That We Shall Die: A Jane Madden genealogical mystery Read online

  Fond regards,

  Carol Mancini

  Phoenix, Arizona

  PS I don’t think you’ll have much luck contacting IAmNavajo68. I’ve tried several times with no success.

  Revolutionary youngsters

  Hi Jane

  There have been no more dramas at the bank; thanks for asking. Our software fixes have proved robust, and it’s done Hayley’s reputation and standing a lot of good. She’s been promised a substantial bonus. It may even be enough for her to put down a deposit on a bigger flat, and she’s started talking about us moving in together. I’m not sure how she’d cope with my various hang-ups if we lived under the same roof, but maybe we should give it a try. What do you think? Could you put up with me?

  Anyway, thanks for forwarding me the email from the lady in Phoenix. I’ve been through your DNA trail and it looks sound, though obviously not totally conclusive in itself. That said, if you add the circumstantial evidence, you get a pretty compelling case that Joe Kelly must be Alan’s father – beyond reasonable doubt as they say in court. The line from one of Pat’s letters home, ‘And my friend from the hotel who had to run away is back with me and a hero of the revolution,’ seems to fit Joe perfectly. They worked at the same hotel, we know Joe went off the radar for a while, and that photograph says they were reunited when Havana was taken. We can place them in the same room, and Joe is in rebel uniform, celebrating victory.

  As to the confusion over Joe’s allegiances for or against Castro, have you come across another American called William Alexander Morgan, ‘the Yankee Comandante’?

  Morgan had also been in the US Army after WWII, but deserted and was dishonourably discharged and imprisoned. By 1957, he had abandoned his (second) wife and children in Florida and gone over to Cuba. He joined one of the guerrilla factions, fought well and rose to the rank of comandante. He married, yet again, to a fellow revolutionary and after Castro’s victory took up farming frogs’ legs, would you believe. It was a large-scale operation and a lot of the produce was shipped to the States. He became disillusioned when things began to shift towards full-on, pro-Soviet communism. He started running guns to anti-Castro forces and was arrested. Morgan was shot by firing squad, and his wife was sentenced to 30 years imprisonment. I think the point is that Castro initially played his cards very close to his chest in terms of what his real intentions were. There are those who argue he didn’t share the same ideological convictions as someone like Che Guevara, but events – and American antagonism – pushed him in a more left-wing direction. Another of Pat’s letters quoted Castro as saying his revolution was not ‘red but olive green’, the ‘colour of the rebel army from the Sierra Maestra’. For his critics it was always a ‘watermelon revolution’: green on the outside, but red at its core.

  Either way, he didn’t want to alienate the USA too much in the early days and put on something of a charm offensive. Just before his triumphal entry into Havana he even agreed to be interviewed, in faltering English, by Ed Sullivan. Sullivan had a huge prime-time variety programme on US TV back then. He told viewers they were about to meet ‘a wonderful group of revolutionary youngsters’. I’ve just watched it on YouTube, and it was as if he were introducing Elvis and his band all over again.

  So maybe Joe Kelly was another William Alexander Morgan, a man who was trained to fight, wanted to fight, but thought what he was fighting for was to bring US-style, capitalist democracy to Cuba. When he saw what was really happening, he switched sides. So many revolutions seem to be followed by further conflict, or even civil war, as people squabble for power. Or maybe there are some men who simply can’t stop fighting.

  All this has prompted me to read up on Castro. He’s certainly a fascinating character but diametrically opposite to someone like me. There’s a surprise. As you know, I struggle with things which are grey and subjective. I tend to see both sides of the story. I don’t think Fidel was ever troubled by too much self-doubt and indecision.

  As a man, he was a big guy, 6’3”, strong and good at sports, particularly baseball and basketball – Cuba was very Americanised, after all. When young he wasn’t particularly academic, and I suspect he’d have been the sort of kid who pushed the likes of me around. Not that I bear a grudge ;-). He later turned against the church – the pope excommunicated him in 1962 – but attended a Jesuit boarding school, which may have instilled in him a sense of moral courage and the self-conviction of being right. His father had come over from Spain and established a prosperous farm and sugar plantation covering over 20,000 acres in the east of the island. It was large, but not as extensive as some of the neighbouring US-owned estates. Ángel Castro was a man of status and authority, employing some 300 workers. Some of young Fidel’s self-assurance and confidence must have come from growing up in such an environment. Telling other people what to do would have seemed natural to him. He went on to study law at Havana University and became heavily involved in campus politics, the sort where you carry a gun and surround yourself with armed friends. He got embroiled in various militaristic escapades before running for a place in Cuba’s House of Representatives. Batista’s coup in 1952 cancelled the elections. A year later, Castro tried to instigate a widespread uprising by attacking an army barracks with a force of some 160 compañeros, including his younger brother Raúl. The date was the 26th of July, which later became the name of their movement. The raid was a seemingly inept failure, and many of the rebels were tortured and shot. I don’t know if you’ve ever read Our Man in Havana by Graham Greene? In it, a police chief says there is a ‘torturable class’. Maybe Fidel and Raúl weren’t in that class, or maybe they were just lucky. They were put on trial, receiving prison sentences of 15 and 13 years respectively. In court, Fidel gave a four-hour speech in which he famously claimed ‘history will absolve me’. Details of what the army had done to some of the men it had captured were also revealed, much to the embarrassment of those in power. It’s interesting to see photographs of Fidel from that period. The pencil-moustached lawyer in a suit – he wore glasses but took them off for the cameras – is very much in contrast with the image of the bearded soldier he affected for most of his 50-ish years in power. Batista mistakenly decided the Castros were no longer a threat by 1955 and allowed them to be released. They went to Mexico, where they met Che Guevara, and planned and trained for a second attempt at bringing down the government. They bought a decrepit motor yacht, and 82 of them set sail for Cuba at the end of 1956. They were nearly wiped out when they landed, but the survivors fled to the mountains, regrouped and eventually prevailed against a far larger and better-equipped enemy and in the face of considerable hardship. Castro was still only 32 when he entered Havana in triumph in January 1959.

  Fidel was obviously a driven man, absolutely committed to what he was doing, and willing to risk death and brutal retribution, for himself and others, to achieve his goal. Having failed once, he got up and did it again. Because of their long struggle for independence from Spain, revolution had become glorified in the minds of many Cubans. Fidel’s intentions may initially have been altruistic, but having tasted power he struggled to let go. He presided over a Cuba in which huge advances were made in literacy, life expectancy and infant mortality, but at the expense of individual freedoms, democracy and a strong, sustainable economy. He trusted in his ability to analyse and understand, whatever the subject, be it financial, industrial, agricultural or scientific. His word was final and he had the authority to ensure his edicts were carried through. He would make long, unscripted speeches persuasively arguing the case for his policies, though the only permitted response was agreement and compliance. People who challenged him, even those who had been his revolutionary comrades, were disposed of. The two great heroes who had taken Havana, men whose popularity rivalled his own, met early deaths. Fidel’s critics suggest he was implicated. The body of Camilo Cienfuegos was never found after his plane mysteriously disappeared over the sea in late 1959. Che Guevara was sent out of the way on foolhardy missions to s
pread Cuban-style insurrection to Africa and finally, fatally, to South America. Castro endured countless assassination attempts but he kept going, perhaps believing he alone had the vision and strength to lead his country. Perhaps there was also a feeling of responsibility, that the revolution, his quest for a socialism that worked, was unfinished business. He only handed over the reins in his eighties, when his health failed him, and then to the brother who had always been at his side yet never posed a threat to his authority.

  For someone like me – never good at sports(!), not much faith in his judgement, afraid of his own shadow – it’s hard to get into the mind of someone like that. (Though I do see some parallels in the arrogance of the bankers where Hayley works!) And I’m also struggling with Joe Kelly. Somehow he doesn’t strike me as a man of strong beliefs, willing to lay his life down for a cause. For some reason, I think he was motivated by something else. Maybe he really did just like fighting? But then, I can’t understand that either.

