The Ramos Brothers Trust Castro and Kennedy

by Roger Deblanck

  As the tank rumbled down the avenue, Fidel scanned the crowds, and all at once he caught sight of a face, which immediately triggered his vast memory: the face of that boy he met in the library at la universidad many years ago. In the next instant, his mind transported him farther back again to the beach on Guardalavaca, the day he exchanged his corazón in the sand for that of Martí’s. In that instant of recognition, Fidel pointed directly at Juan and nodded, as if to acknowledge, “Sí, te recuerdo. I remember you.” Juan’s mouth dropped agape, his hand frozen in a wave.

  Memory also registered for Che as he stared straight at Alberto. No way, that’s the boy from Mexico, at The Pyramid of the Sun. “My fault,” Che seemed to say. “I forgot to send you a picture.” So he pulled the cigar from his mouth, tossed it to the asphalt like a crashing star, and winked directly at Alberto, who lit up with an enormous smile.

  As quickly as the tank appeared, it roared by. Its massive force shook the street and rattled the windows of the mercado. A few mangos and lemons rolled off the top of the crates. The grinding of the tank’s treads dug into the road and left scars on the asphalt. The brothers watched as Fidel and Che became specks atop the tank, two barbudos soaking up their victory under the peaceful sky, blood brothers climbing the horizon to heaven in Cuba.

  In Plaza Cívica there loomed a white marble statue of José Martí. For such a diminutive man in real life, the statue was enormous: the size of four Goliaths, indicative of the magnitude of Martí’s vision, which inspired the liberation of Cuba from the Spaniards in 1898. Fidel always dreamed of speaking to the masses from a stage below the enormity of that hallowed monument of his hero. Now he entered the plaza to do what he always believed he could do: save Cuba from its social ills.

  Descending from the Sherman tank, Fidel then ascended to a podium below the statue of Martí. He raised his arms in triumph and looked down upon the thousands of enamored Cubanos packed into the square to cheer and chant—Viva Cuba Libre! Viva Fidel! They waved Cubano flags. They hugged and kissed. They were buoyed with pride and elation. Then they quieted to listen as Fidel spoke about the New Cuba. With his hands and arms flailing, he became a conductor. His finger sliced through the air as he spoke in gusts of confidence about the Cuba of libertad. The Cuba of independencia. The Cuba of justicia. The Cuba that would rise to the top ranks of the world, free of corruption from dictators and free from interference at the hands of the United States. The masses cheered and begged for more.

  When Fidel was finally out of breath, the rebels released scores of doves to fly over the plaza as symbols of peace and renewal. As the crowd looked on, mesmerized with Fidel and his words, one of the doves circled above El Comandante’s head and then alighted on his shoulder. The moment was captured on video for the world to see, a moment remembered in the minds of Cubanos as the day they believed Fidel was Cuba’s savior.

  * * *

  Chapter 20

  In the weeks ahead, Florencio slowly began to pull away from Fidel’s policies. He understood the young leader’s anger to want to make things right and the anger of the many dispossessed Cubanos who had suffered under the shady government of the Batista regime for nearly a decade. He even sympathized with the hard message Fidel, Raúl, and Che were trying to send, but in their determination to set the balance right, their fury fueled vengeance. Preparen! Apunten! Fuego! Ready! Aim! Fire! The refrain became heard one too many times for Florencio’s own comfort as the revolutionaries stood the worst of Batista’s power brokers—the henchmen of his brutal police force and the profiteering thieves of his bureaucratic machine—against brick walls across the island and splattered their brains out in bloody outbursts of la justicia. The masses cheered and chanted for more, Paredon! To the wall! And Fidel, Raúl, and Che obliged the wishes of the masses through what they designated as direct democracy. What the people asked for, the people received. And so in the beginning days of La Revolución, there was a slowly developing feeling of unease among many in the upper and middle classes that the rebels’ brashness was done less out of a desire to punish the criminals of the Batista era than it was to prove to the U.S. that the new revolutionary leadership would not tolerate one finger of interference in Cubano affairs from the Americans. Not a single American finger, Fidel vowed.

