by Nancy Stout
That afternoon in Santiago, Frank—driving his red Dodge—picked up Oscar Asensio Duque de Heredia in front of the Renaissance Bookstore on Enramades. As soon as Oscar got in, Frank handed him a fancy little revolver with “4º de Septiembre” decorating the handle in colored enamel. This was a gift Batista liked to hand out to commemorate the day he’d first taken over Cuba, in 1933. Frank passed Oscar two boxes of bullets, warning him that the gun was loaded. A year before, Oscar had interviewed Frank for his school paper after Frank had been charged with killing a policeman in the town of Caney; the charges had been dropped for lack of evidence, and Frank had denied having any part of it. Now, as Oscar held the pistol in his palm, he wasn’t so sure of Frank’s claim he did not kill that policeman a year earlier. Frank’s enigmatic, almost playful way of handing him the gun that day seemed to confirm it.
Frank drove into the red-light district (what Cubans call a “tolerance zone”) and stopped in front of a warehouse. He got out, took out a batch of keys, and tried several before opening the wide door. He signaled Oscar to stay in the car and went inside. A couple of minutes later, Frank emerged carrying a large bundle so badly wrapped that Oscar could see it held rifles and machine guns. Frank put it in the trunk, but it was too large for the trunk to close properly. They drove to Drucha where he stopped in front of a house, honked the horn for someone to come out, and when he did, Frank told him to stay inside and wait for further orders. That was the pattern for the rest of the afternoon, driving from street to street, zigzagging through the city in the Red Threat crammed with weapons, telling people to stay home, wait, stay on alert. They passed several policemen with shortwave radios, and army units, yet nobody took notice of the bright red car with its trunk flapping open. Oscar at some point looked over his shoulder and was horrified to see the trunk had actually opened completely. He told Frank, who casually pulled over in front of a laundry, got out, and rearranged the weapons. When he caught the “unbelieving eyes of the curious,” to quote Oscar, a little smile appeared on Frank’s face.
It was late afternoon when Frank and Oscar picked up several people on San Geronimo, and then drove around the bay to a remote neighborhood called Punta Gorda, where they stopped in front of a lovely modern house. The place was vacant, and inside Frank led Oscar to a room holding a modest arsenal: rifles, pistols, and more than a hundred hand grenades still in parts on the floor. He told Oscar and a few other young men to assemble them. He warned they had to do this before nightfall because under no circumstances were they to turn on lights. It was after six on a late fall evening, and darkness was closing in.
AS DUSK DESCENDED OUTSIDE THE ICEHOUSE in Niquero, Lalo Vásquez and Manuel Fajardo asked themselves what to do next. Fidel’s estimated arrival time had almost passed. What if he did not appear that night? Lalo must have gotten word that Frank’s uprising was getting under way, and wanted to ask Celia what she had in mind. He was thinking about their militants who, by the next morning, would have been out for 24 hours. Manuel agreed that if the landing did not happen that night, Lalo should leave and find Celia, ask her for further orders. Lalo did not know where she was, but Celia had told him that in an emergency he was to go to her father’s house and speak to her sister Acacia.
IN SANTIAGO, AT THE PUNTA GORDA HOUSE, Oscar noticed that Frank kept coming and going throughout the evening with different groups of people. Oscar stopped Frank on one of these trips and asked if it would be possible to bring him a coat and something to eat, as it had gotten cold. Frank gazed at the younger man and said he’d send Oscar home in a car immediately. When Oscar got there, he found his mother worried by his prolonged absence; some of his friends from the Institute had come by to ask where he was. After eating and getting a coat, he tried to fool her with the pretext that he was going on a fishing trip. Knowing better, she hugged him tightly, and Oscar saw tears in her eyes.
