? ? ?

Just one day after we left London, at seven P.M. President Kennedy addresses the country; he is seated behind his desk in the Oval Office, his manner grave. He possesses a calm temperament that, despite his relative youth, suggests he is not the sort to be rattled by these affairs, that he has a firm hand behind the helm of the nation. I envy the Americans their steady leadership contrasted against Fidel’s fiery rhetoric and erratic outrage. When I was younger, I embraced the fury, fought for radical change, but now I find comfort in the calm manner of Kennedy, even as I cannot forgive him for the way he handled the Bay of Pigs.

My hand trembles as I swallow the drink I poured earlier, my gaze riveted to the television as the president tells the world Soviet missile sites in Cuba are capable of reaching Florida, and Washington D.C., among other places, a chill sliding down my spine. Military bases in Cuba are standing up with offensive capabilities, prepared to launch a nuclear weapons attack against the United States and the world.

Fidel is the wild card in this, the man who courts chaos and revels in strife. What is his aim in allowing the Soviets to establish such a position in America’s backyard?

The Soviets engage in the fiction that they are supporting Cuba, providing a defense for a defenseless country faced with a great power’s impressive military might. However, there is no doubt they are challenging the Americans, taunting them, and Cuba is the easiest method to do so, even if so many innocent lives hang in the balance.

And yet, as I listen to Kennedy’s words, his condemnation of the Soviets’ actions, decrying their attempts to insert themselves in the affairs of other countries, to amass power by proxy, I cannot help but think of the United States’ own actions, their role in Cuba’s current condition. Is the distinction between the two powers that the Soviet Union does so brazenly and with flagrant disregard for international condemnation whereas the United States does so covertly and secretly with the use of the CIA and other organizations like it, while maintaining the moral authority on the world stage?

I struggle to see much difference at this point, and at the same time, feel a sense of shame at my own involvement with the CIA. Am I guilty of the same things the Americans are? Do necessity and desperation change our moral fabric so much that we no longer recognize ourselves?

According to the president, the Americans are to quarantine any ships containing offensive weapons en route to Cuba and send them back to their countries of origin. Thankfully, Kennedy announces there will be no attempt to keep humanitarian items from reaching the Cuban people. And still, the United States has taken the position that the launch of nuclear weapons from Cuba against any nation will constitute an act of aggression against the United States, and is fortifying its military base at Guantanamo, preparing for war, families evacuated from the base, everyone on standby.

Kennedy calls for the Organization of American States to view this as a hemispheric threat, and for the United Nations Security Council to meet in an emergency meeting with the aim of passing a resolution to dismantle all nuclear weapons before the quarantine may be ended. His final words to Khrushchev and the rest of the world are spoken with resolve, and a stated desire for peace. Once again, I struggle to reconcile the image of the stalwart American presidency tasked with preserving peace throughout the world and exporting democracy, and the version of the United States I have known for much of my lifetime: the country giving weapons and aid to former president Batista and turning a blind eye to his abuses of power and the subjugation of the Cuban people.

It is Kennedy’s closing words that speak to me most, though, the ones he addresses to Cubans, broadcast to the island through secret radio communications. How must my people feel, caught between two giants, subjected to the whims of great powers once more? Kennedy speaks of the deep sorrow the American people have felt at how the revolution has turned out, and all I can think of are firing squads and fraudulent trials, of families ripped apart by violence and bloodshed. I do not want his sorrow. It is of no use to my brother lying dead in the ground, to the men and women sentenced to death by politics. What we need now is action. The same kind of power the United States is willing to employ when their own interests are at stake, yet far less so when others are involved.

I thought my love for Cuba would be the hardest thing for me to reconcile, but in truth, it’s the anger that’s the hardest to dispense of. Love ebbs and flows, a low-level hum in the background, but anger sinks its claws in you and refuses to let go.

And suddenly, I can’t take it anymore, and I rise from my position on Nick’s elegant couch and turn off the television.

* * *

? ? ?

I wake to a kiss against my cheek, Nick stroking my hair. It takes a moment for me to acclimate to my surroundings, the leather couch beneath me, the wool blanket covering my body, the dark stillness of Nick’s D.C. apartment, and the scent of his cologne—sandalwood and orange.

I sit up abruptly, grasping his arm, my fingers ghosting across his wrist, the faint sprinkling of hair there, his jacket discarded, his sleeves rolled up.

“What time is it?” I fumble for the light on the table beside me with my other arm.

“Late. Or early, depending on your perspective, I suppose.”

“You sound tired.”

“I’m exhausted.”

“What can I do?”

“Just be with me.”

Nick lifts me from the sofa, my body cradled in his arms, my hands threading through his hair, my mouth devouring his. He carries me through the apartment and sets me down on the soft mattress in his bedroom, the sheets covered in the scents I’ve come to associate with him, the familiarity of it causing a sob to rise in my chest.

I’m angry with the world, and so afraid, and I’ve missed him so much, these emotions inside of me threatening to splinter me, pulling me in so many different directions, my loyalties divided between logic, my family, my nationality, my heart.

“I love you,” Nick whispers, his lips grazing my earlobe. “So much.”

And in the dark stillness of the night, the threat of nuclear war pounding at the door of this enclave we’ve carved out for ourselves, I am brave enough to voice the emotion that has lingered in my heart for so very long.

“I love you, too.”

* * *

? ? ?

We settle into a domestic routine of sorts in Nick’s apartment in Georgetown despite the madness of the world surrounding us. Nick spends his days after President Kennedy’s address to the American people working with his fellow senators, the president, and the president’s advisors. Nick returns from work, worried and weary, our dinners taking place late in the evening, our conversations focused on politics.

“How is the president?” I sip my wine as we lounge in the living room after another midnight dinner.

“Cautious. These meetings with his advisors—” Nick shakes his head. “Right now we desperately need calmer heads to prevail. The president is providing that, at least. He knows what is at stake, how much a wrong and reckless move could cost us. He favors a blockade with the hope it’ll buy us time.”

These are the deals and negotiations weighing heavily on Nick’s shoulders and those of the others trying to find a diplomatic solution to this mess. Whether Castro and Khrushchev are willing to be reasonable men remains to be seen.

“And how are you?” I kiss his cheek, wrapping my arms around those broad shoulders, bringing him closer to me, his heart thudding against my chest.

“Tired. So damn tired.”

I take the glass of scotch from Nick’s hands, setting it down on the end table, reaching between us and loosening the knot of his tie. He lays his head on my lap, his eyes trained to the ceiling, his jaw clenched. The heavy load of concerns he carries is evident in his tense body, in the knots I massage in his shoulders.

I no longer remember what it feels like to stand on solid ground.

I speak to Elisa daily now—she tells me stories of Maria doing duck-and-cover drills at her school, of my parents’ worry and fear. This all feels so very familiar—the pervasive uncertainty a harbinger of worse to come.