The Ramos Brothers Trust Castro and Kennedy

by Roger Deblanck

  “All of you didn’t need to stay here today. I am fine, just starving.”

  “I have a pot of arroz con pollo warming in the oven,” said Cuca. “Stay here. I will get you a small bowl.”

  “A big bowl.”

  “Mamá, listen to Cuca,” said Juan.

  “Since when has your mother ever listened to anyone,” she said. She smiled and reached out her hands, one each to her sons.

  What could they do? What could they say? The next day their mother seemed fine, her energy restored, her mind intact, her hysterics extinguished along with her fever. They could not keep her in bed. They could not keep her from doing what she wanted to do. She went back to work at the hotel store the next day. Everyone thought it had been a twenty-four hour virus. But she wouldn’t stop talking about the Russians. The Russians are coming. Khrushchev is coming. Castro is plotting with Khrushchev. Kennedy better watch out, she said, for the Russians are coming.

  * * *

  Chapter 36

  In early June of 1961, Kennedy flew to Vienna for a summit with Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev, the bear-like leader of Russian politics, whose blustery, domineering personality had the power to drown out any opponent. Over the course of the next three days of talks between the superpowers, the papers reported that Khrushchev manhandled Jack and wore him down with his uncompromising communist bravado.

  The Friday after the President returned home, the discussion at “Campus for Kennedy” addressed what had transpired in Vienna. The mood of the members was more somber than previous meetings, and the streaming water from the mermaid fountain hit the pool below with a plummeting force, unlike the soothing sound most often associated with the pouring water. Everyone sensed that in past discussions their hopes had been much higher than they were that afternoon.

  “I’m disheartened with all the threats and tough talk that dominate any news about the Russians,” said Sharkey. “It seems like since the Bay of Pigs, all Kennedy’s talk of peace has hit a wall.”

  “It comes down to words versus actions, and the Soviets see the Bay of Pigs as a provocation to pull whatever antics they now want,” added Colin, his eyes scanning the group. “Khrushchev appears to have made that clear in Vienna.”

  “Wait a second,” commented Juan. “You forget Kennedy acknowledged the invasion was a colossal error. Eisenhower had already set the plan in motion. Kennedy had no choice but to go through with it.”

  Several members nodded, until a newcomer to the group spoke up. “Then you’re saying all his talk about moral leadership and doing the right thing was hot air?”

  “I’m saying one blunder doesn’t derail everything he believes in,” countered Juan.

  “Well, Khrushchev is using the event as obvious fodder to stir up conflict. The Vienna talks just reinforced his position to take Berlin,” pointed out another member.

  “It would be terrible if the Soviets allowed what happened at the Bay of Pigs as a reason to take over Eastern Europe,” said Amanda.

  “I agree,” said Sharkey. “But the Russians will twist it any way they please to make it look like we’re the aggressors and, therefore, Berlin has to be defended.”

  “Then Kennedy’s right!” said Juan. “If the world’s given a choice, countries will choose freedom over communism, and that’s why Khrushchev needs to fabricate reasons for defending people from democracy because he knows the people of Berlin want freedom. But if Khrushchev makes us look like outlaws, he suddenly has reasons to make the Russians look like protectors.”

  All fourteen attendees that afternoon nodded in agreement.

  “I don’t think any of us would disagree on that,” said another newcomer. “It comes back to the issue of leadership. Kennedy talks so much of peace, while also talking of never-bending in our toughness.”

  “Never bending to the coercion of communism, that is,” said Alberto, his eyes glazed over with tiredness.

  “So how will the tension ever be resolved?” asked Colin. “Both sides have nukes that can wipe each other out. We can’t just sit around and let war happen.”

  “It won’t if the Soviets stay out of West Berlin,” said the first newcomer.

  “How is that possible when both sides seek to defy the other,” asked another attendee.

  “It’s obvious to me that Kennedy’s repeated attempts to reach out to the Soviets make it clear that he’ll do anything to prevent a nuclear war,” said Juan.