Taras Domitro, Frank’s bodyguard, picked Oscar up on a street corner, as arranged, and they drove to Vilma Espin’s house to wait for Frank. When Frank arrived, he lingered on the porch, leaning on the railing, talking to Vilma, a very pretty young woman. Frank insisted on making jokes, Oscar says, “so no one would suspect the enormous responsibility weighing on him at that moment.” Vilma gave Frank packages that he put in the car, and then he, Taras, and Oscar went to a small grocery store to buy bags of crackers and other snacks. They got back to the Punta Gorda house after midnight and it was full of people, some asleep on the floor. Oscar recognized Baulilo Castellanos, the famous lawyer who had defended Fidel and his men after the Moncada, who was burning, on Frank’s orders, all the written plans for the uprisings. The lawyer kept saying, “It is a shame to have to destroy these. They are documents for history.” All the doors and windows of the house were closed, and Oscar watched the lawyer hold his jacket over the mouth of the fireplace, shaking his head regretfully as maps and lists and drawings crumbled to ash. (Had Celia been in that room, she would have snatched all those artifacts and figured out a way to preserve them.) For Oscar, still in the dark as to what was taking place, the flames in the fireplace demonstrated that Frank’s staff was afraid the plans would fall into the army’s hands, and that the 26th of July’s desperate action was about to begin. Earlier in the evening, Oscar had suggested to Taras that their action had all the marks of a suicide mission. Frank’s bodyguard thought about it a bit, and said, “There is a possibility that part of the army will unite with us.” He was hopeful: at this point anything was possible.
IF LALO AND FAJARDO WERE NERVOUS waiting in the icehouse, Celia by comparison was in turmoil as she paced the floors of Crescencio’s house. She was the type of person who liked to settle things right away: jump in the car, drive somewhere, talk things over, investigate what was happening, sniff things out, make a decision. Now she could not. She had to wait. She was in the vexing position of the general in his headquarters, in command but remote from the officers in the field on whom she was depending. They were to bring Fidel to her. So she brewed coffee and smoked cigarettes.
WELL BEFORE DAWN ON THE 30TH, while it was still dark, Lalo left the icehouse and drove to Pilón. He had to pick his way across farm roads edging the cane fields, and probably, on this drive flick off the headlights as he rolled past houses. Arriving at the doctor’s bungalow, he knocked on the door and Acacia let him in. Following her directions to Celia’s location, he retraced his route, driving north through the sugar plantations, following the contour of the hills, and, by my calculation, arrived at Crescencio’s shortly after daybreak.
THAT SAME HOUR Frank was starting his uprising in Santiago.
At the house in Punta Gorda, somebody woke Oscar at 5:00 a.m. He went downstairs and met Frank, who pointed to him and then to the red Dodge. Oscar got in the back with Taras, who had a machine gun on his lap, prompting Oscar to pat the little “4th of September” pistol in his pants pocket and check his breast pocket for the box of bullets. Armando Hart and Haydée Santamaria (in Oscar’s eye, glamorous revolutionaries because they had fought at the Moncada), got into the front seat next to Frank. It was still somewhat dark, but the bay was emerging into visibility, revealing the outlines of the mountains behind.
Several such carloads of revolutionaries began to drive slowly toward the city, following the road along the bay as the sun was coming up over the water. They pulled up in front of an old two-family house on San Felix. A few cars had arrived ahead of Frank’s and were unloading their passengers. Waiting on the sidewalk for him, María Antonia Figueroa, Gloria Cuadras, Ramon Alvarez, Luis Clerge, and Enzo Infante bore rifles and revolvers. Somebody pounded on the gate leading to the upstairs apartment. A tall man, heavy with a reddish complexion, came out and asked what they wanted at this hour. Somebody answered, “Open up in the name of the Revolution.” The man stood there, astonished, then asked, “What do I have to do with the Revolution?” At which point Frank stepped forward and said that his house had been selected as their headquarters. “Not my house. Why my house?” the man
shouted, and went back inside. The revolutionaries recognized him as the owner of the Cuba Theater; they all went to movies there. Two servants crept out to see what the fuss was about, and Frank softly ordered them to call the lady of the house.
AT CELIA’S HEADQUARTERS, either Beto Pesant or Cesar Suarez was watching the road when Lalo drove in. Although Crescencio’s house sits in a clearing near the road, it was protected by three other houses shadowed on three sides by trees. Lalo went into the house, greeted Celia, and he told her of the start of Frank’s Santiago uprising. Underlying this conversation was a single question: What if the Granma didn’t arrive soon? What would be their course of action? What should Lalo tell the militants and 26th of July sabotage units to do? How long should they stay out? Should he pull them in, abandon the campaign before it even started?
