by Wendy Guerra
Celia didn’t say anything. She kissed me and told me to take care of myself. I told her better she take care of herself. I noticed her eyes were restless. She said goodbye and practically ran out the door.
Pucha said goodbye too and stopped a nurse who was pushing Celia, already at the door. My sister, Marisol, and I were surprised because the nurse never recognized Celia.
My sister had been vainly tracking Celia, who was virtually invisible, whether on TV or in the newspapers. Finally she’d found her at the door to the house on Once Street, and together they’d found the hospital.
My sister kept giving me advice. I knew something was going on in my head and in Cuba. The good thing was we’d found each other again and we couldn’t believe it. My schoolmates came down from the mountains three months later, when someone thought to send for them at the end of the crisis. They graduated in 1967, the first class of artists from the school Fidel created. I didn’t graduate, I was expelled, but that’s a story I’ll tell another time. My head is more or less okay. Unfortunately, my memory is intact.
Celia, Brooklyn, and Snow
As a young woman, Celia suffered from hives that became more frequent and severe. Her family decided to send her to New York, where her brother Orlando lived, to undergo tests and treatments. The tests confirmed the Cuban doctors’ diagnosis: she was allergic to almost everything but mango.
After she got her prescriptions, the girl was so inquisitive about the city that, even after Orlando saw the hives were under control, he asked her not to go back to Cuba until she’d had a chance to experience snow. She stayed in New York six months.
Her brother and Julio Girona, a Cuban painter from Manzanillo, were close friends. As a result, Julio’s sisters became Celia’s fairy godmothers, although, in fact, they were distantly related, which they always joked about when they got together. The Girona sisters showed Celia the city. They say she seemed like a curious child, snooping, discovering fascinating facts in that endless world. She wrote everything down, absorbed everything she saw around her. She visited as many museums as she could because, as she said, “her taste for art was inborn.”
She frequented public libraries and met and talked with immigrants on the street, asking questions, whether she was out alone or with others. She was very daring and loved to set out to discover the unknown.
She was fascinated by Chinatown and the way the merchants displayed their merchandise. They let her joke around in Spanish, without understanding her Cuban jokes or gestures. She took pictures in front of the statue of José Martí and walked through the streets he’d traveled during his New York days. She enjoyed a quick getaway to Niagara Falls. She loved to ride on the ferry. She thought a lot when she was alone and yet felt accompanied by this new family. Although it had been a bad year for her family, and for her in particular, in 1948 New York, Celia was happy.
The Gironas convinced Orlando to move closer to them, and they eventually ended up as neighbors: 97 Clark Street, Brooklyn.
One afternoon, it snowed. She and Orlando were at a neighborhood theater watching a Mexican movie. At the end of the showing, just as they were leaving the theater, snowflakes settled on the girl’s head. She sat down on a park bench, shivering as her eyes surveyed the small universe within her sight. Little by little, the whiteness enveloped her. It was, at last, snow. Snow that melts with a breath, as ephemeral as flowers and the illusion of love, but which, like flowers and illusions, is remembered for a lifetime. As she looked at herself, now one with her coat, with the bench, the ground, and the city, she noticed the snow had melted to water on her gray suede boots. Water as clean and smooth as in Cuba. She shot up and said, almost to herself: “It’s time to go home!”
The Golf Course, Che, and the Nudes
I was painting almost nude. I wanted to see my torso with that damn mirror fragment poised on the easel. There was not a soul at the golf course. I know it’s problematic to walk around naked in the world, but that’s how it happened. What could I do?
Suddenly, Che drove up in an olive-green jeep and saw me and my uncovered torso.
I’m not afraid. I have no prejudices about my body; when drawing, a body is just one more element, stripped of lust. You feel you’re in a state of grace. Che was very respectful, though I didn’t stop drawing as I answered each of his questions. The jeep in the background, green on green, Che and me, forgotten by the world.
