
“Rio, listen carefully,” I said in an agitated, urgent tone. “Castro is letting people leave Cuba. Find a boat and come get us before it’s too late. Please hurry!”
My emotions tried to take over, but taking deep breaths enabled me to keep control. I explained what had happened in summary version. Rio let me speak, but he already knew. The news had broken a few minutes earlier in Miami. He asked me not to worry. He would find someone with a boat. Our conversation did not last very long. I was too nervous to hold a long conversation, and I did not want him to waste any time. After I hung up, I thanked Carmen and went back home.
That evening, I did not tell the children about my conversation with Rio. I told Berta and Antonio that Rio would also include them and their children on the list of people he would claim when he arrived in Cuba. Berta and Antonio began preparations to leave. They organized their papers, gathered their diplomas and some pictures of the kids; the rest would have to stay.
Now that our departure seemed more real, the fact of it hit me like a fierce wave. I was the last one to go to bed that night. When all was quiet, I walked through the Zapote Street home where I had waited for twelve years for the opportunity to leave. I examined every wall, every family picture: my parents’ wedding, each of my children’s first birthdays, my wedding, Berta’s wedding. My eyes wandered through the dark house aided by the glow of the moon that filtered through the open shutters. All of our things would stay in this house: Tania’s beige piano, the black-and-white television set that was the center of our family life, the domino set on top of the cabinet by the dining room, the typewriter where Tania spent hours writing, three ceramic brown-and-white dogs of unknown breed, a set of matryoshka dolls Berta had brought home from her Russian friends. This home, its peeling walls—they had seen so much; tall, silent witnesses of what had occurred, so much history that would have to stay behind.
The evening before the guards came, I saw my daughter, Tania, kiss her boyfriend goodnight as I watched from my bedroom window. Other times, I would have reprimanded her. I was not as strict as my mother was, but I believed she was too young to be kissing a boy, although some girls her age in Santos Suarez did more than kiss (at least that was the rumor). They did not have mothers like me. On this particular night, I remained silent. Her boyfriend was a seventeen-year-old with blond hair and green eyes, two years older than Tania; they had been dating for almost a year. He told her he would return the next day. She seemed so happy when she walked back in, tucking her long brown hair behind her ears. It was her first love, and I was about to break her heart.
It was close to 2 a.m. on April 22, 1980. In the Port of Havana, hundreds of embarkations of all sizes awaited. We were asleep when we heard someone knock at the door. A male voice said, “Immigration! Open up!”
I quickly threw a robe over my nightgown and opened the door. A young official dressed in dark pants and a light short-sleeved shirt told me he had come to pick us up; we were leaving Cuba. He read me a list of names: mine, my children’s, and my mother-in-law’s, but not my sister’s and her family’s. I asked him about my sister. Why weren’t she and her family on the list? He did not know and asked me to hurry.
I quickly woke up the children and had grabbed a bag to gather some basic belongings when the officer told us that we were not allowed to take anything, only a toothbrush. My heart sank when he said this; I thought of the family pictures, my university diplomas. I rushed to the back of the house to tell Berta we were leaving. I knocked gently on the door to avoid waking her daughters or Antonio. Berta was a light sleeper like me. She was buttoning her robe when she opened her bedroom door.
“Immigration is here to take us. We need to leave now. Your name is not on the list,” I told her, my eyes filled with tears.
She yawned, and somehow, she did not look surprised. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “You have gone through a lot. You need to think about you and your children now.” She hugged me, but not for long, as the officers interrupted us and ordered me to hurry. I told Berta where I had left the pictures I had planned to take and my diplomas. I would send her my new address. We had no time to say much more.
The children wanted to know what was going on, especially Tania. I told them that their father had come for us, but the guards had not said much about where they were taking us; I was assuming they were taking us to the port. Gustavo was happy, Lynette shrugged; Tania had a very different reaction. The mixture of sadness and anger in her gaze hurt me, but she could not possibly understand. One day she would.
The children and I each hugged Berta before we left our Zapote Street home. She stood on the front porch alone as we walked to the white car that waited by the curb. We climbed into the back seat, and when the officer turned the ignition, I waved at Berta; she sadly waved back. The officer set the car in motion.
As we drove through the empty Santos Suarez streets, I looked at the houses in our neighborhood one last time. The soft glow of a street lamp dimly illuminated the houses near the corner. I noticed the corner grocery store where I purchased my rations, and across the street from the store, the tall almond tree the neighborhood children liked to climb. We would never see our neighbors or the neighborhood again.
The officer next to the driver told me we were making one more stop. He read my mother-in-law’s address on Real Street in Marianao. In my adrenaline-induced state, I had almost forgotten about her. I was ashamed. Approximately thirty minutes later, we stopped in front of Mayda’s house. The children stayed in the car, and I accompanied the officers. I explained to them as we walked past the front gate that Mayda was seventy years old, and that she would be afraid to answer the door if she did not recognize the person outside. I asked them to let me talk to her alone; I wanted her to remain calm.
