Next Year in Havana

by Chanel Cleeton

  “I don’t know how to give up. How to not fight for Cuba, to not challenge myself and others to be better, do more, speak out against injustice.” He pauses. “Yes. It is worth it.”

  “Does your family know?”

  “We don’t speak of it, but I imagine my grandmother and mother suspect. Cristina, too. I’ve held these opinions for a long time even if blogging has become a fairly recent development. Cristina worried about my beliefs. She wanted me to keep my head down when we were married, to not agitate the regime. She’d already lost far too much.

  “I feel like a coward blogging under a secret identity when others are so brave—like the Ladies in White taking to the streets to protest—but I love my family and I wanted to protect them. Besides, when the odds are as stacked against you as they are here in Cuba, you don’t play by the rules. The government certainly doesn’t.”

  Was this what my grandmother felt? This fear? Did her wealth and privilege keep her removed from the revolution until it was in front of her and she couldn’t look away anymore?

  “What happens now?” I ask, watching the fan turn, the blades going around and around again. Regardless of what he says, I hate that my presence here put him in the regime’s crosshairs, that he’s now under increased scrutiny because of me.

  “I don’t know,” Luis answers.

  For the first time in my life, I know true, bone-chilling fear. For the first time in my life, I understand the precarious frailty of freedom.

  chapter eighteen

  Elisa

  Pablo is gone with a kiss and a good-bye, gone to fight, and I am once again alone, the engagement ring on my finger when I am in private, on a chain under my clothes when I am not.

  We hear bits and pieces about the fighting, but there are no letters, no surprise visits to Havana. He has gone to war, and I am left at home to wait for his return. They’re fighting in Santa Clara now, and without his letters, I’m greedy for any news I can glean. I attempt to overhear my father’s conversations, scanning the newspaper for any mentions of the battle. My brother is absent as well, and I shudder to think of the trouble he could be in, of the danger that faces them both. Should I have left with Pablo? I can’t imagine myself in the countryside, and at the same time, I miss him terribly. I am torn between my heart and my head, between love and loyalty.

  We celebrate Noche Buena with our usual feast—a whole roasted pig, yucca, black beans and rice, flan for dessert—the champagne flowing freely, conversation veering from politics, from anything too controversial. The extended family gathers—aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents—a house full of Perezes. We line up on the giant marble staircase in the entryway, the four of us in the front row in our best dresses, our parents beaming with pride despite the gap in the photo, the missing sibling who should be photographed beside us. The next morning my sisters and I crowd in front of the Christmas tree and open presents while our parents sip coffee and smile indulgently.

  I’ve always loved Christmas; no matter how old I am, Christmas feels like magic, a cleansing of sorts that wipes away the slate for the year, heralding the beginning of good things to come. This year—

  They are fighting again. While I feast on roast pork and my family sips French champagne, Pablo and Alejandro are—I don’t even know where. Santa Clara? Somewhere out there, in the mountains, on the coast, in the countryside.

  When we attend Mass for Christmas, I sit in the pews of the Cathedral of Havana, my head bent in prayer, my fingers steepled together. I’m not even sure what I’m praying for anymore—for the rebels to succeed? For Batista to fall? For the rebels to lose and for things to remain as they are? The only constant in my prayers, the only words that fill my head, are for them to be safe. I think I could bear anything else, if God or whoever is up there keeps Pablo and Alejandro safe.

  * * *

  • • •

  It begins with a murmur after midnight, spreading throughout the New Year’s party. We’re at a family friend’s house in Miramar, the ballroom crammed with Havana society save for a few missing this evening.

  “They’re saying on the radio that Guevara’s forces have taken Santa Clara.”

  I jerk, the untouched champagne sloshing in my glass. Beside me, Beatriz stills.

  We’re dressed in designer gowns our mother ordered us from New York months ago, our organza skirts gliding across the dance floor, the light from the sparkling chandelier above our heads making our jewels glimmer and shine. Isabel dances with Alberto; Maria is off in the corner with some of her friends; Ana stands next to Beatriz.

