The sugar farm in southeastern Cuba’s Oriente Province where the Ruiz brothers toiled had been purchased by their grandfather in 1882, the same year he emigrated to the island from Spain. It was modest but not insubstantial in size, approximately fifteen hectares (over thirty-seven acres), large enough to support a family but not so large as to require much additional labor. It was, by definition, a family farm.
Sugar, which had been Cuba’s principal source of economic livelihood for centuries, was the only crop ever grown on the farm, and in 1947 the price was determined by the American sugar refining industry. The sugarcane itself, along with current market circumstances, had made financial slaves of those who sought to support themselves by farming it. The plant needed to be processed within twenty-four hours of harvest or else evaporation and breakdown of the sugar content would result.
This biological fact gave tremendous leverage to the foreignowned mills, or centrales, which were centrally located throughout eastern Cuba. In fact, many of the farmers who previously owned their lands had, over time, become tenants or colonos who farmed the now corporate-owned land. While the Ruiz brothers were still technically entrepreneurs, they were dependent upon the US business interests that controlled the market. Their economic position was tenuous. Although they were not poor, they were vulnerable to imminent poverty at any time from a shift in sugar prices.
But sugar was their life. The brothers, Miguel and Jorge, had built separate houses on opposite sides of a small stream, each raising a daughter born just one week apart. The cousins, Pilar and Alicia, were more like twin sisters. They attended school together from eight in the morning until three in the afternoon, walking the mile and a half to and from school at each other’s side. As was their custom during the sugarcane harvest, or zafra as it was known locally, upon arriving home, the girls split up to search for their fathers in the fields.
Pilar, just seven years old with skinny legs and a pixie haircut, followed the sound of her father’s machete. She enjoyed solving the mystery of his whereabouts as she wandered through the tall stalks, her excitement growing as the sound grew louder and guided her toward her quarry. As she crisscrossed through the fields, listening and readjusting her course, she pictured her father’s well-muscled arm using the machete to separate the sugar cane from the earth that had nurtured it.
The machete, which hung on a hook outside the front door of her house when at rest, was to her like a tangible bolt of lightning. In the powerful hand of her father it seemed supernatural. The wooden handle was cracked and had been wrapped in yellow baling twine to hold it together. Its cutting edge was razor sharp.
The instrument of his livelihood since Miguel was twelve years old, the sharp blade contrasted with the dullness of the repetitious hacking it was used for. Miguel wasn’t an unintelligent man, but he had found comfort in surrendering to his perceived fate, that of a simple farmer tied to the land that along with his family was his entire world. Under the brutal tropical sun, it seemed easier if one didn’t dream too big, and under the current economic conditions, survival was enough. Perhaps there would be time for ambition later.
In moments stolen for himself—of forgetfulness of the dire stakes that animated the three pounds of hammered steel—Miguel recognized and appreciated the sublime beauty of the land. The peaks of the Sierra Maestra Mountains were visible through the mist nearby in the western sky. These were the mountains that had harbored the numerous battles for Cuban independence fought over the centuries. The verdant, rolling fields where the sugarcane flourished so vibrantly and the dramatic clouds in the Caribbean sky were all pleasing to his eye. The earth itself was rocky, yet with soil so rich that almost any seed would probably take root and blossom if planted there.
Miguel kept swinging the blade. A smile formed as he discerned the movement of his little sweetheart happily humming a tune as the sound came closer to the row he worked. When they were close enough to make eye contact, they peeked through the sugarcane curtain to acknowledge one another.
Shusswhack kaching, shusswhack-ack kaching-ing.
In moments like this, there was joy in the work. Magic, even.
When Pilar finally appeared before him, energized and smiling at her sweat-soaked father, he removed his hat and grinned goofily at his little girl. Again, there was joy and magic. But more than that. Love.
“Its time for lunch, Papa,” she almost squealed with joy.
“Better not keep your mother waiting then.”
He took his daughter by the hand, and together they walked toward the house as she told him about her day at school.
Maria, who was carrying her second child, had carefully prepared the afternoon meal for her husband and daughter. The pregnancy had not been an easy one. Her morning sickness was so severe that she, who had never been sick a day in her life, found herself unable to leave her bed for more than an hour at a time for several weeks. But Maria was beginning to feel on solid ground as she entered her third trimester. She had the same good sensations when she carried Pilar, and being pregnant again made her feel complete and powerful. The swelling in her belly and breasts was a source of pleasure, creating a familiar inner sense of well-being.