“Is everything okay?” Mayda asked after she opened, a worried expression on her face. She had turned on the lights in the living room, which allowed her to see me, but not the officers.
“Everything is okay,” I said in a calm voice. “Sorry to wake you up. I need to talk you.”
The officers stayed outside, and I went in. Mayda already knew Rio was coming, although she did not know when. I placed my index finger vertically against my lips, signaling her to stay quiet, and then pointed outside where the officers were. She nodded, signaling she understood. We quietly walked to her bedroom where I whispered what was going on; she had to hurry and could not take anything. After that, all she could talk about, in a low tone of voice, was the rolls of money she had saved, which she hid in glass jars throughout the house. She gave me a couple of jars, which I hid within my clothes. She asked me to go next door and give them to her sister. I was not sure how I was going to manage that. I started to gather the clothes she was going to wear, and I was walking back out when the officers said we needed to hurry.
“She is getting ready. Please give her some time. She is old. I’m sure you have mothers and understand,” I said.
The driver and the officer who had read our names earlier must have been in their twenties. Both had black hair; both were clean-shaven and dressed in dark pants and lighter shirts. They looked like kids. When I made the comments about their mothers, they seemed more accommodating. I figured this was my chance.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll go next door to tell her sister. She is old too, and she will want to say goodbye,” I said. I was scared at first. What if they said no? What would I do with the jars? Finally, one of them nodded. I was relieved. I opened the little gate between the two houses and walked toward Consuelo’s front door. The shutters were open but the house was dark inside. I had to knock several times until I saw the yellow glow of a lamp appear. After Consuelo’s married daughter came to the door in her cream-colored pajamas, I explained what was going on and gave her the jars of cash.
“I need to go back now before they get suspicious,” I said. “Please tell your mother to come next door with a bag she can hide under her clothes. We need to be careful. Mayda’s house and everything in it will belong to the government once Mayda leaves. If the officers see us taking something out, we could all go to jail. It is not worth the risk, but Mayda insists she doesn’t want the government to take what she has worked for.”
I went back and tried to keep the officers occupied while Mayda finished getting dressed. We were running out of time. By the time Consuelo showed up to say good-bye, wearing a loose-fitting black dress, it was too late. Mayda was already outside wearing comfortable, light blue slacks and a floral blouse with a sweater on top—and the officers were watching our every move. The sisters embraced, I kissed Consuelo on the cheek, and we left.
Now four of us had to share the back seat. I had to put Gustavo on my lap despite his complaining. He said he was a man and should not be sitting on his mother’s lap. He had no choice. This was the only way all four of us could fit in the back. I asked the driver where he was taking us. He told me not to ask questions; we all stayed silent after that.
Thirty minutes later we were close to the beach, and the car stopped in front of a building that was used for the Cuban officers’ recreation. Others like us were arriving at the building, and we all stood in line. When our turn arrived, the government officers, a couple of men and a woman sitting behind a long table, ordered us to complete some forms and collected our identity cards. All these years, the government had maintained that my children were sons and daughters of the revolution and that their father, having left Cuba to go to the United States, had lost all rights over his children. Yet, at that moment, they requested the form on which my husband authorized my children to leave the country. I asked to make a telephone call to a neighbor; my sister would bring me the form. The officials said I needed to find a telephone elsewhere.
It was past 3 a.m. After midnight, Cubans could not be out without a personal identification card, and I had given mine to the officer. I had no choice but go elsewhere to look for a telephone. I left the building and my children behind. I was cold, out of nervousness more than anything else. I walked about six blocks looking for a place with a telephone; the only place I found open was a nightclub that was being cleaned. I asked an old man who worked there if I could use the telephone, and explained my situation. He noticed I was trembling and offered me a drink. Educated in a nuns’ school, I had never been in a nightclub; it was not the kind of place a good Catholic girl or woman frequented in those days. I was nervous; I thanked the old man and told him that I only needed to use the telephone. I called Carmen, the woman in charge of the CDR (waking her up again) and explained what had happened. I had to wait a few minutes while she got dressed and went to get my sister. Poor Carmen. I felt sorry for her and all the times I had woken her up over different emergencies. She never complained. She had unwillingly become a critical part of our lives, and I saw now that she was a good woman caught up in a political spider web. When Berta came to the telephone, I explained what I needed. She said she would take care of everything.
I hung up, thanked the cleaning man, and left the club. I had walked no more than a block when a white police car stopped me. One of the two officers, who was probably in his twenties, wearing the typical uniform (dark blue slacks, light blue shirt, black shoes) got out of the car and asked me for my identification. I explained it had been taken from me at the processing center. He directed me to get in the back seat. My hands were cold and I was shaking, not knowing whether he had believed me. I was relieved when the police car took me to the processing center. One of the officers verified what I had said, and I was finally reunited with my children and mother-in-law.
