Under the Palm Trees: Surviving Labor Camps in Cuba

By Betty Viamontes

From the author of the award-winning "Waiting on Zapote Street" comes a story based on true events. In 1960's central Cuba, a young middle-class woman’s life is interrupted as she finds herself a victim in what will quickly become a hurricane of world politics and idealistic dogma. “Betty Viamontes’s books are not intended to be classic literature. Instead they are deliberately simple, about real people caught in an historical cataclysm. Like most holocaust memoirs, their strength lies in their simplicity. Ms. Viamontes tells a simple story of normal people, allowing the reader's imagination to fill in the detail. The result stays with you, long after the final virtual page is turned.” Dr. Allen Witt.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Betty Viamontes
• Release date: Aug 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005623128

Betty Viamontes

Betty Viamontes was born in Havana, Cuba. In 1980, at age fifteen, she and her family arrived in the United States on a shrimp boat to reunite with her father after twelve years of separation. "Waiting on Zapote Street," based on her family's story, her first novel won the Latino Books into Movies award and has been selected by many book clubs. She also published an anthology of short stories, all of which take place on Zapote Street and include some of the characters from her first novel. Betty's stories have traveled the world, from the award-winning Waiting on Zapote Street to the No. 1 New Amazon re-leases "The Girl from White Creek," "The Pedro Pan Girls: Seeking Closure," and "Brothers: A Pedro Pan Story." Other works include: Havana: A Son's Journey Home The Dance of the Rose Under the Palm Trees: Surviving Labor Camps in Cuba Candela's Secrets and Other Havana Stories The Pedro Pan Girls: Seeking Closure Love Letters from Cuba Flight of the Tocororo Betty Viamontes lives in Florida with her family and pursued graduate studies at the University of South Florida.

Book preview

Chapter 1 - The Telegrams

That sunny morning, the mailman arrived at our house—located in the town of Jovellanos, in the Province of Matanzas, Cuba—earlier than usual to deliver two telegrams that would change our lives. The clean-shaven young man carried a large brown bag hanging from a long strap that looped over his shoulder. While handing the telegrams to me, he smiled and wished me a good day. After he left, I examined each of the envelopes closely: yellowish, with a transparent window that showed the name of the addressee. One of them came addressed to me, and the other to my oldest sister, Meli.

Unaccustomed to receiving mail, I opened mine with the excitement of a typical twenty-year-old living at home with her parents in 1968’s Cuba. Standing on the front porch, wearing a sleeveless pink and white polka-dot dress, I read it twice. It communicated that on April 8th, only a few days away, I was to appear at the baseball stadium with work clothes and my family.

As I examined the second telegram—tempted to open it—the cool March breeze tickled my face and agitated strands of my short dark-blonde hair. Then, I heard footsteps behind me.

Is that telegram for me?

It was my mother’s voice. Soft and reassuring. She didn’t look like a woman who had three girls, ages ten, twenty, and twenty-three, and a two-year-old grandson. Unlike other women her age who tried to conceal the passage of time, she revealed the gray strands on her short hair like a badge of honor. The years she had spent in front of a classroom molding young minds had kept her young in spirit. She had few wrinkles and, despite the simplicity of the dresses she wore, she exuded an uncommon elegance.

Although it didn’t cross my mind then, my mother must have anticipated that one day we would receive a telegram like this one. It was part of the price we had to pay for wanting to leave Cuba. According to those in power, only traitors would wish to abandon their birthplace.

My family had been waiting for a few months to leave the island, but because of the October missile crisis, the Castro government stopped allowing citizens to emigrate in 1962. The crisis occurred due to the discovery, by the United States, of the deployment of Soviet ballistic missiles within Cuba. For thirteen days, the world was as close as it had been, in recent history, to a full-scale nuclear war.

By the time this confrontation began, my parents had already resigned their jobs, a requirement of the departure procedures. When the government stopped allowing people to leave, my parents were not permitted to return to their jobs.

We had some savings. Once those ran out, my mother’s family began to subsidize us. However, my father, stubborn like me, didn’t like to depend on anyone. Risking his life by using false identification papers, he found a job at the sugar mill Central Limones, located in the small town of Limonar, about 23 kilometers from Jovellanos. After the triumph of the revolution, the factory had been nationalized. My mother lived in constant fear that, if anyone discovered he worked there using false papers, he could go to jail. And jails weren’t the ideal place for people like us, who wanted to leave Cuba.

While my father worked, the women in our house knitted sweaters and baby boots for the neighbors, using colorful yarns imported from China.

Mamá managed to obtain government-issued ration cards, which allowed us to purchase a limited quantity of basic groceries, like milk, sugar, rice, and (when it came to the stores) beef or chicken. These cards began to be issued in 1962 in response to food shortages, which only grew as the years passed.

Despite the difficulties, I struggled with the idea of leaving the country with my family. My parents had hoped that my relationship of five years with my boyfriend, Lorenzo, would be temporary, but as time passed, and the love between Lorenzo and me grew stronger, so did my parents’ fear that I would disappoint them and stay behind.

Mamá had begged me to leave him. The more she did, the more determined I seemed. I dreamed of the idea of marrying him and leaving Cuba together. I didn’t think that anything could tarnish the love I felt for him. Not even when the obligatory military service compelled him to serve his country did either of us feel inclined to end our relationship. On the contrary, during his absence, his parents invited me to visit them and treated me like a daughter, as if they wanted to ensure that our relationship continued. I had something in common with his parents. We treasured Lorenzo’s visits home.

