“I have to. I love him so much. As much as I love you.”
The sunset clamored, a pair of cymbals, a chiming range of colors. Red, orange, and blue reverberated off the sky’s canyon walls, echoes undulating across the steep horizon. As Alberto walked home from Emilia’s house, he thought about music. The songs he wrote. The songs she sang. The songs he played with Emilia. Together, they were music. He and his brother also were music. He could not imagine his life without him. Juan was his blood. He would follow his brother anywhere, protect him any way he could. But over the last year he had also come to feel the same way about Emilia. And not until that afternoon’s quarrel with Juan did Alberto realize how important his brother was to him. They got sick together, made friends together, got in trouble together, played baseball together, traveled together, endured their parents together. They had always trusted one another, been there for one another. They rarely disagreed and when they did, it was over minor differences. And so Alberto could not quell the remorse he felt in his heart about how a shattered Coca-Cola bottle could come between them.
His footsteps picked up their pace as he wanted to sprint into the house, go straight to Juan’s room, and tell him he would always be his brother, no matter what.
As Alberto approached their house, the light from the clanging sun fell under the horizon, all sounds buried in the earth. Only the glow from the cymbals’ clamor kept the sky colored in echoes of fading gray and yellow. He bounded up the steps on his front porch, the awning above throwing down the day’s last shadows. He dug his hand in his pocket to locate his door key. He let himself in and shut the door quietly. He was taking gigantic breaths. His heart pounded slow and steady, the way a drumstick caught the center of a snare drum, a perfect percussive popping sound. He walked down the hallway and reached Juan’s bedroom door. Early evening had almost left the house completely dark, but just enough gray light lingered to give the house a pleasant haunting of calm. Alberto rapped his knuckles softly on the door to Juan’s room and it creaked open. Juan had not latched it shut. Shadows flitted across the room and over Juan’s bed as Alberto entered. He caught the shape of his brother stretched out on top of his sheets, his legs crossed at the ankles, his hands resting at his chest. He had not taken his shoes off. Their mother would have thrown a fit if she saw them in their rooms with their shoes on. Alberto stood a few feet from the side of the bed, his brother’s shoulder close enough that he could reach out and touch him. Not knowing if Juan was asleep, Alberto was about to tap him on the shoulder. Before he could do so, Juan turned his head and a grin appeared. Alberto’s heart settled into a jogger’s pace instead of feeling as if he’d run an uphill marathon.
“Juan, I’m . . .”
“I’m sorry, too,” said his older brother.
Alberto took the last step to the bed. His brother sat up, and they both clenched each other in a hug. They held one another for a long time, the darkness enveloping them, bringing them solace, securing forgiveness where none had to be asked for.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen if Fidel takes over,” said Juan.
“Whatever happens, I won’t ever let you down,” said Alberto.
“I never thought you would.”
“I promise.”
“I promise, too.”
Music again, thought Alberto, my brother and I.
* * *
Chapter 16
In the months following the cane field escape, the papers reported how Fidel and his men had become guerrillas. They donned olive-green fatigues and began to launch hit-and-run skirmishes from out of their Sierra Maestra hideouts. The fierce jungle of labyrinthine ferns and vines on the southern coast of Oriente province was a fortress of safety from attack by Batista’s Rural Guard. The jagged cliffs and orange muddy slopes made rooting the guerillas out impossible, while wasps, moths, mosquitoes, and harvester ants raised havoc and tested the patience of Batista’s army.
Receiving meals, beds to sleep in, and general support from the guajiro communities living in huts throughout the lush mountain valleys of the undulating landscape, Fidel’s army of barbudos, the bearded rebels, scored one small guerilla victory after another. The Batista regime took notice and began relocating entire towns and villages of peasant farmers and their families. Any civilian suspected of aiding the rebels was uprooted and resettled in army concentration camps far from their homes. Then, using missiles and napalm provided by the U.S. government, Batista’s air force pounded the spine of the jungle up and down the Sierra Maestra. When Fidel learned of the army’s support from the United States, he was rumored to have broken into fury: “When this war against Batista is won, the greater war with the U.S. will begin!” he roared.