When I returned to a holding area where families waited to be processed, I found Tania sitting on a chair, looking at the floor. I saw a tear rolling down her face. She did not need to tell me why she was sad. I knew that if my fifteen-year-old daughter had a choice, she would not come with me. She missed her boyfriend; she was in love with love. As different as she thought she was from me, we were very much alike—hopeless romantics. I was afraid, because in Cuba, if a minor does not want to leave the country with their relatives, he or she does not have to. I patted her on her back. Her tears were flowing now. We started to get the attention of military men and I noticed one walking toward us. Before he had a chance to get near us, another man—this one in a white coat, a doctor assigned to work in the improvised processing center—approached us. He turned to the military man and told him that my daughter was not feeling well. He would examine her. He quietly asked the children and me to follow him to his office. Mayda said she would stay in the waiting area.
We walked down a long corridor to his small office which contained a white desk with a silver metal top placed against the wall and a couple of chairs. He had a family picture on his desk: himself and a woman who appeared to be his wife, along with a boy and a girl. “Your family?” I asked. He nodded.
The doctor asked Tania why she was crying. I answered for her. I told him our story: the twelve years of separation, Rio’s attempt to stay. The children needed to be with their father. I knew Tania missed her boyfriend. I had broken her first illusion. I did not think it made sense for us to give up this unique opportunity to reunite our family and start a new life, just to avoid breaking the heart of my fifteen-year-old daughter. He warned us that if she continued to cry, the officers could take her away. He had already seen it happen earlier that day. The doctor gave us a small bottle of pills. He said they would help take the edge off. Tania didn’t want it at first, but the doctor insisted.
“This is a major event in your life. It is natural to feel the way you do. This will help you,” he told Tania. “Your mother wants what’s best for you. Listen to her.” The doctor and I exchanged glances; we did not have to say anything to each other. He understood. My nod of gratitude said everything. Tania finally took one of the pills.
He allowed us to use a restroom near his office to wash our faces. I thanked him and we left. Later, when we joined Mayda, I gathered my children around me as I sat on a plastic chair. I needed to have one of the most important conversations of our lives with them.
“I understand everything you’re feeling, but today, of all days, I need you to do something very important,” I said. This statement seemed to arouse their curiosity. “From this point forward, I need you to stop being children and become men and women. Your future depends on your ability to do so. I need each of you to be strong. We cannot allow anyone to break up this family again. I am counting on you to make sure we succeed.” I was serious as I looked at each one of my children, trying to assess their reactions. “Am I making myself clear?” I asked. They all nodded.
Tania did not cry again, but her sad eyes told me everything she felt. I needed to have a private conversation with her. I told Mayda to stay with Lynette and Gustavo. Tania and I sat a few chairs away from them. There was a lot that had remained unsaid throughout the years. The timing was not perfect, but I could no longer wait. She did not look at me in the eyes when I began to speak, not at first.
“I understand you are angry at me,” I said. She neither accepted nor denied it. I took a deep breath. “You have many reasons to be angry. What happened when you were five, during the lowest point of my life, something I truly regret; the years without your father; and now what I’m asking you to do. I am taking you away from everything you know, asking you to place your trust in me. One day, you will understand why. I have given the last twelve years of my life to raising you and your brother and sister, working long days. I didn’t give you a stepfather. I put my life on hold for my family’s future. You need to understand how hard this has been. This place where we are going is the land of opportunity. It’s a land of immigrants. People from all over the world come to this place, dreaming of a better life. You have seen so much, Tania. All you have seen has toughened you up and will prepare you for the life ahead. You can be anything you want to be in this land if you work and study hard. You are a smart girl, and I know you will, and one day—I may not be there to see it—but one day, you will thank me. Now, please Tania. I have not asked you for anything and have given you everything. Don’t disappoint me. You need to let go. Will you help me help our family?”
Her beautiful amber eyes, Rio’s eyes, had filled with tears but she managed to hold them back. She nodded in agreement. I placed my arms around her and hugged her.
“Thank you,” I said.
Moments later, we went back to where Mayda, Lynette, and Gustavo were sitting. Mayda looked at me inquisitively. I shook my head and said, “Later.”
The room was starting to fill up with other families like ours. I noticed the worried gazes; men, women, and children chewing their nails; families talking among themselves in uncharacteristically low tones of voice. Gustavo said he was hungry; I told him he needed to be patient.
Almost three hours later, an officer told me that my sister had arrived. I went outside to greet her. She gave me the forms, a bag containing bread spread with vegetable oil and sprinkled with salt, some jars of baby food from her daughters. I looked at her inquisitively when I noticed the baby food. “That’s all I could get my hands on,” she said. “I figured your kids would be hungry. You know me.” I shook my head and thanked her.
