Next Year in Havana(45)

I assume “the girls” are Luis’s mother and his wife.

“Tonight we have ropa vieja,” she adds.

The mention of the dish reminds me of Luis’s discussion earlier about the rationing system in Cuba and the challenges most Cubans face. The meal, which translates to “old clothes,” is one of my favorites—shredded beef seasoned with peppers and garlic in a stew-like creation that’s served over rice.

“It was wonderful to see the city,” I say, rattling off the list of places we went, wondering if my face is as flushed as I feel.

Ana pours me a cafecito from a set on the tray in front of us. She takes a sip of the coffee, and I follow her lead.

“I’m so glad you enjoyed yourself. Now, you aren’t here to talk about Havana, are you? You opened the box.”

I nod.

“You have questions.”

“Yes. Did you know my grandmother was involved with a man here in Cuba? His letters to her were in the box she buried in her backyard. I think he was a revolutionary. Did you know about him?”

“I didn’t know him. Elisa and I were best friends. We told each other everything. But with him, it was different; she talked about him a bit—not by name, but the occasional allusion.” She sighs. “Those were dangerous times. Batista’s punishments were merciless. She likely kept her young man a secret to protect both him and the people she loved. I knew she was in trouble, though. And I knew she was in pain.” Ana takes another sip of her coffee. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything. What was his name? What happened between them? Was he really involved with Castro? Is he still here in Cuba?”

“I’ll tell you what I know, because she wanted you to have the box, the letters. She wanted you to know this part of her life.”

“Then why didn’t she just tell me? I don’t understand why she never mentioned him in all of the stories she told me about Cuba.”

“Perhaps it hurt her to talk about him. And there was probably shame, too. Those were polarizing times for the Cuban people; families were torn apart by political disagreements—including Elisa’s.”

“My great-uncle was disowned for opposing Batista, wasn’t he?”

Even now, my great-uncle is a sore spot for my family.

“He was. Your great-grandfather was one of Batista’s biggest backers—whether out of expediency or true fervor, I do not know. I was too young to worry about those things. But much of the country did not share those views. There were real problems in Cuba before the revolution. There was no justice, no chance of democracy. Those of us who lived behind the gates of the grand estates in Miramar knew little of suffering. We were surrounded by people who looked like us, who had access to education, who possessed wealth. Our lives were parties and decadence, the violence somewhere in the background. But for many Cubans, those were horrible times.

“A movement began within the country. It started, strangely enough, among children of the elites. Don’t forget, Fidel himself was the son of a wealthy farmer. The very people who enjoyed Batista’s largesse discovered their children sympathized with the revolutionaries. Their sons fought for democracy and change, and were willing to spill Cuban blood to achieve it. It would be easy to say that the revolution divided us along the lines of poor and wealthy, but it’s not that simple.

“It’s not shocking to me that Elisa fell in love with such a man, but Emilio Perez would never have accepted his daughter with a revolutionary. And it would have killed your great-grandmother. She was descended from Spanish royalty, and she expected her daughters to conduct themselves accordingly.”

“And my grandmother never told you his name?”

“No. He was from Havana, but I’m not sure what part of the city.”

“Was he her age?”

He sounded older from the tone of his letters—more worldly, certainly.

“A bit older, I think. Most of the men involved with Fidel’s movement were in their twenties or early thirties. Boys, really.”

“What else did she tell you about him?”

“One day, we were supposed to have lunch and go shopping at El Encanto. This was a couple months before everything fell apart. Late October or early November. I went to the house to see Elisa . . .”





chapter twelve


Elisa


NOVEMBER 1958

This time he’s gone for longer than ever before, and the letters arrive sporadically, delivered through subterfuge and random messengers in his absence, read in the privacy of my room when I can sneak away from everyone and escape into his words.

The fighting is intensifying; the tide is turning, Batista is on the defense, his forces and resolve weakening. Hopefully, this will be over soon and he will be gone; hopefully, I will be back in Havana and we will be together again.

I write him nearly every day, my letters tame compared to the stories he tells me, of sleeping beneath the stars, existing on meager rations. He gives me enough detail that I feel as though I am there with him. There’s poetry in his letters, in the manner in which he describes his actions, his fidelity to Cuba, and in his words for me.

I think of you often. I try to imagine you going through your day, laughing with your sisters. I use my imagination to paint a picture of your life. It keeps me company when we’re marching, waiting for things to happen. I never realized war would be so much waiting.