A Girl Named Polina

Preface

Betty Viamontes made a promise to her mother. She would share her story with the world. In 2011, her mother died after fighting cancer for ten years. In 2015, Betty fulfilled her promise with the publication of Waiting on Zapote Street, winner of the Latino Books into Movies Award. It took her fourteen years to write it.

Readers embraced this book written as a novel and asked Betty through social media outlets to keep telling these stories. Since then, she has covered in-depth multiple aspects of the Cuban diaspora: Fidel Castro’s revolution, the Freedom Flights, the Pedro Pan exodus, the Bay of Pigs invasion, and the Mariel boatlift, among others. She wants to become a voice for the voiceless.

In A Girl Named Polina, Betty’s latest novel, she delves into the events that occurred when a group of desperate Cubans broke through the gates of the Peruvian Embassy in Havana in 1980 to request political asylum. Through the eyes of the characters, she wanted to explore the human drama that ensued. From the beginning, the story engages the reader with seventeen-year-old Polina describing what is happening around her while at the embassy.

Readers will fall in love with Abuela Reimunda, Polina’s great-grandmother, someone who says exactly what she thinks and who often gets in trouble for speaking openly against the revolution. They will also follow the journeys of two mothers who gave birth on the night Polina was born.

Love, family dynamics, drama, suspense, witchcraft, fortune-telling, and historical events are only a few of the elements of this novel that will keep readers on the edge of their seats.

Written by Susana Jiménez-Mueller

Author of Now I Swim

Co-author of Flight of the Tocororo

Author and producer of The Green Plantain – The Cuban Stories Project podcast

Chapter 1

Polina

Undesirables

Of all the events I witnessed after my family and I jumped over the fence of the Peruvian Embassy in Havana to ask for political asylum in 1980, one stayed carved in my mind.

Among the thousands of men, women, and children who followed my family’s footsteps, I remember a child who must have been seven or eight, his sunken eyes, skeletal thinness, and skin burnt from the sun like mine. We were sitting near a tree that had lost most its leaves because people had eaten them. For some reason, we noticed each other. I couldn’t get up. I had no energy left after countless days with little or no food. Neither did he. I wondered if the end was near for both of us.

Suddenly, several workers from outside the embassy began to distribute boxes containing food, and people rushed toward the fence for an opportunity to get one. I couldn’t see well from where I sat. Too many people in front of me. It appeared as if the workers were throwing boxes from the other side of the fence. I saw fistfights break out in the struggle for food. Some of the men looked like hungry animals.

I would have joined the crowd if I had had the energy. My mother, Maritza, sat next to me, crying and holding my hand while my father and my boyfriend Alfredo, age eighteen—a year older than me— joined the thousands of people gathered near the fence. I didn’t know how long they were gone.

At last, my father and Alfredo returned. They looked happy. I noticed that each of them was holding a small white box. That was all they could bring back.

They sat next to us, and we began to share the little food inside, some rice with eggs.

The child was looking at me as I ate. I wanted to give him some of my food, but the food felt like glory. At last, some sustenance! I could not stop eating. Maybe hunger had turned me into an animal too.

There must have been over 5,000 people on the grounds of the embassy. Later, I heard that the food was only enough for about a third of us.

The father of the child returned with a bruised face and a broken spirit. He could not get a box. His son looked at him with disappointment. Then, he glanced at me again. I had a tablespoon left on the bottom of the box.

The father—a thin man with a sweaty forehead, hair in disarray, and dirty clothes—raised his arms up in the air and screamed with desperation, God help me! He then shook his head and said something to his son. The boy glanced at him with a blank expression and nodded. The father examined his surroundings and walked up to people who had boxes. Some pulled their food closer to themselves, but others hesitantly placed a tablespoon of rice in the father’s cupped hands. He carried the food to his son who ate it with desperation.

I saved my last tablespoon for the child. My mother must have noticed my intentions. Otherwise, she would have said, Polina, eat all your food, like she always did.

The government called the people inside the embassy undesirables because many of us preferred to risk everything than to continue to live in Cuba.

While at the embassy, a woman told my mother, I am not looking for a future, but for a present as I have none. Her words helped me understand my parents a little better.

The embassy would not only become my gateway to a new present but also allow me to unlock a secret that my aunt Claudia, my father’s sister, had taken with her to the grave.

Chapter 2

Andrea

The Dance

I ask myself: If my entire existence had been based on a lie, would I want to know?

My name is Andrea, a name my mother chose during her last month of pregnancy. It means brave. Some people associate this name with intelligence and the quest for truth. Yet now that the truth about my past has come to light, I feel unprepared.

I can’t envision how my story will end, a story that has inexplicably linked my life to the life of a young woman named Polina. Perhaps, by sharing it, I will unearth the answers. It’s the year 2000, and I’m fifty-five years old. I presume I have several years ahead of me, but what if I don’t? That is why I reached out to a local author to document these events, my truth, the truth I uncovered about ten years ago that changed my life without changing a thing.

***

I met him on the first Saturday of September, at a neighbor’s house, in the small town of Sevillano, in Havana. It was the year 1961. David, the 14-year-old only son of the Martino family had just returned home after having been in the countryside for several months, educating farmers who didn’t know how to read or write.

During the first couple of years of Fidel Castro’s revolution, elimination of illiteracy had become a key goal. The National Literacy Commission printed the manuals ¡Venceremos! (We Shall Conquer) and Alfabeticemos (Let’s Teach) to introduce the uneducated to the new regime in a pro-government curriculum.