“There is something else I need to tell you,” she whispered. “When I arrived, I found Tania’s boyfriend trying to gain access to this building. He found out about what happened. The news travels fast in our neighborhood. He wanted to convince her to stay. I hugged him, told him he and Tania were young. He could not ask her to give up her life for him. Relationships that start at that age have little chance of surviving adulthood. I asked him not to ruin your life and Tania’s. I promised I would give him Tania’s address, a promise I don’t intend to keep.”
I felt sorry for him. Tania’s boyfriend, Andy, was seventeen. He had been very generous with our family. His stepfather was a socialist who held an important position within the Communist Party. Andy brought our family milk and eggs when our rations did not last. I was very thankful to him, but life had other plans and this relationship was not meant to be.
I returned with the forms and the food. At first, the officers wanted to keep the bag. I explained that Mayda was a diabetic, and after some hesitation, they finally let me. One thing was certain: Tania would never hear about Andy’s attempt to see her.
About an hour later, our names were called. A bus was waiting outside to take us to an undisclosed location. It was daytime by then, and the government had orchestrated a gathering of supporters outside the building to intimidate those of us who were leaving the country. They yelled obscenities at us and threw eggs at our bus. Some of the people in our bus returned the insults. One yelled, “You’re just envious. You wish it was you who was leaving!” I told my children to stay quiet. What was the point?
Once the bus was full, it transported us to a place near the Port of Mariel, an improvised camp in the middle of nowhere. The Port of Mariel, located approximately thirty miles west of Havana, was Cuba’s second-largest port, after the Port of Havana. The place reminded me of the Nazi concentration camps I had seen on television: an expansive area of grass and dirt and spare, white metal-and-wood structures. The officers ordered us to get in line. At the head of the line was a long table; behind it, government officials reviewed our papers and asked us to remove every piece jewelry and hand in any personal belongings. Only a toothbrush was allowed in the camp. Luckily, we had eaten the food on the bus. A short, heavy woman with cropped black hair scanned us with a metal detector and patted us down. Mayda had some food in a bag that she had hidden between her clothes before she left her house.
“What is this?” the woman said when she found the bag.
“Crackers with guava sauce,” Mayda said. “I am a diabetic.”
“Only a toothbrush! Was that not clear?” the woman said in an authoritative tone.
“I can go into a coma if I spend a long time without food. This is for emergencies. Please,” said Mayda.
The woman thought about it for a while, looked at Mayda with an untrusting gaze, and returned the bag. After processing us, another woman took us to our barracks, which looked like an oversized barn: a long structure with dirt floors containing approximately 100 improvised metal bunk beds arranged in rows. There were over a thousand people in the camp, and enough beds for only a fraction of them. Armed officers with police dogs guarded the grounds. I was distracted, looking at the people around us, when Lynette slipped silently away from me.
“Where is your sister?” I asked Tania when I noticed Lynette was missing. She shrugged. I told her to stay with Gustavo and her grandmother, and I went looking for Lynette. I looked everywhere. There were too many people, and I could not see her. I walked from the front to the back of the barracks and back to the front. I then exited the barracks and walked in the grassy area where hundreds of people were gathered in small groups. I was desperate. I started asking women in the camp if they had seen her and described her the best I could, but each woman I asked shook her head. I was about to return to the barracks when I finally saw her long, brown hair in the distance. As she came closer, I noticed the look of shock on her face.
“Where were you?” I asked as came near me. “You had me worried! I looked everywhere for you!”
“I’m sorry, Mamá. I needed to go to the bathroom. I tried, but I couldn’t go. Something really bad happened!” Lynette said. She paused and seemed to be on the verge of tears.
“Well? Tell me!”
“A police dog! It was horrible, Mamá!”
“Did it attack someone?” I asked.
She nodded and said, “A pregnant woman!”
I opened my eyes wide and asked, “Is she okay?”
She shrugged. “I saw blood. They bit her breast and arms! She was screaming!”
I hugged Lynette to calm her down. I realized then that I could not let the children out of my sight. “Please don’t walk away from me again. We all need to stay together. Agree?” Lynette nodded. She still needed to find a toilet. When I returned to the barracks, I asked a woman who was there with her family, two small daughters and her sister.
“Toilet?” she said sarcastically. “You’re out of luck! There is one behind the barracks; it’s overflowing. There is filth everywhere on the floor, but that may be your only choice. There is no water, no bathroom, and no food. If you are very thirsty, there is only one rusty faucet at the entrance.” She pointed toward the front. “When it gets hot outside, the water comes out very warm, but you’ll get used to it. By the way, if you find a chair, don’t let it go. All the beds are taken.”
“How long will we be here?” I asked.
“I have talked to other people,” she said. “I hear it’s about a week. Too many boats came at once. Many have been waiting for days for their turn to pick up their relatives.”
I thought about Rio. He was somewhere in the port waiting for us. I followed the woman’s advice and secured two chairs. I gave one to my mother-in-law and kept one for my children and me. We took care of them like they were made of gold and took turns sitting down throughout the day and night. We had no option but to use the overflowing toilet. We would have to rinse our sandals every time we used the restrooms.
