The Ramos Brothers Trust Castro and Kennedy

by Roger Deblanck

  The day was long, and they didn’t say much to each other as the train clacked and picked up speed and sped along its track, leaving Havana behind, before reaching Santa Clara, where riders got off and others got on. In Sanctí Spíritus the next day, they got off at the station to stretch their legs and order a warm meal at the café. The ride that second day took them through Ciego de Ávila and Camaguey, past cane fields and the bluish-green foliage of tobacco plantations, so that by the evening they were in Las Tunas. From there, they had to switch trains to take the south route to Bayámo. They slept in the station that night, as the train only traveled once in the morning and back from Las Tunas to Bayámo. They boarded with a light rain falling and looked out the window at the deafening green of the countryside. As they neared the valley, footed at the base of the Sierra Maestra, blood-red poinsettias besotted the fields. When they reached Bayámo, they had to buy bus tickets for the final stretch of the journey to Manzanillo. They boarded among a motley group of guajiros. The bus ride was bumpy and hot. The road at one narrow stretch cut through brush and trees so close the branches whisked the sides of the bus and scraped at the windows. But further out from Bayámo, thatched huts littered the fields before the forests, and plantations stretched out for acres.

  When they reached Manzanillo, the bus station was a small brick building in the center of town with a general store, a post office, and a restaurant on the same street. Wagons and pushcarts provided the main form of transporting goods and wares to the outdoor market a quarter mile down the road. The boys wandered around town chewing on beef jerky stocked in their backpacks. If Benito’s father was truthful, a safe house existed somewhere on the outskirts of the village, where the lunging shadows of palms streaked the dusty streets. They decided not to ask questions in fear of bringing attention to themselves and risking any of the rebels falling into the hands of the authorities, for a sheriff’s office was noticeable across the main street.

  They decided to hang around the general store, Tienda Toda, and try to pick up scraps of conversation. Maybe they’d hear mention of the safe house. By evening two bearded young men went into the store and purchased canned goods and other items such as toilet paper and soap. As the men exited, Benito motioned to Juan and Alberto that they should follow at a far distance. Once the men with beards headed down the street and became almost a speck, the three started after them. They reached the edge of town and then took a worn path about a quarter mile, which led through a deep fold of ficus trees to a hut with a thatched roof. Pushing through the foggy woods, gnats attacked their hands and necks. If the three hadn’t been following the two barbudos, they would never have found the way, for the hut was almost completely camouflaged among a bower of dewy ferns and wrangling vines. The two men entered and stayed inside for half an hour before coming out with enormous packs tied-up and sturdy on their backs. From their distance, the boys watched from behind an enormous kapok tree as the two men headed deeper off into the forest. The boys determined the bohío had to be the safe house. “If we wait here for the next day or so, I’m sure my father will check in,” said Benito.

  So that evening, they took turns going a little distance into the woods for privacy to change their underclothes before going to sleep. The night came fast, ebbing from purple to blue to black, the darkness becoming a bottomless shadow. They heard rustling noises and spotted marble eyes of what they thought were monkeys. They listened to the crunch and snap of leaves and twigs, as the creatures scurried away in fear, but the boys were so tired they dispelled their own fear and curled up next to each other and quickly fell asleep, their backpacks serving as hard pillows.

  In the morning blue-headed quails cooed them awake, and they heard activity at the hut. Different men with beards came and went, but no sign of Benito’s father. Finally, by late afternoon Benito spotted him. His heart jumped into his throat at the sight of his father. Acting entirely on instinct, Benito went running towards the hut. “Padre! Padre! I’m here!”

  As Benito ran towards his father, three bearded rebels bolted from the hut, their pistols drawn, the click and lock of the hammers echoing among the trees. Juan and Alberto watched from around the kapok as Benito halted his sprint and nearly tripped up in the dirt path before sliding to the ground. Seeing that they were facing a young boy, the rebels lowered their weapons and looked at Max. He stood there still as a statue for a second. He squinted at the boy to make sure he was seeing correctly.