David had been one of over 100,000 teachers deployed. His group, the Conrado Benitez Brigadistas, was part of the second phase of the elimination of illiteracy effort. It had been assembled when Castro closed schools early (in April of 1961) to encourage students to join the project. The students attended a one-week intensive training to prepare themselves.

After the training, David had been sent to the Escambray Mountains in the province of Oriente—on the eastern part of the island—where the biggest need was. Under the supervision of more experienced teachers, he had to live in rural areas without the basic needs of life, like running water or electricity. But after months away from home, David returned disenchanted with the revolution. I didn’t know the reasons and neither did I care back then. Later, my mother would speculate that perhaps something happened to him when he was away from home alone, without parental supervision. Or perhaps, he didn’t like to be part of the indoctrination efforts.

He had shed a few pounds during his absence, and his milky complexion turned tan. Since his return, according to a conversation his parents had with mine, David often seemed lost in thought. They asked him questions, but David remained evasive.

How was it? I asked him after the obligatory greeting hugs and kisses on the cheeks. He glanced at me for a moment, looked down, and replied, I don’t want to talk about it.

Did you have a bad experience? I asked. He remained silent for a moment, then replied, Can we talk about something else?

His family, fearing for his safety if he stayed, immediately began plans to send him to the United States through the Pedro Pan program. Under this program, parents—afraid the government would take their parental rights—would send their children alone to the United States until they secured a way to leave the country. The program, sponsored by Catholic Charities, provided these children with visa waivers in coordination with the United States government.

Like David’s parents, mine had already decided to send me abroad, without realizing the complications that lurked ahead.

The moment I walked into the courtyard, wearing a pink mousseline dress with a wide skirt cinched at the waist and layers of petticoat underneath, a few young men looked in my direction. Their looks made me uncomfortable. However, I was glad to see my parents happier than they had been in days.

My parents had tried to shield me from what was happening in the country, from the executions to the shortages that had started to become part of everyday life. Until then, I had lived without any major preoccupations, other than the occasional insecurities typical of a teenager. Soon, this would change.

On this cool evening, young and old had gathered at the large, tiled patio and danced under the glow of the full moon and dozens of yellow lights. My parents dazzled, Mamá with a sleeveless pink dress with a wide skirt, like mine, and Papi with his long sleeve guayabera shirt made of white linen and perfectly starched. Their expressions glowed as they allowed the music to carry away their troubles. Unlike other days, they didn’t seem worried about the countless speeches or chants like "Cuba Sí, Yanquis No," or the billboards scattered all over Havana portraying the heroes of the revolution.

Remember that song from when we were in our twenties? Mamá asked Papi.

I sure do. How can I forget?

He gave her a look he reserved only for her, where flirtation, love, and pride blended into something short of divine. I enjoyed watching the way they looked at each other and wondered if I would ever find what they had.

A few minutes after our arrival, a tall young man with dark-black hair combed back neatly, a thin mustache, and dark eyes approached us. Meanwhile, laughter, dance, music, and conversations made the night smile. A danzón melody played in the background, a traditional and formal dance, slow and proper, where the ladies occasionally paused and opened their abanicos to fan themselves while holding on to the gentleman’s arm.

My father had taught me how to dance properly, and although I wasn’t confident about my looks, I was about my skills as a dancer. So, when the young man said, My name is Mario Pereda Rodriguez. May I have this dance? I said, No, thank you. I like to dance with skilled dancers.

Thinking back, I imagine how my words must have sounded to him. Instead of appearing offended, he smirked.

So, you consider yourself an expert?

I believe I am.

Fine, then. My father is one of the best danzón dancers I know. Would you like to dance with him? He could tell you how good you really are.

Is this a test?

If you would like it to be, he said and allowed a crinkle of a smile.

My father glanced at my mother and shook his head while Mario excused himself and walked away. He returned moments later with a gentleman who appeared to be in his late forties.

Good evening. My name is Julio Pereda.

Creases flocked together on my father’s forehead as he glanced at Julio with suspicion.

I’m related to David’s father. I’m his first cousin from Santos Suarez, Julio said.

I noticed a sigh of relief on my parents’ faces as they proceeded to introduce themselves to him. Following a brief exchange, Julio asked my father for his permission to dance with me. He granted it.

Julio led me to the middle of the dance floor, and we began to dance with such poise and assertiveness that others around us took notice. People’s heads turned toward us, and I felt a little embarrassed. I had only danced at family gatherings, not in front of strangers. I didn’t want the way I felt inside to affect my performance, so I tried to concentrate on the dance and tell myself that the people around us were relatives.

You are an excellent dancer, Julio observed.

I told your son I was, I replied, not feeling as self-assured as my words suggested, especially after noticing that his skills surpassed mine.

And very humble, too.

I raised my shoulders and giggled. If he only knew how I felt.

Mamá tells me sometimes that I don’t need a grandmother.

She’s right. Grandmothers always complement their grandchildren, no matter what. If you don’t mind my very humble observation, you should not be so quick to jump to conclusions. My son has learned from the best.

You are a pretty good dancer, I admitted.

I’m glad I have your approval. So, would you give my son a chance?

If you say he is as good as you, I will.

Julio and I stopped dancing. He bent his arm and offered it to me. I placed my hand around his elbow, and he politely walked me to where his son was standing next to my parents.

Son, this beautiful young lady has accepted to dance with you, he said.

Mario led me to the dance floor then placed one arm around my back. I positioned one hand over his shoulder,