The camp was given the name “El Mosquito.” I assumed the name stemmed from the obvious cause: at night, it was impossible to keep mosquitoes away. Gustavo was bitten many times on his bare legs. He kept scratching until he drew blood. Each bite turned into a small wound covered with pus. I asked if a nurse could see him. I was told there were only a couple in the camp, and they were for extreme emergencies only.
Each time a group left the camp, we tried to improve our sleeping arrangement, and eventually, we found a bed near the entrance of the barracks, where the smell of feces and urine was not as strong. We gave the bed to Mayda, and moved our chairs to the area at the foot of the bed.
Mayda’s health had started to deteriorate. She had been able to get by the first day by eating the crackers she had brought from her house, but on the second day, her body could no longer endure the lack of nourishment. She was in bed when she called Lynette.
“I don’t feel good,” she said. Lynette stood by her, not knowing what to do. Within a few seconds, Mayda lost consciousness and started to go into convulsions. I was in the back of the barracks with Gustavo when it all happened. My daughters screamed for help, and several men came and carried Mayda to the infirmary. She was pale as a ghost.
Mayda spent a few hours there and returned carrying a bag of sugar that the nurses had given her in case of emergency. Mayda said she had eaten some food at the infirmary. The children and I had not eaten anything for almost two days. Tania complained that her stomach hurt. I told her to drink as much water as she could to fool her body into thinking she was full. Eventually, she would get used to it.
Later that afternoon, some relief came. Through loudspeakers, an officer asked the people to make two lines. Rations were going to be distributed. After the lines were formed, the officers decided they did not like the location of the lines. Everyone was forced to move to another area of the camp, which further delayed the distribution of the food. People became restless but complaints died down when the distribution of food began.
Mayda stayed in the barracks and I brought her a ration of warm, flavorless yogurt. My children made faces when they tasted the yogurt. It was very sour, and they asked their grandmother if she could share a little sugar with them. When she took out the pack of sugar, a woman who saw it yelled, “That’s not fair! Why does she have sugar and no one else does?” In minutes, angry people surrounded us. My children were scared.
“She is a diabetic. She needs to carry it with her,” I explained.
“I don’t care what she is,” she said. “She should not be treated any different than anyone else,” the woman screamed. She turned to the crowd. “This is not fair!” Many people in the crowd nodded or vocalized their agreement. We were surrounded, and I didn’t know what to do. I tried unsuccessfully to reason with the crowd. Nothing I could say seemed to calm them. At one point, the woman who alerted the others took steps towards me defiantly. I thought she was about to hit me when a group of men convinced everyone to back off.
After this incident, I decided that I needed to do something to limit our stay at the camp. My opportunity did not come until a couple of days later. That morning, I noticed a man dressed in civilian clothes walking to a nearby building. For some reason, the way he conducted himself told me I should ask him for help. I didn’t see dogs nearby and rushed over as quickly as I could. “Sir!” I said. “Can I talk to you? It’s important.”
He hesitated for a moment, then signaled me to follow him. We entered a white one-story building and walked through a narrow, tiled hallway to his office, which was through the second door on the right. He politely asked me to sit down. I told him I preferred to stand. His eyes seemed to notice my soiled clothes. I had not bathed in four days.
“You look like someone who can help me,” I told him.
He smiled and said that there was nothing he could do for me. The process had to be followed.
“I think you can help me if you want to,” I said, looking into his black eyes with a spontaneous intensity and conviction that must have arisen from my desperation. “Look,” I said, stepping closer to his desk, placing my hands on the edge, and speaking in a calm tone of voice. “I have been here for four days. My mother-in-law is a diabetic. I have three children; my son, the youngest, is eleven. He fell and his leg is getting swollen. I am very, very tired, have not slept for days, and have eaten very little.” I paused. “I am desperate, and when a woman is desperate, there is nothing she won’t do to defend her family. If something happens to any one of them, I cannot account for what I will do.”
He looked at me with curiosity. “What do you think you will do to me?” he asked in an arrogant tone.
“I will organize the people in this camp to revolt against you,” I said defiantly. “What you are doing to these women and children is an injustice! You should be ashamed of yourself!” I paused briefly and noticed a picture on his desk. “Do you have children?” I asked a question to which I knew the answer.
“I do, as a matter of fact. Two girls,” he said.
“How would you like it if they were in a situation like the one my children are in?”
He looked at the picture on top of his desk briefly and then at a notebook on his desk. He took a deep breath.
“Look, I do not want to hurt you or your children. Give me your names, and I’ll see what I can do. I cannot promise anything.”
After providing the information he requested, he gave me instructions on what to do if we were called. I thanked him and left the building to join my family, not knowing whether he would come through.