The Granma had been due the day before, and the uprising in Santiago would create a point of no return. This widespread action was intended to distract the military; and if they were lucky, distract them until Fidel’s forces were not only on land but able to join other 26th of July forces and attack a coastal garrison, steal their guns, and escape into the mountains. So, she reasoned, if Frank was now beginning the uprising, he must have word that Fidel had arrived. So Fidel would be brought to her soon.
Yet she had no confirmation of this. Nor, for that matter, even a rumor. She had to make a decision, and make it immediately. This dilemma was probably the most significant, and wrenching, of Celia’s life.
She and Frank had always been prepared to see all hell break loose once the uprising began, particularly since it was going to put an end to any lingering impression that the 26th of July Movement was a ragtag bunch of kids, rogues, and cowboys: it was going to emerge as an army, with soldiers dressed in green uniforms. In response to what was taking place in Santiago, or about to, the vengeance of Batista’s army would be unleashed all over Oriente, likely all over Cuba. In Frank’s plan, the militant groups were meant to take action as soon as the Granma arrived, and then quietly slip back into their normal lives. That is what she’d rehearsed with them, and what they were prepared to do. But it was essential that this happen on a very tight timetable. Delay and uncertainty were creating a new dynamic, throwing a wrench into the works. Her militants were being required to stay out longer than planned, and soon would be connected, in people’s minds, with the resistance they would hear about in Santiago. Celia weighed the consequences of their staying out longer. Who were the most vulnerable? Was she being asked to put the lives of Fidel and his men first, before the lives of her men and women in the field? Protecting the arriving rebels was what all the planning had been for. She had done everything she could think of, so far, to protect Fidel; neither Frank nor she thought their revolution could go ahead without him. Frank’s plan had always been to stage an uprising concurrent with the Granma’s arrival. So, assuming the cabin cruiser had come ashore, though she didn’t know where, the question was what orders should Lalo give to the people spread out along the coast, waiting for the boat that probably had already landed?
The decision she had to make was ruthless either way. Send her people back to safety, and risk the rebels’ landing without help, exposed and unprotected? Or keep her people out there, in increasing danger of detection, and hope the boat they were waiting for came soon, and somewhere near Las Coloradas?
IN SANTIAGO, WHEN THE LADY of the house chosen as headquarters, Susette Bueno Rousseau, saw Frank, she was not enthusiastic. Still, she opened the gate, asking him, “Is it time?” As the 26th of July members filed into her apartment (Oscar described it as “their beautiful home”), Susette, a heavyset woman of about thirty, launched into an argument with her red-faced husband. Frank simply ignored them, wasting no time in setting up a machine gun, as Oscar noticed a nursery. Frank posted lookouts at windows, telling them to avoid being seen by neighbors or passersby. Susette finally convinced her husband they should “just leave.” She quickly packed a suitcase with the things they needed, mostly for the baby. Somebody—not Frank—advised her to take all her jewelry and money: “We trust our comrades, but if we have to withdraw, these things could be in danger from the other side.” The couple left, carrying their baby who slept through it all, as more revolutionaries quietly arrived. A three-story building stood directly across from the apartment; Frank sent four people to occupy it. Someone arrived with a sack of uniforms and emptied the contents on the floor in one of the rooms. Frank was the first to put his on. Others followed. Then it was Oscar’s turn to get dressed in green gabardine. There were very few uniforms left, but he found one that fit. Haydée Santamaria helped him slip on the armband with its radical-looking red and black bands and 26th of July insignia in white stitching.