Then the full school administration appeared as if Che was on an official visit. Later came the scandal and the suggestions for an appropriate punishment, and even Celia found out.
Celia’s Reprimand
Having a steaming café con leche at her home, Celia reminded me Che had a family, that it was well known even though they weren’t the subject of popular magazines, she said, smiling. I listened to every word that came out of her mouth. Was she scolding me? She asked for details, argued, tried to warn me several times, frowning, but without losing her sense of humor.
She finally let me explain. I told her firmly and breathlessly how the whole thing had happened. She listened for my pauses, observed my gestures. Everything.
She opened a packet of cigarettes. She lit one Bette Davis–style and took a drag. She served me more café con leche and, more calmly, told me sometimes adults put bad ideas in young people’s heads. She was sure this involved a naiveté on my part nobody could imagine, much less the school’s principal. She asked me to try to understand others, that despite my obsession with painting, I couldn’t just divorce myself from the real world.
She was still smoking her Chesterfields and drinking café con leche. For the first time in my presence, she let herself be carried away by her memories and spoke about her time with Che in the Sierra.
When they talked, he’d put his hand on her head or her shoulder. When he finished, he’d walk around, then give her his notes, which she collected for her files. When he said goodbye, he’d hug her affectionately. He read a lot. Up in the mountains, he had terrible asthma attacks at two or three in the morning, so he’d step away from camp because he was very proud.
She requested different medicines to try different treatments, but the asthma never completely disappeared. Che practically devoured medical books, because he was a doctor by profession and vocation, and if someone was very sick, then he couldn’t sleep a wink.
That’s how she saw him.
She was sitting on the stairs, curled up with a white woven blanket, her empty mug in one hand and the Chesterfield pack in the other. Very seriously, she asked how I saw him.
“I didn’t see him,” I said. “His shadow fell on my face; he was backlit. I will panic, if he comes back, I’ll be terrified. That’s what they’re going to achieve. I won’t even stand to see him on TV.”
What did I say! Celia found Che three days later and showed up with him at my dorm. Luckily, I was in full uniform.
From then on, whenever Che was in Cubanacán, he’d stop by the school and ask about my cohort. After that, there wasn’t a day I ever let myself go uncovered. I think I got that from Celia, especially after she gave me a little blue wrap to keep myself warm. Was it some kind of hint? Maybe.
Things with Celia were resolved like that, head-on.
End of School—on the Path to Radio. Celia and Fidel and the House on Once Street
She smoked Chesterfields, one after another, until her lungs couldn’t take it anymore.
At the house, she brewed coffee using a cloth filter, like they do in the countryside.
Taboo subject: she was a woman alone, without children, without a husband.
She got up very late because she worked all night, just like Fidel. She didn’t like to be greeted on May 9th, her birthday. She didn’t like to be spoken to or flattered or recognized on the street. She tried to be inconspicuous.
She didn’t sit comfortably in her chair but rather on the edge. She ate sitting on the stairs or on the couch, one leg here, the other there. And she talked the whole time. She ate very litt
le, plate in hand. Rice, beans, salad. It was a struggle to get her to eat. She was fond of fish.
She dressed in a very special way. One day she’d don a flour sack and espadrilles, but she also wore sandals, dresses. She’d wear a suit made from sugar sacks but with a tremendous belt or a tremendous necklace and hoop earrings. She was very feminine and wore that French Rive Gauche perfume by Yves Saint Laurent. She loved to hear “Noche de ronda.” At the house on Once Street, rumor had it she and Fidel loved to listen to Los Compadres.
To everyone in the house, Celia and Fidel were like one person. Relations between Celia and Fidel were casual: he’d come over and say hello, of course, and then she’d go up with him. Everyone said: “No, Celia went up to attend to him.” When Fidel came over, she disappeared. She didn’t get nervous or anything. Moments before his arrival, the phone would ring. As soon as he came in, she’d go up, quickly. The family always said: “When he’s here, we lose Mamía.”