Since our arrival in the camp, my family and I, along with a group of approximately twenty other people, had been assigned the same group number. We had to become familiar with the group to which we belonged, as we were all supposed to leave at the same time. Later that evening, when I was outside talking to a woman from our group, I heard my name called. I excused myself and ran inside to get my family. They already knew what to do.
My two daughters supported their grandmother at each side. I helped Gustavo as he limped, in an exaggerated manner, toward the man who had called my name. I had told Gustavo and Mayda, as instructed by the Cuban official to whom I had spoken, that even if they were injured or sick, they needed to act as if they were in a worse condition than they were. Only then could the official justify allowing us to leave prior to our group (as if Mayda’s condition were not reason enough). The point was that we do whatever was necessary to leave this place.
The man who had called my name compared each of our names against the ones on a list he carried. After confirming them, he directed us to a bus that waited at the entrance of the camp. When the woman to whom I had been talking saw us walking toward the bus, she yelled, “What about the rest of us?” My palms were sweating. I told my children not to look back, to keep walking toward the bus. When we got inside there were only four other people on it. Other people trickled in. The minutes we were inside the bus felt like hours. I was growing impatient, afraid of how much noise the woman in our group was going to make. The bus kept getting fuller. Two more seats left. Two more, and then we will leave. God help me, please God.
I heard the engine turn on. It was a sweet melody in my ears. Yes, we were starting to move. I grabbed Tania’s hand and squeezed it. It was cold. Finally, we left. I was relieved. The bus drove for only a few minutes before it stopped again. It was dark outside. We could not see anything. The bus driver asked us to get out. No questions asked.
“Whoever needs to use the bathroom should go now,” he said when we got off. He pointed ahead to a structure in the darkness. Everyone needed to go. When we arrived at the facilities, I saw there was no privacy. The latrines were lined up next to each other. No doors in front, just a hole in the ground with small platforms at either side of the hole to place our feet; improvised walls on each side. Tania went in first. I told her I would guard the entrance to her latrine. We did not have a choice. That would be our last chance to use the restroom before our long journey. Each of my children used the latrine while I stood in front of them to protect their privacy. I heard a male voice through a loudspeaker. We were out of time. We needed to go outside. I did not have time to go. I could not risk it.
We went outside, and a guard told us to follow him. We could not see him or where we were going—we saw only his small flashlight in the middle of the darkness and felt the grass below our feet turn to sand as we walked. The more we walked, the more we could smell the salt of the sea. It was too dark to see the boat that awaited us, as the moon was hidden behind thick clouds. A guard checked off names under a flashlight. Once each name was checked, the person was to take a wooden staircase down to the boat that awaited us. We stood in line waiting for our turn. In front of us was a woman holding an infant in her arms and an older woman next to her who appeared to be her mother. Once the young woman provided the names to the officer, he signaled to someone else whom I had not seen earlier. The man, another officer, took the infant from the woman without asking, and the baby began to cry for the mother.
“You go, and your child stays!” he said in an authoritative tone.
“No!” the young woman screamed, a scream that went through me like lightning shaking every fiber of my being. “I will not leave without my daughter. Please give her back to me,” she begged. Another guard came to restrain her and she let go, falling to her knees in front of the man who had taken her daughter. “Please, don’t do this.”
“You need to leave now,” he said.
“If my daughter has to stay, I will too,” she said.
“You don’t have that option. Her father is not giving her permission, and you can’t stay,” said the officer who had read the names. “You go down to the boat now, or I will make you!”
Her mother went to her and patted her on her back. The two women had no other option but to get on the boat.
I placed my arms around my children and held them close to me. They would have to kill me; I would not allow anyone to take them away from me. It was our turn now. I gave our names to the officer, my children’s first, my mother-in-law’s, then mine. I trembled as he checked off each of our names. At last, we were cleared to board the shrimp boat. I was relieved, but I did not want to celebrate, not yet. It was dark and the winds were picking up. I could smell the rain coming. One by one, the people filled our boat until there was almost no empty space left. I could hear the young woman whose baby had been taken crying, while her mother consoled her. The captain of the ship announced that the sick and elderly should go inside the captain’s cabin. The weather was expected to get worse and it was dangerous to be outside. My mother-in-law went into a covered area of the shrimp boat; after exploring my options, I decided to sit with my children at the stern. “Stay close to me,” I told them.
At approximately 10 p.m. on April 26, 1980, we left Cuba to begin our journey to an unknown land. The night was adorned with flashes of lightning in the distance, in the direction of the sea, by the time the government cleared our boat for departure. Based on the captain’s count, over two hundred men, women, and children accompanied us on this trip. He feared that the number of people exceeded the boat’s capacity, but its owners had no control over who they brought. They had come to pick up their families and been made to leave without their loved ones and a boat full of strangers.
Among us were several shirtless men taken out of jails. We heard later that some of these men had been incarcerated for political reasons, others for petty theft. At first, it scared me to travel with these men, but I soon learned that, on this particular night, there was more connecting us than setting us apart.
