Chapter 1
Salvador Ortiz Nerón, 1897
Salvador had been in Ybor City less than one day when he saw a man bite the head off a live rooster. He had lost hundreds of dollars betting on cockfights in Havana, but after the factory cut hours and pay, no cigar maker could justify or even afford a rambunctious night of gambling and sport. It was not until he made it across the Straits to Tampa’s Ybor City that Salvador realized what had devoured all those lost wages and hours. This young town was prospering while old Havana slowly died before his eyes. When Salvador arrived in the Cigar City and saw factories filled with workers and a rowdy nightlife colored by green American dollar bills, he knew he had found a town that would one day be famous.
Ybor was a man’s city, clamoring with busy saloons, girls-for-hire, boxing matches, unending games of dominoes, and most of all: hard work. Ybor was a town whose cigar workers were in demand, and everything seemed to be surrounded by rows and rows of shiny white tenement houses and the brick-oven smell of fresh baked bread. One thing was certain; this was no land of ancient sugar plantations and wealthy Spaniards. It was a cigar city ready for the Twentieth Century, and Salvador could smell them everywhere he went: in bars, on the street, in factories and restaurants, and on every neighbor’s porch. Cuba was a land in disarray, but here was a place where Salvador and his entire family could prosper for a very long time. This was a town where he could happily lose a lot of money on cockfights.
“I have found my place,” Juan Carlos told him. Friends since before they joined El Matón’s crew, Juan Carlos was Salvador’s oldest acquaintance. “I will die in this town,” he told Salvador.
Salvador knew that a town filled with rugged, drunken cockfights and dime store prostitutes was a place that Juan Carlos would be delighted to call his home. During the first war, when they were a couple of penniless teenagers struggling to outlast the poverty of Cuba, Juan Carlos summarized their options. “We can engage in petty larceny in the city, rob people at knifepoint, and walk away with pesos and stale bread,” Carlito said. “Or we can join the rebels and steal from rich sugar planters who live in cathedrals and pay hefty ransoms for the return of their kidnapped wives and daughters!”
Back in those days, before Salvador had a family or a future, these were his assets: a rusty old knife that had belonged to his father, a small box of matches, three cheap cigars, and a canvas backpack with a second pair of pants and a couple of worn out shirts. An orphan with little knowledge of even his relatives, it was odd that young Salvador, a man who valued honest hard work, would follow Juan Carlos into El Matón’s rambunctious crew.
Years later, after El Matón and most of his men were decimated by Spanish soldiers, Salvador fled to Havana and learned the tobacco trade, while Juan Carlos lingered in town before he returned to the rebel lifestyle, fought the Spanish, and was eventually captured trying to rob a train. Juan Carlos was convicted and offered a choice by the declining Spanish government of Cuba: prison on the Isle of Pines or permanent relocation to Florida. Juan Carlos chose the place where so many Cuban men had already gone: Ybor City in Tampa.
It was there that Juan Carlos started serious work as a cigar maker, for it was customary for Ybor City tabaqueros to donate a portion of their wages to fund the rebels’ efforts in Cuba. Juan Carlos continued to support the war from afar while he never tired of coaxing his friend to abandon the island and join thousands of Cuban and Spanish workers in relocating to the Cigar City. He paid the factory lector to write letters to Salvador and eventually his friend agreed to visit.
“Employment is sporadic in Havana,” Salvador told Olympia, who hoped Salvador’s trip to Florida would be more than a juvenile escape with his old friend. “With the war and all these cigar factories closing down and moving to Tampa, all the men are finding steady work in Ybor City. Maybe I should go there and see for myself?”
“I don’t know what you’re waiting for.” Olympia said. “The Fuentes and Negro families have already moved to Florida, and Anna Fuentes wrote me and said they never plan to come back. And if there is steady employment there, like everyone says, then you will be able to work during your visit with Carlito, and can send money home each week. We have four children to feed and I do not have any more time to sweep floors in the factory while you are on vacation.”