  The murmur grows. “Someone saw cars loaded with suitcases on the road to the airport.”

  Beatriz grabs my arm, her nails biting into my skin. My gaze darts to my parents, standing at the opposite end of the room, some intrinsic need to search for reassurance driving me, as though I am a young girl once more and they will tell me all will be right in the world.

  My mother’s face has gone white; my father’s expression is grim.

  “Batista announced his plans to leave the country,” another person proclaims. “He’s taking over a hundred of his advisors and friends with him.”

  And suddenly, the absences make sense, the men and women who should be here, the children I’ve played with who are not. And more than anything, there’s a sharp stab of panic, the realization that if what they’re saying is true, we have been left behind.

  The murmur transforms into a shout.

  “President Batista has fled the country! Long live a free Cuba!”

  The evidence of how divided we are as a country could not be more terrifyingly obvious than at this moment. For some the news that Batista has fled, abandoning us to Fidel and his men, is met with the kind of exuberance that suggests they’ve been pretending all along, their bodies bowed in obeisance as hatred filled their hearts. For the rest of us, a deathly calm has settled over the crowd; it is fear. Bone-deep fear.

  My mother is the first to move, organizing us until we stand in a huddle of Perez girls, our pastel gowns crushed together.

  “We need to go home. Now.”

  It’s the first time I can ever remember my mother commanding my father to do anything, but there’s no question now that she’s in charge.

  None of us speak as the band begins playing, people cheering and dancing, champagne flutes rising in the air. I follow behind Isabel, Maria’s hand in my free one, my stomach pitching and swaying with each step. It takes a few minutes for us to push our way through the throng, the alcohol and news loosening everyone’s limbs. It’s as if they’ve decided that for a few hours—the space between Batista leaving and Fidel reaching the city—Cuba is without a ruler and they are determined to make the most of it.

  With every step, though, my gaze connects with someone else in the crowd wearing an expression I fear mirrors my own.

  What will become of us now?

  chapter nineteen

  Marisol

  The next morning, I’m equal parts nerves and anticipation. We’re headed to Santa Clara today, and I can’t wait to meet Magda. Earlier as we lingered over coffee in the hotel room—our hands linked, Luis’s lips brushing against mine, his free arm wrapped around my waist—I called to let Magda know we were coming, a lump forming in my throat at the emotion in her voice. I can’t believe I’ll finally meet her.

  I follow Luis outside to his car, waiting while he holds the door open for me, as he walks to the driver side, uncoiling his long frame into the front seat. The engine comes to life in a series of fits and starts, a few whispered prayers from Luis, the caress of his fingers against the dashboard.

  “Are we going to be okay to get to Santa Clara?”

  He grins and shrugs. “We’ll find out.”

  After a few words for the Virgin Mary the car settles into a rhythm, the engine plugging along as we pull out onto the road.

  I
struggle to push aside my worry over our future. Over the risks Luis is taking with his writing. The danger I’ve brought into his life.

  “So what answers are we looking for here?” he asks, our bodies tucked against each other.

  One night has changed so much—the brush of skin against skin, the mingling of breaths, has rearranged space and time. Our hands are linked, resting against the convertible’s worn leather seat, our bodies as close as the car’s interior will allow. It’s the most natural thing in the world now to accentuate our drive with casual touches—his hand running through my hair, my head on his shoulder, our legs against each other.

  “I don’t know,” I answer. “I’m hoping my grandmother trusted Magda, confided in her. And I’m excited to see Santa Clara. He fought there. At least, I think he did. His last letter mentioned he was joining Che.”

  “In the Battle of Santa Clara?” Luis asks, his tone laced with interest, the history professor back in full force.

  “Yes. What do you know about it?”

