My Brigadista Year

To my surprise, each of us was also issued a hammock and a huge lantern. “The campesinos will not have an extra bed for you,” the master teacher explained. “Nor will they have any electricity. Classes will most likely be held after the workday is done. You will need a bright light to study under.”

The day she was to leave for her assignment, Marissa sought me out. “I have something for you, Little One,” she said. Then she took the necklace of Santa Juana seeds that always hung around her neck and hung them around mine. “I strung these myself,” she said. “Wear them for good luck.”

“But they’re yours! You need them for yourself.”

“I’ll string myself another set when I get to the mountains.” She patted the beads on my chest. “I don’t want you to forget me.”

“I could never forget you,” I said, the tears starting in my eyes.

“Oh, shush,” she said, wiping my cheek with her long fingers.

So while beneath my shirt I wore the rosary Abuela had given me when I made my first communion, over my shirt I always wore the necklace of Santa Juana seeds that had once belonged to Marissa. I was proud to wear those beads. Santa Juana, or Saint Joan, as she is known to English speakers, was a warrior saint, and the seeds from her namesake bush are thought to bring good fortune.

I thought I would not be able to get through my days at Varadero without Marissa, but I hardly had time to miss her, for two busy days later, I, too, was on my way. All of us who arrived on buses on the same day now piled into other buses and rode away. The bus I’d been loaded into drove south for about three hours, and then, because we were going into the mountains, we were transferred to large open trucks.

The thirty brigadistas who made up what was to become my squad were so crowded on the truck bed that at first we thought we couldn’t sit down. But after the truck hit its first bump, we were all sprawled on top of one another. No one was hurt. We laughed

and each person found a tiny spot to sit. We scrunched together on the rough plank flooring, so tightly packed that no matter how rough the road, we hardly swayed.

Perhaps all of us were afraid. I know I was. In fact, I was afraid that the persons on either side of me could feel my trembling. I had never been farther from home than the one-hour bus ride to Varadero. Now I was traveling into the Escambray Mountains — the truly unknown — except for one fact. It was in these mountains that Conrado Benítez had died.

Once we left the main highway and secondary roads, the way ahead became more of a track through the forest than a real road. I could see the trees looming over me when I craned my neck to look up, but that was all I could see of the forest from my place in the middle of the truck. Anyone or anything might be lurking in the shadows on either side.

Eventually the track became so narrow that heavy branches were brushing the side of the truck and the sun was blotted from view. Then someone began to sing the anthem of the campaign. I could feel my spirits lifting. In English, it won’t sound anything like that wonderful song with which the mountains rang that day.

We are the Conrado Benítez Brigade;

We are the vanguard of the revolution.

With our books held high, we march to our goal,

To bring literacy to all of Cuba.

To the plains and the mountains we brigadistas will go,

Living with the people of the homeland,

Fighting for peace.

Down with imperialism; up with freedom!

Through the alphabet shines the light of truth.

For Cuba! Cuba!

Study, work, rifle!

Pencil, primer, manual!

With literacy! Literacy!

We shall prevail!

The first time I had heard the anthem, I was puzzled by the word rifle. I certainly never expected to carry a rifle. I had never even held a gun in my life, much less shot one. But Marissa explained to me that there were militias with rifles in the remote mountain areas. Fidel had promised our parents that the militia would protect the literacy brigade. And our men tried. But this is a big island, and there are many hiding places for those who would do evil.

The truck stopped where the track it had been following turned into a path. “Just wait here,” the driver said as he pulled down the back to let us off. “Your squad leaders will be here soon.”

Then he hopped up into the cab. He shouted for us to clear the way, and, with his head out of the window, backed rapidly down the narrow track and disappeared, leaving us standing there in the small forest clearing.