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  Chita, the bossy one, was also the stylish one with the beauty salon. She used to go with the very rich to Miami or the Keys to lounge and redo their hair every day because of the humidity. After the change, it was the Saturday night dancers and the Sunday morning worshippers with their twittering and little dramas that kept alive her two-dryer shop. She was a staunch comrade who never uttered a word against El Líder, but I know she missed the bright lights and fast cars she knew across the water.

  Together we were known as the Sisters Montero in certain circles in the city. Our family owned a wonderful home in the Versalles neighborhood. Everyone called it the Montero House. It reflected our parents’ prominence. Papi had the kind of luck in business that opened many doors and encouraged men to find new respect for a family name. Mami had the Catalonian looks, manners, and ease with money that furthered the Montero interests. We had advantages as their daughters.

  My little brother, Tomás, was a lovely afterthought in our family. We had already left childhood behind when he appeared, and I had been the youngest for so long that he seemed more like my own child rather than a baby brother. We all practiced motherhood on our sweet, mischievous boy. We never squabbled with him as we did among ourselves. Rather, his injuries at our hands arose mostly from our fierce battles to take charge of him. Sometimes our poor boy was pulled in two directions by determined sister-mothers. He learned to hide until our rages were spent.

  We all knew that the Russians had arrived to join in the defense of our beautiful island, but the glory of the actual revolution quickly dimmed for us. Even as most of our crowd deserted the island with only the clothes on their backs and whatever they could hide beneath their girdles and in their hair, we continued to enjoy certain privileges. Then our Tomasito was taken at the end of summer. The night it happened, Selena, his best friend since childhood and the daughter of a renowned officer of the second revolutionary war, stumbled into my café, bruised and crying. I quickly shooed out the neighbors that had lingered over coffee and dominoes and locked the door tight. She told a fractured tale of her evening with Tomasito on the Malecon and the moment when a truck full of militiamen dragged him off. It departed with Tomasito inside and Selena running and tripping behind. She blurted that Comrade Castro was no good for the Revolution. I couldn’t even think such a thought without looking over my shoulder.

  Immediately we launched inquiries but could learn nothing of Tomasito’s whereabouts or the origins of the mysterious truckload of militiamen. Our investigation had to be discreet, as everyone knew Tomasito was indeed involved with comrades whom he called patriots but whom many others called worms. Still, we had connections, but José, my husband in the army, couldn’t find any official mention of our brother’s location. Neither could Ramón, Rosita’s milquetoast husband who was a deputy in the local Committee for the Defense of the Revolution. We feared the most sinister forces, since the CDRs usually trumpeted the capture of citizens whom they considered traitors. The administration went so far as to televise the executions of prisoners “against the wall” as an example to the rest of us. The week before, one of his close childhood friends starred in one of their ghastly programs.

  For five days after the disappearance of Tomasito, I waited for my sisters with my back to the door of my café. Above my head was the sign that José painted in bright pink with viney green letters spelling out my name. At the top of the D was a white rose for Rosita, and underneath the S sat a conch shell for Conchita—Chita’s real name. Those two are silent, or maybe not so silent, partners in my enterprise. Each day I contemplated the perfect view of the Church of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart across the plaza. Each day after my sisters arrived, we joined arms and marched over to the church to light candles and pray for the safe return of our little brother. Early on the sixth day, after setting the rice to boil, I stepped out of the café and looked through the lightening darkness at the statue of the Madonna. Her hands cupped that fickle heart. I said, “Please, Señora. You know what it’s like to lose a boy. Please send our Tomasito home safely.”

  I couldn’t see her face clearly, but she spoke from across the plaza. She used the voice only a Montero could hear, saying, “You are too demanding, my child. You must accept God’s way.”

  “No!” I shouted, my voice bouncing off the walls and down the street. Ernesto across the road opened his second-floor shutters, and nosy Anna up the way leaned out her window. I waved at them, it is nothing. I had to continue my conversation with La Señora under my breath.

