“He took him to La Caba?a,” Isabel says, her expression grim.
Batista’s prison has been converted to Fidel’s prison. Some revolution.
“When?”
“This morning,” Beatriz answers, her face pale. “That’s all we know.”
Under the new freedom and democracy Fidel is bringing to Cuba, they can hold him for however long they like, do whatever they’d like to him.
Progress.
I fear the anger inside me will simply erupt one day, no longer contained by silk gowns and gloves.
“They will kill him,” my mother whispers.
“They won’t,” Isabel says, her words lacking conviction.
They might kill him.
A tear trickles down my cheek, then another, piercing the haze that surrounds me. My grief over Pablo’s death is suddenly a luxury I cannot afford.
“What will we do?” my mother asks.
Leave Cuba.
The thought surprises me, but there’s logic behind it, the image of the crowd knocking over the parking meters, looting, filling my mind once more. This is no longer a safe place for us, and if they are after our father, how long before they come after all of us? How safe will my child—all that I have left of Pablo—be in this version of Havana?
Where is Alejandro?
“We wait,” Beatriz says instead, her voice grim.
* * *
? ? ?
Time moves differently now that Batista is no longer in power. I used to complain that my days were filled with parties and monotony; now they’re filled with terror, and I long for the days when my biggest worry was which hat suited me best. Our father remains in La Caba?a, and each day brings more executions and no word from Alejandro. More and more of my parents’ friends are leaving the country, heading to the United States, to Europe. More and more people leave, yet we wait, waiting to hear what will come of our father, waiting for a message from our brother, waiting, waiting, always waiting.
Our mother’s uncle visits our father, passing on the news that he is still alive, confined to a dank, dark prison cell. Isabel and Beatriz sit next to our mother, holding her hand while our great-uncle delivers an update on our father’s condition with a grim expression on his face.
Days pass, a week, until waiting at home becomes as distasteful as the alternative and we find ourselves in the belly of the beast.
The prison was built as a fortress in the eighteenth century to guard against English pirates and later converted to a military barracks. It is being run by the Argentinian—Che Guevara—the very man Pablo once spoke of to me. His friend, his brother in arms.
The stone fortress looms in front of us, Beatriz’s hand clutched in mine.
“This is a bad idea,” I whisper, my hand drifting to my stomach. I catch myself mid-motion, allowing my arm to dangle at my side. The nausea is back in full force, this morning’s breakfast already reappearing.
The sun beats down on us, unrelenting.
“Would you rather have stayed in the house?” she asks.
No, but it isn’t only me anymore. I should have refused when Beatriz asked me to accompany her.
She squares her shoulders, her gaze on the looming stone fortress, a familiar expression on her face—Beatriz on a mission is a dangerous thing.
“Wait for me here.”
“Are you crazy?” I hiss. “You can’t go in there on your own.”
“What would you suggest I do?”
“They’re killing people, Beatriz. With frightening regularity.”
Anger blazes in her eyes; Beatriz’s rage just might be a dangerous thing, too.
“There’s someone who might help me,” she says.
If Beatriz has connections in La Caba?a . . .
I grab her arm, pulling her toward me. “Are you involved with the 26th of July?”
“Of course not.” The words drip with contempt. “But I know someone who is.”
“A friend?” My voice lowers. “A lover?”
“Not even close.” Her gaze returns to the stone fortress, as though she’s steeling herself for an unpleasant task.
A shiver slides down my spine at the ferocity in her expression. There will be no dissuading her.
“It’s been days, nearly a week. Who knows where Alejandro is?” Her voice breaks. “Who knows if he’s even alive? And our father—what else are we to do? I have to try.”
“Beatriz—”
“Please.”
I let her go because there is no other option—if I don’t let her go in today, she’ll just come back and try again tomorrow. Reason has fled all of us, and yet I no longer have the luxury of making reckless decisions myself. My baby has already lost one parent to this revolution. It’s up to me alone to keep our child safe.
I stand in the shadow of La Caba?a, watching as my brave, beautiful, headstrong sister walks into the fortress. I almost envy Beatriz her independence, her courage, her audacity. For the first time the full impact of my pregnancy hits me. I was so focused on Fidel, and then Pablo’s death, and now my father’s imprisonment, that the baby has been an abstract concept.
But I am to be a mother now. To raise this child on my own.
It is both a terrifying responsibility and a tremendous joy.
Soldiers pass by me, their green fatigues ragged, their gazes first on me, then drifting to Beatriz’s retreating figure. Their laughter echoes in the air.
The nausea makes another untimely appearance.
I pray, words from childhood, words I’ve used more in the past several months than in the totality of my life combined. I pray for Beatriz, for my father, for my brother, for my unborn child, for all of us now.
Minutes pass, an hour. The stark reality that I may have lost Beatriz, too, that our father might never be returned to us, hits me with an intensity that grows with each ticking moment. How are we to provide for our family without him? Will my great-uncle take us in? Another distant family member? How will we survive this?
And just when my panic reaches an unbearable level Beatriz walks out. It’s impossible to tell if she was successful or not; Beatriz walks the same in victory and defeat.
She stops a foot away from me, her expression grim.
“I wasn’t able to get him out. I was able to see him, though. He’s injured but fine. Furious with me for coming.” She swallows. “They shoved him in a cell with ten other men. Like animals.”
“What are they going to do with him?”
“I don’t know.” Her silence tells a different tale.
“Beatriz.”
“They’re shooting people. Three times a day. Like clockwork.” Her expression turns murderous. “Che likes his schedules.”
This time I do throw up, the contents of my breakfast landing on the ground beneath me.
Beatriz is there in an instant, silent, stroking my back, pulling my hair away from my face.
“What’s going on with you?” she asks, her gaze sharp once I’ve righted myself.
I shake my head, wiping at my lips with the handkerchief I pull out of my bag, an acrid taste in my mouth. “It isn’t the time.”
Soon it will be, though. How much longer can I hide this secret? How much weight can we bear on our shoulders before we collapse?
Beatriz seems to accept my answer for the moment, but her gaze is searching.
The corner of her mouth is smudged, bright red lipstick marring her face.
I shudder. “What happened in there?”
She shakes her head, her gaze shuttered. “I’m fine. It isn’t the time,” she says.
I wrap my arms around her, needing this moment of comfort. “What do we do now?” I ask her.
“We go home. And we wait.”
We lock arms, turning away from the fortress. My legs shake.
Behind us, the sound of gunshots fills the air—
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.
I count them as tears rain down my cheeks.