One Day in December: Celia Sánchez and the Cuban Revolution (21 page)

No doubt Celia arrived with questions and proposals to put to Fidel, not all of which would sit well. Surely, on some of these, they would not have agreed. Did they debate? I’ve had many opportunities to ask retired soldiers who served with both of them during the war. They always told me that Fidel and Celia conversed and argued. The old-timers assured me that Celia knew how to present her argument, make a case, and little by little bring him around. On this walk, they weren’t alone but escorted by bodyguards, so it wasn’t an occasion to question Fidel openly. They came upon an abandoned house and vowed to return to it later that night.

WHILE CELIA AND FIDEL WERE OFF
in the woods, Liliam Mesa delivered Herbert and Nancie Matthews to a rice grower’s house outside Manzanillo; Javier stayed with them, as interpreter. Guerra Matos was alerted to the arrival, went to pick up Faustino Pérez, and collected Vilma Espin, Armando Hart, and Haydée Santamaria to begin his second trip to
Los Chorros
. “It was a heavy load,” he commented, referring to the political weight of his passengers, with a shake of his head. On his way back from dropping off Frank and Celia, he’d been recognized by a member of the Rural Guard—something he and Celia had anticipated—and he’d given the Guards his story. By all appearances, they believed a wedding was taking place on his father’s farm. Now he had to maintain that fiction.

VILMA, HAYDÉE, AND ARMANDO RESTED
in the farmhouse, making their way to the guerrillas’ camp in the late afternoon. Celia and Fidel, when they returned to the guerrillas’ bivouac, proposed camping that night in the abandoned house they’d seen earlier. They set off, retraced their steps, but couldn’t locate the house again. As darkness approached, Fidel asked Ciro to construct a shelter made of branches, and, in the end, he and Celia camped out under the stars while some of the party drifted back down to the farmhouse. Enrique Escalona and Nicaragua arrived on their own, sometime in the evening. Frank spent the night at the guerrilla camp. Vilma, and possibly Haydée and Armando, camped with Celia and Fidel. One or two soldiers were there, too, to stand guard.

THE RURAL GUARDS
pulled Guerra Matos over again, in Jibacoa, on his way after dropping off Vilma, Faustino, Haydée, and Armando. “Guerra, we’ve seen you make several trips.” He explained that the wedding wasn’t going to take place until Sunday (several days away) and assured them that he’d be making more trips still. He reminded them that his family knew a lot of people, all the rice growers (letting the implication of his family’s wealth and position sink in), and invited the Guards to the wedding. “I told them I would pick them up, and we’d go get some beer . . . ” At this, they waved him on.

AT MIDNIGHT, FELIPE WENT TO PICK UP
Herbert Matthews; Nancie was staying behind. Felipe had promised to deliver the journalist to the
Los Chorros
farmhouse by 2:00 a.m., but now he was filled with apprehension. He told Javier Pazos that making this trip would be too dangerous. Horrified, Pazos claimed that Fidel would never forgive them if they didn’t deliver the journalist, and Guerra reluctantly agreed. He couldn’t take the same route via Jibacoa, so he chose a roundabout way through Yara, Estrada Palma, Caney, and Cayo Espino, turning onto one of the farm roads near Purial. All the same, they’d encountered plenty of checkpoints. Guerra would show his ID, explaining that he was the manager of a mill, and “the American” was going to Luis Gómez’s farm to buy rice. Pazos was along as interpreter. (By some accounts, Rene Rodríguez, who worked for Frank, was also in the car, with his empty camera.) Matthews wrote that they drove across streams, went places only a jeep could go, and encountered swarms of mosquitoes. Guerra only recalls that the trip took too much time. He got to the farm after 5:00 a.m., instead of 2:00 as he’d promised Celia; no one was waiting for them at the house. Guerra says he nearly panicked until he could rouse one of Epifanio’s sons (or cousins) who guided them, through the darkness, up the mountain. Matthews slipped while they were crossing a creek and fell. Guerra (then in his twenties) was sure the “old man” (Matthews was fifty-seven) had broken a leg. Matthews got up and gamely continued; they reached the guerrilla camp around 7:00. It was Sunday, February 17, an epochal date in Cuban history.

CELIA AND FIDEL HAD RISEN
before dawn to prepare for Matthews. The young guerrilla chief put on gray work clothes provided by Celia; at the time, this was the 26th of July’s uniform. He added a cap with a flat crown, more or less like General Charles de Gaulle’s
kepi
, and was ready to meet the journalist. Matthews had on a black beret, evoking the spirit of Republican Spain’s resistance to Franco. Fidel cracked open a box of export
habanos
. The two men lit up as Vilma Espin (who had studied at MIT) stepped forward to help Javier Pazos translate. The famous interview began with four people huddled together whispering, in two languages, wreathed in the smoke of good cigars.

