The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(31)

“I cannot give you an official statement,” I caution, even as hope blooms.

What if this is the answer to all I have prayed for?

“You must understand that the charges before me are quite delicate,” I add. “The Spanish are quick to anger, and I cannot take the chance that they will retaliate against me for speaking with you.”

“That is understood,” Bryson replies. “We are here because we are genuinely concerned about the travesty that has been done to you. We promise you discretion. We will do everything in our power to see you liberated from this hellish place.”

Tears well in my eyes, falling down my cheeks. I’ve never cried so much as I have in Recogidas, not even over the loss of my mother, and their simple kindness undoes me.

Or maybe it’s the fact that in the face of all I stand to lose, this chance to fight for my freedom feels like one of the most important moments of my life.

I can do this. I can be strong. I have to be.

I square my shoulders and meet their gaze. “What would you like to know?”



* * *



—

My throat is sore after my meeting with George Bryson and George Musgrave. I think I spoke more to them in one sitting than I have since I came to Recogidas. I’m not sure what it is about the two men that has made me trust them so much, but at this point, I have little to lose. I can die in Recogidas, or in a penal colony at Ceuta, or I can cautiously take my chances with the Americans.

Soon enough, they prove their loyalty to me.

The warden corners me one day, the stench of his putrid breath inches from my face making me gag. “You’re being moved, Evangelina.”

My heart pounds. It isn’t the first time they’ve told me such a thing; they regularly taunt me with all sorts of possibilities dangled before me.

“To Ceuta?” I ask, referring to their penal colony in Africa.

“No, not Ceuta. Yet. Apparently, the American consul general Fitzhugh Lee has taken an interest in your case. You clearly have some fine benefactors. Consul General Lee personally came by to look at your accommodations and that of the other political prisoners. He protested over the fact that you and your friends are forced to share quarters with common criminals.

“You’ll sleep elsewhere from now on. Hopefully, it’s up to your elevated standards,” he says mockingly. “If you have any complaints about the care you receive during your stay here, please let us know.”

There’s enough innuendo injected in his voice, coupled with the earlier comments he’s made about me, to leave me with no doubt as to where his thoughts lie and what he thinks I should do in order to secure better accommodations myself.

I can barely suppress a shudder.

He grips my arm, his fingers digging into my skin, leading me toward my new home, and despite the horrible feel of his body against mine, the stench of his odor, the moisture of the sweat wetting his palm, my heart is light.

Perhaps there will be a different future for me.



* * *



—

They move me from the mass hall with the other prisoners to a smaller cell of my own. I am allowed to read books and to cook my own food, and even though I’m alone, it’s almost like it used to be when we lived on the Isle of Pines when I was able to make a home for myself and my family, even in a difficult situation.

I still miss my family and friends, but I cling to the hope that I will be freed.

In a stroke of immense good fortune, the wife and daughter of Consul General Lee visit me in Recogidas, showing me kindness I’d nearly forgotten. Mrs. Lee speaks to me as I imagine a mother would, and I am awed by her gentle nature. I did not know my mother well since she died when I was young, but it is in times like these, when I miss her most, when I wish I had someone I could lean upon, someone who would care for me and help me be strong. It’s exhausting carrying the weight of all that has happened on my own.

I see more of George Bryson and George Musgrave, and I am able to thank them for their benevolence in person under the suspicious eyes of my jailers. It is a delicate balance my captors are forced to maintain. They cannot risk angering the Americans entirely, for the worst possible thing would be for the United States to throw their full military might behind the revolutionaries. At the same time, it is clear the Spanish bristle at the Americans’ influence.

Each time I see George Bryson, I am cheered as he tells me I have friends who want to help me, who are advocating on my behalf. Bryson is working on securing my release, trying to bribe a military judge to let me go. I am also visited by Donnell Rockwell, a clerk with the American consulate staff in Havana who occasionally visits the Americans who are imprisoned here. Suddenly, I have a new host of American friends who are concerned for my welfare.

Finally, I beg George Bryson to get word of my father.

He slips me a note at our next meeting.

When I am back in private, I take the note from my pocket and unfurl the piece of paper, reading the words contained there with a sharp burst of joy followed by immense pain.

My father is alive.

He is imprisoned in La Caba?a.





Ten





Grace


“Grace!” Hearst shouts from his office.

I rise from my seat, grabbing my pad and pen off my desk.

Hearst’s newsroom is a modern one, filled with banks of typewriters, and in his printing presses and in his use of photograph, he’s embraced the newest technology, too. Like many, though, I’ve yet to fully embrace the typewriter, the loud noise too jarring, preferring instead to write my articles by longhand. There’s something intimate about putting a pen to paper that lets me express my thoughts more clearly. Besides, even with the allowance I receive from my family, the expense of such a machine hardly seems reasonable given how infrequently I’m able to put it to use. For Hearst’s star reporters, the typewriter’s speed can’t be denied, particularly when they’re working on a tight deadline.