  The discussion continued to go back and forth as the members tried to make sense of the new face of war, where the Earth’s superpowers squared off. The United States and the Soviet Union were each vying for supremacy, for the solution that their vision for the world’s future would be the one that wins out: democracy or communism.

  The following Saturday morning, Alberto graduated from La Salle High School. The ceremony for the class of ’61 was held in the school auditorium, which was decorated with streamers and bunting of mint green and sparkly white, the school colors. Huberto and Evelina snapped dozens of pictures of their grandson with Guadalupe. Radiating the energy and optimism of youth, Alberto looped his arm around Guadalupe’s waist while she sidled close against his hip. He wore a dark blue linen suit with a bright green tie, both of which his mother insisted on buying for him, and Guadalupe was adorned in a solid aqua-green silk dress with lacy shoulder straps and a white sash just below her chest, her bosom pushed up in full bloom. Lucretia and Cuca congratulated the couple, and Lucretia gave both Alberto and Guadalupe a warm hug, although she didn’t kiss their cheeks as Cuca did.

  Alberto was still uncertain of what he wanted his future to foretell. He had been writing new songs, one in particular about the horizon disappearing one day across the Caribbean as Cuba and the U.S. joined in peace.

  I know the horizon doesn’t divide

  I dream my father’s face in the starry night

  I share eyes with him across the sea

  I see no line separating him from me

  Peace behold, peace arise

  Peace of nations under one sky

  With encouragement from his grandfather, Alberto looked into performing live at clubs and hotels. He had no trouble earning his first gig, playing once a week on Wednesday evenings on the mezzanine stage at the DuPont Plaza. Starting out nervous and tentative, he quickly learned to relax by his second Wednesday. By his third week, he gained a small audience of regulars, mostly locals who didn’t live far from the hotel. Elderly couples enjoyed a weeknight glass of wine and a pleasant guitar solo. At the foot of the stage, they tossed dimes, quarters, and dollar bills into Alberto’s open guitar case, the inside of which was lined with burgundy velvet. Although he grew into enjoying live performances, he still felt uncertain of a career as a musician.

  That summer after graduation, he and Guadalupe spent nearly every day together—taking walks, swimming in the ocean, going to the mall, catching a movie. They decided to begin classes together at Dade County Community College in the fall. After a year, they hoped to decide on their majors and then transfer to the University of Miami and join Juan. In the meantime, Alberto planned to put in hours at both the store and the mortgage company, while Guadalupe worked part-time as a receptionist at the air conditioning company owned by her uncle. When they got together, however, Alberto couldn’t stop brooding over how he felt like an underachiever without a real goal such as Juan’s determination to be a lawyer.

  One afternoon as he and Guadalupe sat on the beach watching the sunset catch fire and unfurl its fan of tropical reds and yellows across the valley of the sky, he started talking.

  “My Abuelo Gabriel who passed away in Cuba, he was a great explorer, a captain of ships. And Abuelo Huberto was a successful accountant. As for my father, he followed in Huberto’s footsteps and became a very successful accountant as well. Juan is now headed towards even greater success than any of them. Sometimes I think he aims to change the world . . . What do I want to do? I have no idea.”

  “Oh, Alberto, stop feeling s
orry for yourself. You always tell me it’s impossible to get yourself down because your father has always been so positive.”

  “I know, and I feel even worse about my complaining because I have a chance to do whatever I want while he remains stuck in Cuba. So what’s my problem? Why don’t I know what I want?”

  “I don’t know either,” said Guadalupe in her yellow bikini. “I think I’d like to teach, but I don’t know for certain.”

  “You know, my mother was a teacher back in Cuba.”

  “You never talk much about her.”

  “There isn’t much to say. She never took care of us much. Back in Cuba, she owned this elementary school. She ran it through our big house in the neighborhood of La Vibora, right there in Havana. We had a bus and teachers and everything. It was successful for many years. Then she opened this very successful beauty salon, La Hermosa. My father always supported her, even if they didn’t get along.”