Raúl managed the interview as if he were directing theater. Various platoons marched in, reported to Fidel as he talked to Matthews, then marched out of sight, changed their shirts, and returned from different directions. Matthews got the impression that Fidel had many more soldiers—a guerrilla army composed of several columns, he assumed—and jotted this down in a little black book. He talked to several soldiers (only Juan Almeida gave Matthews permission to refer to him by name) while Celia served ham-and-cracker sandwiches with tomato juice, followed by hot coffee in tin cups. After about three hours, the interview was completed. At Matthews’s request, Fidel placed his signature and the date on one of the notebook pages.

Guerra, Javier Pazos, and one of Epifanio’s boys led the journalist back down the mountain. Guerra drove them to Manzanillo, picked up Nancie, and took them all to the airport. Pazos joined the Matthewses aboard the plane for Santiago as “their son, Albert.” From Santiago, the three flew to Havana.

AS SOON AS MATTHEWS LEFT
, Fidel called together his directors and held a meeting that lasted some four hours. Armando Hart recalls that Fidel briefed him along with Raúl, Haydée, Vilma, and Faustino on issues he’d discussed the previous day with Frank and Celia. Mainly, Fidel was asking the movement for more men, enough to restore his guerrilla army to its former size of 82, the number with him in the landing. Frank placed another, entirely opposite, proposal on the table. He suggested that Fidel leave the country, arguing that he would be safer out of Cuba, and the movement could start all over again.

The mood, so ebullient among the directors after the interview and filled with the euphoria after having snagged the attention of one of the world’s leading newspapers, now turned sober as Frank spoke. He faced the members of the group with a heartfelt and compassionate message: above all, we cannot lose Fidel. He, of all of us, must be safe. Now that the world knows he’s alive, we’ve won a major battle and can take a step back. The time has come to move Fidel out of the line of fire, especially since Batista, faced with international pressure, will only step up the army’s hunt now. Why take that chance?

Additionally, a reprieve would allow time for Frank to regroup, rebuild the movement in the cities. Frank, always so fearless, was advocating caution and responsibility: both to Fidel and to the cause. Frank, so selfless, was asking for time. How could they refuse?

More than sober, the mood would have taken on a sudden chill if Frank spoke openly about his visit the day before to the guerrilla camp. I’ve never seen this recorded, but several people have spoken to me of Frank’s reaction to what he saw there. While Celia and Fidel had been out walking, he’d returned to the camp to inspect the men’s rifles. He’d found them dirty and uncared for, so he had spent the afternoon cleaning the weapons. However coldly or silently he might have done this, there would have been no concealing his anger at this lack of discipline, so indicative of a fatal carelessness. Not simply on the part of the men, but of their commander. This was the same Frank who had insisted on uniforms at the Battle of Santiago, mindful of how his little army would be perceived, not just by the populace, but by themselves. How could he sanction such casual attention to details that meant life or death?

Tension mounted among the directors assembled in the guerrilla camp deep within Epifanio’s farm.

Around 3:00 p.m., one of Epifanio’s cousins rushed in to blurt out: “Eutimio’s down at the farmhouse.” Alone or with soldiers, Fidel wanted to know. But the young man wasn’t sure. He hadn’t waited long enough to look around; he’d rushed up to the camp as fast as he could, to warn them.

Fidel selected Mario Diaz, a guerrilla, to confront Eutimio and asked Epifanio’s cousin to return with Diaz. The two set off for the farmhouse. In under a mile, they encountered Eutimio coming up the path. Diaz gave their old guide a big hug. “Where’ve you been? Fidel’s been worried about you.” To keep Eutimio away from the camp, Diaz suggested they go down to the farmhouse, where it was more comfortable. There, they’d be able to drink coffee, talk, catch up on news. Eutimio agreed. As they walked, the farmer-guide asked whether Fidel was around. Diaz assured him that Fidel was away, but he’d be back soon. “Tonight or tomorrow,” he promised. Farther down the path, they ran into Ciro Frias, who appeared to be posted as a sentry. Ciro greeted Eutimio with a big hug—but didn’t let go. Manuel Fajardo stepped from behind
a tree, holding a Thompson machine gun, and frisked Eutimio. They found some papers in his breast pocket, and Eutimio said, “Don’t read those. Shoot me first, but don’t.” The guerrillas bound his hands and took him up the hill to Fidel.

No words were needed after Fidel glanced at the document. It was a certificate of safe-conduct signed by Col. Alberto del Rio Casillas, commanding officer for the army’s Sierra theater. Eutimio’s actions had resulted in the death of one guerrilla and caused four days of running for their lives. Eutimio knew his fate. He asked Fidel to take care of his children.

Fidel had liked this man and enjoyed his conversation. “A simple man mentally unprepared to resist the promise of what seemed to be an unbelievable fortune: a farm and money.” When Guerra Matos offered me this summary of Eutimio’s story, I understood that he was giving me the present-day version, accommodating, yet leaving unsaid, the fact that Eutimio had also genuinely loved Fidel.