Lorenzo’s oldest brother had left Cuba soon after Castro came to power. When I visited his parents, I saw pictures of him on every wall. His mother, Janet, would read me the letters she received from him, infatuated with the idea of seeing him again one day, but unlike my uncle Diego, her son didn’t have any family in Miami. She knew it might take him years before he could do anything for those he left behind.

Papá must have realized that opposing my relationship with Lorenzo would only strengthen it. However, when Lorenzo’s military service started, Papá told me something that scared me.

When Lorenzo finishes the years of indoctrination with the military, be prepared to face the fact that he may no longer be the person you fell in love with.

Mamá would tell me about my father’s frustration and anguish. He told her that the goal of the service was to strengthen the revolution and solidify its grip over the country. To achieve that goal, the revolution needed loyal servants, so he feared the repercussions that military service would have on someone with little life experience.

Distracted by my thoughts, I didn’t answer my mother’s question immediately, but her words, Rosa, did you hear me? Is that telegram for me? made me react.

No, Mamá, I replied, tucking my hair behind my ear. It’s addressed to me.

She must have noticed my worried look and asked, Is everything okay?

I handed her the envelope.

There is another telegram for my sister, I said while she read.

She finished reading mine, then ripped opened the one addressed to my sister.

They can’t do this, she said, bringing her hand to her chest.

Do what?

I need to talk to your father. They can’t do this to my daughters.

It was a Saturday morning. My father was home reading the newspaper in the living room while drinking his cup of coffee.

Manuel, my mother said, extending her arm toward him with the two telegrams in her hand. You won’t believe what happened. Read these! We have to do something.

He read them in silence while she remained standing in front of him with her arms crossed.

Do you understand what this means? she asked, uncrossing her arms and waving her hands in the air.

He looked at her with a worried look while I tried to interpret the message their gazes conveyed.

What is going on, Mamá? Where do you think they are taking us?

My mother kept looking at my father. He remained silent for a moment as anger took hold of his expression.

Labor camps, said my father, setting his newspaper aside and clenching his fists. Those cowards want to humiliate my daughters.

Me? I asked. "They want to take me to a labor camp?"

What is all the ruckus? my sister Meli asked.

She had come out of the kitchen wearing a white apron over her pink dress, sleeveless, cinching her in at the waist. Her short black hair and fair skin complemented her big dark eyes. A thick black line over her eyelids accentuated them and made her appear defiant to anyone who didn’t know her as well as I did.

My mother retrieved the letter addressed to Meli from my father’s hand and gave it to her. She read it with her eyes, and after she was done, she said,

I heard rumors around town that they were sending women to labor camps, but they can’t send me. Who will care for Marcos?

Am I a painting on the wall? my mother replied, placing her hands on her hips. Who else? I will. I’m his grandmother for God’s sake.

That’s not the point. He needs his mother. They can’t send me away for who knows how long. We have to fix this! Mamá, you have to help me.

I don’t know if I can; I will try, she said looking at my father for a brief moment and then turning toward us. You know I’m always here for you girls. And you, Meli, don’t forget that no matter what happens, your son is safe with me.

A man of few words, my father remained silent. I could see the anger hardening his expression, his breathing deepening. My mother and sister kept bickering with each other. Yet my eyes focused on my father. Suddenly, he rose to his feet and bolted out of the room. Moments later, I heard the sound of a door slamming.

Mamá and Meli stopped arguing.

The two of you are upsetting Papá, I said. He already has enough to worry about.

He has been growing impatient, Mamá said. Too many years waiting to leave, and that job of his... She paused for a moment. Then she brought her index finger to the side of her face and looked down as if she were thinking. At last, she said, Let’s do this: On Monday, the three of us will make a trip to the Ministry of the Interior. They might be able to help.

Chapter 2 - The Revolution

While lying in bed that evening, I listened through the open windows to the sound of crickets and vehicles passing by on the Carretera Central highway. As I felt the cool air seeping inside, I thought about the two telegrams we had received and the events that had led my parents’ decision to leave.

Jovellanos—founded in 1842 as Corral de la Bemba (Corral of Big Lips)—had been my home for twenty years. Its first inhabitants were slaves who had arrived from Zanzibar—during the dark times of slavery—to work in the surrounding sugar cane fields. In 1870, its name changed in honor of Spanish writer Gaspar Melchor de Jovellanos, but locals still referred to it as Bemba. Its ideal location and the numerous mills and sugar cane plantations surrounding it, as well as its abundant livestock and industrial development, led to its progress and transformation.

Two trains that traveled between the east and west of the island stopped there. Also, the highway in front of my house, the Carretera Central, linked it to the rest of the country. In 1930, the toothpaste Gravi, manufactured by the perfumery and soap factory Gravi, was commercialized in Jovellanos, providing its inhabitants with a good source of employment and commerce.

The town looked very clean with paved streets and drainage. Each property owner had to pay one peso a month for its maintenance. So every day, a city worker, dressed in all white and wearing a wide-brim hat, went around town sweeping every street. He pushed a metal cart that had large wheels on either side and carried a garbage can, a broom, and a sweeper.

The streets looked particularly clean around Christmas, when the townspeople painted their houses in lively schemes in preparation for the celebrations. At the Liceo, a social club that provided its members with entertainment and sports facilities, my father would join other men in town to play dominoes, or he would sit on one of the elegant armchairs to read the newspapers. Sometimes, he played basketball with other men, although not with the frequency he used to play before we were born. Liceo provided some activities to the townspeople free of charge, courtesy of its generous board of directors. My family and I also attended the annual Christmas dances, enlivened by some of the best orchestras in the province.

Jovellanos had two main streets, Real and Alcalá, lined by colorful, colonial-style houses and sprinkled with business establishments. Every year, the carnival brought a parade of lively floats through Real and Alcalá. People gathered on the sidewalks to wave