  “If it is the way of God to punish us for speaking the truth about men drunk with power, then I am a crusader for the Devil!” I stopped. A silence ticked away. “I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean that.”

  The Madonna said, “You are upset, my dear, I understand. But now you must do penance.”

  Behind me the top of the big stew pot started to rattle with the escaping steam. I pointed at her church. “I will do my penance, but I will not step foot inside your useless sanctuary until our Tomasito returns.”

  An hour later, during breakfast, I watched through the window of my café as José approached with an unknown soldier behind him. I returned to my stove before they entered. There the kettle simmered and a pot of black beans cooled. I flipped over the frying black market eggs and turned off the fire. On the other side of the half-wall, six of the eight tables were filled with neighbors who had come together to keep each other company. Some ordered nothing, but I gave them a small plate anyway.

  My José rushed in the front door carrying a large crate and made with the big important swagger in the five steps it took to cross the floor. He lifted the crate onto the counter beside the stove. Another language marched across the side of the box in angry red letters. The soldier who followed was a big blond man, muy guapo, a full head taller than my José. He wore a uniform different from that of our local comrades. His walk was precise and forceful, much too large for my small space.

  José introduced me to this Captain B., who said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Señora. I’ve heard many compliments of your cooking.” He spoke continental Spanish with a Russian accent.

  “The pleasure is mine.” I know this Russian accent, this way of moving. I had a Russian lover during the heady days of the revolution, while my husband was stationed across the island and it was too dangerous to travel. At the time I believed José’s letters that said Comrade Castro and his Revolution would make a better life for all of us. My affair was full of patriotic fervor, but I was glad that I had no blond baby to explain to dark José. When the promises evaporated, I became suspicious of anything the Russians brought.

  “Please, Señora,” the captain continued. “We have some men who are doing important work in the field. We need a cook. Might you do us the favor of helping out?”

  This was not a mere invitation. I had just been enlisted. “Of course.”

  He glanced back at the full tables. Everyone, from old Pablo down to baby Trini, had stopped eating and had an ear turned to our conversation. The captain stepped closer and bent toward me with a confidential air. I smelled the acrid tang of last night’s vodka and the sweet sweat of a pig eater. This one would like my pork sandwiches. Since the rationing, I’d missed the aroma of roasting meat. “Your husband assures me of your discretion,” he said in a low voice.

  “Claro que sí.” Of course José made these assurances. Did he know about the Russian lover? No! You see how discreet I was even with my own family? “And perhaps you could help me with one small matter. My customers need strength to serve our country and would appreciate fresh pork. I’m famous for my pork sandwiches.”

  José’s eyes grew wide at my request, but the captain never blinked. He merely smiled. “Of course, Señora. I’ll see what I can do, especially if you would do me the personal favor of making one of your famous sandwiches for me.” I nodded my agreement, and our contract was complete.

  Lola

  The Discretion of the Monteros 2

  IN THE DA
YS following my enlistment as a cook for the Russians, I discovered how Cuban I could make my Soviet-Cuban dishes. By the following week, I knew which spices to pack and which to leave at the café. One afternoon, I waited in the shade of a dump truck for a ride back to the city from the Russian work camp. Although clouds were building all over the sky, they had not yet obscured the hot sun. I was anxious to get home. My days had been longer than usual, and I had many new things to learn in a short time. The Russian crew chief approached with a boy whose uniform was covered in grease. I stood up. The chief introduced me to Karl, this boy who would drive me home, then said, “No Spanish, this one.”

  He turned to the boy and spoke rapidly in Russian, gesturing turns and curves in his directions. Karl nodded. “Da, da,” he kept repeating. When the chief stopped him with a hand on his arm and an urgent tone in his voice, the boy shrugged him off and started toward the truck.