Salvador chuckled, knowing his wife was only half-serious. He held her and kissed her forehead. “It’s not a vacation. But of course, I will send money each and every week.” He wondered if she would make him promise not to gamble or attend any cockfights, but Olympia knew better than to try and keep a Cuban man away from his nightlife.
Salvador gathered his three boys, Javier, Lázaro and E.J. and knelt before them. “Papa has got to go away, boys, because there are no jobs here. I’ve got to travel up to Florida to see how we can do up there. With luck on our side, if we can make enough money, maybe I’ll bring you up there too.” He kissed each boy on the forehead; Javier, sixteen and an accomplished cigar maker, then fourteen-year-old Lázaro and finally young E.J. Then he held his oldest child, his daughter Josefina, who tried to smile while fighting her tears.
And so in the winter of 1897, Salvador Ortiz left Cuba for the first time in his life and took a boat to Port Tampa. Juan Carlos greeted him on the dock with a bear hug, a deep, mischievous laugh and his familiar odor of burnt tobacco and rum.
“Come!” Carlito grinned as he slapped Salvador’s back, showing his crooked yellow teeth. For as long as Salvador could remember, Juan Carlos had a single tooth on the upper right side that was darker and more crooked than the rest, a single rotten fruit among a row of already stale teeth. “Let me show you my town!”
Salvador saw Ybor City as a promising young industrial town that had not yet hit its prime. It was a smaller version of Havana, where flat streets of sand surrounded dozens of brick cigar factories. But instead of Spanish flags, Salvador saw that Cuban red, white, and blue decorated every building. He sensed the revolutionary fervor was strong, and the abundance of activity and commerce suggested the city would one day mature into a vibrant industrial port and center of immigrant culture.
“You haven’t stopped smiling since you arrived,” Carlito noticed.
“What can I say, Carlito, you were right. It is what Havana should be: a thriving city with no Spanish soldiers.”
Juan Carlos became serious. “Cuba Libre is very much alive in Ybor City, Salvador. There is almost no reason to return to Havana. Even after we win the war, Cuba will be wrecked. This is the best place to live. This is the new Havana.”
Salvador followed Juan Carlos all over town, from the busy and commercial Seventh Avenue to the Cuban social club to the brick factory where Juan Carlos had learned to roll cigars. Juan Carlos pointed out the Pasaje Hotel. “A house of ill repute,” he jabbed Salvador. “A place that supplies high class hookers to elite businessmen. For more middle class whores, one goes to La Rubia, but if you’re really strapped for cash the worst in class can be found in the Scrub. But no right minded cigar maker would ever venture into that part of town.”
Salvador soon found himself behind a bar in the center of town under a cloud of cigar smoke, among a crowd of rowdy Cubans waving dollar bills and shouting at two angry gamecocks who chopped and clawed each other to death.
When the match was over, Salvador had lost his bet, but he was among his people; surrounded by cigar makers of all ages, most of them in their twenties, thirties or forties, and wearing the pressed white shirts and ties they’d wore to work. Sleeves rolled up, facial hair, dirty fingernails, big smiles and loud voices. With no women around to keep them calm, the rambunctious group instantly made Salvador feel like part of the family.
Now a short man, plump and gruff, with half a cigar pointing through his thick lips, appeared in the crowd carrying a metal cage. Juan Carlos slapped at Salvador’s arm. “This is the match I want to see.” He pointed at the man’s cage where an aggressive black rooster fluttered its wings and bit at the cage bars trying to gnaw his way to freedom.
Juan Carlos started counting the money he had left, trying to decide on his wager, and explained. “Fortunado and his lucky gamecock named Picchu. This bird is a champion in Key West, Salvador. Specially bred on the island and undefeated, he was so feared that Fortunado could no longer get a match. No one in Key West was willing to wager their birds against his, so he brought Picchu to Ybor to face a new pool of brave and foolish challengers. Tonight is his Ybor City debut!”