  Juan and Alberto watched Benito’s father go to his son and lift him off the ground. Then a heated exchange began with the father issuing a reprimand. The brothers couldn’t hear the exact words of the chastisement, but after a minute Señor Carbonal looked in their direction and ordered them out from behind the kapok. He waved with his arm for Juan and Alberto to come forward. The brothers picked up their backpacks, and Alberto also grabbed Benito’s. They trudged slowly up the trail and stopped a few feet from Benito.

  “See, papá, we’re here to help,” said Benito.

  “I really can’t believe this. It is not safe for you here,” Max said to the Ramos brothers. “I was just explaining to my son that he shouldn’t have come, and I’m very sorry he dragged his amigos along.”

  “No, no, Señor Carbonal, we made the decision on our own,” said Juan.

  “Whatever the process of decision-making, it doesn’t matter. All three of you will be going back to Havana tomorrow.”

  “Papá, por favor . . .” pleaded Benito.

  “Hijo, listen to me. You cannot act this way. You cannot go with me up the mountains to Comandancia La Plata. It does not matter that you are mi hijo or that you and your amigos want to support la revolución. Fidel does not allow boys in his outfit.”

  “You said . . .” Benito tried to plead again.

  “I never said such a thing. First bus back to Bayámo, you three will be on it. I will pay the fare back to Havana. I will have to trust you to go back. Your mother needs you,” Señor Carbonal said to Benito.

  That night Benito’s father moved around supplies in the bohío to create space for them to sleep, and in the morning he afforded them the opportunity to trek up to the first ridge of the cordillera, the chain of mountains, to view the panorama of the Sierra Maestra. They ascended a steep path and pushed through the foliage, their legs thrusting upwards with all their strength, to reach the precipice. From the ridge, the sun’s rays felt bleached as they filtered through a lazy orchard of clouds above the mountaintops. They took in the rolling valleys below and the towering cliffs kissing the clouds. The range of the island’s colors limned the landscape: impenetrable green through the ravines, green and ocher through the valleys, and green and orange towards the foot of the jungle and up the mountains.

  That afternoon Benito’s father led them back to the bus stop and purchased tickets. Exhausted from the morning hike, the boys waited on benches for the bus to arrive. Benito clung to his father’s waist and continued to mumble that he did not want to go, that he wanted to follow his father through the tropical ferns and vines and up into the cloudy heights of the mountains to be with Fidel. Juan and Alberto sat together on another wooden bench. In his exhaustion, Juan considered how the risk they took to find Fidel was too much, even to defy their mother. As he got older, he thought, what did she matter? What could she do to him? He would choose his own destiny, not her. And his tiredness over the previous days proved to him that living in the mountains would not have been a fit for him. As for Alberto, his feelings were simple: he missed Emilia. As the brothers watched the sun descend towards the trees, the bus pulled up, its breaks squeaking to a stop. Juan and Alberto turned their attention to the passengers exiting, and then their faces blanched white as they saw their father step off. The deepness of worry was etched in the wrinkles on his face as his eyes caught sight of his boys.

  By nightfall—with the stars glittering against the indigo canvas of the sky—they were headed on the train back to Havana. Sitting in silence, Juan didn’t need to ask Albert
o why he had told Emilia about their plan to join Max and Fidel. Their father had gathered enough information from her to piece together his sons’ probable route of travel towards the Sierra Maestra. As Alberto fell asleep, Juan studied his brother’s face: a gentle curl at the corners of his mouth, relief exhaling from his calm breaths. Emilia was in his dreams. Florencio watched Juan looking at Alberto and put his arm around Juan’s shoulder. Juan thought he might cry. He loved his father. Relieved to be going home, he understood how his brother felt.

  * * *

  Chapter 18

  Before leaving Manzanillo, Florencio shook hands with Max Carbonal. Both fathers knew there was no telling how the future would play out. Benito’s father was a revolutionary. Florencio neither favored nor opposed Fidel. He wished Batista out, but all he really cared about was the safety of his family, Cuca among them. He knew many factors had led to his sons’ decision to flee as they did. Feeling more exhausted than angry, Florencio mostly blamed himself. He knew too much of his life had been consumed with his career as an accountant for Don Emilio at Andurra Azúcar.

