She gripped it tightly as she lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. In the morning, she promised herself she would remove it and its precious contents from this place before it was consumed in the next fire.
A Free Cuba
FIDEL CASTRO’S VISION of an independent Cuba was rooted in the writings and actions of José Martí, who was the leader of Cuba’s push for independence from Spain in the late 1800s. Martí was Fidel Castro’s personal role model.
For four centuries, dating from the “discovery” of Cuba by Christopher Columbus in 1494, Spain ruled Cuba as one of its colonies. By the late 1800s, Cuba was the last of Spain’s possessions in the Americas, and in February, 1895, following a thirty-year unsuccessful struggle for Cuban independence from Spain, Martí returned to Cuba from exile and unified the movement. Fighting began anew in the City of Santiago. José Martí joined the fight himself and was killed on the battlefield at age forty-two. Three years later, Cuba won its independence when the US, in the wake of the sinking of the battleship USS Maine in Havana harbor, entered the war and caused the defeat of Spain in just three months.
When the war ended the US did not withdraw its forces. Instead it maintained an occupying military force in Cuba. As a condition of obtaining US military withdrawal, in 1901, the Cubans adopted a Constitution, which with one major difference was modeled upon the US constitution. Integrated into the Cuban Constitution was the Platt Amendment put forth by the US Congress. In addition to restricting Cuba’s conduct of foreign affairs, the Platt Amendment granted the US the right to intervene in Cuba to preserve Cuban independence. Moreover, the provision of the Amendment most hotly opposed by Cubans was Clause 7, pursuant to which the US has the right to lease in perpetuity, a major naval base.
In the 1950s, Fulgencio Batista’s close relationship with the US had made Cuba dependent on the Americans to the extent that the Cubans felt like a colony once again. Fidel Castro’s Revolution against Batista and the US interests sponsoring him was to many Cubans a continuation of the path to liberty laid by José Martí.
CHAPTER NINE
Pilar and Maria left the farm early the next morning carrying all their meager belongings. Despite the unfortunate turn of events the previous evening, Pilar felt an undeniable excitement as they walked to the bus stop. It was as if she and her mother had suddenly become peers, striking out on their own, depending upon each other. It was how she had long ago imagined it would be some day for herself and Alicia.
The situation was, of course, much worse than either of them would ever admit to anyone, even to themselves. It wasn’t that they were in denial; it was more like an unspoken understanding that they were truly “up against it,” and it would do no good to dwell upon the negative. Perhaps owing to her youthful energy, the responsibility fell mostly upon Pilar to buoy up their spirits with what she hoped would come across as reasonable optimism and not Pollyanna-like naiveté.
Pilar’s positive approach wasn’t working very well. Maria tried to put up a good front for her daughter’s benefit, but there was no hiding her fear and deep disappointment at the way things had been going. She was distraught, mired in misery. Pilar offered her mother some advice she had once preached to Teddy about the difference between a happy person and a sad one.
“The only difference is that a happy person has adapted to her circumstances,” Pilar said.
Maria smiled, agreeing with her daughter’s logic, silently vowing to try and put it into practice. “How did you get so smart, huh? Who told you that stuff?”
“Papa did,” said Pilar, smiling back at her mother.
Maria’s smile turned bittersweet and then disappeared entirely. Pilar felt guilty as they walked silently and stoically, eyes on the horizon. She worried that by reminding her mother of her absent husband, she had managed to undo the little progress she had achieved to improve Maria’s morale.
The “For Rent” sign was nailed to a palm tree in front of a house, not unlike many other two-story French-style stucco homes on the wide, tree-lined block in Guantanámo City. The owner, a widow in her seventies, showed Pilar and Maria around while making small talk about the situation in the mountains. She made no effort to hide her sympathies with the small group of rebels fighting the government.
“They want what’s best for Cuba,” she said, as she labored up the stairs with the two women following her. “Just like José Martí. I was a young girl, but I’m old enough to remember him personally. My parents loved him. He was short, but very strong and good.”
They arrived at the large bedroom on the second floor. It had a balcony and French doors, which let in the morning light.
Pilar was sold. She didn’t even bother to consult her mother. “We’ll take it!” she declared.
The place wasn’t cheap. In fact Maria was quite concerned that they wouldn’t be able to afford it, but the landlady was more than happy to accept their US dollars. Since it rented by the week, they could use the time to look for a more affordable alternative.
That night Pilar insisted on going out to dinner at a local restaurant. She reasoned that after what they’d been through they owed it to themselves to celebrate a little. Maria was resistant to the idea and reminded Pilar that they would need to be careful how they spent their money. Pilar persisted, saying that they could get a fresh start in the morning, shopping for supplies and setting up their new home.
During their meal, a traditional dish of Cuban red beans and rice, they conducted a brief accounting of their remaining funds. It was obvious that they would need income, but with the unrest in the area, there were not good prospects for finding work. Maria mentioned the possibility of getting her old job back at the American naval base at Guantánamo but quickly dismissed that idea. Given her probable status as a fugitive, it would be too risky to have any contact with the US government. She once again sank into hopelessness.