Fortunado removed Picchu from his cage, gripping the fierce bird tightly in his pudgy hands, and held him above his head for the crowd to see. The black rooster had tiny divots and bald spots where he had been nipped and plucked by other roosters, and his beak was marked with chips and scratches, his badges of victory. The bird’s claws looked menacing on their own, but each of them had been armed with a leather bracelet and a razor sharp steel spike called a short-spur.
Picchu ruffled his feathers and kicked his feet as Fortunado held him before the drunken crowd. Cheering and hollering provoked the bird, signaling an imminent fight. Picchu’s head snapped left and right looking through the crowd for a brave challenger, and when the bird’s shiny black eyes seemed to fall on Salvador, the cigar maker was so startled by the gamecock that he actually looked away.
Juan Carlos slapped his arm again. “Here comes the challenger!”
A yellow and brown rooster named Contusiór was held above the crowd by his owner and the bird reacted violently, chopping his short-spurs and fluffing his feathers proudly, showing his own scratches and pockmarks to the rowdy gambling crowd.
“This one looks just as fierce as Picchu,” Salvador said.
“Then place your wager on that weak little bird,” Juan Carlos said. “I’m going to bet on black.” Juan Carlos disappeared into the crowd to place his bet, and Salvador followed, betting a small amount on the legendary bird from Key West.
Now Picchu and Contusiór were lowered into the wooden cockpit and held beak-to-beak by their owners, further agitating the birds. They thrust their beaks out and tried to pick and jab at each other, but their owners held them just out of reach. Then the men took their places at opposite sides of the wooden pit and lowered their birds to the dirt floor. On the count of three, they were unleashed.
The crowd erupted into a drunken frenzy as the gamecocks attacked each other under a cloud of dust and feathers. Salvador cheered as the birds stabbed each other with their spurs and pecked holes with their beaks. Blood splattered across the dirt, the bird’s piercing shrieks overwhelmed all cheering. Contusiór slashed Picchu’s neck with his spur, cutting Picchu and forcing him onto defense. Contusiór sensed victory and moved quickly with one brutal chop after another until Picchu was a bloody mess of black feathers pinned underneath. The fight was over in seconds, a stunning upset of Fortunado’s bird.
Contusiór’s owner jumped into the ring and pulled his champion from the fray, raising him above his head with a triumphant smile at the cheers and boos alike. Salvador and Juan Carlos tore their tickets and tossed them aside as Picchu collapsed. Fortunado jumped into the ring to recover his dying bird knowing the gamecock could not be saved.
He had bet a considerable sum of money on Picchu and was so angry that the bird had lost that he took the rooster’s head in his teeth and, with the certainty of a man chomping the end from a cigar, bit Picchu’s head clean off and spit it onto the ground. Blood spurted. The head rolled across the dirt like a baseball and rested against the wooden wall of the cockpit, the black eyes locked open as Fortunado kicked the dirt and tossed Picchu’s body aside like a crumpled candy wrapper into the trash. Fortunado spit a black feather and a mouthful of blood from his mouth, aiming at Picchu’s dead body, before he wiped his lips and stomped angrily into the crowd.
Salvador was astonished. With eyes bulging he slapped at Juan Carlos. “I can’t believe he did that! Did you see it, Carlito?”
Juan Carlos was laughing. “How could I miss that?”
Salvador was so excited about Picchu’s brutal and comical beheading that he told a group of cigar makers about it the next morning, and then recounted the story in the afternoon to another group, and several times that night he told the story to anyone who would listen, never tiring of the tale.
Salvador found work at the Vasquez and Company factory and rolled cigars at a wooden bench beside Juan Carlos. They spent their nights gambling in taverns with the cigar workers until they tired and passed out at a boarding house on Twelfth Avenue, where for three dollars a week Salvador received a room, a bed and two daily meals. He was happy to be back with Juan Carlos. Though many years had passed, it often seemed like old times.
