The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(58)

Decker had planned to board a separate steamer to the United States, but I worry that he was caught, that he might be facing the ramifications of helping me escape from Recogidas.

As much as I wish to enjoy the boat ride, I can’t quiet my thoughts enough to concentrate on all of the conversations around me. Everyone wishes to know the details of what has happened to me, but the desire to be alone with my thoughts is greater than I imagined, the weight of all I have endured hitting me at unexpected times. How do you explain life in a prison like Recogidas?

I alternate between resting in my cabin and allowing myself these little entrées into society. My journey is largely uneventful, most of it spent in Walter’s esteemed company and that of the ship’s purser.

I try to imagine what my life will be like when I arrive in New York, but I can’t quite envision it when so much of what I love is back in Cuba. I’ve had no word of what has happened to my father, if he is alive or dead, nor of my sisters. I hope they will not be punished for my escape.

Will I ever see them again? Will I ever return home?

I suppose it is better to not worry about such things, to content myself in all I have accomplished, the miraculous fact that I have escaped from Recogidas, that the Spanish have no claim over me. After living my whole life under their authority, it is a glorious thing to be free.

As we near the end of our journey, I walk out on deck and take in my surroundings, enjoying the fresh air on my skin, the crisp, clean scents surrounding me a welcome change from the filth of prison.

Off in the distance, I spy a light. It is so bright; it must be a star.

I don’t realize I’ve said the thought aloud until the man next to me answers, “It’s the Cape Hatteras light. It’s on top of a lighthouse off one of the islands in North Carolina.”

“Oh.” I breathe the word, the light conjuring more wonder in me than I imagined.

Cuba and all of my family and friends are truly behind me now.

I am torn between the urge to weep tears of joy and tears of sorrow.

We continue on our journey and sail up the bay to New York, and my excitement overwhelms me, emotions ricocheting through my body. Suddenly, the boat stops and a small steamer comes up alongside the Seneca. There’s a crowd of smiling passengers in the boat, and at once, I see him, the first American to visit me in prison, the man who brought my case to international attention—

Mr. Bryson.

Emotion fills me, and for a moment, I am back at Recogidas staring at him through the metal bars, and it truly hits me how far I’ve come. Without him, I’d probably be facing the rest of my days spent in prison.

With help from some of the others, I board the steamer where I am engulfed in hugs and well-wishes, my welcome to this new country great indeed.

After a short ride in the little boat, I am ferried in a carriage up a seemingly never-ending street that is so illuminated that it feels like a fairyland. I am surrounded by journalists from the New York Journal, the newspaper that first brought attention to my plight, their pens and papers poised. Every so often, one of them scribbles something down on a pad of paper, their eyes seemingly taking in everything I say and do, as though I am performing on a stage.

“How do you feel?” one gentleman asks me.

I answer as honestly as I can, stringing the words together in some fashion—

“Like I am in a dream.”





Twenty-Three





My new friends settle me into the Waldorf-Astoria, a grand hotel the likes of which I have never seen, the building towering some thirteen stories over the city. While my accommodations on the Seneca were fine, the hotel is opulent beyond measure. There is electricity throughout, private bathrooms in the suites. They tell me to get comfortable in the new rooms and rest, treating me as though I am a delicate creature.

And still—despite all I have endured, I cannot deny that for all of my strength, Recogidas has left its mark on me whether I wished it to or not.

In spite of the splendor of my surroundings, the soft bed and cool sheets, I wake in the middle of the night, my body covered in sweat.

I lurch up in the bed, the darkness of the room disorienting me. For a moment, I can’t remember where I am, if I am in our little house on the Isle of Pines, or in Recogidas, but the bed and sheets feel too fine to be either place. In sleep, in my dreams, I am back in Recogidas, the familiar sounds and smells of the prison assaulting me. It takes me a moment to acclimate to my surroundings, to realize that I am in a suite at the Waldorf-Astoria, that I am in New York, that I am safe.

It takes me hours to fall back asleep, and when I do, I sleep fitfully, thinking of everyone I left back home, wondering if Carlos knows I have arrived here successfully, if he is aware that all he risked for me was successful, if he is safe.

At half past six in the morning the day after I have arrived in the city, there’s a knock at my door, reporters from the New York Journal standing over the threshold. Among them is a woman who introduces herself as Grace, and I recognize her from the contingent that greeted me upon my arrival in the city. Thanks to the Journal, my room is filled to the brim with boxes of dresses, lingerie, hats, accessories, all the things I could ever hope to need.

How do you thank people for such generosity? Words hardly seem enough.

After I am dressed and made presentable, an hour later, I go down to breakfast with the newspaper staff. The newspaper has thoughtfully provided a chaperone in the widow of General John A. Logan. I’m told she writes on women’s issues for the Journal, and her excitement and energy are infectious. Grace and the others trail behind us, noting my reactions to everything.