My Brigadista Year

“There’s nothing to see now, boys. Not until they actually get here.”

Shouldn’t we celebrate our victory for one more day, at least? Although the three of us protested, Mama insisted that we go to school on Monday. It seemed strange that our daily lives should go on as usual — just as if the whole world had not been turned upside down.

And it had been turned upside down. My quiet school was like a swarm of bees whose hive has been disturbed. Even the stoical Sisters seemed agitated.

In every class there were empty seats. Their parents let them stay home to celebrate! I thought jealously, until I realized when I went into Sister Evangelina’s classroom for Cuban History and Literature that one of the empty seats was Norma’s. Her family would not be celebrating. Norma’s father was one of the General’s bodyguards. Where was she? It was several days before I learned that victory, too, demands a price. I had to accept the fact that Norma and her family had fled north with the General. The revolution had cost me my best friend.

There was no school on January 8. Or if there was, we didn’t know about it, because Papi, the boys, and I were among the thousands on Simón Bolívar Avenue, waving our little flags and screaming with joy. We couldn’t see over the heads of the crowds. The boys fought for turns on Papi’s shoulders and each got a glimpse of the parade of jeeps and trucks left behind by Batista’s fleeing army, now carrying our triumphant heroes into the capital.

Within a week after I submitted my permission and application, I was notified of my acceptance. My mother started weeping all over again, but she knew she was defeated, so she began to plan my wardrobe. “We can’t afford any new clothes,” she mourned. She always wanted her children to look properly cared for.

“I won’t need new clothes, Mama. We’ll be wearing uniforms.”

That turned on the tear spigot again. The idea of her only daughter in men’s clothes was almost too much for her. I put my arm around her shoulder. “It’s okay, Mama. I’ll still be your daughter.”

She looked at me through her tears. “I knew we should never have let you go to that fancy school. You got all sorts of crazy, modern ideas there.”

“Oh, Mama, those nuns were dressed head to toe in medieval habits. They didn’t give me any crazy, modern ideas.” Except, I knew, they had taught me to think for myself. To Mama, that was a crazy, modern idea. Other schools for girls in Havana were often intent only on turning their students into good housewives and mothers.

“Just get me an extra toothbrush and more toothpaste, please. My old comb and brush will do, and I won’t be wearing any makeup, you’ll be glad to know.” Mama thought no girl should wear makeup or think about boys before her fifteenth birthday. I didn’t dare ask her how old she was before she began thinking about boys. When she seemed so sad that the only new thing in my suitcase was a toothbrush, I relented and let her make me a new nightgown — cut down from one of her own nice ones.

Papi gave me a camera and three rolls of film. “It’s a simple one,” he said, “but it takes good pictures. Take care of it, Lora. It belonged to your uncle Roberto.” I was touched that he would give me this treasur

e — one of the few mementos of his lost brother.

I tried to comfort my parents with the fact that after I returned, they would never have to pay another school fee for me. Really. The government had promised that every young volunteer who finished the year of service would be guaranteed free secondary school and university education. Although they never admitted as much, I could tell both of my parents were relieved to hear that bit of news.

Of course, everyone at school knew who had enlisted in the campaign. For the first time I became a center of attention — not all of it positive. “Don’t your parents even care about your safety?” one of the senior girls asked me. “What good do you think you can really do? Those campesinos all have IQs below normal. They won’t be able to learn. My uncle knows. He was an overseer on a sugar plantation before the revolution.”

But at least some of the girls were openly envious and told me so. “I wanted to join, but my papi wouldn’t agree. How did you get your parents to sign?” they would ask. When I said that my abuela convinced them, their eyes would go wide with surprise. Their grandmothers would never have done such a thing, and I was aware that my abuela was a rare human being — an old woman with young ideas. It made me very proud.

My teachers reacted in different ways. Sister Evangelina urged me to take poems and essays by José Martí to share with every campesino I worked with, so that they would be inspired by our true revolutionary hero. My English maestra demanded to know what I was going to do to keep from going backward in my progress in the language. “There won’t be anyone there with whom you can speak English,” she said, indicating that by leaving her tutelage, I was leaving civilization and in danger of becoming a barbarian. And the Sister who instructed us in belief and practice took me aside and gave me a little sermon. Teaching literacy was not a bad thing — far from it — but she understood that the young literacy teachers also would be charged with spreading the message of socialism. I was to beware of helping spread secular propaganda — not that socialism was necessarily bad, but when it veered toward the Russian variety, it made an idol of socialist belief and forgot God. “Do not forget God, Lora,” she said.

“I won’t, Sister,” I said, wondering why she thought I might.

“And don’t forget the moral teachings of the church.”

“Of course not, Sister.”

“You will be a young woman alone, unprotected by your father and far from our Mother Church, out there in the countryside. I cannot understand why your parents . . .” She stopped midsentence and sighed before she continued her homily. “Be on your guard against men with sweet words and evil intent. God will be watching.” Even though her voice was stern, if not frightening, I could see her concern for me in her dark eyes.

“I will be very careful, Sister.”

“I will pray for you, my child.”

“Thank you, Sister,” I said, and I meant it. Perhaps I should have said that I would pray for her, because, as it turned out, in just a few months’ time, an act was passed to nationalize all the schools, and the teaching of religion there was prohibited.

I found it touching that my brothers were concerned as well.

“But who will read to us after you’re gone?”

I put my arm around little Roberto. “You can read by yourself now,” I said. “You don’t need me anymore.”

“Yes, I do,” he said through his tears. “I just stumble through the hard words. None of the words are hard for you.” He snuffled. “You read better than a teacher. When you read, I see all the pictures in my head and hear the voices.”

I stroked his hair and sighed. I would miss him.

Silvio sat up straighter on his chair. “I will read while Lora is gone.”