Orphaned at the age of fourteen, when his parents had been accused of aiding the Cuban insurrectionists during the Ten Years’ War, Salvador distinctly remembered armed rebels passing through their home, stopping in for a small meal or a bed and talking quietly with his father. A quiet peasant farmer, Ernesto Ortiz had been promised by the rebels that the farming village of Herrera would be protected from the Spanish army. His father had told him, “Fruits and cattle raised by our village should feed the peasants, not be redistributed to Spanish soldiers.”
Salvador was learning the farming trade, but his father quickly gave him an education in politics. “Spain is draining Cuba of its natural resources,” Ernesto told his son. “They are giving nothing back. All the wealth generated by Cubans is feeding the Spanish. They own our government and our property and leave us no opportunity for self-determination. Shouldn’t every man have the right to decide who enjoys the fruit of his own labor?”
One morning Ernesto’s lessons abruptly ended, and Salvador was forced into the world to find his own education. When shots rang out in the distance and the sound of approaching horses grew louder and louder, Ernesto frantically woke his only child and ordered him to run across the fields and hide in the forest. “Go now, boy! Step lively and don’t look back!”
Those were Ernesto’s last words to Salvador.
The boy ran until he was hidden by a giant Ceiba tree. Watching from afar as Spanish soldiers on horseback trampled through the village and set the modest bohio homes ablaze, Salvador saw the fragile shelters of wood and palm fronds collapse into flaming piles as many of the villagers, including Salvador’s mother and father, were captured by the soldiers and executed by their rifles.
The image of his mother and father on their knees before a gang of Spanish troops, with his sobbing mother begging God’s mercy before rifles exploded, became seared into his memory. Salvador fled into the forest carrying nothing but his father’s rusty dagger and a hatred and complete mistrust of anything Spanish.
When he finally made it to the city of Pinar del Rio, and met Juan Carlos on the streets begging for food, it became easy for them to steal from the aristocrats responsible for their plight. For Juan Carlos had also lost his father and a brother at the hands of Spanish soldiers. Young, vengeful Carlito carried a pistol and a machete in a canvas duffle bag and hoped to join a band of rebels but had little luck finding an army that would lead him into battle against the Spanish.
“I like you, Ortiz,” Juan Carlos told him the day the teenagers met on the street. “Your story is like mine. It seems as though we’re the last of a dying breed.” The truth was that Juan Carlos could use another man to help him rob a local Spanish bookkeeper he had been watching for over a week.
“You have a knife, I have a gun and this man is a Spaniard. Not only that but he has money. I have been watching him for many days now. Every night after he locks his office, he walks down the block to the Spanish bakery where he has a cup of coffee and a pastry before heading home. We go in right before he locks up and split our earnings right down the middle. If we’re successful, we come back next week and rob the bakery.”
Salvador, as if transfixed with the unending memory of his mother’s head being blown apart by a Spanish rifle, nodded and gripped the wooden handle of his knife. Normally he wouldn’t consider stealing, and would rather work for his daily meals, but he had been numbed by grief.
“Yes, we are stealing,” Juan Carlos said. “But we are stealing back little pieces of our own country. We are reclaiming what is ours.”
Salvador thought of his father’s blood, spilled on Cuban dirt. “Let’s go.”
On Carlito’s signal the boys entered the bookkeeper’s office and less than a minute later were running from the scene with enough pesos to eat for several days. It was easier than Salvador thought it would be. The bookkeeper was a man used to the confines of his office and did not compare to the menacing Spanish soldiers Salvador had eluded in the countryside. “You’ve got guts,” Juan Carlos seemed to admit later on, as they divided their money in a secluded alley. “If you were afraid, the bookkeeper couldn’t tell.” Carlito was satisfied that he had found a partner and the duo spent the next weeks robbing aristocrats, begging for food and eluding the authorities. When Juan Carlos decided it was getting too hot for them in the city, he introduced Salvador to Victoriano Machín, the charismatic young ruffian who would eventually become the legendary bandit El Matón.
