"and some other shit, and the wife--can't remember her name--would cry a lot. The kids were young. Three of them. They were okay, but they always talked about the big house they had in Cuba. And servants. So I guess they all felt like they got fucked." He smiled. "Hey, I was born fucked in New Jersey." There were two kinds of history: the kind you read about, and the kind you lived through--or were actually part of. For Jack, the Cuban Revolution was a childhood memory. For Sara, it was family history, and part of who she was. For Eduardo, it was a boyhood trauma and an obsession. And for me, it was irrelevant. Until today. Jack asked me, "You trust these people?" "My instincts say they're honorable"