Pilar had an idea. “What about me? Maybe I could get hired there.”
“No, baby, we’re in the same boat; they might arrest you on the spot,” her mother cautioned her.
Pilar realized her mother was right. She was beginning to lose hope. They were trapped and would soon run out of money. Then, she remembered something, and reached into the small purse she took from Alicia’s room.
“What about this?” She removed her cousin’s birth certificate. “I may not be able to get a job with the Americans, but Alicia could!”
Maria examined the document and understood immediately what her daughter meant. She could assume her cousin’s identity, and maybe have a chance of securing employment.
“What if they find out?” Maria asked. “I’d lose you just like your father. It’s too risky.”
“What choice do we have? I have to try, Mama. We need money if we want to stay in our new apartment.”
Maria dismissed it. “We can hold out longer if we find a cheaper place.”
“No. The place we just found is perfect.”
If this was going to be her mother’s “prison” for God only knows how long, at least the bright airy apartment was a place Pilar could feel good about.
“It will work, Mama, it will,” Pilar said.
After dinner, they walked home, stopping for an ice cream on the way. She was happy to find coconut, her favorite flavor.
At 7:15 the next morning, Pilar kissed her mother goodbye and left to join the other commuters on the bus leaving for the naval base. She carried nothing with her but bus fare, lunch money, and her cousin’s birth certificate. The bus, passed through a checkpoint set up by the Cuban army. The tension was palpable, creating a climate of fear among people on the street.
Outside the gate of the base, just as her mother had told her, there was a bulletin board with listings of available positions. Pilar jostled for position with several others, mostly men, as she scanned the board. There were several openings for various types of laborers, all typed in Spanish on yellow slips of paper, which were snatched up by the men. The yellow slips denoted that
these positions were for one day only, and men came every morning at eight when the new positions were posted daily. As she watched the slips disappear from the board, she spotted a pink one, also in Spanish, seeking a woman to work in the laundry. She reached up to grab it but was beaten by another faster hand of a woman her mother’s age.
She searched desperately and was beginning to lose hope when she saw a blue slip of paper very high up on the board, too high to read or even to reach without jumping, so she jumped, snatching it off the board. She was surprised to see that the writing on it was in English. It read: “File Clerk Wanted—Must Speak Fluent English.”
Her heart raced. She was certain that this was the job meant for her. She approached the guard at the gate as she gripped the blue slip of paper in her hand.
“I’m applying for this job,” she said confidently.
The Marine Corps guard eyed her up and down. “Identification, please.”
She handed over her cousin’s birth certificate, and the guard copied the name down onto a list on his clipboard.
He handed the birth certificate back to her. “You need to see Mr. Garcia in the administration building,” he said, pointing to a long, two story building about a quarter mile inside the base. Pilar felt an inner glow when she noticed a sign above the gate that read: “You Are Now Entering the United States of America.”
The guard smiled and said: “Good luck, miss.”
Pilar smiled back at the man, snapped to attention and executed a crisp salute as she walked through the gate. She was back in the United States!
Pilar waited in the reception area for over an hour, studying the details of the office interior. Its otherwise bare walls were painted dark green at the level below the chair rail and light green above up to the gray ceiling, which matched the floor tiles that she had been counting like a crossword puzzle. Forty-four tiles across and thirty-three down. She did the arithmetic in her head, arriving at the figure of 1,452 tiles. Occasionally uniformed men and women wearing civilian dress came and went. They were carrying interoffice envelopes that were closed and tied with string and dropped them into an inbox on the desk, sometimes stopping to make small talk with the clerk, a uniformed American sailor who looked in his thirties and who paid surprisingly little attention to Pilar once he checked her in.
She noticed another sailor leaning back in his chair at a desk towards the back of the room, his cap pulled low enough to hide his eyes but not so low that it wasn’t obvious he was actually dozing off. Every now and then, he would startle awake, usually when a door opened or closed. On one such occasion, his chair nearly toppled over backwards, and would have if not for an impressive bit of balletic rebalancing, like a high-wire walker recovering from a dangerous wobble. After righting himself, he looked around the room to see who might’ve noticed the embarrassing episode and made eye contact with Pilar. Her easy smile reassured him that his secret was safe with her.
The clerk called out, “Ruiz! Alicia! Mr. Garcia will see you now. This way, please.”
A sailor led her down a hall to a door with an opaque glass panel upon which was stenciled “Personnel—J. Garcia.” Pilar entered and was surprised to find that the person who would oversee her employment application was not an American sailor.
Mr. José Garcia reminded Pilar of her father, only shorter and with a bushy mustache. He greeted her warmly in Spanish, asking her to take a seat across from him. His desk, with two telephones on it and covered in papers, was the largest Pilar had ever seen. He opened a manila folder and removed her application, which had her cousin Alicia’s birth certificate paper clipped to it. He abruptly switched to speaking in heavily accented English.
“How are your language skills, Alicia?” he asked.