In late January, Juan, Alberto, and their father—along with thousands of Cubanos across the island—watched as Batista went on television to declare the rebels were crushed. But without evidence of Fidel’s decease, Batista’s only claim to victory was control of the media. With Batista’s firm grip on censoring television, radio, and newspapers, Florencio explained to his sons that the regime was feeding them a mean diet of lies. Listening on, Lucretia said nothing as she knew her husband was right. The propaganda was exactly that: false.
Fidel, meanwhile, wanted to set the record straight for all Cubanos to see how Batista abused his power. So the first week after Batista’s aerial strike against his jungle hideouts, Fidel sent Max to Havana to work with underground agents on bringing a high profile journalist to the Sierra Maestra. Days later, Max sent back word to Fidel that he had secured the perfect man for the job—Herbert Matthews, a New York Times columnist on assignment in Cuba. While in Havana, Max managed to sneak a midnight visit to Benito and relay to his son the details of what Fidel and the rebels were up to. Then he took off again, this time to drive the journalist Matthews across the island to Manzanillo, just off the Gulf of Guacanayabo on the southeast coast. In Manzanillo, Max met up with Gonzalo who greeted Matthews and took him by jeep through the back roads of the countryside to the foot of the Sierra Maestra. Fidel’s brother Raúl awaited them there near the bay, where he then led Matthews on a hike up the rugged jungle wall to the rebel camp.
Stronger and more dug in than before Batista’s air strike, the rebels had established a small hospital and a supply of electric generators, allowing Fidel to issue radio broadcasts to Havana and Santiago. They also set up a small printing press to run daily distributions of El Cubano Libre, the rebel newspaper. No source of media attention, however, would be more powerful, Fidel knew, than Matthews’s safe return to New York, armed with an interview and photos for the Times.
Matthews encountered Fidel as if he was some mythical ghost out of an adventure story. The guerrilla leader emerged from the mist in the forest with a cigarro dangling from the corner of his mouth, his eyes full of vitality, his bushy eyebrows like two anxious caterpillars, his hand grip ironclad, yet his strength gentle as a sedated horse. His unkempt beard and darkened tan spoke of undeterred resilience to battle the elements. Once he began enumerating his revolutionary plans to the journalist, his voice and theatrics made him seem as though he invented persuasion.
“We are not murderers and terrorists, the way Batista has falsely portrayed us. We are guerrilla fighters, seeking libertad and justicia for our countrymen,” Fidel told a mesmerized Matthews. “Martí’s vision guides our mission as we struggle for la independencia of Cuba.”
A week later, the Sunday edition of the Times ran the first of three front page stories on the rebels’ entrenchment in the mountains. Batista ordered his censors to scissor out the articles from each imported edition of the paper. When the papers hit the news stands in Havana on the week of February 24, citizens all over the city laughed and joked about receiving copies with gaping holes. Batista countered with a statement denouncing Matthews as a fraud. The next day the Times printed a front page photo of the journalist puffing away on a Montecristo cigarro while enjoying the company of el Líder Máximo. Viva Fidel!
> Benito arrived on the playground early one Thursday morning in late February with an uncensored copy of the New York Times, the same newspaper distributed a few days earlier across the island with huge holes on the front page, where the article and photograph of Fidel and the rebels had been snipped out by Batista’s censors. Benito kept the uncensored paper in his backpack and showed it to Juan, Alberto, and Miguel only after each swore three times to secrecy.
“So your father’s fine?” asked Juan.
“Of course,” said Benito, “he gave me the paper.”
“You saw him again?” asked Miguel.
“Quiet. What did I just say,” said an annoyed Benito as he went on to explain. “He came to mi casa in the middle of the night, just like he’s been doing over this last year. He told me he was the one who found the journalist who wrote the articles. Then he gave me the paper. He said this island is going to change.”