They became part of his crew, joining with a group of young men like themselves who acted like rebels. They were not part of the organized resistance but saw themselves as part of the same struggle. For years the band roamed the province, eventually on horseback, and terrorized the aristocracy while managing to evade the Spanish army. They were loved and considered heroes by the local peasants but loathed and denounced as bandits by the Spanish authorities. Poor as they were, Juan Carlos had found his army and Salvador had found a family.
Good looking by working class standards, Juan Carlos was a brash instigator, always challenging the men to arm wrestle, or race on foot, or compete to shoot the most squirrels. But Salvador seemed to always be sitting and thinking, often late into the night long after the rest of the group was asleep. He didn’t read, hardly drank and thought carefully before he spoke. He was notorious for observing the scene, forming an opinion and then speaking thoughtfully to those who would listen.
One night as the men were settled around the fire cleaning their rifles and counting pesos paid to them by a local Spanish landowner in exchange for protection, they listened as one read from a Havana newspaper. When he was finished Juan Carlos explained how current political affairs related to the rebels. “General Maceo will never accept the terms of the Zanjón treaty. An armistice that does not provide for complete and total Cuban independence is no treaty that any Cuban can accept. When Maceo refuses to lay down his weapons, hostilities against Spain will continue. We should not relax so quickly.”
The men nodded their agreement. “Maceo will never surrender,” remarked one.
Another raised his fist and said, “Long live the Bronze Titan!”
They silently considered their roles in Cuba’s long struggle for independence, a conflict with no stand-up battles, only surprise attacks and destruction of property, for which they were all guilty.
Salvador finally spoke. “The decision is not Maceo’s to make. His influence on Zanjón is insignificant.”
He received unanimous indignation from the men. As Salvador was jeered, Juan Carlos stood and laughed and resentfully taunted his friend. “The farm boy from Herrera thinks he knows more about politics than the rest of you warriors. Explain yourself, Salvador. How can you insult the great general when you may one day wear a true soldier’s uniform and fight in his army?”
El Matón rested quietly off to the side, a red kerchief tied loosely around his neck, pretending to nap with his hands clasped over his belly but with one eye half-opened.
Salvador said, “Maceo is a field general with only 1,500 men. He cannot rally the support of Cuba. He is an asset on the battlefield but has little clout in national politics.”
“Ha!” said Juan Carlos incredulously. “Listen to him!”
“This is the way it is,” Salvador said simply. “I wish it was not.”
When the treaty was ratified a few days later, and the protesting Maceo and his men were forced into exile, Salvador never mentioned that he had been right about the general. But he had quietly earned the respect of the men, including Juan Carlos and more importantly, El Matón.
Years later, as Salvador matured and realized his good fortune in surviving his days of rebellion, he denounced his rambunctious past, married a good woman and became a cigar maker in the city of Havana. His children, his family seemed poised to prosper, if not for another war nearly two decades later, the final battle for Cuban independence.
It brought Havana into a state of depression. The city became overcrowded with the constant arrival of peasants relocated from the warring country. Food shortages and sanitation problems resulted, yet Salvador maintained his faith that the island would overcome its problems. But with unreliable employment in Havana, and a trip to Ybor City that sent Salvador home with a pocket full of cash, the idea of joining Juan Carlos in Florida became more attractive.
When Salvador returned to Havana after his month long visit to the prosperous Cigar City, he saw city streets filled with garbage, homeless families, and Spanish soldiers. He had grown accustomed to the fragrance of tobacco and fresh bread that hung in the Ybor air. Now, stepping over the legs of people huddled on the sidewalk outside his apartment building, the odor of unwashed bodies seemed especially oppressive. The heat and humidity only made it worse.
Carrying a bag of rice he had purchased for his family, Salvador moved quickly towards his apartment and cradled the bag close to his chest. Beggars saw Salvador was neither filthy nor starving and cursed him when he would not give them money. If he had the means he would invite them all into his home for a feast, but instead he kept his head down and moved quickly.