  We loaded my supplies into a small flatbed truck and drove away. Most of the Russian phrases I knew implied intimacy, but I tried a few of the more formal ones on Karl. He just flicked his flat gray eyes at me as if I was not good enough to touch the greasy pocket of his overalls. Ah, the arrogance of youth and dominance. I wondered if he concealed his contempt with charm when giving the soap to the girls on the beaches. Perhaps he didn’t bother, knowing that they would eagerly follow his light skin into the darkness.

  Despite the jolting from the pockmarked roads, I soon fell asleep. I dreamed of Captain B., his first taste of my plantains, his easy movements among the men he commanded, his smiles in my direction. I awoke, thinking surely by now we had reached the coastal road and soon would be enjoying the ocean breezes. Instead, we were creeping along a narrow dirt road that was flanked by Royal palms and hemmed in by aggressive bushes and vines. In several places the roadside vegetation had a flattened, scarred look, as if it had been trampled by a monster. Further on there was a new clearing in the jungle. For a moment, I wondered about Karl’s intentions, but I could read only fear in his hunched shoulders and scowling face. He tapped on the steering wheel as he stared straight ahead. He had every right to be scared, for the island landscape had become so complicated. Too many secret operations advanced under the cover of foliage and silence. Whispers reached me (I cannot say from whom) that told of Soviet sites deep in the jungle that would scare the devil out of our Northern neighbors. Lost travelers, even the most innocent and patriotic, were not welcome at such installations.

  “Comrade?” I said. The boy twitched. “Where are we?” I didn’t know the Russian words.

  He shrugged. Was he answering me, or was he simply abandoning responsibility? He stopped the truck and shrugged again, taking his hands off the wheel. I waved to indicate he should drive into the clearing, but before he could move, a horn blasted behind us. I whipped around and saw the grille of a giant truck as it crashed into us. The crash threw me against the dashboard. Karl grabbed the twisting steering wheel and slammed on the brake, but we were no match for the force behind us. We skidded into the clearing, and I crawled back into my seat with a throbbing shoulder. Men swarmed near sleek tubes that were on the beds of other gigantic vehicles.

  Rockets.

  Missiles.

  Dios mio!

  Could they be the kind that will end the world? I wished I had not seen!

  We finally came to a stop halfway into the clearing. The truck behind us rumbled, as if it was catching its breath to assault us again. In front of us, men pulled tarps over the obscene weapons, and a figure stalked toward us with a flank of soldiers armed with machine guns. As the group neared I recognized the leader. Captain B. Of course. He was no innocent, and I was now at his mercy because of the bumbling of a young ally. My frustration at Karl exploded, and I shoved hard at him. His arrogance dissolved. He hunkered down like a puppy awaiting punishment.

  A soldier opened the door and yanked Karl out of the cab. I huddled as far away from them as I could and wedged my heels against the shift box. The captain’s contorted face came looming into the truck. Please let him remember his humanity, I prayed. He took one step back and held out a hand for me. “Señora.”

  I didn’t move. “The driver made a terrible mistake.”

  “We cannot afford such mistakes.” He flicked his hand once. The command to exit was clear.

  “Unfortunately, I can’t see out of this windshield and don’t know where we are or what’s out there.” Karl and his armed guards retreated toward the far end of the clearing. He suddenly dodged backward, but the guards on either side of him grabbed him tight before he could get away. The pulled him along.

  Captain B. dropped his hand into a ball and rested it on his hip. A hot breeze rippled his clothes, and I thought for the first time of his flanks where he would run to fat with all the drinking. A dump truck drove by with an entire bush caught behind its front tire, the branches waving as if it were calling for help. It left a trench in the churned up soil. The whole area went from light, to dark, to light again as a cloud’s shadow passed overhead. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Captain B. grabbed a fistful of my hair and wrenched me closer.

  No one knew where I was.

