My Brigadista Year

So I cheered heartily when on December 15, Luis declared that Joaquin was at last ready to take his final exam. The old man passed, not brilliantly like his daughter-in-law or almost perfectly like his son, but he passed and was set to work writing the long-awaited letter to our country’s leader.

December 15, 1961

Dr. Fidel Castro

City of Havana

Comrade Fidel:

I can read and write, even the big words and the squiggle on en-ye. But why must I write my name like the old Spanish oppressors? We won independence. We won the revolution. We have won the war against illiteracy. Now we must free our spelling.

Your comrade,

Joaquin Acosta

“That’s a wonderful letter, Joaquin,” I said.

“I’ll write a better one next year, when I know more big words,” he said. “That will surprise him, won’t it?”

“I’m sure it will,” I said, eager to get back to my final student.

Dunia waited a discreet three days before she agreed to try her exam. We never told anyone that her grade was higher than her husband’s.

Too soon, it was the 20th of December. Nancy and Daniel did not go to see me off because of little José as well as farm duties, and Veronica stayed home because she said it would be a long day and someone had to look after the animals. She hugged me tight and kissed me, then turned away so I wouldn’t see her tears. “Lorita, you must thank your kind papi and mama for lending us their wonderful daughter for this year,” she said. Which made me burst into tears. She was so beautiful, my sister Veronica, as lovely as any statue of the Madonna in the cathedral.

She waved good-bye as the rest of the family and I went on to the Acostas’, so that I could say good-bye to Daniel and Nancy and the baby I almost thought of as my own.

“Bonita insists on coming, too,” said Joaquin as he and Dunia mounted the big saddle on the mare’s back. We already made quite a little parade to the base camp, where we met our squad and most of their host families. There the parade swelled into a small army making its way through the trees and vegetation that crowded both sides of the path.

Rafael ran and skipped ahead with some of the other boys, but often threaded the crowd to come back to check on me and his family. Soon Isabel begged for a ride on her father’s shoulders, but Emilia, with an air of importance, took my hand as though I needed her to guide my way. Together we made the trek through the forest to the place at the end of the track where the departure truck was already waiting for us.

When she spotted the truck, Isabel climbed down from her father’s shoulders and ran to me, clinging to my right leg. Emilia tightened her tiny grip on the hand she had held for the whole journey, as though holding me tight would keep me from leaving.

When the driver said we must go, I was crying again. Both girls saw my tears and began to wail. I knelt down beside them. “This is not good-bye forever,” I said. “I’ll come back to see you — I promise.”

They wiped their hands across their wet faces and tried to smile. “Soon?”

“As soon as I can,” I said. “But I have to go back to see my other family in Havana. I have been gone a long time. I don’t want them to forget me.”

Emilia giggled.

But Isabel was distressed. “Will they forget?”

“Well, maybe my naughty brothers will.”

“If those bad boys forget you, you come right back here!”

“Okay,” I said. “But I still have to go to school. And Fidel Castro has promised that soon there will be a school here for you to go to. Then you can write me letters.”

Emilia’s eyes went wide. “Would you write me a letter?”

“Of course,” I said. “I don’t want you to forget me.”

“I will never forget you,” she said. “Isabel might. She’s little.”

“No, I won’t.” Isabel shook her head vigorously.

“I’ll write you, too,” I said, and kissed her first and then her sister.