“Did he say anything else?” Juan’s attention was intent on more details.
“He said the guerrilla army was getting stronger every day.”
“Wow,” said Miguel.
Benito’s information stirred adventure in the minds of the boys, but they were unprepared for what Benito said next: “I’m ready to go join my father.”
“Your father wants you to go with him?” asked Juan.
“No, he’s already gone. But I could hear in his voice how much he misses me and my mom and sister. I miss him too. So I started thinking after he left this last time that I should try and make it to the Sierra Maestra.”
“That’s clear across la isla. The southeast,” pointed out Miguel.
“No shit,” said Benito.
“What are you going to do?” asked Juan.
“I’m gonna get on a train and go to Manzanillo. That’s where my father mentioned new recruits meet and are led into las montañas.”
Without hesitation, Juan said, “Alberto and I will go with you.” He looked at his brother, “Right, Alberto?”
Choosing to listen, Alberto hadn’t yet said anything. “I don’t know,” he murmured.
“You don’t need to know anything more than what Benito has been saying,” said Juan. “You’ve started catechism, and it’s going to drive you loco. So why don’t we go with Benito? We’ll leave everything we can’t stand aquí. We can stand by Fidel.”
“I don’t think they’ll let us fight,” said Benito. “We could support la revolución in other ways. By helping the barbudos, carrying their gear. That’s what I’m thinking.”
Looking again at his brother, Juan asked, “Alberto, what’s wrong?”
He still hadn’t said anything, his brow furrowed with worry, his slicked black hair glistening with anxiety.
“What about you, Miguel?” asked Benito. “Will you go with us?”
“This sounds loco. I’m with Alberto,” said Miguel.
“No, he’s thinking it over, but he’ll go,” said Juan, talking directly to Miguel before turning to face his brother and putting his hands on his shoulders. “Trust me, mi hermano, we can do it.”
Alberto again didn’t answer. He nodded first and then shook his head as if changing his decision each second.
“Let him think it over, if he wants,” said Benito. “The earliest we could leave would be a week or so from today. I’ll need time to sneak dinero from my mom’s purse.”
“We’ll be ready,” said Juan. “We’ve gone by train before, all the way to Guardalavaca. The mountains are straight south from there. We’ll just take the bus south.”
“I know,” said Benito. “Just be careful about saying anything. If we’re not careful, our parents will stop us.”
“We know better than anyone,” said Juan, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “Don’t we, Alberto?”
“I’ll go,” said his brother, a stern and defiant stare in his cobalt eyes.
* * *
Chapter 17
Over the next week, Juan asked his father for money to buy a new baseball glove, and Alberto asked for some cash to buy new guitar strings. Trusting his sons, Florencio handed over the amounts they requested. The boys never thought to ask their mother for money, nor did they even consider trying to pilfer from her. She knew how much cash she had to the exact centavo, every cent of it. If they had to be careful about tipping their plan, they had to do so from their mother. Even though she paid them little attention, she somehow had an instinct for sniffing out defiance, and they’d be sure to receive the worst punishment of their lives if she found out their plan to take off for the Sierra Maestra, all the more reason to risk the chance to defy her. As for Cuca, she remained a fixture in the boys’ lives. She cooked their meals, talked to them at the dinner table, did their laundry, and assisted them with their school work. But where their upbringing involved discipline, she not only stepped back, she never stepped in at all. She left reprimands and punishments up to the parents, Florencio and Lucretia.
Over the following week Juan studied the train routes and determined that he and Alberto, along with Benito and Miguel, could easily take the same path as he and his brother took with Cuca to Guardalavaca. The only difference would be once they reached Las Tunas, they would travel south to Bayámo instead of going north to Holguín as they did when they went to Cuca’s family’s house. As for necessities, Juan talked with Benito about what to take. They decided a single backpack each, stuffed with a change of clothes, several pairs of underwear and socks, a toothbrush and paste, paper and pencil and a little sharpener, and as much dry and canned food as they could cram into their packs, along with a knife.