As the boat moved farther away from the coast, I could see Havana’s yellow lights getting smaller and smaller. I saw Tania’s eyes remain fixed on the coast until the lights disappeared. The wind picked up in anticipation of the approaching storm and the boat began to rock with increased intensity; someone, maybe one of the crewmen, said we were facing winds of over 60 knots. I thought that the government had intentionally waited for bad weather before allowing the first ship to leave that evening.
Before long, we confronted the storm head on. We were sitting on the rusty floor near the stern, scared, as the heavy rain slammed our bodies. I heard the sound of waves crashing against the sides of the boat; the heavy rain was falling sideways. I heard the buzzing sound of the wind. I looked around me. Men, women, and children everywhere in the boat, sickened by the motion, were vomiting overboard, and the wind sprinkled vomit onto our faces. The seas looked black. The waves kept pounding the boat hard. I saw the shirtless men holding on to the women and children who were vomiting to protect them from falling overboard.
Just before we reached international waters, a Cuban coast-guard boat approached ours and through loudspeakers announced that we should watch for another shrimp boat like ours, which contained over two hundred men, women, and children and was taking on water. Their captain had called for help and had issued orders to abandon ship. The reality of our situation hit me then. This could happen to us. In my mind, I could see the sinking boat in the middle of darkness, the people frantically holding on to anything that would help them stay afloat. I could hear the screams of women and children in my head. I ordered my children to come closer to me and hold on to whatever they could, and I prayed. That was all I could do. We did not know whether this was a real warning or a tactic to scare us. I looked out at the dark seas and wondered how many lives would be lost that night. I prayed for the salvation of the people who accompanied us on our journey to freedom.
The rain and the wind grew stronger. The booms extending from the sides of the shrimp boat splashed the water as the vessel leaned first to one side, then the other, in a rocking motion. At one point, our boat rose with a giant wave. I could feel it rise higher and higher. I held on to my children, anticipating the worst, and closed my eyes. The same way the boat had gone up, it dropped like a toy, although faster than it had risen, and the drop created a huge splash that soaked our faces with seawater. Many of the people in the ship were still vomiting from motion sickness, as if in a chain reaction. When the boat dropped, it tilted to one side. A man who had been holding on to a seasick woman lost his grip on her body and she started to go over the side. More than half of her body was already overboard when two shirtless men rushed to her and grabbed her legs just before she fell into the sea. I had seen everything, as if in slow motion. If they had waited a few more seconds, we would have lost her.
After the big wave, smaller waves continued to rock the boat, but with less intensity. The captain had two of his men distribute soft drinks and water to help avoid dehydration. The boat’s crew had to teach the people how to open the soft-drink cans because none of us had ever seen one before. The boat kept rocking for a while longer. I lost track of time. I kept looking for a sign of other boats, but I did not see any. We were alone in the middle of this immense dark gulf below moonless skies. The only lights came from the captain’s cabin.
After what seemed like hours, the rain and wind began to subside. I must have fallen asleep after that. The next thing I remember is the sun rising on the horizon. When I opened my eyes, I saw my children next to me. They were already awake. For some reason, we had been part of a very small group of people who did not get seasick that night. Tania thought our guardian angels had cared for us.
Suddenly, people cheered. At first I did not know why, but then I saw it. There in the distance were the first hints of land. We all smiled. I embraced my children. At last! Total strangers embraced each other and cried with happiness. When the captain, a middle-aged man with leather skin, heard the cheering, he came out of the cabin and stood in the middle of the boat with a megaphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please pay attention. I have an important announcement,” he said. The happiness turned into silence as everyone focused on the captain, whose face I no longer remember. “I’m sorry to inform you that we made a mistake in our calculations. The land that you see ahead of us is not the United States. It is Cuba.”
There was complete silence except for the sound of the waves. The silence was broken by the voice of one of the passengers. “You’re not serious, are you?” he asked.
The captain laughed. “No, I’m not serious, of course not. That land that you see ahead is the land of freedom. Welcome to freedom. Welcome to the United States.” People cheered and he waited until the noise died down before proceeding. “I know that I will never see you again after today. Whatever you do, wherever this new life takes you in your newfound freedom, don’t forget that it was this boat, the Capt. J.H., that brought you to this land.”
Men and women cried, overcome with emotion; mothers embraced their children, and the shirtless men shook each other’s hands and patted each other on the back. To this date, I still wonder if anyone who accompanied us on our journey ever forgot the name of the boat or the generosity of the captain who brought us here.
