This April will mark the 65th anniversary of the mercenary attack on Playa Girón—a terrorist act that became the first defeat of imperialism in Latin America.
For Nemesia Rodríguez Montano, the eternal girl with white shoes immortalized by Jesús Orta Ruiz, El Indio Naborí, in his Elegy, the wounds still ache as on the first day.
In the height of spring, 15 years ago, at her home in Soplillar, in the Zapata Swamp, she once again recounted the story, whose relevance transcends time.
Under a Breeze
Juliana Montano, just turning 40 years old, was happy. Her children were going to school, and for a few days now the cooperative had offered the chance to acquire products never before seen in that remote part of Cuba’s geography. Gone were the days of the “little bus line” traveling over water and mud during the flooding season of the swamp. That morning, Juliana thought that despite the poverty and humility they lived in, her family had never felt such joy.
While busy with her morning chores, the smell of burning wood filled her space. Now, they paid a good price for a sack of charcoal. The Revolution was taking care to bring teachers and doctors to the area, where until a few months ago, humans died like beasts.
She was so occupied with her work that she didn’t notice the unusual noise that morning. Suddenly, she heard her husband’s and oldest son’s voices more clearly, urging her to “hurry, we have to leave, there’s a landing at Girón, parachutes and planes…”
Juliana grabbed what she could. Her daughter Nemesia was packing her best clothes and the white shoes recently bought at the town store—the only decent shoes she had ever had in her 13 years.
They climbed onto the truck headed for Jagüey Grande. The eldest son was driving hurriedly; her husband and mother-in-law were in the cabin; in the back were Juliana and five children. Nemesia was the oldest…
Along the way, a plane bearing the insignia of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Cuba flew overhead and suddenly dropped bombs, without regard for the truck’s passengers or the white sheets they showed “as a sign of peace.”
Juliana covered the children, gathered them into a corner, and quickly got up to knock on the roof of the cabin to make her son stop the engine…
There was no time. In moments, the shrapnel caught her. Perhaps she looked at her children and smiled…
"I thought I could save my mother," Nemesia Rodríguez Montano recalled through sobs, 50 years later. "I didn’t want to leave; the bombing tore off one of her arms; but I thought that was all... my father, pale, lifted the sheet covering her torso. I saw my mother inside!"
Nemesia grew restless as she held a photo of Juliana in her hand. "I have never been able to overcome that event that marked our lives. My siblings and I, those of us who were on that truck on April 17, 1961, when we met, cried.
"The doctors tell me to avoid retelling the story; but even though it makes me feel bad, I have to tell it. The younger ones need to know..."
In Soplillar, a small settlement in the Zapata Swamp, charcoal ovens coexist in perfect harmony with the community library; works established there by Alexis Leiva Kcho and the Martha Machado Brigade, along with the Credit and Services Cooperative; cat eyes (reflectors) and parrots united with the medical clinic…
Nemesia looks at time itself. In the living room of her modest home, Juliana’s photograph holds a place of honor. Her young and beautiful face is a perpetual testament to injustice. She was one of the civilian victims of the mercenary invasion at the Bay of Pigs; simulator planes cut her life short.
Under a soplillo tree, she revisited that half of April that opened a wound without possible healing. With her gaze fixed in the distance, she thought aloud:
"The miracle of my life was the Revolution. If there were the possibility to ask for another miracle, I would want to go back and not be me, for it not to have happened to me… to live the Revolution with my family, to enjoy the benefits it brought for everyone.
"Today I listen to the birds sing, I fear the wind, something I took from my mother. No one can take me away from the Swamp. When I am very sad, I am capable of walking many kilometers, of course, slowly, through the bush..."