Stray dogs roamed the street in small, pathetic little packs and Salvador encountered a group of four near his apartment building. He didn’t know what breed they were, but they looked like brothers, skin and bones, each with a layer of black fur that pressed tightly against their ribs. Salvador wished he could set aside a few chunks of bread from his meager dinner and feed these dogs. He imagined himself tossing a bowl of rice and beans into the middle of their pack and watching the dogs devour it instantly but he did not want to divert even the smallest portions of food away from his family.
When he arrived at the door to the Ortiz apartment, there was an old woman down the hall, sitting against the wall apparently suffering from cholera. Her face was shrunken and dehydrated and the puddle she sat in reeked with the awful smell of diarrhea. She groaned from abdominal pains and tried to say something to Salvador as he stepped over her and hurried to his door thinking this would never happen in Ybor City.
Once he was safely inside, Salvador closed and locked the door and then noticed his heart was pounding, his forehead beaded with sweat. This was no place for his children, he thought, and wondered if Olympia knew about the sick woman outside. He decided not to mention what he had seen but waited instead for Olympia to bring it up.
She did, while Josefina helped her fix a small meal of rice and beans for the boys and Salvador. With her attention on her pots and her black hair surrounded by steam Olympia said, “There are sick people right outside that door.” Salvador said nothing, wishing instead to discuss the matter privately with his wife.
After dinner Salvador and Olympia left the apartment and went walking along El Malecón, the waterfront promenade built along Havana’s northern shore. A salty mist sprayed the sidewalk as waves crashed against the seawall forcing Salvador and Olympia to sidestep the saltwater puddles that crept inward as far as a city block. In the harbor, the giant U.S. battleship Maine quietly protected American interests from the long-standing civil disobedience.
Along the avenue wandered destitute peasants and homeless families, relocated from the warring countryside or ejected from their homes in Havana. Morro Castle, the picturesque stone fortress that guarded the entrance to Havana Bay was a tangible reminder of the Spanish dominance responsible for Cuba’s plight. Salvador hoped that once the war was over, the castle would be torn down or razed by rebels. The obliteration of their most famous landmark in Cuba would be a symbolic and fitting end to Spanish rule.
A begging child approached but Salvador had nothing to give. A woman cried nearby and Salvador saw anguish in the faces of the people who sat on the street with their children and their bags, refugees from the war. His faith in his country had been dying for years. Now, with little work in this city and hardly enough food to feed his children, Salvador wondered how long it would take for Cuba to recover.
Olympia coughed and wiped her nose with a small handkerchief. The conditions in the city had been slowly affecting her health.
He said to his wife, “I’m taking E.J. out of school.”
Olympia nodded as they walked. “He’s only eight.”
“Old enough to work,” he said. “An able bodied boy in school is a waste. No need to learn facts and figures when he can be sweeping floors or sorting tobacco leaves.”
“It is hard for anyone to find work in this town, especially an eight-year-old boy.”
Even a master cigar maker like Salvador had not been able to rely on steady employment for many months. His sons Javier and Lázaro could sometimes find work stripping the stems from tobacco leaves, or rolling inferior cigars but there had been no reliable employment for them either.
Olympia and Salvador walked quietly along the boulevard. The night was quiet and the February air was crisp and salty and smelled of burning garbage. Olympia wanted to talk about Salvador’s trip to Florida, to get the details on the Cigar City that seemed to be attracting every cigar maker in Havana.
“What about Ybor City?”
Salvador was quiet for a moment. “It was a promising town, no doubt. Easy to find work there.”
“And how much longer until all the jobs in Ybor City have been filled?”
He shrugged. “I saw dozens of cigar factories under construction. I also heard the Don Pedro factory will be closing its doors in Havana and relocating to Ybor City.”
Olympia found it irritating that Salvador could not admit to the obvious. She saw a family sitting against the seawall, their faces dirty with grime from several weeks without a bath. The worried looks of the two small boys made Olympia fear that E.J. and Lázaro could soon be on the streets begging for bread. “Isn’t it time we left this place and moved to Ybor City?”