  A thrill ran through me and left me panting along with the huffing of the truck’s engine. The child that Tomasito had been came to me, his face upturned and trusting. I hadn’t been able to protect him, either. Then I saw him as a man, alive, laughing, his deep brown eyes sparkling in the sun. I drew courage.

  “Let me go.”

  “I don’t have time for this,” Captain B. said.

  “Nor I.” I lifted my head as far as I could in his grasp. “Send me home with one of your trusted men.” His arm flexed, ready to pull me from the cab. That would be my end. “A man you can trust as much as you can me.”

  He drew me closer. I could feel his breath, alcohol-free, on my cheek. “You owe me,” he whispered. I nodded as much as his grip would allow. “A warning, Señora. I have never met your lovely children.” He glanced at Karl and his guards. The boy struggled in their grip. “You breathe a word of this . . . no one in your family is safe.”

  “You have my word, Captain.”

  His fingers still clutched my hair.

  “I am in your debt.”

  With that he shoved my head away and straightened up and turned away.

  The sound of rapid-fired shots spurted from the other side of the clearing. I turned toward the sound. Most of Karl’s guards were already walking away, while one nudged his body with his boot.

  Captain B. turned back toward me and shut the truck’s door. “His family has to be notified. He died a hero.”

  No one was immune from danger on this island of secrets and lies. We must save our children from this evil.

  I don’t know how long I sat in a daze before a grim older Russian slipped into the driver’s seat and turned the flatbed around. It was such a hot day, yet I couldn’t keep warm on the drive back to the city. The only words that passed between us were my simple directions to the café.

  When we arrived, I hurried inside and locked the door tight before a nosy neighbor could rush over to hear the latest. I called the Montero House, but Chita wasn’t home. Her maid said she and Rosita had gone to our favorite spot on Varadero Beach. I couldn’t hold this horrible mess in my arms alone, so I asked Ernesto across the street for a ride to the beach in his ancient Ford truck. His reply was made easier when I settled a small sack of vegetable patties in his hands. Despite the usual oppressive heat, I wore a light jacket. Even under its sleeves, my skin prickled from my chill. Every time I closed my eyes, even for a second, I heard the sharp reports and saw Karl’s slumped body.

  I passed through the usual hotel to gain entrance to the beach where I would find my sisters. I kicked off my shoes and trudged along the hot, white sand. The damp traces of high tide would’ve made walking easier, but the warmth on the soles of my feet and the burn in my calves as I churned through the sand kept my mind from flying off in a complete panic. Even so, when I found
my sisters on their striped blankets beneath the palms, I couldn’t open my mouth for several minutes. How to tell them about this latest danger to our future? What could we do to release our children from its menace? Like so many of our compatriots, our family had discussed the possibility of escape across the water. Now Captain B.’s threat of harm may have closed off less drastic options. Whatever we decided, we would act together.

  Appointment with Mrs. H. 2

  BETTY ANN SAT down with the tablet of pink paper and jotted a list. Move racks by window & stagger. That would get the unfinished gowns out of the way but would create a pleasing display of autumnal colors. Flowers. Music. Arrange magazines. Ebony and Jet would be relegated to the second shelf of the coffee table. Finger sandwiches. No time to do them properly. She lined it out. Cookies. Dust. Vacuum. New dress on mannequin. Sweep stairs. WH fashions. She clipped pictures and kept notes on the clothing Mrs. Kennedy and her guests wore. They may not look at the notebook, but having it out would show Mrs. H. that Betty Ann had the style and know-how to complete this commission. Portfolio. That’s what she called the scrapbook where she kept photos and sketches of her own designs. Grayson House. Too bad she couldn’t include it in her portfolio.

  That would be suicide. Her hand sought out the man’s ring in her pocket. She had originally slipped it into the lost-and-found so no one would think it special. Terry speculated about it when it first appeared, but neither girl had commented when Betty Ann sometimes wore it on her index finger. The frequency of the ring’s appearance increased as the tensions on base heightened.