*****
Ahead, in the distance, an American flag waved majestically against blue skies. There were signs everywhere, mostly in Spanish: “Welcome to America,” “Welcome to Freedom.” Reading these signs sent chills through me, as did all the boats arriving full of people—people whose happiness poured from their bodies like light pouring from the sun. A male worker from the Red Cross gave each of us a plastic white bag with a large red plus-sign on it and welcomed us to the United States, a big smile on his face. Inside the bag, there was toothpaste, a toothbrush, soap, and a small towel. Lynette, Gustavo, and Tania stood by my side in awe of the elation that surrounded us, the hospitable way in which this land was extending its arms to us. Tania’s eyes glistened when she saw grown men fall to their knees and kiss the ground upon disembarking. Some women placed their hands together, as if in prayer, while looking at the American flag, tears in their eyes. Some shook their heads in disbelief. Others hugged each other and yelled, “At last! At last!”
Once again, I made sure all my children were accounted for and told them to stay close, but I could not find Mayda. The last time I saw her, on the night we left Cuba, she had gone inside the captain’s cabin along with other sick people. Now there were so many people, so much going on around us. A Catholic nun dressed in white approached us and gave me a bible and a crucifix, and rosaries to the girls with prayer cards of the Virgin Mary. “Welcome!” she said, with the sweetest voice. I embraced her and thanked her. After she walked away, I continued to look for Mayda. I turned my head in the direction of our boat and saw a stretcher being lifted out. One of the passengers was on it. Two workers from the Red Cross and a male doctor accompanied the sick passenger. I told my children to wait by the flagpole and fought my way through the crowd to get closer to the stretcher. I squinted my eyes to get a better look. I saw the silver, curly hair. I saw the glasses. It was Mayda! I rushed to her as fast as I could. It was like swimming against a current, with so many people moving in the opposite direction, I kept standing on my toes so as not to lose sight of the stretcher. At last, I intercepted it.
“Is she okay?” I asked the doctor.
“She will be, but she is dehydrated and her glucose level is low. We’ll get her back to health in no time,” he assured me. Mayda faintly waved at me, and I smiled at her.
“How will I see her again?”
“You will need to go to that white building ahead for processing,” he said. “We’ll call your name and bring her to you once she is stable. Processing can take several hours. There are too many people arriving.”
I approached Mayda and caressed her hair. She looked so pale. I kissed her cheek. “Get better soon, you hear?” I said.
She nodded. The workers took her away in the stretcher, and I started to walk back to my children. Seeing Mayda on that stretcher had made me realize how much I cared for her. She had been there for the children all these years, helping me financially without ever complaining, cooking her delicious yellow rice and chicken when we visited her, working on her garden to provide food for her grandchildren. She was a strong woman, a wonderful grandmother who deserved my love and admiration.
I walked hurriedly, zigzagging through the crowd of refugees, nuns, American soldiers, and Red Cross workers, thinking about our next steps. I was not sure what was going to happen after processing, or how we would reconnect with Rio. The owners of our boat had come to Cuba to claim their families and had left with a boat full of strangers. Boat owners had no control of whom they brought back; the Cuban authorities did. Rio might be in a similar position now.
I looked up to verify the location of the flagpole where I had left my children. I was getting closer. The happiness around me was contagious: smiles, embraces, kisses. The promise of a new life lay ahead. A family of refugees crossed my path holding hands, a husband and wife and three children, pulling each other by the hands in a chain. Soon, my family would be like theirs. Our broken link would heal.
I was already forty-one years old; perhaps it was too late for me to make a meaningful contribution to this land. But the life I had lived had never been for my own benefit—it had been for my children, and theirs would be the real contribution. Tania was about to start the tenth grade, Lynette the ninth, and Gustavo the eighth. The future belonged to them and to their children. It would be their jobs to tell their children about the sacrifices we had made. It would be their jobs to make our new country proud by studying and working hard and having dreams the size of the moon.
My thoughts had distracted me for a moment, and I needed to focus. My eyes searched for my children. They were not exactly where I had left them. At last, I saw Tania’s dirty green pants, which were soiled with rust, dirt, and other remnants of the long night. Then I saw Lynette’s Chinese eyes, and finally Gustavo. They were not alone. Gustavo was holding a man’s hand.
I could not believe my eyes. No, it couldn’t be! I had to be seeing things. Maybe I was dehydrated too. I felt the blood rushing to my head, like I did when my blood pressure spiked. I placed my left hand on my chest and felt my heart beating faster. My legs grew weaker with each step. I saw his blue polo shirt, his smile. The years had passed, but his smile had remained the same. His eyes where as beautiful as they were the first time I saw them, adorned now with the wrinkles of time.
“Rio?” I said in a faint tone of voice as my eyes filled with tears of happiness.
My children smiled and nodded, and Rio rushed toward me, threw his arms around me and kissed me on the lips with the passion of our first kiss. He then kissed my cheeks, which were now wet with joy. I could not believe he was there.
“Tell me this is not a dream,” I said.
“It’s not. It’s not a dream. I love you, Laura! I love my children.” He was crying. We both were. “Nothing will separate us ever again! I promise,” he added as we lost ourselves in an endless embrace.
“Nothing, Rio. Nothing!” I said. “We will always be together.” And I knew this time it was true.