  “I know you miss your father.”

  “You have no idea,” said Alberto, turning to her, his eyes becoming wells of emotion. “We haven’t heard from him in a while. Since the Bay of Pigs, I don’t know if he’ll ever get out.”

  “You can’t stop believing.”

  “Last time we heard from him, yes, he seemed fine. Now all this talk about Cuba joining with the Russians. My mother has been going on and on about it. And even Juan, too, seems to agree with her that the Russians are preparing for something bad. It’s so strange how Juan and my mom seem to be connecting after all these years.”

  “See how things work out.”

  “I guess,” he said and then paused. “You know, I’ve never hated my mother the way I know Juan has. I don’t know if I’ve ever really loved her in the way I’m supposed to. She’s never made it easy. I think that’s what Juan’s resented. But he’s so forgiving.”

  “So are you,” she said.

  “I just don’t feel like things are quite right. Something is bothering me,” he said, scooping up a handful of sand and letting it sieve through his fingers.

  “Let it go for now. Keep writing your songs. It will all work out.”

  Juan plowed away with summer classes before the start of his junior year that fall. He was “one busy dude,” Huberto said with pride. He studied and read, worked at the hotel store, ran the “Campus for Kennedy” meetings and edited its newsletter, and most vital to him, he continued to develop a truce with his mother. Their cordial relations seemed to bolster his belief that if he could reconcile with her, peace was possible for everyone, even between quarreling nations. Besides following every detail of the events involving the U.S., Cuba, and Russia, Juan also began to follow every sit-in and protest associated with the Civil Rights Movement.

  Earlier that year in May when the Freedom Riders boarded a Greyhound bus to protest segregation throughout the south, Juan watched in horror, along with the rest of the country, as a deranged mob in Birmingham set the Greyhound on fire and flogged the Riders as they fled from the burning bus. Juan noted how Kennedy not only supported the Riders, but he also sent one of his closest aides, John Seigenthaler, to Alabama to witness the incident firsthand. When Seigenthaler was nearly clubbed to death trying to shield the Riders from the murderous mob, Kennedy praised his aide’s bravery and told him, “You did what was right.” Another little quote Juan found in the newspaper and jotted down in his spiral notebook.

  Even as Juan hoped for an agreement that would normalize relations between Cuba and the United States, he began to think that Kennedy could never reach beyond America’s borders and create peace until he fully addressed the tinderbox of racial inequality at home. Juan began to admire the courageous individuals who confronted the evils of segregation and discrimination. Foremost among the black leaders who Juan began to revere was the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. With both the solemn grace and outspoken fortitude of a born leader, Dr. King was exactly the type of figure capable of inspiring Juan to do even more and be a better person.

  Besides the intellectual discussions Juan facilitated at the “Campus for Kennedy” meetings, his other sounding board for debate was now with his mother. Every day at the store, they picked up with the latest issues.

  “Escucha, mamá. If Kennedy didn’t believe in his heart how importante civil rights were, he wouldn’t keep moving a little bit further in his complete endorsement. His patience proves to me that he’s waiting for the right time.”

  “Dr. King sure doesn’t think waiting is acceptable,” contested his mother.

  “It’s not, but it does take time. Kennedy can’t do everything at once. He realizes we’re dealing with over a hundred and fifty years of racial hatred in this country.”

  “Then what’s he waiting for? And what’s he doing with Cuba? He had his chance to set it straight and he blew it. I’m worried, I tell you. The Russians.”

  “I’m concerned too about world stability, but we don’t even have a united front here in the states. Kennedy is trying to bring everyone together. He wants to work with Dr. King to avoid disaster at home. His actions are clear. What he says, how he acts. It’s so clear. He needs a little more time to bring out his plan. I can’t imagine juggling it all. He is a man of peace just like Dr. King. That’s why I admire them.”

  “And you once admired Fidel.”

