Next Year in Havana(71)
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 conditions 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.
Despite Castro’s desire to ban religion in Cuba, people have found ways to honor their faith, both in the pews of the Cathedral of Havana and here, with this offering to the Santeria gods and goddesses. It’s a quiet act of defiance, but a powerful one all the same.
Magda excuses herself for a moment, returning with drinks. She settles on the chair opposite us, the fabric fraying at the edges. By looking at her, I never would have guessed she’s as old as she is, and her manner is that of a woman a decade or so younger.
In all the stories my grandmother told me of Cuba, she always spoke of Magda as the woman who raised her, a surrogate mother of sorts, and now I understand that was another thing my grandmother and I shared—our lives were shaped by strong women who raised us as their own.
I answer Magda’s questions about my great-aunts, my grandmother, telling her the story of my grandmother’s ashes. The emotion that snuck up on me before, the grief, is absent in this little room, and instead I am filled with joy talking about my family. I can easily imagine my grandmother next to me, interjecting throughout this conversation, sharing confidences and stories. I hear her in Magda’s voice, see her in Magda’s eyes. That’s the thing about death—even when you think someone is gone, glimpses of them remain in those they loved and left behind.
Luis sits beside me, sipping his espresso, his knee resting against mine, his presence reassuring. An hour passes as we catch up on each other’s lives, and then I ask Magda about the letters.