My heart pounds as we turn down street after street until we reach the building where Pablo was staying. Two children sit on the front steps throwing a ball around, a dog lying beside them. Magda follows me inside, refusing to leave me when I climb the stairs to the second floor.

A wave of dizziness hits me again, and I regret not eating the lunch my mother served at the house earlier—after one bite it tasted like sawdust in my mouth. My hands tremble when I reach Pablo’s front door, as I knock on the wood.

Magda’s disapproval over the condition of the apartment building is stamped all over her face.

No one answers.

I knock again this time, louder, my knuckles moving in desperation. The door opposite Pablo’s opens, a woman sticking her head out, her gaze running over Magda and me.

“What do you want?” she demands.

“I’m looking for the man who lives here.”

Her gaze narrows, clouded with suspicion. “No one has been around for weeks.”

Disappointment fills me. “If he comes back, will you tell him a woman was here looking for him?”

She shrugs before closing the door behind her, the sound of a child’s cries filling the hallway.

I sag against the wall.

“Are you ready?” Magda asks. “This is not the kind of neighborhood you want to be in once the night comes.”

I nod, my eyes welling with frustrated tears.

We leave the building, walking down the street, heading toward our car. The crowd appears to have swelled since we first entered the apartment, more and more people clogging the streets, their voices growing louder, the frenzy magnified.

I curse my stupidity, the foolishness that had me taking to the streets looking for him.

My voice is strained. “We need to get home.”

I’ve never seen the city like this—it’s a jubilant madness, but madness just the same. A man wielding a bat in his hands runs up to one of the parking meters, smashing it over and over again, his face contorted in fierce determination.

Whack. Whack.

The change inside clangs together before the machine tips over, smashing to the ground, coins spilling all over the concrete sidewalk. People swoop in—children, their parents—scooping up the money.

What surprises me most, what terrifies me most, is the anger. It’s as if they’ve kept a tight lid on their emotions, letting the fury fester for years, contained by Batista’s policies, Batista’s injustices, and now that he’s gone their anger has shifted, threatening everything in its path.

Magda’s grip on me tightens as our strides lengthen, the mob swelling.

How long before they turn their attention from the parking meters to us?

My heart pounds when we reach the car, my hands shaking as I struggle to open the door. It takes two attempts for me to wrest the handle and pull the door open. My fingers tremble as I sit in the driver’s seat and start the car.

“I’m so sorry. I should have never tried to go out today. I had no idea it would be like this.”

“It was like this in ’33, with Machado,” Magda says, her voice grim. “It will get worse before it gets better.”

I’m afraid she’s right, and the anger bubbles up inside me, threatening to overflow. I’m angry at the men on the street, angry with Batista, Pablo, my brother. What did they usher into this country?

We’re silent on the drive back, and it’s only once we’re in the safety of the big house, behind the gates again, that I feel some semblance of peace, and even that is short-lived. How long before the violence comes here?

Magda follows me to my bedroom, sitting beside me while I sink down onto the bed.

“Promise you won’t go out like that again.”

I nod, a wave of nausea hitting me. “I promise.”

“That boy—”

I’ve been carrying this secret for far too long, and I need to tell someone. The words tumble out.

“I’m pregnant.”

* * *

• • •

It is a truly bizarre thing to know your body for nineteen years, to grow used to it, its habits and quirks, and then to have it change on you so unexpectedly.

It began slowly a few weeks after the last time we saw each other—an urge to nap during the day, a bitter taste in my mouth, nausea constant. I eschewed my favorite foods for things I never enjoyed before, my emotions heightened. By the time I missed my period, I knew. I was late, and I was never late, and my body erased any doubt from my mind.

Magda hovers over me now that she knows about the baby, feeding me more food than I can possibly eat, encouraging me to nap, stroking my hair, praying beside me.

Even as I worry about the baby, about the uncertainty of my future, the troubles in Cuba’s future loom large. Fidel has named Dr. Manuel Urrutia Lleó as the provisional president, but everyone says Castro will be the one pulling the strings anyway. The airport has been shut down; no one can get flights out of the country. Our driver reported seeing American tourists sitting on the front lawn of the Hotel Nacional, their suitcases in hand, fear and anger etched on their faces. They were finally evacuated by ship to Key West. And it’s not just the airport—the whole country is under general strike. Our father’s been making angry phone calls all morning, trying to figure out what’s happening with his workers.