  “It’s romanticized and vaunted as the turning point of the revolution. Batista had three thousand men in Santa Clara. They had tanks, machine guns, mortars. There were three hundred rebels.”

  And my grandmother’s love was one of them.

  “By all accounts, the rebels should have been annihilated. They were outgunned, outmanned. Batista knew the importance of defeating the rebels once and for all, and this was supposed to be his chance. Instead, it became his Waterloo.”

  “What happened?”

  “In the end, it wasn’t the guns that decided the victory, but rather the spirit of the men. At least, that’s what the history books say.” Luis shrugs. “The Cuban military was tired. They’d been fighting their own citizens in skirmishes for a very long time. And it was difficult to ignore the abuses of Batista’s regime. The rebels simply wanted it more. And the locals helped the rebel forces.”

  “Did anyone die?”

  “Yes—although that is disputed. There were injuries and some deaths, but as with so much involving the government, the truth has been obfuscated. Truth in Cuba is constantly being redefined so much so that it is now meaningless.”

  “Are there sites to see surrounding the Battle of Santa Clara?”

  Maybe I’ll include it in my completely neglected travel article.

  “You can visit the train tracks where the battle took place, the box carriages and bulldozer that derailed the train. Santa Clara is a shrine to Che. There’s a museum in the city, and he’s buried in a mausoleum under a giant bronze statue of himself. The last, most important battle of the Cuban Revolution, and he was the one to lead it, not Fidel.”

  “That had to burn.”

  Luis laughs. “Yes, I imagine it did. You can see why there’s so much speculation about rancor between the two, concerns that Che’s legacy would overshadow the bearded one’s, suspicion that Fidel played a role in his death in Bolivia.”

  “I would like to see it, if we can. Visit the town, get a feel for the place where they fought.”

  “This isn’t just about finding the perfect resting place for your grandmother, is it? You’re looking for something for yourself, too,” Luis says, glancing at me again.

  “I guess I am.” I stare at the countryside surrounding us. “I came here to learn about my family’s history, to find the perfect place to spread my grandmother’s ashes, but now I’m more confused than ever. When my plane touched down, I thought I’d come home. I’m as Cuban as I am American, as I am Spanish, and yet, until now I’d never been here. I don’t have a tangible connection to this place; my grandmother, my great-aunts kept Cuba alive for me, and now my grandmother’s gone, her sister Isabel deceased, my remaining great-aunts growing older, and my sense of being Cuban is slipping through my fingers.

  “Yes, there’s a strong Cuban community in South Florida, and I speak Spanish, and ring in the New Year with grapes and a bucket of water, and eat lechon asado, and listen to Celia Cruz, but there’s an aimlessness to it all. I’m not grounded in anything; my feet didn’t touch Cuban soil until I was thirty-one years old. And now that I’m here?

  “You’ve all moved on. There’s a modern Cuba now with a rich history, and emerging cultures, and experiences. And I’m not part of that. None of my family are. We left, and we haven’t been able to return, and we’re stuck in stasis in the United States. Always waiting, always hoping, wondering, praying that we would wake up and see a headline on the news that Fidel had died, that the government has admitted this was a terrible mistake, that things will go back to the way they were. As exiles, that hope is embedded in the very essence of our soul, taught from birth—

  “Next year in Havana—

  “It’s the toast we never stop saying, because the dream of it never comes true. And if it does one day, what then? There are Russians in the home my ancestors built. What will we return to? Is it even our country anymore, or did we give it up when we left? I’m trying to understand where I fit in all of this.”

  I take a deep breath, the pressure building in my chest.

  “I walk down these streets, and I look out to the sea, and I want to feel as though I belong here, but I’m a visitor here, a guest in my own country.”

  Luis takes my hand.

  “Then you know what it means to be Cuban,” he says. “We always reach for something beyond our grasp.”