For the next week, the brothers went to school as normal. Juan came home afterwards and played ball with Benito and Miguel. Later in the evenings, he buried himself in his books. Alberto went to his catechism classes with Brother Marco, who was in his last year at San Mateo before becoming a priest with his own parish. For the entire week before they ran off, Alberto wavered over what to do. He hated, indeed, learning the names of the saints and listening to how the sacraments had to be abided by in order to gain salvation. No different than his brother, he didn’t care about the church and didn’t think he should have to go if he didn’t want to. He complained to Cuca and she advised him to raise the issue with his mother and father, so Alberto’s decision to run off with his brother—based on the fact of defying their mother—became an easier choice. But telling Emilia made his situation complicated. It came down to whom he cared about most, Juan or Emilia, and he couldn’t make the decision. Either way, he would be letting down the other. He told Juan about his predicament, and his brother listened and told him that he would not judge him if he decided against going. “I’ll understand if you think you can’t go. But you have to promise not to break down and tell mom where I went.”
“Juan, you know it will be impossible for me to do that.”
“Then you have to come along. You decide.”
The day to flee neared, and Alberto still hadn’t told Emilia. The secret tied his stomach into a knot of cramps. He knew that she sensed something was bothering him again, yet she interpreted his lethargy and gloominess as a product of his long days of study for confirmation. Then on Sunday night, the evening before they were set to leave, he told her.
“I don’t know when you’ll see me again after mañana,” he said, strumming his guitar after another lackluster effort that evening of playing songs with her.
“I know we haven’t been able to see each other much since you started catechism,” she said.
“I’m not talking about catechism.”
“Oh, Alberto, what is it?”
“This is serious. Juan wants me to go with him, Benito, and Miguel.”
“Go where? It’s the start of the school week tomorrow.”
“I know, but we’ve been planning for days,” said Alberto, his head down, his guitar placed to the side of his chair. “You see, Benito’s father is with Fidel in the Sierra Maestra. Benito wants to go find him. Juan is going with him, and I can’t le
t him go alone. But it’s been killing me to think about leaving you.”
“That’s absolutely loco. Going to see Castro? You can’t be that stupido, Alberto.”
“I’m trying to tell you I’m not sure. But what can I do? Juan is going no matter what. I have to go with him.”
“Alberto, listen to yourself? You sound ridiculous.”
“I know. I don’t know what to do,” he said, reaching for his guitar and picking the strings.
“Don’t go,” she said. “I’m telling you.”
He left her house that evening with the stars above flickering to him little messages of uncertainty. Walking home he heard the worried tone in his mind of Emilia’s voice telling him not to go. He had decided to say nothing more about what he would do. He had given her a hug and kiss, for that’s all he could think to do.
In the morning, Cuca cooked breakfast for the brothers and saw them off to school. As soon as they rounded the corner of Calle Santa Cantalina, instead of heading uptown to the campus of San Mateo, they started jogging downtown towards el Estación Central at the corner of Calle Egido and Arsenal in Havana Vieja. Benito was waiting for them when they got there, but Miguel had decided against going, so instead of four it was the three of them changing out of their school uniforms. They ripped off their blue ties and tossed them in the trash. They changed from their black slacks and white button dress shirts into khaki trousers and faded pullovers. When they finished changing, they got in line at the ticket booth, paid their fare, and boarded the train.
At that point their nerves dissolved like salt in the sea, although for Alberto the taste of indecision still lingered sour in his mouth. He was with his brother, and ultimately he had decided that he could not let Juan go by himself. He knew Emilia would be upset when she found out, and he had no idea how he would make it up to her. When he looked at Juan, however, he knew he had made the right choice. They were music, the Ramos brothers.
The Ramos Brothers Trust Castro and Kennedy Page 13