  The Ramos brothers listened and heard, but did not know what to think. They wanted to trust in Fidel. But they were young boys, naive and vulnerable to what was going on. After their running off and the dignified way their father handled the situation, they chose to do what their father asked of them. Florencio’s instincts influenced his decision to send his wife, sons, and Cuca ahead to Miami to be received by his parents, Huberto and Evelina Ramos. He would join them “in a few months,” he said, after he “took care of business” and tried to withdraw from the Cubano national bank as much of the family savings as possible.

  For Lucretia, leaving Cuba couldn’t come quickly enough. On a Thursday morning, Cuca’s brother, Rear Admiral Joaquin Rivera, used his connections as a military commander to secure palanca, a form of clearance leverage, for his sister and the Ramos family to leave Cuba. By that evening Juan, Alberto, their mother, and Cuca along with eight-hundred fortunate others, boarded a two-deck white ship for the ninety-mile traverse across the northern Caribbean to America’s shores. Shortly before his family departed, Florencio made a call to his parents in Miami and informed them that their grandsons, daughter-in-law, and Cuca were on their way. The family then set off for Havana Harbor in a military jeep arranged by Joaquin.

  During the drive, neither Florencio nor Lucretia exchanged words. They sat on either side of the boys in the back of the jeep as a second-star private in the navy drove with Joaquin sitting in the passenger seat. Florencio alternated between staring ahead and glancing over at his sons. Three times he patted them on their laps. When he looked away from them, he did so to fight back tears and let the wind blowing in his face dry them up. When they arrived at the harbor, Joaquin hugged Cuca, and she thanked her brother for all he’d done to gain them their permits so they didn’t have to face Customs and answer difficult questions from the officers about why they were heading to America.

  Florencio pulled the suitcases from the back of the jeep. Lucretia had the largest piece of luggage along with an additional oversized duffel bag, which she had slung around her neck and across her torso to rest against her hip. No one thought to ask what additional accessories she had stashed away in that bag, which she wouldn’t allow anyone to touch.

  Florencio carried his sons’ luggage to the checkin booth. A ramp extended from the entrance hatch of the U.S.S. City of Havana to the dock where the passengers readied to board. Florencio tried to talk in casual boasts, “You boys are so lucky. You’ll see sus abuelos for the first time in how many years. You know, you’ll love America. Huberto and Evelina love America, too. So will you.” The boys smiled at him and returned nods, but inside they felt confused, burdened, and lonely, as if they were orphans in a sad movie. Anxiety sat jaggedly in their hearts.

  When they reached the boarding ramp, Florencio turned to his wife. “Take care of the boys and have a safe journey,” he said, stepping forward and giving her a hug, which she returned. “And take care of yourself.”

  “Gracias, Florencio,” she said.

  He then hugged Cuca and expressed his gratitude to her for all she’d done for the family. Finally, he turned to his sons. This time he did not try to hide the tears glossing his eyes. His face paled, his hands trembled. He said their names—first Juan, then Alberto—and embraced them both for a long time, holding tight, not wanting to let go. The brothers could not contain their emotion any longer. Tears welled and slid down their cheeks. Their chests felt tender with the weight of sadness. The sun began to dip. Lucretia looked on and wiped a finger across her moistening eyes. The time had come. Florencio stepped back from his sons. They picked up their luggage and followed their mother, who led the way, followed by Cuca, up the ramp. Before they climbed through the ope
ning onto the ship, both Juan and Alberto turned around and smiled at their father. He waved them forward as dozens of other passengers continued to board. He watched and waited. After a few minutes, the brothers hollered down to their father from the second deck as they leaned against the railing.

  Florencio was filled with conflicting bolts of pride and jolts of sadness as he looked up at his boys. He believed their future in America would bring them more opportunities, but he had never imagined a day when he would be completely separated from them, not going with them into el futuro. The brothers continued to wave to their father as the ship pulled away, the propellers parting the waters and pushing the freighter out of the harbor. It took several minutes for the ship to gain speed and begin to disappear as it chugged for the mouth of the bay, the white stone castles of El Morro and La Punta on either side granting their exit. Juan and Alberto continued to stand at the railing and stare at their father on the dock. He never moved, waving back to them for the longest time. He became a speck, then invisible, as the boat vanished into the horizon.