  * * *

  • • •

  We make good time, arriving in Santa Clara an hour before Magda expects us. We head first to the Tren Blindado—the monument to the turning point in the Battle of Santa Clara when Che and some of his rebel forces derailed the armored train containing reinforcements for Batista’s forces, ultimately defeating them.

  “There were two major efforts in the Battle of Santa Clara,” Luis explains. “The battle led by Che to take the train involved a small group of his men. The larger contingent fought near Capiro’s Hill.”

  We pay the entry fee and take a quick tour. I snap a few pictures—the infamous yellow bulldozer that derailed the train, the railroad cars lying around like broken dolls.

  I try to envision the man from my grandmother’s letters here, holding the mortar in his hands that’s now affixed to the wall, contained in a glass case. Did he think of my grandmother as he fought? Did he know how much this battle would determine Cuba’s future?

  We bypass the museum and mausoleum where Che is buried, although his statue is impossible to miss, looking down at us, a colossus in bronze.

  We make our way to the Loma del Capiro, the infamous hill where the second prong of the battle took place. It has the added advantage of looking down over the city, providing a panoramic sweep of Santa Clara.

  Two flags fly—the Cuban flag and the flag of Fidel’s 26th of July Movement. Below them lies the city where the revolution took place—

  It looks like it’s been forgotten and neglected, the buildings in a state of disrepair.

  Tourists mill around, snapping pictures and chatting in different languages.

  “The events here happened almost sixty years ago, and yet, it feels so personal,” I murmur to Luis, ducking my head to avoid the crowd.

  I look into his eyes, searching there, trying to read the emotions in his gaze. He’s so guarded at times, adept at hiding what he thinks and feels. I suppose in a country like this, that shield is a necessity—the difference between life and death. But there are hints—no matter how good he is, his feelings lingering beneath the surface, the passion and conviction in his voice unmistakable.

  He yearns for a different Cuba, too.

  * * *

  • • •

  Magda Villarreal lives in a small apartment near the Parque Leoncio Vidal. Her home is one of many stacked on top of one another and smashed together in a squat building with a crumbling facade. We climb the stairs to her floor; her living conditi
ons are a stark contrast to the Rodriguez home in Miramar.

  It’s loud, even in the hallway, the walls offering little privacy between residents. There’s a faint odor in the air, damp lingering in the floor, ceiling, and walls. Trash litters the stairwell. The railing is cracked and broken in places, the steps chipped, tile chunks missing.

  “Is it—”

  “Like this in most Cuban apartments?” Luis finishes, his tone grim, his voice low.

  I nod.

  “It’s even worse. By Cuban standards this isn’t bad at all.”

  Even in a country where everyone is supposed to be equal, there are clear disparities between those who have little and those who have less.

  Luis knocks on the door to Magda’s apartment, and we wait, the sounds of her footfalls padding across the floor growing louder and louder until they stop. The door swings open, and a short woman with dark skin and dark hair sprinkled with gray greets us on the other side.

  I’ve never seen pictures of her, none remain, but there’s that same sense of recognition I had when I saw Ana Rodriguez for the first time.

  Magda’s eyes well with tears.

  “Elisa’s little girl, come to see me.”

  Her hand shakes as she takes mine, her frail fingers gripping me, a tremor in her grasp, the bracelets on her bony wrist clanging together.

  “I never thought I’d see any of them again, and now you’re here.” Her lips curve into a smile. “You have the look of your grandmother.” Her eyes twinkle. “And perhaps a bit of Beatriz.”

  I laugh, the sound muffled by the emotions clogging my throat. “I’ve heard that. Thank you so much for inviting us to your home.”

  Magda ushers us into the tiny apartment, motioning for us to sit. She chats with Luis for a moment, asking about his grandmother, the affection in her voice obvious. I look around the apartment as they talk; the space is filled with framed photographs of her family and friends. A small table covered in a white cloth sits in a corner, painted figurines atop it. They share the space with a few photographs, a crucifix, rosary, several candles, and a cup filled with what looks to be water.