They executed Eutimio at the beginning of a torrential rainstorm, which continued well into the evening. Around 7:00 p.m., in the dark, Fidel and two unnamed guerrillas (we can assume that they were Universo Sánchez and Ciro Frias, then Fidel’s bodyguards), Celia, Haydée, and Vilma left for the abandoned house, which they’d finally located.

The guerrillas had found a traitor among them, and they had shot him. They had been tough when they needed to be so, and only in the nick of time. Made vulnerable by the poor decision to let Eutimio be their contact, they’d paid a high price, but they had survived. In reality, what could their future hold without making some sort of drastic change?

The assembled directors met the following day. Frank argued his point further. He wanted to be sure Fidel wouldn’t expose himself (and the others) to danger. It was an issue of security—and, of course, there was also the matter of the dirty weapons Frank had seen in camp. How can any soldier fight and protect himself if he doesn’t love his rifle? This must have been an underlying refrain. What sort of commander sanctions carelessness when it comes to arms?

WHERE DID CELIA STAND?
Surely her thoughts were similar to Frank’s: that Fidel was in danger, and he posed a danger as
well. Where did the others stand? Armando Hart and Haydée Santamaria, from Havana, were long associated with Fidel; Faustino was also in Fidel’s camp. Then there was Vilma Espin and Rene Rodríguez from Santiago, longtime supporters of Frank, as was Carlos Iglesias, a.k.a. Nicaragua. Enrique Escalona, from Manzanillo, would have looked to Celia and Frank. (Guerra Matos was present as Celia’s helper and would not have taken part in these discussions.) She was the tiebreaker, by my count. If she sided with Frank, then it’s Frank’s call. It was up to Fidel to convince Frank—all of them—otherwise. Fidel remained confident. He’d won the Battle of La Plata, and he’d learned when he’d swept down on the little garrison that he could make successful attacks and withdraw quickly. He knew he could win battles in the Sierra. If he could stick to the upper reaches of the mountains, he argued, Batista’s army would always be vulnerable to his fire. We can assume he decorated his argument with flourishes of charm and gusts of boundless optimism.

In the end, the leaders came to terms: the movement would supply Fidel with an army, but its soldiers would be selected by Frank. Frank would send the recruits to Celia for initial training; he would provide arms and uniforms; she would do the rest and get them into the mountains. Fidel’s job, for the time being, was to sit tight and wait for these new men to arrive. Once his army was restored, he could resume his hide-in-the-mountains, swoop-down-and-raid, lure-the-enemy style of warfare. Frank would continue to command the urban front.

Arriving at this deal had taken two days of debate. Celia was the oldest person present, three months shy of thirty-eight, fully mature; perhaps even an accomplished practitioner at deception to further the cause. Loyalty, diplomacy, these were her traits, and she knew how to keep her eyes on the prize. Everything I’ve learned about her indicates that Celia was unquestioningly loyal to Frank. Despite the strong pull of Fidel’s personality, she was Frank’s partner and I’m sure she felt as he did. Yet in this debate Celia must have been careful not to contradict Fidel, who came away convinced she was on his side.

The directors were still in the guerrilla camp on the 19th. A little after twelve noon, according to Hart, they heard a shot, from close by. Panic and fear struck. The army had found them by following the steps of Eutimio. Faustino bundled together the papers he’d been holding, to destroy them. Fear subsided into confusion as the directors and guerrilla soldiers, as a group, quickly discovered something quite different. The shot had come from inside the guerrilla camp. José Moran had shot himself in the leg. Confusion was replaced by suspicion. Was this an accident? What were they to make of this situation? The same soldier had gone AWOL before their ambush ten days earlier. What were they to conclude? That Moran is a coward, that he had shot himself in order to desert and get out of the Sierra? Che, suspicious of Moran already, now stepped into his role as a doctor. He came forward to dress Moran’s wound and observed that the bullet had passed through the muscle without touching the bone. He announced that Moran was in no real danger. Che could not say, for sure, based on the angle of the bullet, whether the shot had been an accident. Che, just days before, had stepped forward to shoot Eutimio when the others hesitated to do so, but he became circumspect here, less certain of what should come next. Traitors are shot. In war, that is the fate of deserters also. Were they to shoot everyone? Had this injury not been called into question, the course of action would have been automatic: a wounded man can’t function as a guerrilla, always on the march, so Moran would have been billeted in some farmer’s house to recuperate. Naturally, in light of the suspicion, they couldn’t keep Moran in the mountains. Thanks to Che’s tough mentality, we know they made another choice here: as guerrillas, justice may require that you shoot people, but there are situations with no perfect solution. Where was proof? Do we kill on assumption or suspicion? Are we that kind of people? Are we an army who blindly follows rules out of fear? Their actions came largely without discussion. Rather than become cold-blooded killers, they were willing to choose an uncertain fate.