“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.
“I have some questions about my grandmother. Ana thought you might be able to shed some light on them.”
“Of course, what would you like to know?”
“I found a box of my grandmother’s things.” I tell her about the letters. “Did you know about him?”
“Yes.”
I lean forward in my seat.
“Well, I knew some of it,” she clarifies. “Those last days—their last days in Cuba—were heartbreaking for Elisa. The last day I saw her—”
A tear trickles down her cheek.
“What happened?”
Magda sighs. “The family left. It was a terrible day. We weren’t supposed to know, of course. They pretended they were going for a trip. They would do that—your great-grandmother and the girls. Go to Europe or America to shop. They were careful; all it took was the wrong word overheard and repeated to the wrong person. Especially for a family like the Perezes.”
She makes the motion of a beard over her face.
We all know who the bearded one is.
Fidel.
“I knew, though, when I looked in my girls’ faces. Isabel took it the hardest at first. Her fiancé stayed behind. Isabel was never one for talking about her emotions. Eventually her sisters would pry whatever was bothering her out of her and she’d open up to them, but it took time.
“Beatriz was angry,” Magda continues. “She was always fired up about something. Your great-grandfather loved her best; no matter how hard he tried to act like he loved his girls equally, you could tell. She drove him crazy, but he loved her. They got into a fight in his study the night before they left. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but you couldn’t help but overhear—the whole house listened to them carrying on. She didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to give Fidel the satisfaction of winning.”
That sounds like Beatriz.
“Maria was the baby, of course. The girls all tried to shield her as much as they could. Alejandro—”
Her voice breaks off as she makes the sign of the cross over her body.
A lump swells in my throat. I’ve grown so used to my great-uncle’s name evoking that same reaction among his sisters.
“Your grandmother was my favorite,” Magda whispers conspiratorially. “I didn’t have children then; I hadn’t met my husband yet. Elisa was mine as much as she was your great-grandmother’s. In those days, the nannies raised the children. Not like now. I dried Elisa’s tears. Held her when she was in pain. And after what happened with that boy—”
My heart pounds.
“The revolutionary?”
“Yes.”
“Please. What did she tell you about him?”
Magda’s expression darkens. “He was trouble; I knew it from the first moment she mentioned him.”
“Did she tell you his name?”
“No. She never did.”
Disappointment fills me. We’ve come this far in our search only to be back where we started.
“She didn’t want to tell me about him at first, of course, but then she didn’t have much of a choice,” Magda continues. “She was scared, and she needed help with the baby.”
It takes a moment for her words to register, to hear them over the white noise rushing through my ears.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
She blinks. “I assumed that was why you wanted to know about him, because of the baby.”
“What baby?”
chapter twenty
Elisa
It’s strange how the world around you can change in the blink of an eye, how the difference between a few hours can mean everything. In one moment it was 1958 and the world was one thing; minutes passed and then it was 1959, and the world as we knew it disappeared.
The morning light confirms what we learned last night. Batista has fled and left us in the hands of the men marching into Havana from the countryside, the Sierra Maestra. Is Pablo with them? What will become of my brother? Their return is the only glimmer of hope in all of this, and I cling to it now.
Gossip filters in throughout the day. The neighbors are out, Ana’s parents stopping by, everyone gathering around the television and radio, attempting to discern what will happen next. They say the fighters are coming back, pouring in from the mountains, carrying weapons and dressed in olive green fatigues, flaunting long, scraggly beards. It appears as though the victory has caught them nearly as off guard as it has caught the rest of us. Batista seemed like an inevitability we would always suffer. Fidel is a looming unknown.
I sit in the house with my parents, my sisters, making idle conversation.