Naty Revuelta has died, at the age of 89. You get to be my age, 83, and everyone you know starts dropping off. Well, not everyone. Fidel is still with us, and Raúl, too. But Huber Matos died last year, and Carlos Franqui a few years before that. Oh, what the hell, they were old, or old enough. It’s not like when we were fighting in the mountains and men were dying all over the place in their twenties or even their teens. Women, too. That Revolution was no game.
Up in the Sierra I heard rumors about Natalia Revuelta, how back in the Moncada days she’d thrown her husband over for Fidel and his cause. Also, how she and Fidel had a child—though Fidel was never much of a father to that girl. The truth is, he never had much time for his kids. He had so much else to do! Of course, Clare will tell you that I wasn’t all that good myself after I first found out about Alameda.
I didn’ t meet Naty until after we rolled into Havana in January, 1959—and she was a beauty, just as everyone said. A beauty, and devoted to the Revolution. She wanted Fidel back, that was clear, but by then Fidel had the pick of any woman he wanted, and in addition to Celia Sánchez there were a half dozen others. None of that held Naty back. She wanted to work for the Revolution, and Fidel gave her a job at INRA, the agrarian reform institute. That’s where everything was decided in those days, and where Fidel and Che and Raúl and Ramiro Valdés met to talk. I was often there myself. And Naty was a force in that office, I tell you. She was passionate about agrarian reform, about health care and literacy and a dozen other things.
Coño, how can she be dead? I’ve never understood it, no matter how many have died around me. How can someone be alive among us, then not? She was a tiny woman, and lively. She drove a little blue Volkswagen with a canvas opening in the top and sometimes, if I saw her stopped at a streetlight, she’d fold back the roof, stand up on her seat and give me a wave.
I heard that toward the end of her life her great love was a granddaughter in Miami, a girl she saw too rarely. The Castros, the Revueltas, the Diaz-Balarts, the Matos—even the Cienfuegos: there’s not a family on that damn island that isn’t split and divided and tortured. No family is whole, there’s always someone who lives in Miami or Madrid or Caracas or somewhere most Cubans can’t get to. Naty, you were a great revolutionary when it wasn’t easy. I haven’t seen you in fifty-five years, but I wish you were still here on earth with us.
–From Camilo in Costa Rica