Celia drove only little jeeps: they gave her a sports Mercedes, a BMW, an Alfa Romeo, and those two Citroën jeeps in which I always remember her. They were gifts from celebrities and heads of state linked to Cuba. The only thing they had to buy was the Fiat, because after her surgery, she couldn’t handle anything else. I remember the Fiat perfectly too. There was a room full of gifts. Everything sent to her went into that room, but she barely touched those gifts; they were there in case somebody needed something. She always helped others—that was her obsession.
Her routine: She spent the early mornings at the Granma newspaper office, and sometimes she visited Bohemia magazine. She talked a lot with Carlos Franqui, the editor of Lunes de Revolución. She read the newspaper and reviewed letters and telegrams while having coffee in the early hours. She slept very little, but when she woke up, she would go to Lenin Park or to an office next to the Almendares River or a warehouse just off the Iron Bridge. Sometimes she had personal errands to run for Fidel, giving out gifts from the government . . . She took care of a lot of protocol projects. She didn’t like having formal events at home, but she was the best when it came to prepping ceremonies for exclusive occasions. The Atención al Pueblo department shared her obsession of not forgetting or abandoning anyone, not leaving anyone out. The house was full of children like my sister and me, and some grew up there. She brought them from the Sierra Maestra; others left volunteer jobs and joined her on the way or wandered in. She adopted them all. Celia made us live with all that. I never understood how she managed it, but she remained discreet and at the same time transparent about everything.
In Celia’s room, a landscape of the Sierra had been painted on the wall. Fidel lived upstairs, in the attic, because there was no penthouse. It was an attic, but she made it more of a loft. With a double bed. It was very modern, gabled, wood paneled, surrounded by bulletproof glass and overlooking the pool Celia had built for him. There had been nothing up there before; she had designed it all. The terrace was enclosed with wooden shutters. It was like two apartments put together. She lived in one and the other was an office. Her “private space,” where she didn’t allow company. She had a hammock there too, with a little light for reading. An enclosed wooden balcony. The furniture in the living room was made of cowhide, like the kind used for stools. In her bedroom there were two single beds. I’ve never forgotten her see-through acrylic wardrobe. She moved quickly, went in and out of it, wanted to see everything at once so as not to waste time with nonsense.
In one room she received all her good friends, but the other was much more personal. Lourdes lived downstairs with her family, then Celia, and on the top floor, Fidel, in the attic. There was a guard on the landing of each floor, always, always.
After her last trip to Japan, she couldn’t smoke; she coughed a lot and didn’t want to see her favorite nephew. She didn’t like being seen during those coughing fits. I think Celia didn’t like saying goodbye to us. Celia didn’t really want to say goodbye to anyone. She wasn’t weak, she wasn’t easy; she was a strong woman who didn’t like to expose her vulnerability.
Broadcast from the Enemy Station
Reconstruction of testimony by an unnamed person broadcast by The Voice of the United States of America on the day of Celia Sánchez’s funeral
Many years ago I found myself in a very difficult situation. I don’t want to go into details because they’re irrelevant. At that time, the tension between the US and Cuban governments was intense. I didn’t sympathize with the Castro government. I stayed because I didn’t want to leave; my whole family was there. Then my son developed a serious illness and the only treatment available was in the United States. He had to emigrate. When I told my family, they supported me, and I started the paperwork. But the process took a long time, and soon my son had reached military age. I despaired. There was a law—I don’t know if it’s still on the books—that said when a young man was summoned for military service, he couldn’t leave the country. If he didn’t leave immediately, his emigration could be delayed another four or five years, and his medical problem would get worse. I wrote letters to all the government agencies that might be able to deal with my case. I wrote to I don’t know how many people. No one responded. No, no, that’s not true. I got an answer from MINFAR, the ministry for the armed forces. Someone (I don’t know who) said they’d heard about my case but that the law was the law and they didn’t have the power to change a law . . . I don’t know, something like that. In other words, I was at a dead end. I didn’t know where to turn, who to turn to. And then someone said, “Write to Celia.” And I did. I explained my situation in detail, I listed all the steps I’d taken, the letters I’d written, my personal data—basically, everything I’d done. Although, to be frank, I didn’t have much hope. I didn’t believe a leader at that level would even see my letter. In the best case, a secretary might give it to someone who would take care of it, or they might say, “Look at this gusana,”* and file it away without doing anything about it . . .
