"What we are seeing is the amazing strength and courage of people -- after 40 years of silence -- coming back and finding still in the ashes some sparks of warmth and life and tradition and Judaism."

As we had been warned in advance, Friday was to be our loooong drive, making the epic trek from Trinidad back to Havana. Along the way, we stopped once again in Guajimico to see how the family doctor's eyes were doing. Already clearing up, he told Steve. We also took the opportunity to leave some more desperately-needed goods, like powdered milk and analgesics, at his clinic.

Due to our ongoing bathroom plight, we made another pit stop, at a gas station named Oro Negro ("Black Gold"), where a shiny red '55 Ford Fairlane was filling up. Those of us less interested in cars - or at least more interested in relief - tried the bathrooms. No flusher, no seat, no paper - no problem!

The main point of today's trip, though, was Santa Clara. Unlike the other places we'd been, this city didn't have as much to offer in the way of culture or scenery (or at least we didn't get to see it if it did). But what it did have was David Thacher.

Much like Rebecca in Cienfuegos, David Thacher is the informal leader of his town's small Jewish community. As we entered his bright, cheerful home, we could see that, also like Rebecca, the place was crammed with Judaica, from maps of Israel to a menorah on the piano, to a giant Magen David on the wall. Seeing our numbers packed so tightly into his living room, David quipped, "Now we have a good minyan here."

David told us about his community of approximately 25 Jews, which has been active for about seven years. Though that might seem like a small number, he noted that the American Jewish community started as a handful of Jews in 1650. For that matter, Jews themselves have always been a relatively small number in the rest of the world. In David's opinion, it's not size that matters. It's pride.

And as far as that goes, David and the other Santa Clara Jews we met (Virginia, Soila, Dr. Victor, and Billy) have enough pride for 25,000 Jews. They proudly showed us the stone from the Warsaw Ghetto they'd been given, and boasted that the Santa Clara community sends matzah, reading materials, and other supplies to eight Jewish families in small towns nearby.

David emphasized the guiding importance of Jewish continuity. When it comes to Jewish identity and heritage, said David, "We don't have permission to break the chain, or we'll stop being who we are." He said that his community eagerly follows the news about Israel and Jews in the world every day. And he credits the Jewish Cubans who departed for America after the Revolution with leaving such a strong legacy to those who remained behind.

As the culmination of our visit, we and the Santa Clarans exchanged gifts. The Rozencweigs donated items they'd collected from the children of New Jersey. Sara gave David her beautiful handmade menorah. And David gave Mario a wooden "L'chaim" carving. Mario was so moved, he actually put down his cigar… temporarily.

David boasted, "I can speak many hours about Judaism," and he undoubtedly would have if we'd let him. But we still had a few hours of driving ahead of us. We decided to end things by davening mincha. The Jews of Santa Clara, along with those of Atlanta, Cincinnati, New York, New Jersey, Washington D.C., and Baltimore stood together and faced the one city we all had in common: Jerusalem.

As we left David's I couldn't help reflecting on the chandelier lamp hanging from his ceiling. It was like the sun, a huge, ball-shaped fixture composed of sockets pointing in all directions, but completely devoid of light bulbs. The metaphor seemed somehow apt to David: what he and the other Santa Clara Jews had created here was like the center of a universe, but they were just lacking the basic supplies to achieve incandescence.

Needless to say, our remaining stops were not nearly as compelling. But it wouldn't be a Cuba trip without a stop at the Che Guevara memorial tomb. And it wouldn't be our mission without another breather at the now-familiar "ice cream stop." Before we knew it, though, we were back in Havana, locked in a showdown with the rear-end of an eighteen-wheeler in a narrow alleyway. Fortunately, Cowboy Manuel jumped off the bus to ride herd on the other cars, trucks and buses, until there was space for us to proceed.

After we'd gotten back and freshened up a little, Arnaldo drove us once again to the Patronato, this time for Shabbat services. It was a decent-sized crowd, although with different groups evidently sitting in their own sections. I'm pretty sure we were seated in the "Smiling, Mostly Non-Comprehending Foreigner Section." But we were able to enjoy the sometimes-familiar/sometimes-not melodies of the Kabbalat Shabbat service, as led by two energetic, young people (Nestor from Argentina, and Deborah, a local).

Mario was the star attraction, and he gave a sermon in Spanish that sounded beautiful. By which I mean the sound of his voice and inflection, since I wasn't actually able to follow much of the content. But he had given us a preview of its theme on the bus: He compared the "burning bush that was not consumed" of this week's Torah portion to the Cuban Jewish community, which, despite great constraints and near-annihilation under Castro, was beginning to emerge with great promise for the future.

Then it was downstairs for a community dinner, courtesy of our mission. The evening's entertainment consisted of youths from one of the very popular rikudim (Israeli dancing) classes performing a variety of moves. I wonder how'd they do in a pool…

When we got back, some of us met one-on-one with Deborah, the young community leader by night/trauma room doctor by day. She answered some of our questions about Jewish life, participated in the very spirited discussion of how to best bring in aid next time, and put together the gorgeous Ner Tamid (eternal light) our mission was bringing to the community of Guantanamo.