When I Left Cuba

 

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Cienfuegos looked sad. Many friends had already emigrated into exile and those of us who remained did not have our parents’ permission to move away from our backyards. There was a grayness in the air and the streets grew lonelier every day; The summer of 1961 was coming on, but not even with it did joy reach our children’s hearts. We no longer felt the delicious smell of freedom and we had our oppressed chest for jail.

That year of 1961 had been traumatic for Cuba and for all of us. It was the year that Fidel took over farms, medium and small businesses, and private schools. The Marist Brothers had abandoned the island, leaving us at the mercy of idleness and the sadness caused by not having daily contact with our schoolmates. It was also the year of the Bay of Pigs Invasion and the moment of decision for hundreds of thousands of Cubans to leave everything behind and travel to unknown lands without knowing when they would return to the homeland that had given us life.

In our home — “Korea” — we did not talk about politics or mention, for better or worse, the name of Fidel Castro, who had passed through Cienfuegos on January 3, 1959 in his slow triumphant parade to Havana. I met him and shook his hand the morning he arrived with his bearded men laden with rosaries and handkerchiefs of the Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre, patron saint of Cuba. The sun of those days, as the introduction to the hymn of the revolution said, seemed to shine more; the sky was undoubtedly bluer and, in our souls, brimming with patriotic enthusiasm. Children and adults, rich and poor, made up that town that streamed through the streets to the sound of whistling and shouting for freedom. The tyrant, Fulgencio Batista: had fallen!

Like every summer, we were preparing to spend the holidays at the beach. Although Varadero did not seem to be the solution for our depressive state of mind, it was, by far, better than staying in Cienfuegos, where they always searched us, harassed us and insulted us; we wanted to leave our town as soon as possible.

On August 20 of that year, I got up early without knowing that it would be the last day I would spend in “Korea”, the modern house that my father had built and where he had spent the last five of the eleven years that I had lived, the best years of my life.  It was my sister’s first home and, although I didn’t realize it then, another member of our family. In front of “Korea” lived Orlandito Cápiro, my best friend; the Cienfuegos Yacht Club – our second home – was three blocks away. The Punta Gorda neighborhood was our citadel, where there were no dangers and only happiness.

That day I ventured to leave the house on my inseparable bicycle, very aware of the physical danger I was running from falling into the hands of the “rabbles”, as my grandmother Carmelina called them. That “rabble” were the residents of Barrio Boneval, where we had many friends who attended public school. There lived “Pipo” and “Alex”, the sons of our gardener and “El Guajirito”, the son of the charcoal burner, with whom we rode a horse. They were children just like me, the only thing that they couldn’t go to Los Maristas or enter our club. I shared pleasant moments with them that I keep in my memory as a treasure that can never be taken from me, unless I lose my mind.

The mother of “Pipo” and “Alex”, for example, made — to sell — some delicious tamarind “durofríos” that we exchanged for empty bottles, which had a monetary value. She cooked delicious pieces of pork that, in the absence of a refrigerator, she kept in tins full of pork grease. When we visited her house and it was time for lunch, “Panchita” (that was her name), took a few pork dumplings out of the tin can and fried them in a kind of budare, our ancient Indians’ frying pans. For some reason that I never discovered, the pork that Juana cooked for us in “Korea” did not have the same flavor as the one that “Panchita” cooked in Barrio Boneval.

“Panchita’s” husband spent a long time in the Topes de Collantes’ tuberculosis sanatorium thanks to a my father and other neighbors where the gardener served before he fell ill. After having overcome the disease and returning to Cienfuegos “stuffed up”, he returned to his daily work. When the revolution arrived, he was appointed head of a revolutionary surveillance center that would later become a CDR (Committee for the Defense of the Revolution). Despite having always been a quiet and very helpful person, one day he appeared to us in “Korea” dressed in an olive-green militiaman uniform. He was carrying a “Czech” submachine gun and leggings worn by the Rural Guard of the ousted Batista dictator. He formally came to inventory the house. He wrote down on a spreadsheet how many rooms there were and who inhabited it. It was an unnecessary task, since that man knew very well how many rooms most of the houses in Punta Gorda had and he knew the names of all of us by heart. It would not be the last visit we would receive from members of the revolutionary militia, each one motivated by a different reason.

That day, the gardener – and now revolutionary leader – suddenly left “Korea” but not before leaving an “order” for my father to appear the next day at “his office”, located under the mango tree he had planted. It was the last time I saw him and after that, I was no longer allowed to play with “Pipo” and “Alex”. I not only missed their company, but also the “durofíos” and the pork dumplings that “Panchita” made for us accompanied by “chatinos” (tostones) and abundant “arroz con gris” with yucca and lots of mojito.

In those days of August of the year 1961, the people of Boneval came to Punta Gorda in groups of twenty or thirty. They stopped in front of our houses and shouted revolutionary slogans loaded with threats. They were always the same faces; Orlandito Cápiro told me one day that he had seen “Pipo” among those who shouted insults at us. Fortunately, there was never a physical attack, but we all feared that one day that violence would stop being purely verbal. It was impossible for me, then, to find a link between these criminals and the Cuban revolution, which would be green like our palms and led by Fidel Castro, whose sacred mission was to complete the work of our father and apostle, José Martí.

It was 6 in the morning when I left “Korea”. I entered as best I could through the closed entrance of the now “intervened” club and went to the abandoned boathouse, where I had met my friend Miguelito Marcoleta, with whom we shared our first girlfriend, Gloria María Portela. In a well-protected hiding place, we had a box of cigarettes that were wrapped in yellow paper, brand “Partagás”. We intended to ride our bikes into town to visit Gloria María, who did not yet know that she was our girlfriend. That day we would tell her that we loved her and that she would have to choose one of the two of us.

With the intention of planning that very particular declaration of love, we proceeded to light cigarettes, but the meeting was aborted when the night watchman that the revolution had put in the club showed up with Sofía Montero, the my sister’s “nana”. Sofia had orders to return immediately to “Korea”. After getting her assurance of her silence about the cigarette still smoking on the ground, I jumped on my bike and headed home. From that moment I only regret not having said goodbye, forever, to my dear friend, Miguelito Marcoleta.

The owner of the “Cuban Progress Supermarket”, a store that brought our groceries to our home before being intervened by the revolution, had a little VW bus that he had managed to keep under his ownership. When I got to “Korea” I saw the vehicle inside our garage with half a body outside. I noticed that the little bus was being loaded with our televisions, beds, kitchen utensils, clothes, and everything that would fit in it. I didn’t understand why we were moving. That operation was repeated several times that day until the house was completely empty. Later, once I was out of Cuba, I found out that those pots and pieces of furniture were distributed among my father’s former employees and some friends we left behind.

My older brother was aware of everything that was about to happen, however, my sister and I did not have the slightest idea of what was going on and when we asked for information they gave us a vague explanation.

To our immense astonishment, that night I saw my father frantically burst the toilets and sinks of our beloved “Korea” and as if that were not enough, with a baseball bat he smashed a “Chandelier” lamp that was the pride of my mother, which hung strategically in the middle of their room; my astonishment was absolute and total and something told me that I had to keep silent. That same night they took out all the air conditioning units and put them in the “Cuban Progress Supermarket” bus and also abruptly took them out of the house. We were preparing to leave our home. Whoever took it over would meet with total destruction.

“Korea” was not only falling apart, but the person responsible for its destruction was its own builder and his greatest lover: my father! That same night we left “Korea” behind, sad and crippled with an arm raised crying out to us, in vain, not to leave her there alone… to take her with us, whatever our fate: whatever our luck! This is how “Korea” died for our family, just 6 years after being born and having witnessed so many Christmases, so many birthdays, so many parties and happy moments.

At eleven o’clock at night, my father, my mother, my brother, my sister, our Pekingese dog “Chato” and I boarded the car. Supposedly we were going to Varadero. Nobody was happy; nobody said anything. We left Cienfuegos that sad and fateful night of August 20, 1961; we had lived in it four thousand and fifteen days, almost all of them, filled with absolute happiness; we took the path of defeat and headed towards the unimaginable exile, which, at least, would last forty-odd long years… if not more.

During the journey that lasted a few endless hours, we were told about the actual itinerary of that trip. We would not go to Varadero. Like many of our friends, we would leave Cuba on a ship that would set sail for Spain. For some strange reason I was transported to the sad day when my parents told me that I was grown up and that I had to know that the “Three Wise Men” did not exist. It was perhaps the second serious piece of news that I had received in my innocent life as a child. A life that until that day, passed under absolute security. It was impossible to imagine then the vicissitudes that I would begin to experience the next day and for many years. Our lives were about to change radically and forever… after that road trip to Havana, our lives would undoubtedly be different.

We arrived in the capital city of Havana, where my maternal grandmother lived; there my father completely disappeared. I only remember having done one errand with my mother and that was to visit a veterinarian friend who gave us a certificate that assured that our neurasthenic Pekingese, “Chato”, was not of pure blood, and therefore had the right to leave the island; the purebred dogs meant currency for Fidel and they did not have permission to leave Cuba.

At my grandmother Petra’s home there was a group of about 15 men, all strangers, who would board the boat with us. Later I found out that they were counterrevolutionaries persecuted by Castro who were fleeing Cuba. If the G-2 (Castro’s political police force) had found out, my grandmother and my parents would have been arrested and probably sentenced to long prison terms. We all faced immense dangers then, but later – while I was growing up – I learned that there is a feeling of solidarity between brothers in struggle that is above life itself. It would not be the last time that we would expose the collective security of our family in favor of the recovery of the homeland.