Time passed. One day a woman came to my house asking for me and told me Celia would see me, to be at her office the next day at that same time. So I went. At the agreed time they had me go into her office. Celia was waiting for me. She got up and greeted me very warmly, with great respect, and asked how my son was doing. She invited me to sit down, and once we sat, she put her hand on a stack of open letters she had next to her on the desk.
“These are all the letters you’ve written,” she said.
I couldn’t believe it.
“It took me a little while because they had to find them all for me. But I called you because I wanted you to know your case has been heard. And we’ll see what we can do to resolve it. Don’t worry. We’ll find a solution.”
So it was. I don’t know how, but the truth is that sometime later my son and I were on a plane, legally, with all the papers arranged so we could go to the United States. I never wrote to thank her. I don’t know if it was because I thought she’d be offended—after all, I was a malcontent—or maybe because her very attitude had seemed to say, “You don’t need to thank me.” I don’t know. When you need so much because you’re helpless and suddenly someone comes and helps you just because, out of a sense of humanity . . . Sometimes I’ve thought that if I’d written a letter to thank her for what she’d done for me, she wouldn’t have paid much attention to it.
Castro and Flynn
In an article written by Errol Flynn in February 1959, everyone is gathered in a small room. People are coming and going. There is a revolver lying on the table, as well as one glued to the tiny waist of Celia Sánchez. Flynn pins her measurements at 36-24-35. Castro is Flynn’s height more or less. He has a smooth face, a relaxed demeanor, and a fine handshake. Celia fixes his glasses for him without hesitation. Through an interpreter, they become fond—Castro becomes Fidel and Flynn becomes Errol.
Flynn writes with a Hollywood eye. The big picture is only interesting to him if he is starring in it.
Notes (Fidel: Details, Habits, Style)
Fr
om the notes that José Pardo Llada wrote about the early days and time in the Sierra, we know, among other things, that Fidel smoked constantly. That he spoke softly and had an exceptional memory. That his beard-stroking was his trademark tic and that he was slightly myopic and rotated between six pairs of eyeglasses. He wore two watches on his left wrist. And, in Celia’s recollection, he was an expert in breaking both glasses and wristwatches. He read when he could: The Memoirs of Marshal Mannerheim, The Power Elite, The Complete Works of José Martí. Also, a book about ranching. He wrote quickly in small, neat, handwriting. Celia copied the most important documents. He had three photos in his cabin at Providencia, all of them of his son.
The Last Time I Saw Her
One day I saw Celia crying at her desk. She wasn’t a woman inclined to cry, so maybe it was just my imagination. Another time I knocked on her bedroom door again and again, and she didn’t respond. I left without talking to her.
We hadn’t spoken for a long time. But that day I wanted to say hi to her. We were conducting interviews in what would later become Lenin Park when I saw her working off to the side, in a secluded little place.
I left the group. The people from the station hadn’t realized Celia’s car was right there. She didn’t have the jeep anymore, and she was driving a new Fiat. I went in, through an area where they were laying marble, and I sat down to wait for her to come by. She had a habit of going to the car to get cigarettes and a wrap.
Finally, she was right in front of me. Smoking like a chimney. With her thin, veiny hands, her black hair tied with a bow, and a wildflower pinned to her ear. She went to hug me. She tried to say she was okay, but I knew she wasn’t. She looked exhausted. Dark circles under her eyes, the shakes. She was no longer the woman I’d met when I’d first come to Havana. I sat down with her, and we started talking something like this, while she lit one Chesterfield after another:
