William Heffernan - Red Angel

Devlin made his way to the table, his eyes taking in every comer of the room. A small smile played across Martinez’s lips. Police, he thought, were the same everywhere.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Devlin said. “I wanted to make sure Adrianna was asleep. This little surprise you laid on us has hit her pretty hard.” He adjusted his chair so it faced the entrance to the bar. It produced another small smile from Martinez.

“It is better she is sleeping,” Martinez said. “What I have to tell you would only be more upsetting for her.”

Across the room, two prostitutes, no more than eighteen, offered up welcoming smiles. “I thought Castro did away with all the hookers,” Devlin said.

“Yes, it is true. There is no prostitution in Cuba.” Martinez glanced at the two young women. “There are only thousands of friendly children, each one looking for romance.” He shrugged. “And dollars to feed their families.” He paused to light a cigarette and sent a stream of smoke across the table. “Great mechanics are not the only thing your embargo has given us.”

Devlin ignored the political gibe. He needed Martinez on their side-if possible-at least for now. “Tell me about Maria Mendez,” he said.

Martinez flicked the ash of his cigarette. “She was my friend. My very dear friend.” He drew on the cigarette again, then put it out. “Did you know the people of Cuba called her the Red Angel?”

“Someone in the U.S. Interests Section told me that.”

Martinez nodded. “Yes, they would know about her. She was a very powerful figure. Until recently, she was even powerful politically.”

“Why until recently?”

“She had a falling-out with Fidel.”

“With Castro, himself?” Devlin’s voice sounded incredulous, even to his own ears.

Martinez nodded again. “She and Fidel were very close for many years. It is even said they were lovers many years ago.” He smiled. “But Fidel is known to have had many lovers. Along with several wives. And children. Some say he doesn’t remember most of their names.”

“But Maria Mendez was not one of those.” Devlin spoke the words for Martinez.

“No. She was very important in the government. And very important to the people. She was one of the few who could tell Fidel he was wrong.”

“Are you implying she did that once too often? That Fidel bounced her out of the government?”

“Fidel would never be that foolish. For the people, there are some heroes who must never be tarnished. Fidel, of course, is one. Then Che Guevara. And there is also the Red Angel.”

“How did she come to be … so revered?”

The major’s eyes became a wistful mix of pleasure and pain. “Ah, that is both a beautiful and a sad story. In the early years Maria Mendez became a symbol of everything that was good in our revolution. And in recent years she became a symbol of everything about it that has failed.”

A waiter brought them cups of strong Cuban coffee that Martinez had ordered. Devlin pushed his aside and leaned forward. “Tell me about her.”

Martinez lit another cigarette and sat back in his chair.

“In 1957, Maria Mendez had just graduated from the medical school at Havana University. She was young, younger than the other graduates. She was a brilliant child. She graduated from high school at fifteen. And from university at eighteen. Now, at twenty-two, she had completed her medical studies, and was an intern at the Infantil Hospital.

“You must understand those times, my friend. Batista ruled our country with an iron fist, and his secret police crushed anyone who opposed him. Fidel had already attempted one insurrection and had failed. The Mafia controlled Havana, and it had become a playground for the rich, a city filled with gambling and drugs and prostitution.

“But for the people it was hell. Batista had become rich selling off the land to foreign corporations and a handful of cronies. Cuba was an oligarchy. The peasants owned nothing, and were paid almost nothing for the work they did. Only the rich received medical care, and education was available only to the sons and daughters of the privileged class.

“Maria Mendez was one of those privileged children, as was Fidel, himself. She was the daughter of a successful physician, but unlike her father, her heart was with the people.

“Maria was not political. She was certainly not a revolutionary. She knew Fidel because he was at the university law school when she began her studies, and he was a respected figure among the students. But violence of the kind that Fidel and many other students preached was something alien to her. She told me this many times. She wanted a political solution. She simply believed in the people, and the desperate need to ease their suffering.”

Martinez paused and smiled. “An idealist, eh? Like so many young people everywhere.”

He took a sip of his coffee and glanced again at the young women at the bar. Devlin thought he was perhaps wishing idealism would find its way to them.

“But there were others, students who realized that idealistic goals were impossible as long as Batista lived. They formed a plan to kill him. They believed the peasants in the countryside would rise up once he was dead.

“The plan involved an assault on the Presidential Palace in March of 1957, where Batista would be assassinated. But the students knew that many of them would be killed or wounded in the attack. They needed secret hospitals where the wounded could be taken, where the secret police who would be hunting them would not think to look. Maria was one of the young doctors they went to for help.

“It was foolishness, of course. The students were untrained and poorly armed. The attack failed, and the police easily followed the wounded back to their secret hospitals.”

“And Maria?” Devlin asked.

“She was arrested, of course. She had refused to leave the dying student she was trying to save.” Martinez closed his eyes momentarily. When he opened them they were filled with a deep sadness.

“She was tortured, asked to give the names of others who had escaped. When she refused, she was turned over to her guards. She was raped so many times that her organs were badly damaged. She was never able to have children because of this.” He paused again, his entire face now marked by the sadness of his eyes. “Perhaps that is why she chose to work with children. Perhaps that is why your lovely Adrianna became so important in her life.”

Martinez seemed to push the speculation aside. He lit another cigarette and finished his coffee.

“She was saved by her father. It took several months, and many bribes, but she was finally released from prison. By that time Fidel’s second invasion in Oriente Province was well under way, and his troops had established bases in the Sierra Maestra Mountains.

“Maria joined him there, not only as a doctor, but fighting at his side. She became a fierce warrior, it is said, leading other men and women into battle against Batista’s troops. She had come to understand, you see, that brutality such as Batista’s could only be fought with guns.”

A wan smile came to Martinez’s lips. “Of course, the revolution succeeded. And when Fidel entered Havana in 1959, Maria was with him. She, like Che Guevara, was one of the great heroes. And like Guevara, who was also a physician, she knew that the health of the people-especially its children-was the first task the revolution had to address.

“It is said that she and Guevara went to Fidel and convinced him of this need. He put her in charge. Guevara was needed elsewhere in the government. And so it fell to Maria Mendez to bring health to the people.”

“That sounds like quite a job,” Devlin said.

“Even more than you think.” Martinez spread his arms, as if taking in the entire room, perhaps the entire country. “Cuba is a difficult place. Even more difficult in 1959.”