On August 23, 1961, that is to say, three days after leaving Cienfuegos, the day of my eleventh birthday, we got on board, first in a little boat about 50 feet long and then in a dilapidated and horrifying ship called “Marqués de Comillas”, which had a Spanish flag and was to take us to Spain with a stopover on the island of Curaçao and Venezuela.

In the face of that exciting adventure, I did not understand why everyone was crying. The journey between the port and the ship lasted only a few minutes, but centuries in my heart. It was perhaps the most dramatic and sad moment of the exodus. On the choppy waves of the August Sea, that morning of the 23rd, a woman from our boat began to sing: “Oh María, my mother… Oh consolation of the mortal! Protect us and guide us, to the heavenly homeland…!” It was then that I clung to my mother and let the crying take over my feelings.

When we got to the boat, a small G-2 boat arrived and we heard my father being called through a megaphone, few minutes later, two officers got on the ship. Fortunately, the captain refused to hand him over, alleging that he was already in Spanish territory. After both officers were satisfied that the captain was right, they handed over their weapons and stayed on the ship in route to Spain, where they would seek political asylum.

Later we found out that the gardener from “Korea”, whom my father had helped cure his tuberculosis in the Topes de Collantes’ hospital, had climbed into the holes where the air conditioning units had been in the house and had seen the disaster inside our home. Since all those who leave the country are obliged to hand over every item, even their ashtrays to the government, the gardener considered it patriotic and revolutionary to betray us to the G-2. By designs of fate and thanks to the Spanish captain, my father was saved from a 30-year sentence, and we were saved from having to stay in that hell.

Once safe under the shelter and protection of that brave Spanish captain, my mother knelt before us and led what would be the third grownup conversation in my life. Events were moving with astonishing speed; my brother and I were abruptly becoming men. It was there that I found out that my parents were “counterrevolutionaries” and I must confess today that I felt deeply ashamed for them, because in my mind as a child I couldn’t find, then, anything worse than being “counterrevolutionary”. It was a good thing we were leaving the country, I thought, because it wasn’t very pleasant to live in Cuba with “counterrevolutionary” parents.

My mother hugged me tightly while repeating a thousand times that Fidel was a bad man who did not love Cuban children, that he did not love God or the Virgin, and that is why we were leaving Cuba. I remember that dramatic confession as if it had been made to me this morning. It was like making me choose between Fidel, our “liberator” and the religious deities that I had been taught to venerate for as long as I could remember. It wasn’t easy at all. That gowned up conversation forced me to reconsider the most basic values that had lodged deeply in my mind.

The more I tried to get away from my mother, the more she squeezed me. Her tears soiled my premiere clothes bought by my grandmother for the trip. It was the first time I have felt rejection towards someone and it had to be precisely my mother who was rejected. It was not possible that that heroic, gigantic figure of that man who took the time to shake my hand while a whole town acclaimed him, collapsed just like that, on the deck of an old Spanish ship and before the indifferent glances of hundreds of passengers struggling to get their bags on board.

“El Marqués de Comilla” was an ancient ship with very little capacity for passengers, however, it took almost four thousand people out of Cuba.  Even though we had a cabin, it was very small, hot, and attached to the engine room, which produced an unbearable, infernal, and frightful noise. My brother and I decided to place ourselves in one of the lifeboats. The night of my eleventh birthday I spent sleeping on the bow of one of those lifeboats holding hands with my older brother, not knowing whether to pray or recite the Revolution hymn.

The next day, very early and under a light drizzle, we began the journey towards exile. It was the first time I felt like staying. Absent of feelings, I looked up and contemplated the city of Havana: white, tall… in total silence.

The old ship was towed by two small boats like the potalas that abounded in the bay of Cienfuegos. The relatives of the passengers who remained in Cuba had all lined up on the banks of the Havana port and said goodbye to us with white handkerchiefs that they waved sadly in the air. Crying was the common and contagious factor on both sides. An impressive silence prevailed that gave freedom to the sea wind to be noticed. Then, without warning, someone on the ship let out a shrill, piercing cry of “VIVA CUBA LIBRE!” and on land they began to sing our national anthem. I may live a thousand years and lose my memory, but that morning of August 24, 1961, probably six in the morning, under the mists of a light drizzle, will never be forgotten.

“Hurry up to combat Cubans, for the homeland contemplates you proudly; do not fear a glorious death, for to die for the country is to live…” It was the first time I stopped to listen to our hymn, which more than a hymn is a war march that incites battle. I thought about death, about the pride of that homeland that watched us as we went out to battle. It was not possible to know it then, but many battles awaited me that I would face without fear, knowing that if I died in them I would live eternally in the hearts of those who were left behind.

It was impossible to know, that morning of the 24th, that I would have four children and that they would be born outside of that land that little by little was moving away from us until it disappeared forever from our eyes to remain forever in our souls and in our hearts. “Long live Free Cuba!” Our parents shouted repeatedly until I understood that Cuba was not free yet… but that it would be one day and, in part, that’s why we distanced ourselves from it.

That morning of August 24, 1961, I became a Cuban.