We were still gathered at the base camp on Sunday, November 26. Our work was done, and Carlos was leading the singing. Maria and Isora were, as usual, getting us all into the dancing. By this date, many of the campesinos were joining us as soon as they heard the music.
We didn’t hear the hoofbeats, but suddenly there was the horseman riding into the village. He leaped off the horse, raced over to Esteban, and pulled him out of the circle. The music stopped as suddenly as if someone had pulled the plug from a radio. The man was in a militia uniform and was whispering, but his gestures were huge and wild. To a person, we all stood there, just staring. What was wrong? Something terrible must have happened. My heart felt like a stone banging in my chest. Little Isora grabbed my hand. I squeezed hers. Not to reassure but to share the fear.
At length, Esteban nodded and turned back toward us. He cleared his throat. “It’s bad news,” he said. “One of our brigadistas has been murdered.”
Someone — Maria, I think — let out a cry. I was too frozen to make a sound.
“His name,” Esteban continued, “is . . . was . . . Manuel Ascunce.” He looked around, wanting to see if the name meant something to any of the squad. No one spoke, so he went on. “He was working and teaching on
the Palmarito coffee farm. His campesino host was also killed.” He waited to let us take in this cruel fact before he continued. “The funeral for Manuel will be tomorrow in the capital.”
Isora let go of my hand and began to sob, as did many of the others. Even the boys were seen to hide their faces so their tears would not show. Maria was weeping openly, but my sobs choked in my throat. I knew how terrified I would have been had the bandits gotten past our door.
“We are —” Esteban began, but had to stop to clear his throat again. “We are all devastated by this news. And perhaps frightened.” As he said this, he seemed to be looking at me and little Isora trembling at my side. “But I believe we must carry on.”
“¡Venceremos!” I think it was Carlos who called out our familiar slogan. We shall prevail! And then we all echoed the shout. Even I was somehow able to get the syllables past my parched throat. “¡Venceremos!”
“Yes, indeed,” said Esteban. “Yes, truly. ¡Venceremos!”
The details of the killing became clearer on subsequent Sundays. Manuel Ascunce was sixteen years old. He was barely two years my senior, but in courage much, much older. A band of insurgents appeared at the farm where he was teaching, and Manuel, hoping to save his students, stepped forward. “I am the teacher,” he said. But they took both him and Pedro Lantiqua, his host father, whom they knew to be a strong supporter of Fidel, away to the forest, where they tortured them, killed them, and hung their bodies from an acacia tree.
Manuel has become a celebrated martyr, the brigadista who gave his life to the cause. Later, schools and hospitals would bear his name. But I’m sorry to say I knew that day in my heart that I would rather be a live coward than a dead hero.
There was a great parade, a somber celebration, in Havana. Brigadistas and ordinary citizens crowded the streets of the capital as the body of Manuel Ascunce was carried to his grave. Those of us so far away could not be there, but all that day he was in our minds.
At the time, I thought I remembered seeing him in Varadero. We were probably there at the same time for training, weren’t we? Maybe I had seen him among the many thousands there. Both Maria and Juan swore we’d been at the same camp. Juan even said he’d spoken to him once. I found out much later that Manuel had been at the training camp at an entirely different time. By now I have seen so many pictures of him that it’s hard to believe I never saw him in the flesh. Who knows? Maybe I saw him once in Havana before we both joined the campaign. His home was not so far from my old neighborhood. I’d like to think I saw him once. Is that peculiar? Don’t we all want to feel we have touched greatness?
After Manuel Ascunce’s death, none of us would admit to wanting to go home. He had given his life for the campaign. We had to finish the year in his honor. By early December, everyone in my group except Joaquin and Dunia had finished his or her final exams, including the required letter to Castro. I missed having Nancy and Daniel in class, but they were at home taking care of little José. They named him after our national hero from the war of independence from Spain. But José Martí, as I tried to explain earlier, is not just our George Washington, who fought for independence, or our Abraham Lincoln, who fought for freedom and against slavery. Martí was also, as you know, a great poet and a philosopher.
When Luis passed his final exam, I gave him my book of José Martí’s poems. They were precious to me, but I knew that when I got back to Havana, I could buy another copy. I often wondered if Manuel Ascunce thought of “The White Rose” when he was dying. Here is my English translation of the poem I love so much:
I grow a white rose,
In July as well as January,
To give to my true friend
Who offers me his honest hand.
And for the one whose cruel blows
Break the heart that gives me life,
I cultivate neither thistle nor thorn:
I grow a white rose.
I could not think of the poem without at the same time thinking of Norma. Did she still love José Martí? Or was she now enamored with North American poets? Was it easier for her to be a black American than it had been to be a black Cuban? Would I ever see her again in this lifetime? My grief for Manuel Ascunce was mixed up with my mourning for my lost friend.
Luis knew how distressed all the brigadistas in the area were, so he made a special trip to the nearest church where there was still a priest and begged him to come soon so that little José could be baptized and we could have a joyful celebration as an antidote to our sadness.
Dunia, with Veronica’s help, prepared a great feast with as much food as they had made for my birthday. The other host families in the area were invited to celebrate with us at the Acostas’ farm, so they brought food as well. Our whole squad was there, and there was some comfort for us that night in little José’s presence. You cannot look at a tiny baby and feel entirely hopeless. We passed him from one uniformed set of arms to another. Even the most macho of the boys wanted a turn.
I saw that night why poor Maria was so in love with Enrico. I had never seen a boy look at a baby with such a tender, loving gaze. I was so happy to see Maria smiling when her turn came to hold baby José. I think it was the first time many of us had smiled since we’d heard the news of Manuel’s death.
“But if you really want to see Lora smile her beautiful smile,” Luis said to Joaquin and Dunia, “you have to pass your final exams, and write your letter to Fidel before she leaves.”
We were slated to leave on December 20. It was now the second week of December. Dunia was almost ready, but she would insist on repeating a lesson even when I felt sure she was ready to move on. She sensed that I was losing patience with her. I didn’t mean to, but I so needed her to pass, and I was sure she could if she tried hard enough. One night when Joaquin and Luis were noisily at work, she whispered in my ear. “I must wait. Old men, they feel the loss of their machismo, don’t you see?” I could only sigh and nod.