Mobs have opened the doors at El Principe, letting the prisoners escape. Havana has descended into madness.

I’m back in the house, perched on a silk couch in our elegant sitting room, surrounded by paintings in heavy gold frames.

“They ransacked El Encanto,” my mother says, her lips pursed in a tight line. There is no greater sin in her mind than the destruction of haute couture.

I imagine all those dresses we used to try on, now in apartments throughout Havana, worn by those who admired them in magazines. We used to find a little bit of magic in those dresses; will that same magic rub off on their new owners?

“They got the casinos, too,” my father says. “No one is doing anything to stop them—the military, the police, they’ve all simply given up. They’re giving our country away without a fight,” he thunders.

“Are they going to come here? For us?” Maria asks.

My mother pales. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that,” she snaps.

“What?” Maria looks bewildered. “They want money, don’t they? We have money.”

My father ignores her.

“They’re patrolling the streets now. They say the 26th of July has pushed the police force out.” His face turns red. “People are hanging signs outside their houses thanking Fidel. For what? Do they really think he is on our side? He preaches peace and democracy while he prepares to feast on the carcasses of his enemies. He has made fools of all of us, mark my words, and I fear far worse before the month is out.”

Chapter twenty-one

They swarm into the city in a steady flow of green uniforms and beards. They carry guns in their hands, and I cringe at the cold black metal, at the manner in which they survey their surroundings as though Havana belongs to the 26th of July. They’re good-natured in their victory, but then, victors can always afford the luxury of happiness. For the rest of us—

I scan each face looking for Pablo, searching, equal parts hoping to find him, equal parts afraid I will.

I fear it would break my heart to see his face, his body in those odious fatigues. And yet, the absence of him brings its own pain. Surely, he’ll come to me? And my brother—no one knows where Alejandro is or what he’s doing. Has he aligned himself with the 26th of July? Is he their enemy?

We are inundated with images of Fidel marching toward the city, taking his time, prolonging the six-hundred-mile journey like a predator savoring his kill. The nauseous feeling in my stomach doesn’t subside.

“They’ve recognized Fidel’s government,” my father says.

“They?” my mother asks.

“The Americans.”

“And the elections?”

“In eighteen months or two years.” My father’s mouth tightens. “In the meantime, the president—controlled by Fidel—has removed all political figures appointed by Batista. Some of his cabinet members have sought asylum in foreign embassies. Others have been arrested.”

He doesn’t say the rest, but I know—

Others have been executed by firing squad.

My father rattles off a list of names, men who came and dined at my mother’s infamous Parisian dinner table, who gave us mints and sweets when we were children, men whose sons I danced with, whose daughters I knew well. My mother’s cries drown out the rest of the names.

My hand drifts to my stomach, my palm resting protectively against the silk fabric. What world am I bringing this child into?

“They’ve frozen the assets of Batista’s officials,” my father says.

My mother’s eyes widen with alarm. “And our investments?”

“They can’t touch the money overseas. That’s something, at least. The president of the National Bank is gone. Same with the Agricultural and Industrial Bank.”

More friends of my father’s.

“They say Batista is in Santo Domingo now, taking refuge with Trujillo.”

He’s in good company, then. The Dominican president is a longtime friend of Batista’s and as much of a tyrant.

“Many of Batista’s closest advisors are with him, waiting this thing out until it is safe to return.”

My father doesn’t say more, but I hear the unspoken worry in his voice, the push and pull. Should we leave or should we stay?

* * *

• • •

We gather in front of the television that evening, the room silent as we watch Fidel speak in front of the crowds at Camp Columbia, the military barracks in Havana. There must be thousands of people there, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands. He’s surrounded by a sea of Cubans looking to him as though he is the answer to everything they’ve ever hoped for, prayed for.

A week ago a different man stood there, sneaking out of the country he controlled for many years. Leaving us with this. Earlier, tanks and trucks rolled through the city as though we’re being occupied by an invading army rather than liberated by one of our own. They’ve opened Camp Columbia’s gates, and the space is filled with Fidel’s compatriots, with ordinary Cubans. They come to see Fidel—their messiah. He is still relatively unknown throughout Havana, a Robin Hood figure of sorts, but they know one important thing about him—