  Sorry for all the philosophising and introspection. I fear my ramblings may say more about me than anyone else. As you can probably tell, I wasn’t able to get off to sleep last night. Keep up the good work. I’m sure Alan will be impressed. I am.

  Tommy x

  Havana, January 1959

  The lobby of the hotel was seething with people: scruffy soldiers carrying rifles, a few women, important-looking men in suits and pressmen with notepads and cameras. Centre of attention were two Barbudos in their twenties, men of very different backgrounds, one a middle-class Argentinian doctor, the other the son of a Havana tailor. They were united in their commitment to their cause, their courage and their ability to lead men and win battles. Their story was that they had met each other and the Castro brothers in Mexico and sailed on a leaky old tub called Granma to start their incursion on Cuba’s remote southern shores. But Batista’s troops and planes were waiting for them, and within days only 20 survived out of the original force of 82 would-be revolutionaries. They hid in the mountain jungles of Sierra Maestra and made friends with the local villagers. They encouraged others to join the fight and in tens and then hundreds attacked the thousands Batista had sent to crush them. They emerged from the trees and disappeared back into them. They starved and suffered deprivations, yet their numbers swelled with their successes, and their enemy became discouraged and disillusioned. After 18 months, Fidel went on the offensive, out of his mountain stronghold and into the lowlands. Three columns were sent westwards on the road to Havana. One was ambushed and destroyed; the others captured the regional capital of Santa Clara and effectively split the island down the middle. Army garrisons began to throw down their arms, and the two victorious columns pressed on for the capital.

  Both comandantes were clutching fat cigars. The Cuban, Camilo Cienfuegos, sported a hat that would not have been out of place on John Wayne. The Argentinian medic, Che Guevara, wore a black beret and a film star’s smile. They looked like they were tired and hadn’t washed in weeks. Up close they would smell of much more than tobacco. But Pat wanted to get close, to shake their hands and hug and kiss them. Everyone did. They had won. Batista had fled to the Dominican Republic. The work of building a new Cuba was about to begin; here and now the first plans would start to be made. Fidel and Raúl were still on their way from the south. When they arrived, a joyous Havana would rise up to greet them.

  ‘Would you like me to introduce you to Che?’

  Pat turned to the man at her side and her mouth dropped. ‘Could you? Would you?’

  ‘Of course, why not? He and I are comrades in arms. I got to know him well in the mountains. He’s a good guy.’

  ‘And Camilo as well? I mean, he was your direct commander, wasn't he?’

  ‘Señor Cienfuegos and I fell out a little. I’m in his bad books. He’s a bit… soft, sometimes.’

  Pat frowned in disbelief. ‘Camilo? Soft? He was with Fidel from the start, on the Granma. He’s just fought an army ten times the size of his own. What happened?’

  ‘Let’s just say, I was a bit rough on an officer we captured, arrogant son a bitch. But then Cienfuegos finds out. “You know we don’t do that,” he says. “They do it, but we don’t, We’re better than them. The people have to know we’re better than them. Yadda, yadda, yadda.”’

  ‘Isn’t he right?’ said Pat earnestly.

  ‘It’s war, sugar. It’s not supposed to be nice. What do you Limeys say? It’s not a damn game of cricket.’

  Pat didn’t respond.

  ‘Sorry, sugar. You don’t want to know half of what went on in that jungle. Let’s just be happy it’s over. Come on, Che’s the real hero here. He won Santa Clara. That’s what finally put the frighteners on old Batista. Let’s go see Che.’

  ‘He’s quite good looking, isn’t he?’

  ‘With that scraggy teenage beard? Not my type. But he’s okay. Bit of a red, but what do I care? Come on.’

  Joe Kelly led Pat through the crush. She clung tightly to his arm, not wanting to let go. He had come back to her, physically unscathed despite the brutality of the conflict in which he had been fighting for over a year. And then they were standing next to Che. He wasn’t especially tall and, like Joe, looked gauntly underweight. Around his neck was a black sling, but his right arm was sufficiently recovered for him to have pulled it free to lift his cigar to his mouth. He took a drag and nodded an acknowledgement.

