Connected Dots

By Mayra Herrera

Jose Luis Fernandez fought an underground war against the dictator of Cuba, Fulgencio Batista, late 1950s. Jose was imprisoned and tortured twice, but he never stopped believing in the cause, he never stopped believing in the revolution, he never stopped believing in their leader, Comandante Fidel Castro. After succeeding against Batista, Jose found himself close enough to Fidel Castro to realize his life had changed, but it was not for what he had fought for.

This is where I come in. I was about a year old when Jose Luis Fernandez, my father, had to change his life fast, not only for himself but for his family. I was almost twelve when we left Cuba with experiences that no one should carry through their life. As a young woman, I realized there was an incredible story and secrets that my dad had carried with him for years. It took him a long time to tell me piece by piece, and now I understand why. It took me a while, but connecting dots, I got our story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662429354

Book preview

I Wish He Wrote It

Today is May 17, 2018. This date does not mean anything except that my dad passed away, was put to rest, went to heaven, went to sleep, whatever the reader feels more comfortable with, five months ago. As I grew up, I learned that my dad was never prejudiced. What I mean by that is he would always give you the chance to give your opinion, but he expected for you to listen to his too. These conversations, chats, opinions, or discussions could have been about culture, religion, or politics. My dad was an incredibly knowledgeable person and could speak about any subject. He didn’t expect for anyone, even if they were born and grew up in the same city as him, to share his opinion. His favorite subject was of course Cuba. He was never a fanatic, but he always dreamed about a free Cuba. That made him a great role model to me.

Today is also the day I decided to write his story. I guess it could be our story, one that I’m not qualified to tell, because I’m missing dates, names, and places. This is a story that I asked my dad to write a couple of times, years ago, but he never had the chance. First, I felt it was because he was not sure who was still alive and would never put them or their family at risk. I understood as the years passed that he felt he was too old to start. This was a story I had to learn by connecting dots. By putting pieces of information together given by my dad for a period of almost fifty years.

His Parents

My dad was born on March 21, 1932. I did not know my grandmother, Carmen Drainer, very well. I don’t even know where the last name Drainer comes from, or who she really was, not until I received a couple of letters from her when I was living in Las Vegas in March and June 1987, close to fifteen years after we actually met after we left Cuba and settled in California. She separated from my grandfather in 1960 and migrated to the United States, where she flourished. My dad’s sisters, Elvira and Pura also moved when the Batista government went down. I met my grandmother for the first time when we ended up in Culver City, California. We had barely arrived there, and we were living with a family, friend of my dad’s from Cuba, Bridges, that would help support us until we got on our feet. She had a very dry personality, as well as not very emotional, so I can honestly say I was never close to her or was impressed by her.

My grandfather Carballe, he was a different story. He was born in Galicia, Spain, tall, dark, strong, and never afraid of working. He worked hard in a laundry shop in La Habana, where no one at that time cared about the chemicals they used and how it would affect their health in the future. He would pay for it in his later years. I adored him, and while he loved all of his three grandchildren equally, I like to think I was his special grandchild. That one grandchild that all grandparents have.

My grandfather only had a fourth-grade education, so his children’s studies became very important to him. One time, my grandfather found out that my father had ditched his classes. My father, Jose, never did quite figured out how his father knew where he was. But he did remember how his father dragged him by his ear for the long walk back to the school. There was a janitor looking on in disbelief as my grandfather tossed my dad back into the classroom. He asked the janitor to let him know if my father ever tried to ditch again. There was no need; my father never tried to leave his classes ever again.

I see my grandfather as a man of honor that treated everyone the same way and helped anyone that needed it.

I remember the day that my grandfather came to say goodbye to us with his wife Cuca, who we also loved dearly. They were leaving for America. I don’t remember the visit; I only remember when they were standing outside the front door. They were both very straight, side by side, filling the doorframe. I can’t remember if it was a minute, five or ten, but at the age of eight, I felt for the first time the overwhelming sense of loss and sadness. I just knew I would never see them again.

My grandfather and Cuca ended up in New Jersey. I can’t imagine why. I think she had a daughter who lived there. If you remember anything about a very stubborn man from Galicia, it was that he was not afraid to work. He was over sixty years old, and he found a job as a dishwasher. He wanted to be ready to help us when we left Cuba. My godfather that was also in New Jersey sent us a picture of my grandfather washing dishes. We felt very proud and knew then that when we get to the North we would be okay. However, those feelings I had as a child came true. A couple of years later, he died of lung cancer, and I never had the opportunity to see him again. Our plans of always being together and happy again never happened.

Old School

Iwill mention the age of eight again because that’s when I felt I was forced to grow up. I have to mention that I have a sister one year older than me and a brother that is a year younger than me. So as you can see, I’m the wonderful middle child. We went to a semimilitary school in La Habana, Cuba. Every year, they have a kind of prom for girls only. They would have a queen and four Luceros—Bright Stars. This was only done in that school, with beautiful princess-looking dresses and all. I was a Bright Star two years in a row; however, I knew the so-called Queens did not have all the points or grades that I had, the average of ten. We used numeric system in Cuba—ten and nine and so on—like most Latin countries, not letters as in the States. I learned even at seven or eight years old that you can figure out what happens around you in a political environment, even at an elementary school, you are different. There were a lot of little things that other schools did not have, such as mother’s day cards with your picture for Mother’s Day, better school books, and materials. The question is how we end up in that school and how my Dad’s previous government connections still opened some doors, and like always through the book, it will make sense later on.

They also had sports. I enjoyed gymnastics and was not bad at it. The school director approached my mom and told her that they wanted to train me in the school and at the national level in gymnastics. That was the end of that school for all of us. My mom knew I was disappointed. She had to explain to me, and I had to understand that when they offer to teach you any sport to the national level, basically that’s the end of your family life. You become property of the government. I began to understand then that there were two group of people, us and them.

Mother’s Day card Military school.

Mother’s Day card Regular school.

Persecution

The new school was only a couple blocks from our apartment, but because we were not members of the Young Communist Party, we did not have rights to the