  As the boat passed out of the harbor and gained the open sea, Alberto went from thinking of his father to thinking of his last conversation with Emilia only hours earlier. The phone had rang seven times, with her finally answering on the eighth ring.

  “Thank God I got a hold of you,” he said.

  “Porqué? What’s happened?” she asked.

  “We’re leaving in a couple of hours.”

  “Leaving where?”

  “To go live with mis abuelos. In Miami.”

  “No? It can’t be? This fast?”

  “I can’t believe it either. I’ve had no time to warn you. This is it.”

  “Oh, my God, Alberto. I can’t believe this. What do we say?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Te amo.”

  “I love you too,” she said, beginning to cry. “Will we ever see each other again?”

  “I hope so.”

  “My heart hurts.”

  “Please, don’t cry.”

  “Why are you not crying?”

  “No sé,” he said. “I feel really sad.”

  He heard her fighting back more sniffles over the line. “When do you have to go?” she asked.

  “Soon,” he said. “I have to pack everything I can in one suitcase.”

  “Are you taking your guitar?”

  “I can’t.”

  “I’ll never forget you.”

  “I won’t either.”

  As the conversation echoed in his head, Alberto turned to his brother. Juan had been silent. He stared at the skyline of Havana, its silhouette darkening against the dusk of the horizon. With his eyes he could trace the outlines of El Morro castle and the fortress of La Punta, their white paving stone now turning to pewter under the shadows of the sunset. Then the Hotel Nacional, its silhouette, also turning to pewter. All the buildings of the old city, lined up and outlined—the rising apartments, the steeples of cathedrals, the chimneys of factories—all cast against the falling glow of the sun, a city of the sea that looked as though it had been made of pewter. As the boat continued to move farther and farther away, the city took on the appearance of a diorama against the blaze of the setting sun, the sky’s colors becoming a flaming pineapple, a bursting papaya, then bronze—then orange and red careened against the rooftops of the pewter city, now swallowed up and disappearing, the sunset taking the cityscape to rest, the city fading into the night sky, into the seductive lips of the horizon, a Cubano sky the Ramos brothers had lived under for the last time. Calmness overcame Juan as he thought about how his Abuelo Gabriel had sailed the world before finding a home in Havana. Where had his soul flown after his passing? What did the future hold for him and his brother as they faced their own new adventure, a new life that started with their short sea voyage from Cuba to America?

  “You know,” said Juan, “from out here on the water, the city looks so calm.”

  Alberto took in the seascape and said, “Yes, it does. Calm and beautiful.”

  The teal swirl of the sea became the dark leviathan swimming against the sky. The Ramos brothers were headed for a new home, a new city, a new country, moving away from the city in their hearts, their aching hearts.

  * * *

  Part II: America

  Chapter 21

  The DuPont Plaza Hotel sat on the edge of the coast, where the waterfront of Miami Bay met the Miami River. The twelve-floor resort had nearly five-hundred rooms, from single-bed stowaways to elegant three-room suites with walk-in closets and a whirlpool for a tub. From the outside, each floor of the hotel was painted in alternating colors: palm green, ocean blue, melon yellow, or peach orange. The hotel’s second floor mezzanine featured a layout of leather couches, lounging chairs, crystal chandeliers, gigantic flowerpots, and indoor palm trees. Atop a small stage sat a grand piano, where a featured pianist played from six to eleven on Saturday nights. Serving only the finest wines and martinis, the bar stood to the right of the stage.

  Part of Miami’s wild and flamboyant downtown scene of lobby-hopping, the DuPont Plaza was a central hotspot for beautiful people and big names, among them the womanizing Florida Senator George Smathers. He made frequent reservations at the hotel and besides bringing his women, Smathers often invited congressional friends to join him for a weekend of cavorting, among his pals the charming young Senator from Massachusetts, John F. Kennedy. For Smathers and his buddies, the DuPont signified the place to be on a Saturday night when a breeze off the coast cooled the sweltering air and stirred the scent of Chanel and hibiscus with a call for sex.