  ‘My friend the American GI,’ he said, exhaling smoke and then grinning. ‘A great day, eh? And who is this beautiful girl you have with you? Your woman? Tonight will be a good night, I think.’

  ‘This is Pat, Pat Shaw. She’s English, but has always supported the revolution. She was part of the team that kidnapped Fangio.’

  ‘Hey! I heard there was a gringo girl involved. Señora, we owe you a debt. Fidel will want to meet you too. We may not be Cubans by birth – you, me and the GI here – but we are Cuban in our hearts. This is just the beginning. We must build a new society. A Cuban, socialist one. Without too much American influence.’ He pointed his cigar at Joe. ‘Forgive me, my friend.’

  Joe shrugged his indifference. Two other men in the olive drab of the revolution walked up and slapped him on the back in greeting. He turned towards then, smiling broadly.

  ‘I believe in socialism, very much,’ said Pat, seeing only Che. ‘I have been reading, learning, talking to people. Is that Fidel’s plan?’

  Che rocked his head from side to side before answering. ‘It will be explained when he is ready. He too talks and listens. He is a great talker. I think he is a good listener too.’

  An older man in a dark suit and sunglasses came up from behind and mumbled something in Che’s ear. He nodded and then spoke directly to Pat again.

  ‘We have work to do. And so do you. And the GI. Havana is still crawling with Batista’s men, the torturers and the corrupt thieves. We must hunt them down. Scourge them from the city.’

  He reached into the pocket of his fatigue trousers and pulled something out in the palm of his hand. As he did so, a camera flash went off across the room. Che ignored the photographer and offered a small black pistol to Pat.

  ‘This is a woman’s gun,’ he said. ‘I took it from an army major who had it hidden in his uniform. He could have shot me with it but he was too craven. You have it. A pretty girl needs protection.’

  Pat felt the metal in her hand. It was warm. Things in Cuba were seldom cold, even in January, but she wondered if some of Che’s body heat, his aura, had transferred across.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, her eyes transfixed on the weapon. She quickly looked up, wary of seeming dizzy in front of a man of hard heroism and history. ‘I assume it’s loaded?’ she asked, judging it a fit question for a revolutionary.

  ‘Of course,’ said Che. ‘The safety’s on, but I’m sure you know your way around a gun. And listen – if you do find yourself confronted with one of Batista’s torturers, don’t be afraid to shoot first. You’ll need to be nice and close with something this small, but
you have my personal permission.’

  He winked, took another pull on his cigar and then walked away.

  The bandit

  Jane stared into the glass display cabinet on the bookshelf. The black plastic grip had a circular logo with the ornately stylised initials ‘PB’. She couldn’t remember if it was Paulo or Pietro Beretta who had built up the Italian gunmaker with a reputation for automatic pistols. She did know James Bond had fictionally carried a small-calibre Beretta until he was ordered to replace it with a Walther PPK, something with a little more ‘stopping power’. This weapon had the odd scratch, but overall it looked in good condition, despite being at least 60 years old. Jane guessed it was cleaned and tidied up when Alan’s mother had it deactivated. It was certainly small enough to be concealed in a man’s hand, or at least well-obscured. There could be no certainty this was the exact gun Che was handing to Pat in the photograph, but there would probably be enough provenance for most collectors. Something like this would be worth a lot of money to a museum, or to a private individual with an interest in firearms or the iconic counterculture of the 1960s. Jane wondered if what she was going to tell Alan about his father’s links to the Cuban revolution would increase the price even more.

  Her client re-entered his lounge carrying a tray with two mugs and the usual plate of dark-chocolate biscuits. They sat down opposite each other and Jane took a sip of coffee to lubricate her throat. She had a lot to say and wanted to relay her story with tact and care.

  ‘So,’ said Alan, leaning forward, ‘you said you’d got my DNA results and had some significant news for me?’

  ‘Yes. I think it’s quite, well, exciting.’

  ‘But, while I remember, I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from Cyn yet?’