With songs to soothe sad hearts, thousands pay their last respects

BY LYDIA MARTIN, DANIEL CHANG AND SUSANNAH NESMITH

Celia Cruz's biggest dream was to be buried in her beloved Cuba. In the end, she resigned herself to a resting place in the Bronx. But not before visiting Miami, her second hometown, one last time.

On Saturday, Miami fulfilled La Guarachera de Cuba's last wishes as only Miami could.

Thousands and thousands strong, carrying Cuban flags, chanting her name and bursting into renditions of Guantanamera and the Cuban national anthem, the city offered her the final Cuban embrace she had so yearned for.

After a teary, song-filled viewing that drew tens of thousands of mourners to the Cuban-flag-draped Freedom Tower, a procession started toward Gesú Catholic Church, where Mass was celebrated three days after Celia's death from brain cancer on Wednesday.

Led by police on horseback, a small group of friends and family members -- Andy Garcia, Don Francisco, Willie Chirino, Carlos Vives, Israel ''Cachao'' López and Gloria and Emilio Estefan among them -- walked slowly alongside the hearse. They were followed by thousands on the walk to the church.

At the church waited Celia's oldest sister -- Dolores Rodriguez, 86, the one Celia called La Niña growing up in Havana. Celia left home in 1960; her sister remained in Havana. She arrived in Miami just in time for the funeral, her visa having been granted Saturday morning.

Celia's younger sister, Gladys Bequer, 67, of New York, said: ``I am thrilled that my sister is here, but I haven't seen her in so many years. I just want some time alone so that we can talk about everything.''

As the procession reached the church, those waiting in crowds more than 10 deep pushed aside barricades, reaching out to family members and friends, blocking the entrance to the church. At least three dozen people with badges identifying them as family or friends were delayed in entering. In the end, just 300 of the thousands who wanted to be inside made it; 500 of the 800 seats were reserved for family members and friends.

The Rev. Alberto Cutié, head of the Archdiocese of Miami's Radio Peace and Radio Paz, quickly drew applause from those at the church: 'When I was walking on the streets of Miami, everyone stopped me and said, `Father, give Pedro a hug for me,' '' he said, approaching Pedro Knight, Celia's husband of 41 years. ``Young people, old people, from all the people, I give you a hug.''

Later in the service, Knight offered his thanks: ``I want to thank you with all my heart for all the sacrifices that the people of this community have made for my wife.''

Cutié imagined Celia already in heaven, named director of the heavenly choirs by St. Peter. ''But for St. Peter, the problems have started because the angels are accustomed to singing Gregorian chants,'' he said.

Cutié imitated Gregorian chanting, then broke into a salsa rhythm, as Celia-inspired angels might sing.

The Rev. Martín Añorga, a Presbyterian minister, spoke about Celia's patriotism.

'People, when they would talk about Celia, said, `Imagine, she never returned to Cuba.' But I always said, `She had no reason to return. Cuba lived within her.'

``Probably those who aren't exiled Cubans can't understand that. There are many Cubans that may never return to Cuba, but we hold it inside us.''

Some who were left outside the church said organizers should have held the Mass at a stadium. ''Celia Cruz doesn't attract just 500 people. She brings the whole town,'' said Sonia Vallejo of Miami, who had waited outside the church since noon.

Rayza Cordero, who waited for hours, said she had attended many of Celia's concerts. She recalled bringing her the Cuban flag at a concert in Houston.

'After the concert she wanted to give it back to us. We told her to keep it, but she said, `Take it and take it back to a free Cuba one day and I'll meet you there.' ''

Cordero brought the flag back to Celia on Saturday.

''She means Cuba to me. She was what every person should be. Even though she got all that fame, she never forgot her roots,'' Cordero said.

A LONG WAIT

By noon Saturday, under a sweltering sun, the line of mourners who had waited to get into the Freedom Tower on Biscayne Boulevard for a glimpse of Celia's coffin snaked for more than a dozen blocks. They had started lining up the night before, hours before the 10 a.m. viewing.

The Freedom Tower, Miami's greatest landmark to Cuban exiles, processed thousands of refugees as they started their lives anew. Thousands gathered there in 2001 to hear Celia perform during a fundraiser to turn the Freedom Tower into a museum.

This time, Celia's body was lying in state, flanked by the Cuban and American flags and watched over by the bejeweled statue of La Virgen de La Caridad, patron saint of Cuba and an exile herself (the statue, which resides at the Shrine to Our Lady of Charity in Coconut Grove, was smuggled out of Cuba in a suitcase in 1961).

Celia wore a tall blonde wig and white silk gown, her hands folded over a white rosary. A bed of pale lavender roses and white hydrangeas lay in front of the copper-colored coffin, which was draped in the Cuban flag. Under it rested a crystal bowl of Cuban soil, handed to relatives by a fan filing by.

Celia's music echoed through the columned hall as fans approached her body. They cried, they knelt before her, they blew her kisses, they crossed themselves. And as some of her catchiest tunes played, they couldn't help but sing and dance.

''You're not supposed to dance in front of somebody's coffin,'' said Delia Abrahantes, 67, of Kendall. ``But this is Celia. . . . She's still making us dance, even when we're heartbroken.''

''We are not mourners,'' said 78-year-old Arejelia Prado, even as her voice cracked. ''We have to be happy. That's what she would have wanted.'' Eyes watering, she smiled, raised her flag, and began a soft salsa shuffle toward the coffin.

AT HER SIDE

Just before 11 a.m., Celia's husband entered the hall looking faded and drawn. He stood like a sentry before his wife's coffin for several minutes before being led to a back room where family and close friends gathered.

Many of them watched in awe as the crowd flowed through the Freedom Tower. ''I love to see how much her pueblo felt her,'' said bandleader Johnny Pacheco. ``She didn't die in Cuba. But she died with Cuba.''

It wasn't just the red, white and blue of Cuba's flag that waved. Celia was just as meaningful to the Colombians, Venezuelans, Nicaraguans, Mexicans, Panamanians and Haitians who also turned out with their flags.

''I am not Cuban. I am from Spain. But Celia moved the entire world,'' said Rosa Lopez, a frail 83-year-old who took a bus from Miami Beach, then waited in line alone for hours to pay respects to Celia.

Thousands stood in line for three, four, even five hours to see the woman they simply referred to as Celia.

''Miami has never seen anything like this and never will,'' said Yolanda Almanzar, waving a Cuban flag. ``Or maybe when Fidel falls. . . . How sad that Celia died before him. Not that she would have gone back, but she would have died happy.''

By the time the doors of the Freedom Tower closed at 6:30 p.m., tens of thousands had passed by the beloved singer's body. Thousands wouldn't, however. They'd lined up too late.

''I've been here since 1 in the afternoon. They'll let me in,'' said Miriam Prieto, 60, a Colombian tourist who was within a half block when the doors closed. Even as people abandoned the line in front of her, Prieto remained. ''I just want to say good-bye to her,'' she said, beginning to cry.

Celia's death was especially shattering to older Cubans who, like Celia until her end, are pining to see their homeland free. Many who couldn't make it Saturday have marched the streets of Miami dozens of times, carrying the flag in protest of Castro. But age has caught up with them; their kids took the trip downtown instead. Several were heard on cellphones as they passed Celia's body.

''Mom? I just saw her,'' said one teary woman.

''We're here because we had to do it for our mother, who is disabled, and our father, who died 13 years ago,'' said Barbara Hernandez, 34, who stood in line with her brother Julio Olano, 36.

Herald reporters Tere Figueras, Elaine de Valle, Sofia Santana and Charles Rabin contributed to this report.