Salvador sighed deeply. “Maceo has returned from exile, and it is time to fight.” He pointed to the battleship in the harbor. “Don’t you want to be here to see Cuba celebrate her victory?”
“I couldn’t care less at this point, Salvador.” She sniffled and wiped her nose, looking at him crossly, expecting him to come to his senses and deliver his family from this terrible place.
“I’m not sure we should leave just yet; the war will be over soon. Leaving now would be an insult to my parents.”
Olympia finally lost her patience. “Will you get over it? What in the world is the matter with you? It’s been almost thirty years since they died, Salvador. Our family is starving! Get us off this island before we’re all sick and dead!”
Salvador disapproved of Olympia’s lack of respect but he merely said, “Your ties to your family are different than mine.”
Olympia rolled her eyes and stopped walking. Now, practically pleading with Salvador, she jabbed him in the chest. “If you want to honor your father, then do what is right by your children and give them a happy life! Do you think your father would have wanted his grandchildren to shit themselves to death? Would your mother have thought it better to be dead than American?”
Despite her weakened state, Olympia remained polished and feisty. With four children, she was eternally more active than her husband. She rarely talked about politics or world events, had no close friends except for Salvador and her oldest child Josefina, and never ever spoke of her parents. Once, at Olympia’s insistence, Salvador attended a church service with his wife. During the Mass he sat still and reverent like the statue of Mary and said nothing. He spoke few words of it afterwards and never set foot in a church again.
Salvador taught his sons the practical skills of cigar making, along with Cuban history and leisurely games like rummy and dominoes. Salvador told his boys, “Cigars are society. They are the food you eat and the bed where you sleep. They are the clothes you wear and the shoes on your feet. Cigars are, at the very least, responsible for everything you and I have.”
Olympia made sure her children knew the Bible. The boys listened out of obligation, but Josefina read the Bible all the way through to the end and became extremely critical, which angered Olympia and made her defensive. “The ages of these people are ridiculous,” said Josefina. “If history unfolded the way the Bible says, most of these people, or at least their children and grandchildren, would be alive today!”
Olympia replied simply, “The Bible is a book of faith not arithmetic.”
Josefina considered herself to be a true believer but enjoyed a thoughtful discussion with her mother. “Faith in God.” she said.
Olympia nodded curtly. “Faith in God, faith in your family.”
Josefina glanced through the window of their damp apartment to the dirty streets of Havana. “Faith in your country?”
Olympia was awakened from her daydream when a terrible explosion shattered the calm evening air and knocked her to the ground. Salvador crowded over her and covered her head with one hand while shielding her with his body. With their faces pressed to the ground, they could taste the saltwater that soaked the pavement.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
The ringing in her ears made his voice sound distant. Olympia was dazed, the smell of soot felt heavy. She shook her head. “I’m fine.”
They looked to the harbor, where the U.S.S. Maine was engulfed in a fireball of swirling smoke and debris. The explosion had come from inside the ship and the entire front half had been obliterated. The deck had erupted into a mess of fire and twisted metal parts that threw wreckage across the harbor in all directions. Down to the water rained blocks of wood, steel railings, chunks of cement and fragments of grating. Among the mess, faint cries came from the water. In the dim light, from the fires from the ship, Salvador could see the bodies of American sailors floating on the water.
He could hear spare ammunition popping and crackling on the ship while sailors who remained on board hurried to the deck and jumped overboard. Pandemonium broke out in the harbor as people on land shouted and pointed towards the wreckage while rescue boats were dispatched to evacuate the survivors. Salvador saw the commotion and was certain that more chaos would come. A line of blood ran down Olympia’s temple and reminded Salvador of his mother’s death. The war had arrived in Havana; the United States would soon enter the conflict.
Despite his desire to remain in Cuba and see the end of the war, another excuse to stay would be hard to come by. Salvador, a man who wanted to do what was right for his family realized Olympia was correct. It was time to abandon the country his father had died to save.