  By the time they arrived home, Florencio had decided to let the whole incident go. Lucretia, on the other hand, wanted to impose six months restriction on the boys: no books for Juan, no guitar for Alberto, no baseball for either, and no seeing friends, especially no Benito for Juan and no Emilia for Alberto. Florencio argued against any punishment because he believed his and Lucretia’s poor parenting had led to their sons’ running off.

  “Lucretia, you don’t get it? They embrace the idea of Fidel more than they trust us,” explained Florencio.

  “Why would they trust un hombre loco?” she argued back.

  “Oh, Lucretia, you are blind to what has transpired estos años,” he pleaded with her, his hands clenched as he spoke in a raised tone. “It is our faults. We have not been model parents. Their hearts and minds have turned elsewhere to fulfill needs we have not provided.”

  “Speak for yourself!” she defended herself. “The boys are taken care of. They have everything they need. They have had Cuca since they were babies. What more can I give them?”

  “May the Lord have mercy on us. Yes, bless Cuca. But also think of us,” he told his wife, pacing the room in a circle, rubbing his high forehead and pulling at the graying hairs of his goatee. “If we had only shown them more love.”

  “I won’t listen to you talk to me this way. You can think what you want,” she scowled at him. “Do what you want with your sons. Let them rule you. Then come and talk to me about parenting them right!”

  She stormed out of the bedroom, yanked her purse from the table at the front door, and left the house. The brothers could hear the calamity unfold from their rooms, the muffled echoes of the yelling and hollering, the slamming of doors. When the house went quiet, they laid on their beds in silence and considered the encroaching gray of dusk, a crepuscular fabric that extended over the island, the sky becoming a dark shawl slowly floating in waves to the ground, riffling along on the gloaming strata of humidity, as the day sieved through the thick darkening air and turned the light to darkness, night settling over the city, over the neighborhood, over their house, their bedrooms, their very eyes. Tomorrow was not promised. The heavy split of family was the only certainty in the house. When the dark felt complete, as it nuzzled into the corners of their rooms, a hall light flipped on. A glowing sheet of light slid under the gaps at the bottoms of their doors, and they heard footsteps. Their father called them out of their rooms into la saleta. He sat in his recliner and the boys sat before him on the couch. The gaudiness of their enormous glass dining table remained in their periphery from el comedor.

  “I want you both to know, I love you very much,” he started. “I cannot make up for lost time, but I can say that I’m proud of you both. You’re fine young men. Juan, you show the knack of a scholar. Whatever you choose to do in life, your integrity to speak the truth will take you far. And Alberto, I want you to keep up your passion for music, keep creating, let your corazón be filled with emotion, because the truth of what you feel will set you free. Whatever you both want to do, I will support you.”

  “What about mamá?” asked Juan.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever quite understand her. She is your mother, though, and you should not treat her badly. She works hard, but she loves her work.” He paused and considered how to say next what he truly believed. “I know that deep in her corazón she does love you both . . . I am deeply sorry she does not show it.”

  Alberto kept his head down as his father spoke. From a voice generating in the far catacombs of his mind, he believed that their mother did love them. He raised his eyes to meet his father as he finished speaking. He gave a somber smile and separated his lips, as though he was about to speak, before considering otherwise and not saying a word. Instead, he lowered his head again and stared down at his feet, shifting them on the carpet, back and forth, back and forth. Juan went to their father and hugged him.

  After another two days of arguing, their parents negotiated on a punishment: that Juan and Alberto would have three weeks grounding. They could see no friends during that time, and their chores would be increased. Juan was required to come directly home from school each day, and Alberto the same after his catechism courses ended. However, Florencio refused to allow their constructive outlets—Juan’s books for studying and Alberto’s guitar for playing—to be taken away, especially for punishment of something he did not blame them for.

