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 THE STORY OF
A CROSS
By:
Anolan Ponce |
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Español |
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A
great tragedy had come over us in April of 1961 because my father had
taken part in the invasion of Bay of Pigs and had been made a prisoner.
Fearing a reprisal, my mother, my brother, and I were hiding in the family
farm, La Simpatia, in the small town of Cañas near Artemisa in the Province
of Pinar del Rio.
Nino was a cousin of my father who worked in the farm operating a tractor. I
remember him with his work clothes, slacks and shirt of a thick gray
material, knee-high boots and the intense green eyes of the Martinez family.
He caught my attention because he was very mysterious, sad, and quiet; and
every time I saw him talking to my uncle they were either under de solitary
elm tree or in a corner of the farm’s warehouse. |
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Little by little I found out why. Nino’s seventeen year-old son had taken-up
arms against the communist government, he was an “alzado.” Now, after the
defeat of Bay of Pigs, he was hiding in one of the sugarcane fields of the
farm. My uncle was planning to take him to Havana were he had the means to
hide him until he could find asylum in an embassy. Months after that, when
we were already in our house in Havana, I found out that Nino’s son refused
to take asylum and together with others took to the Organos Mountains to
keep fighting.
We left Cuba. I was already in Miami, in April of 1962, when the sad news
arrived. Nino’s son along with four others had been cornered in a sugarcane
field of the Monserrate farm next to La Simpatia. The militiamen set the
sugar cane on fire at the same time that they mercilessly discharged their
automatic weapons over the burning field. People say that some of the
“alzados” managed to come out only to have their half burned bodies riddled
with bullets at the edge of the sugarcane field. Others died among the
burning canes, their bodies carbonized by the fire. I don’t know which was
the end of Nino’s son; I only know that he died that day.
More than 40 years have passed. Now, as I am driving very early in the
morning towards the Cuban Memorial, thoughts of Nino’s son, the one whose
name I don’t even know, start coming to me. I have volunteered again this
year and together with others I will be witness to the pain of relatives and
friends that come to pay tribute to their dead. I will see desperation in
their faces when they don’t find the cross of their dear ones or
disappointment and pain when we confirm to them that there is no cross. And
I will see the supplication in their eyes when they ask how soon can we put
the cross.
This 20th of February the day was gray. I am dressed in black, and I walk
very slowly among the crosses that bear the names of those that gave their
lives for Cuba. I feel a knot in my throat. Just like I did last year. It is
a painful knot that shrinks my heart and brings tears to my eyes; my silent
tribute to these unknown dead to me and the world; my penitence for not
knowing who they are; my gratefulness for what they did for Cuba. I walk and
walk among these crosses, indelible proof of a people’s sacrifice. The
crosses of our dead! I keep walking among them. A black-dressed figure,
among white crosses, in a gray day…
Thoughts start drifting into my mind, and I remember the “alzados” of the
small town of Cañas. I remember the most prominent ones, Machete and Tití.
And I keep remembering. Oh, My Lord, Nino’s son! Is there a cross for him?
Are there crosses for the others? But, how could I find them? I don’t even
know their names! Desperation takes over me now. I don’t want them to lose
one second of this tribute to them. I call my cousin. She finds out that
Machete’s name was Francisco Robainas and Tití was Israel García. Then I
call my aunt, but she is not at her house. I ask my uncle, but he cannot
remember. He says that they called Nino’s son, Nardo. The last name we know
is Martínez, the last name of my father’s mother. My uncle says to call his
oldest son who confirms to me that they called the young man Nardo. But he
says he can find out the complete name for me. And ten minutes later, after
more than 40 years, I find out the name of this brave young man that chose
to keep fighting, even though there was little chance of victory, rather
than take asylum in an embassy. A heroic decision made by him. A heroic
decision that cost him his life.
I look for their crosses. And I find the one for Robainas, who surrounded by
the militiamen, shot himself in the head rather than surrender to the enemy.
I also find the cross for Tití. This valiant one was betrayed by someone
nicknamed the Mexican. He was taken prisoner and executed by a firing squad.
But, where is the other cross that I am looking for? I can’t find the cross
of my distant relative, the son of my father’s cousin, Nino’s son.
I run to Emilio who is in charge of putting up the new crosses. I put
pressure on him, I overwhelm him. He tells me to put the name on the list.
That he will pick it up at the end of the day and that night he will make me
the label for my cross. He is very tired right now and wants to go home and
have some sleep; he has been there all night putting up the crosses with
other volunteers. I beg him to please take the name of my relative now. I
don’t think he is going to remember to pick up the list before he goes home.
He acquiesces and takes the name.
I arrive at the Memorial Saturday at 1 p.m., and I am carrying with me a
small bunch of white carnations. I look for my cross but I can’t find it.
Where is Emilio? I walk toward the mass that Monsignor Román is conducting
in the open air. The sun burns my skin. I welcome it complacent. It is my
penitence for forgetting to order a cross for my relative at the proper
time. I, who bought crosses for others, forgot my own one!
—“The mass has ended, let’s thank the Lord.”— These words are coming from
Monsignor Román, and in the distance I see Emilio waving. He comes to me
with a smile and the label for my cross. I walk very fast now among the
crosses. In the last lot I find one with no name on it. I crouch, and then
my own hands put the label on the cross that pays tribute to my martyr
relative shot to death by a rain of bullets in a sugarcane field more than
40 years ago: Reinaldo Martínez, April, 1962, Pinar del Río. My relative has
a name now. He also has a cross with white carnations lying at its base; and
my prayers for his soul, and my gratefulness for his sacrifice for Cuba.
It is now the time for family and friends to stand next to the crosses of
their dear ones. The musical notes of the National Anthem of Cuba resonate
in space, and the wind carries them over the crosses of the Cuban Memorial
like a sacred mantel that falls from Heaven for blessing. I stand very proud
next to my cross; and I put my hand over my heart in salute to them, a
respectful sign learned as a little child in school in Cuba. The sun is very
bright now but I don’t see. My eyes are clouded with tears from my soul.
The service ends. I say good-by to my relative: “So long, cousin of mine!
You now have a name; you now have a cross that pays tribute to you! So long,
Reinaldo Martinez, Nino’s son, shot to death by a rain of bullets in a
sugarcane field of the Monserrate farm 42 years ago. The world now knows who
you are; the world knows your story. Rest in peace, relative of mine! I
shall be here again next year to honor your cross. May God bless your soul!
May God bless all the other souls of the Cuban Memorial!
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