  “Mamá, let’s not start that. I believe Fidel, too, wants peace, but he’s not afraid to push back if he’s treated with disrespect.”

  “I hope you’re right. I hope you know more than me. But I think that before we can figure out how to embrace civil rights, we’ll have to deal with the Soviet problem.”

  By the fall semester, Alberto had enrolled at Dade County Community College. With both brothers in college, their father would be proud, but they began classes that August without hearing from him all summer. Labor Day passed, then Halloween, then Thanksgiving. It had been almost another year without their father by their side. Finally, as the only Christmas present they wanted, a letter arrived from Havana. All previous letters from their father had been postmarked from the town of Matanzas, outside the city where their father had been working in the cane field, so this one marked from the capital meant a change.

  My Dearest Sons,

  I have finally finished my work in the fields. I look at my transfer to a refinery back here in our home city of Havana as a significant development in eventually gaining my release to join you soon. But again, I am deeply saddened to have to tell you that it does not look likely that my papers will be processed before Christmas. The Social Affairs division is currently reviewing my file, and my prospects are good for the next year. I do worry about the developments here in Cuba. I see Russians around here daily. I know Fidel has reached out to Khrushchev since the invasion at la Bahía de los Cochinos, and agreements have been made. I cannot blame Fidel for feeling threatened, and I think if the exiles had not tried to retake the homeland from him that I may already be with you. You’ll have to keep me in your thoughts and memories, and know that if the time apart seems too long, it will one day not matter when we are all together again. I love you more and more each day. You are the force that keeps me hoping. Take care of your mother and grandparents for me. Let Cuca know I think of her too.

  With Love Always,

  Tu Padre

  Two days after the brothers shared the letter with their mother, she fell ill again with similar symptoms to those back in April after the debacle of the Bay of Pigs. She was hallucinatory and hysterical with fears about bombs and lights and explosions. She complained of a dreadful headache, again mentioning that her discomfort felt as though a stone lay lodged in her head. “It’s pressing, it’s pressing,” she cried.

  They attributed the head pain to the high fever she developed. Cuca mixed the same drink of green tea with St. John’s wort and rosemary. And just like her illness earlier in the year, Lucretia’s temperature dropped to normal after a few hours. She rested for less than a day and then declared herself fine. However, when she tried
walking, she lost her balance and nearly fell over. Juan and Alberto caught her, and she had to stay in bed an extra day before she regained her equilibrium and went back to work, as she insisted she must. Because she recovered quickly and the holiday season came and went without any further ailment, no one took great stock of the symptoms, other than they must have been another bout with a virus.

  * * *

  Chapter 37

  In April of the next year, Cuca prepared a big party for Juan’s twenty-first birthday. The guests feasted on mounds of roasted pork and huge steaming pots of beans and rice. Cuca also baked a double-decker chocolate cake with butter cream vanilla icing. Best of all, there was plenty of Hatuey beer and bottles of rum packed in two coolers of slushy ice. The party was held in the backyard of the house on 30th Avenue, and Huberto and Evelina allowed the party to continue into the late hours of the night. Juan invited members of “Campus for Kennedy” and pals from his classes, including fellow scholars majoring in the same pre-law track as him.

  At the party and having an extra good time was Sharkey. Besides attending some “Campus for Kennedy” meetings, he had been taking some credits at the community college the past year, but finally he prepared to head back home to Venezuela. The Kennedy administration had pressured the courts to speed up the extradition of Peréz Jiménez, and now Sharkey’s father, Consul Del Porto, had finally secured the documents to have Jiménez sent back to Caracas to stand trial for embezzlement. After nearly three years of political haggling and court dawdling, Señor Del Porto was ready to haul back the former dictator. Sharkey knew he would be leaving the states soon, so he downed can after can of beer and recalled events of mischief over the past three years: firing B-Bs at yachts, enjoying joints in the suite, charming chicks at the park, and standing up to the asecino, Vasquez. “That asshole,” Sharkey called Vasquez, as he teetered toward drunk while telling the whole story.