“Pretty good, I think,” she responded in flawless English, no accent whatsoever. “Your English is good, too, Mr. Garcia,” Pilar lied. “Did you live in the States?”
Garcia was clearly flattered but played it down. “No, I’ve never lived there. I’m self-taught, believe it or not.”
She praised him. “Really? It sounds like you grew up speaking it.”
He sat up a little. “Tell me Alicia, where is your father employed?”
“My father is a farmer, here in Oriente, about thirty miles from here.”
Garcia paused. “Thirty miles?”
Pilar was mortified at her mistake. Cuba had been on the metric system since 1858. “I meant kilometers,” she said, shaking off her mistake. “I’ve been studying the US system and wanted to impress you. I’m sorry.”
“Not at all. Your diligence is very commendable.” José Garcia scanned down her application form. “This says you live in Guantánamo City, is that correct?”
“Yes, I live with my mother in an apartment. My parents—they’re separated.”
Pilar felt uneasy with the lie, but she didn’t want to involve Jorge.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Her interrogator changed the subject. “Of course, you’re aware of the trouble your government is having with the men fighting in the mountains?”
Pilar replied, “Of course, everybody is talking about it.”
Garcia closed the file. “I’ll be blunt. Do you support the rebels or the government of Cuba?” he asked.
Pilar answered, “I’m a loyal Cuban citizen, I support my country’s government, of course.”
“Do you resent the Americans for having this large naval base on Cuban soil?” he asked.
“I like Americans. I don’t mind them being here at all.”
“Excellent,” he said. “We will train you in a few necessary skills. I am hopeful you will learn quickly. Good help is hard to find these days.”
Garcia picked out a folder from one of his desk drawers. “How soon can you start?”
“Right away.”
He pushed back his chair, stood up and shook her hand. “Good. Welcome aboard, Miss Ruiz. You start Monday.”
“Thank you so very much,” Pilar said.
He walked her up a flight of stairs. “We are losing one of our American sailors,” he said. “I think you might be an adequate replacement for him in assisting my boss, Lieutenant Robert Holton. He is the base administrative officer.”
As Pilar left the base that afternoon carrying her new employee envelope, she was elated with the thought that she was about to be the family breadwinner. Her mood was optimistic, joyful even, as she waved goodbye to the guards at the front gate and headed towards the bus stop.
While she was waiting for the bus back to Guantánamo City, a young man said hello to her. She couldn’t help noticing his unusual green eyes. He was shy but had a kind smile.
“Do you work here?” he asked.
“I start Monday,” she said proudly. “I’m working for the base administrative officer.”
He seemed impressed, offering his hand, “Nice to meet you, I’m Alberto. Alberto Campos.”
She shook his hand. “My name is Pilar . . . I mean, Alicia. Alicia Ruiz.”
He sat behind her on the bus, and the two made small talk, talking about the weather, what it was like working on the base, the food, but never mentioning the obvious presence of the Cuban army on the streets.
The bus arrived at the main stop at Guantánamo City and Pilar rose from her seat. “This is my stop. Goodbye, Alberto.”
“Good luck with your new job, Alicia. I’ll be seeing you around.”
Maria had spent the day burning off nervous energy by cleaning, shopping, and cooking. When Pilar arrived, the apartment was filled with the delightful, familiar aroma of her mother’s homecooked meal.
“I did it, Mama! I start Monday! I got a job!”
Maria was more relieved than excited, but Pilar had enough enthusiasm for the both of them. She told Maria every detail: how she jumped up to grab the blue slip off the bulletin board, the long wait, the dozing sailor, the 1,452 tiles in the reception area, the interview with Mr. Garcia.
Maria remembered him from her time there. “José Ga
rcia? Little guy? Bushy mustache?”
“That’s him!” she said. “He’s the one who gave me the job, Mama. He was nice.”
“I’m so proud of you, Pilar. Tomorrow we’ll go shopping for new work clothes and some things for the house. Thanksgiving went by without our even noticing, but with Christmas and the New Year’s Day celebration coming soon we’ll have a home to spend them in together. Everything’s going to work out, baby.”
CHAPTER TEN
Alberto Campos arrived in the small town of Niceto Pérez six miles west of Guantánamo City. He grabbed his backpack and got off the bus with a few other passengers and walked another mile or so to a tiny cinderblock building just off the main highway. It was painted blue, with a red tin roof, and had a few tables set up under a palapa constructed of bamboo and palm fronds. A painted wooden sign announced that it was called Emilio’s. A dozen or so patrons were eating and drinking in the warm night air. A small transistor radio on the counter was tuned to the Navy base radio station. Sam Cooke’s “You Send Me” was coming through the tinny speaker.
Alberto made a beeline to the rear of the building where he was warmly greeted by his father, Emilio, a man with a healthy appetite who was wearing a cook’s apron.
“What did you bring today, Hijo?” asked the cook.
Campos sat at a lone table near the kitchen door and opened his pack, revealing a couple dozen bricks of bacon which he had “requisitioned” from the base supply.
The older man nodded, impressed. “Not bad. Were you followed?”
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