CELIA SET TO WORKING OUT all the scenarios of what might have happened to the Granma. Had they been intercepted by the Coast Guard? Had they been delayed by weather—at this time of year it was changeable, and the Caribbean often rough. Or had they come ashore outside the designated area? As of that morning, they hadn’t shown up near Niquero or Pilón. Nor, she suspected, in the area including Media Luna and Campechuela. She kept returning to the issue that baffled her: Frank’s plan was an uprising concurrent with the landing. So did his having moved forward mean Fidel had landed? That uprising was understood as crossing the Rubicon. Not only would the police, the army, the Guardia Rural, and the paramilitaries be on alert, the government in Havana would be rudely awakened from its dreamy belief that the ragtag dissidents in the eastern provinces posed no serious threat. From now on, anyone who was young and looked even vaguely like a supporter of the 26th of July Movement would be fodder for the police and military intelligence. That description fit every one of her militants, on alert, waiting to go forward with attacks. Her people in the underground had been away from their jobs the day before, all of Thursday the 29th. Her truck drivers would be less suspicious—unless they were stopped and their trucks found to carry arms. Still, how many more hours could they cruise around and remain inconspicuous? These questions turned over and over in her mind. Her mission had been clear: they were there to assist the landing by camouflaging it; to make lightning attacks, then disappear, resume their lives. Each hour without word that the Granma had landed made this mission less possible to carry out.
The moment was crucial. If her choice was to protect her militants, she would need to call off the operation right away, to bring them in while there was still time for them to assert a presence at home, or even—since Lalo had come early—show up at their jobs. Being late or absent on this particular Friday, the 30th, would quickly become very dangerous. An epidemic of late-coming would surely catch the attention of some of the wrong people. Managers and coworkers would already have noticed who had been absent the previous day. The truck drivers had somewhat better cover, since they operated on their own, out on the roads, but still, they were accountable to their bosses.
The situation was agonizing. The lack of communications only made things worse. It is quite likely, by the way, that the memory of this terrible morning guided Celia later, once the war was underway, in pulling out all stops to build a system for keeping the Revolution’s commanders in contact with each other.
IN SANTIAGO, IN THE ROUSSEAU HOUSE, shouts were heard from the street: “Viva Cuba Libre! Viva Fidel Castro! Viva la revolución! Abajo Batista!” Everybody knew that the time had come, and that Pepito Tey and his group had started the uprising when, at 7:00 a.m. exactly, the occupants of the Rousseau house heard gunfire. Tey and his men were attacking National Police Headquarters. The telephone began ringing off the hook. Frank was getting information and giving orders to the heads of the various action groups around the city. Some of the calls were from the Rousseaus’ neighbors, who were alarmed but nonetheless curious about the activities going on in the apartment. Gloria Cuadras and Ramon Alvarez monitored the radio, expecting to hear an alert, and discovered that all the stations continued to play music and run commercials.
WHILE
CELIA STARED DOWN HER PREDICAMENT, Lalo took a nap. When he awoke, she informed him of her decision: to call the operation off only if the Granma did not arrive by the next morning. Meaning she would try to maintain protection for the landing guerrillas for another full 24 hours. She ordered Lalo to go back to Niquero and stay put. As Lalo made the drive south to Niquero, he knew that they had entered new, even more dangerous territory. Celia had been specific in her orders: he and Manuel Fajardo were to wait out the day and night; he would, if it came to it, call the rescue operation off the following morning. Were she to learn that the landing had taken place, she would come to Niquero and inform him. If she hadn’t knocked on the icehouse door by nine the next morning, Saturday, December 1st, he was to leave and cancel all operations along the coast. She was stretching the operation as long as was conceivable.
She surely hoped Mongo would arrive soon to tell her that Fidel was at Cinco Palmas, that the rebels had all arrived in the night, into El Macho perhaps, and someone had brought Fidel to his house, as was the plan, instead of to her, in Ojo de Agua. If so, she would be able to reduce almost certain losses. It is doubtful she went outside Crescencio’s house to walk around or visit any of the other houses in Ojo de Agua de Jerez; she would have shielded Crescencio’s neighbors from knowing she was there. Restless even in normal circumstances, she was now confined yet longer by the decision she had made. Her mind moved to the others, picked for their youth and willingness to take risks, hoping, as the day developed and Batista’s military got word of the uprising, that they wouldn’t get caught. She had to think beyond the possibility that Fidel would arrive that day. If by nine the next morning she had to call off her operation, she would need to assess the costs of the delay.