  The three weeks sped by, and then Juan was back to hanging out with Benito and Miguel. They spent most of their time together practicing their fielding and batting in the park and afterwards discussing school and girls. Juan continued to feel ambivalent about why he never developed any attraction for the young girls at San Mateo. He was two years older than his brother, and still he had no desire to develop flirtations with girls outside of casual friendships. Alberto, for his part, used the long hours stuck in catechism classes to think of Emilia and the music they played together. Not until June would he have sufficient time to work on new songs with her. As the days and weeks of catechism dragged on, his frustration grew. He focused on persevering and enduring—the ability to feel as though nails were driven through his own flesh—for when confirmation was over, he had no intention of submitting to any belief that made him feel guilty for having normal thoughts about urges and desires. The church insisted his life had to be pure. What kind of life was that? Who wanted to live passionless and stripped of emotion? After being confirmed, he would pry the nails of frustration from his skin, lick his wounds, and live his own life, a future of music, writing and playing songs with Emilia, his soul mate, his love. He didn’t care if Batista or Fidel or the Pope ruled the island. It made no difference to him. So long as he had his guitar and his girl, he believed.

  Because the boys had taken the big trip to Mexico only two years earlier as celebration for Juan’s confirmation, their father told them that under the circumstances of their mother’s still-heated feelings over their running off, he felt it would be unwise to plan another getaway for Alberto’s confirmation. Instead, Florencio bought Alberto his first electric guitar. He was thrilled with the gift more than anything he’d ever been given, and over the next year he and Emilia added a new and exciting range of sounds to their music. Benito with his drums and Miguel with his bass joined in for an occasional jam session, but their passion to make the varsity baseball team supplanted their interest in music. That left Alberto and Emilia to work together on a more intimate basis for the rest of the summer and fall of 1957.

  It was not hard for them to sense how their delight of working together was also an indication of how much they loved each other. In May of the next year, Emilia’s Quinciñera would be celebrated, a time in which her womanhood would be declared, and both she and Alberto already sensed the increasing degree of connection developing between them as they entered early adulthood. Kissing, hugging, and a little bit of touching, they both knew a time would co
me, but not yet, not with a woman’s chastity on the line, her entire reputation, a position in their culture that could not be violated. So there was no rush. They had all the time in the world to wait, and they had every reason to wait because they were busy making music, which was really just an extension of their love.

  They began to think about new songs they could play at her Quinciñera. With Alberto’s electric guitar to diversify the texture of their performance, Emilia strengthened the range of her octave and the depth of her tenor. “You’re becoming a nightingale,” Alberto told her, and she complimented his graceful handling of up to five chords on his guitar. As the New Year passed and the days crept towards her fiesta de quince, they perfected two songs—“The Night We Met” and “The Future We Have”—that they would perform on her big day.

  For that special fifteenth birthday, Emilia wore a white silk dress with spaghetti straps. The fabric shone with embroidered rhinestones and sequins. The gown clung elegantly to her lean figure, like the flow and glow of a waterfall in the moonlight. The length of the dress fell to her feet where she wore a pair of three-inch high, lace-embroidered white stilettos.

  For the fiesta, her grandparents’ backyard was transformed into a splendor of decor. Bunting garlanded the porch and walls. Lights had been strung through the ceiba and kapok trees, looking as if stars had been caught in the branches. Large flowerpots exploded with the scent of hibiscus and begonias. A stage had been constructed. A bar had been installed. A crew of waiters and waitresses were at the beckon of guests. And a dozen tables overflowed with the essentials for a Cubano feast: black and red beans, white and yellow rice, garlic and lemon chicken, breaded and garlic steak, roasted pork, fried ham, fried fish, fried onions, and roasted banana chips. New chinaware had been purchased to pile plates high, and new glasses to fill up with daiquiris, mojitos, champagne, and cerveza. After dinner, there were Cubano desserts: drunken cake, sweet meat rolls, and rolls with guava-filled centers. And finally, a double-decker white cake decorated with red and purple icing the color of mimosa and bougainvillea.