  Miami’s party fever—its seething, carnal energy—made the city sensuous. Miami in 1959 was a young, growing metropolis, barely sixty years old. Its founders saw different visions for its layout, so the Miami River served as a demarcation between Henry Flagler’s maze of narrow residential streets on the west side and William and Mary Brickell’s ambition of wide, inviting boulevards to the east towards the shore. The dichotomy gave Miami a close-knit community setting on one half while the other side foresaw the glamorous future of a sky-rise coastline with buildings, towers, and hotels hugging the bay, the structures dashing their peach-colored, rose-colored, and sunshine-colored reflections off the night-blackened bay waters.

  The young and growing Miami was also a city of exiles and refugees. By 1959, hordes of Cubanos flooded in. Upon stepping foot on American soil, their flocking ground became the Freedom Tower at the corner of 6th Street and Biscayne Boulevard. A rectangular base structure supported the rising tower, painted a banana yellow, the same vibrant color many Cubanos remembered as the yellow-stone hue of the Moncada barracks back in 1953 when Fidel stormed and was repelled from that military base, his act of defiance marking the advent of La Revolución. Now, in Miami that awesome yellow meant freedom, a beautiful tower, in a country where opportunity was defined the American way, by choice, not by regulation—the sad case for Cubanos still stuck on the island, Moncada becoming a representation of a broken dream of revolutionary fervor that still hadn’t risen to fruition like the Freedom Tower in Florida.

  Bringing to Miami the Cubano way of life from their homeland island, Cubanos made Calle Ocho the heart of Little Havana, a haven for the exiles, with its bustling alleys and storefront mercados and restaurantes, and its dance halls bursting with Cubano beats—the rumba, the conga, and the cha cha cha. A mini replica of the Havana Vieja of Cuba, Little Havana helped soothe the yearning for home for many arriving refugees.

  Causeway bridges connected the beaches on the isthmus of the bay with the mainland of the city to the west, and historical sites spanned both sides of the narrow water. The enormous FIRESTONE neon sign on Flagler and 12th Avenue had been lighting up the neighborhood since 1929. Since the turn of the century, limestone homes and structures lent Caribbean appeal to south Florida, while the famed canal of Collins Street provided a touch of Venice. The flora sprouting up along Española Way defined the essence of cozy galleries, shops, and cafes n
estled among palms and mimosa. Lincoln Road’s outside mall of walkways, plazas, and courtyards—lined with the sway of royal palms—made the intimacy of shopping feel like the rhapsody of jazz. And the white-sanded beaches on the coast made the wonder of Cuba feel as near as the horizon beckoning out to the homeland island.

  The bustle of the city, however, played out downtown near the coast, at the bay, in the hotels. The Ramos brothers’ grandfather, Huberto Ramos—retired accountant from Don Emilio’s sugar enterprise, Andurra Azúcar—had purchased a little store, La Tienda Hotel, on the ground floor of the DuPont Plaza in 1952 when he and his wife, Evelina, moved from Havana to Miami and became United States citizens a year later. Huberto employed half a dozen Cubanos to run the store, while he managed the budget from month to month. Owning the store without strenuous day-to-day effort allowed Huberto and Evelina to live a relaxing, uneventful life of retirement in Miami on the more nondescript side of the city, the Flagler side. Their only regret about leaving Cuba had been losing direct contact with their two grandsons. Besides occasional phone calls and letters, the brothers had not gotten to know their grandparents on their father’s side very well, and so the boys tried to turn their sadness of leaving their father behind in Cuba into excitement over seeing their paternal grandparents.

  Huberto and Evelina were ecstatic when Florencio, their only child, phoned the third week after Castro’s takeover and told them that Juan, Alberto, Lucretia, and Cuca had secured palanca to leave the island for America. They arrived at the harbor in Miami late in the evening on a Saturday, the sun already blazed out under the horizon. Huberto drove his sky-blue Coupe DeVille with Evelina by his side to the bay’s port to pick up their grandsons, their daughter-in-law, and Cuca. When they disembarked from the U.S.S. City of Havana, Huberto called to them—“Aquí!”—and waved his arms. The brothers, hauling their suitcases, rushed to embrace their grandparents with hugs and kisses. Lucretia feigned appreciation of the warm reception from her in-laws. “Our thanks,” she said. “You are gracious to take us in.”