We were at war.
Marissa did not have to explain to me that the United States was behind it. Where had these insurgents gotten airplanes and landing craft and weapons if not from our hostile northern neighbor? And why were there U.S. warships patrolling dangerously close to Cuban waters?
“But why would a powerful country like
the United States decide to fight a little country like ours?” I asked Marissa.
“They are afraid,” she said.
“But what do they have to be afraid of?” It didn’t make sense to me. We were only a small island in the Caribbean, and they were the most powerful nation in the world.
“It does seem ridiculous,” she said. “But they are crazy afraid of Communism. Even of socialism. I think they are terrified that Fidel will join up with the Soviet Union to oppose them.”
“I see,” I said, but I really didn’t see at all. Why would a country that fought to gain its own freedom oppose our effort to be free? And why would a nation with leaders like George Washington and Abraham Lincoln, heroes whom we had studied about in school, want to support a terrible man like General Fulgencio Batista? Because they were afraid? Truly? It was hard for me to believe such a thing, even if Marissa did.
Our master teacher and many of the other leaders left immediately to go to the front. They had served in the revolutionary army, and they were ready to fight the invaders.
Before the day was over, parents began to arrive to demand that their children return home. My own father arrived just before bedtime. He had borrowed Ramón’s car to get to Varadero. “You must come home,” he said.
I had never before disobeyed my father. But I couldn’t leave. I stood up as straight as I could and tried to smile. “Papi,” I said, “I have signed on for the year. If I leave, it will be like a soldier deserting.”
“You are not a soldier,” he said. “You are a little girl.”
“I am a member of the Conrado Benítez Brigade, and I am nearly fourteen,” I said.
“Not until November,” he said, correcting me. “You won’t be fourteen for many months. And you will not have your quinceañera for another year and a half.” He sighed, as though he knew the futility of that argument and tried another. “Oh, Lorita, you promised that if things got too bad . . .”
“But it’s not bad at all here,” I said. I had trouble looking into his face. It was too sad. “And certainly not too hard. I am learning how to be a teacher. My country needs me.”
“We need you, Lora.” He was almost whispering. “We need you to be safe at home. We lost Roberto to the revolution. We cannot lose you. You know it would break your mother’s heart and send your beloved abuela to her grave.”
I ached to see the sorrow and fear in his eyes, but even as I trembled inside, I remembered to stand up tall to show him I was determined. “If it gets too bad, too hard, I will come home, like I promised.”
“That might be too late.” He shook his head sadly. “The insurgents did not hesitate to kill Conrado Benítez.” But my stiff spine must have convinced him that I would not give up, so he gently stroked my hair, kissed my cheek, and turned to go.
I called after him: “Give my love to everyone.”
He looked back at me.
“I love you, Papi,” I said.
“But you no longer obey me,” he said softly. I watched him leave the room, and then I went to my bed and wet it with the tears of the child I still was.
The next morning, I said to Marissa, “I stood tall and tried to smile. At the moment it helped, but then after he left, all I could do was cry.”
“Of course you cried,” she said. “You love your papi.”
While the battle raged on the southern beaches, we brigadistas were determined to continue on as though nothing had happened. Our group joined the class of one of the women master teachers. Our lessons went on as though nothing was more important than the war against illiteracy that we had sworn to fight. Of course, at mealtime, we gathered around to hear the latest news, but then we went back to work. We had joined an army, and we had to spend our time preparing for the campaign.
At first it seemed as if the invaders would triumph, but our military rallied. Only two days after the initial assault, the enemy began to flee to the boats that had brought them to our shore. And on April 20, the teachers who had left for the front returned to Varadero. The war was over. Many prisoners were taken, but a few, carrying their North American – made weapons with them, escaped into the mountains and joined the insurgents there. No need to be afraid, I told myself. If our militia could defeat an invading force backed by the powerful United States, they could surely protect us brigadistas from a few roving bandits. I told Marissa how glad I was that I hadn’t gone home with Papi.
“No,” she said. “Had you left, you would never have forgiven yourself for deserting the cause.”
I will always remember the thrill of receiving my uniform and equipment. Dresses with frills and flouncy skirts were from my past life. Even the more severe pleated skirt and white blouse of my school days were left behind. Now I would wear the uniform of a brigadista. We were issued two khaki shirts and two pairs of trousers, a pair of sturdy boots with a change of socks, an olive-green beret, and a leather belt.
On our uniforms, we were to affix two badges, one large and one small, which I cherished. In the center of each badge was an open book upon which sat a large letter A and a pencil. In an arc above were the words THE ARMY OF LITERACY, and below our identification as CONRADO BENÍTEZ BRIGADE. There was a slot at the top of the large plastic badge, and our shirts had epaulettes, one end sewn to the shoulder and the other buttoned down. Marissa showed me how to thread the epaulette through the slot and then rebutton it to keep the badge secure. The small metal ones we pinned to the front of our shirts. Some people later moved theirs to their berets, which, I must confess, gave them a rather jaunty air. I wasn’t quite bold enough to do that.
In addition to our uniforms, we were issued our teachers’ guide, our book of readings, copies of Venceremos and pencils for our students, and a rucksack for carrying our supplies. Each of us received a check for ten pesos for personal expenses — paper and stamps for writing home, toothpaste, soap — that sort of thing. We were not promised wages for our work — I had never expected to be paid — because we were a volunteer army. We were instructed to give our ration cards to our hosts, because they would be feeding us.