For his part, Miguel made no secret of his wishes for a son. Having fought as an amateur boxer when he was younger, he dreamed of teaching the boy the finer points of the science of boxing and many other things that he felt he couldn’t share with a daughter. He looked forward to a boy who might someday work this land like his father and grandfather, but hopefully might move on to a better life.
He had come to view the fact that Maria had experienced difficulty conceiving as a blessing in disguise, as Pilar would now be the perfect age to help her mother with her new sibling.
Before Pilar was born Maria had worked as a file clerk at the US Naval base at nearby Guantánamo Bay. Her mother, a Spanish immigrant, had learned to speak English and made sure her daughter learned it as well, a skill that paid dividends for the young couple building a nest egg in preparation for building a family. It was also a comforting feeling that in an emergency she could always go back to her old job since local English-speaking support staffers were in short supply at the growing American naval base.
The living quarters on the farm were humble but comfortable, consisting of a single-story main house with two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a large veranda with hammocks for sleeping on hot nights, which was also where the family would relax after the evening meal. There was a long barn with a thatched, palm-leaf roof that sheltered the animals: two oxen, a horse, three goats, and a fluctuating population of hens that either produced eggs or became candidates for Maria’s pot. The dogs, five of them, were free to roam where they pleased, but spent most of the day sleeping in the cool shade—they earned their keep at night by maintaining a secure perimeter around the compound.
As father and daughter entered the kitchen it was obvious to Miguel that something was very wrong. Possessed of a naturally calm disposition, it wasn’t in his nature to panic. But when he saw Maria looking up at him from the kitchen floor, the adrenaline jolt nearly caused him to jump out of his shoes. Her face was ashen and her expression fearful.
Not wanting to upset her child she said, “I think I’ve twisted my ankle. Perhaps I should see the doctor.”
Miguel recognized the lie, and while he was worried, he followed Maria’s lead. Already on one knee, he turned to Pilar to block her view of the blood stains on her mother’s dress.
“Go to Alicia’s house for lunch. Tell Tio Jorge I took mama to the doctor.”
Pilar, usually obedient, hesitated.
“Is mama hurt?”
“Yes, mama hurt her ankle. It’s not too bad. Go now. Please.”
Pilar hugged her mother and then moved slowly towards the door, still not sure.
“When will you be back?”
“We’ll be back a little later. Don’t forget to tell your uncle.”
And with a final glance back, Pilar left the house and headed across the rickety bridge to her cousin’s house.
Miguel quickly started up the truck—a 1937 Chevy pickup with over 92,000 miles on the odometer, which was loaded with cane for the mill. With the engine running, he opened the passenger door and ran into the house. Miguel carried Maria to the truck, placed her inside, and took off as fast as possible. He smoothly moved the floor stick shift up through its gears and started on the winding dirt roads he would use to work his way east in the direction of the doctor in Santiago.
Miguel then waited for two hours in the doctor’s reception area while the doctor tended to his wife. When the door finally opened, the look on the doctor’s face as he entered from the examination room made words unnecessary. The baby had been lost. To make the blow even harder on Miguel, the doctor told him it had been a son.
When he was finally allowed to see her, Maria was in a stupor, partly because of the sedatives the doctor had given her. As the drugs wore off she simply became inconsolable, crying through the night, heartbroken and silent as Miguel held her hand. He was concerned only with his wife for now. His own grief would have to wait.
And his own grief would be considerable. It had been necessary for the doctor to perform an emergency hysterectomy to stop the hemorrhaging that threatened Maria’s life. Though he would never say it out loud, Miguel was crushed that he would never have a son.
Jorge, ever the pragmatist, tried to help in his own way by ignoring his brother’s emotional devastation. He urged Miguel to get back to the work at hand—the harvest. “People like us will never have the luxury of wallowing in self-pity,” he said. “You have to forget about the dead and keep moving or else death will overtake you, too.”
Jorge had lost his wife, Alicia’s mother, to cholera when the child was just one year old. When he spoke of death and moving on, he spoke from experience.