Читать книгу Vivian Pellas: Turning tears into smiles - Vivian Pellas - Страница 11

José Fernández de la Torre, Vivian’s father; Lydia García, Vivian’s mother; and Carlos Hüeck, at El Tropicana nightclub. Havana, Cuba, ca. 1957.

My First Farewell

In that faraway and painful month of April 1961, the sepulchral silence of two in the morning was shattered by the brutal arrival of the G2 to our home. Heavily armed men from that military intelligence group violently broke into our home after kicking down our door. They destroyed everything in their path. Their shouts and insults even woke up our neighbors.

I was sleeping in a room with Alejandro. I was seven years old and my brother was nine. Out of despair, Mom ran to find us in our room, but she collided with the militiamen, who were armed with rifles and pistols. She was pushed out of the room. They searched the kitchen and took everything that was edible. They found my father in the other room. I fearfully followed them with my eyes. I saw them grab him as he tried to throw on the first thing at hand after hearing the racket of the banging and pounding. My Mother, disconcerted and unable to contain her cries, fired questions at the intruders and pleaded for them to take her as well. In response, those threatening beasts glared at her in hatred, provoking more tears, anguish, and impotence. Those were moments of terror.

Vivian’s parents with her brother Alejandro. Havana, Cuba. 1952.

My shocked grandparents could not comprehend the reason for such violence. Alejandro and I watched as my dad was handcuffed and shoved to a truck that would take him to an unknown destination.

At dawn, the search for my father became an ongoing pilgrimage to all the jails in Havana. And for weeks my mother wandered through the streets with food and clothes that she would leave under his name. However, he never received anything. Like many other men and women who inquired after their relatives, never suspecting that all the cinemas, theaters, and stadiums had become prisons holding thousands upon thousands of Cubans, she relentlessly continued her interminable search for days. I would watch her in silence as she went out to the streets. My grandparents made a great effort to shield us from this. The same scene continued to replay over the course of several months.

Her face sunburnt from the merciless rays that beat down on her day after day on her exhausting and futile quest, finally, one day she found him at the Blanquita Theater (today known as the Carlos Marx Theater). I was holding onto Mom’s hand when I saw him from the street as he poked his head, with difficulty, through a small window. In one of life’s great ironies, the same theater they had attended before as spectators had become my dad’s prison. Then Senator of the Republic, Alfredo Hornedo Suárez, built that theater—the largest in the world at that time—and named it to honor his wife, Blanquita.

Now, the performance was being given by hundreds of militiamen who, from the enormous stage, were pointing their rifles at the more than ten thousand prisoners, including both men and women, who were sitting in the theater’s beautiful seats or standing on the lavish carpets. These captives were astonished as they observed the new characters of the Revolution, holding at bay big ferocious dogs, complementing their custodial mission. My mother was never permitted to see my father during the sixty days of his captivity in the theater. Hungry, packed together, claustrophobic, and desperate with the heat and thirst, they protested for better treatment, the release of pregnant women who gave birth to their children in any available seat, and for the opening of the bathrooms, since all the prisoners were allowed to use only one. To make their extreme distress more emphatic, men and women removed their shirts and confronted the militiamen demanding their requests be met. However, they didn’t succeed. Instead, all they got in return were bullets, which led to the death of many of them, and the opening of small windows at the top of the theater to allow them to breathe.

Vivian with her mother and cousins at the Malecon walkway. Havana, Cuba, ca. 1961.

Our home was overflowing with loneliness and sorrow. This tragedy deeply wounded the entire family and significantly impacted my childhood. Nevertheless, no one faltered. I believe love kept us united and strong. Thank God, my mom wasn’t taken away at that time. My dad was imprisoned after the invasion of the Bay of Pigs. That was unquestionably the first traumatic experience of my life.

Today I remember everything with absolute clarity. My memory insists on evoking all of this. Years later I would visit the island of Cuba. I would visit the neighborhood where I grew up. I would feel the music resonate within me in a different way, strengthening these roots. Something about those people, that land, and that sea, made me feel complete.

One day, a few months later, my dad appeared at the door of our home. He returned pale, emaciated, extremely thin, and with a long beard. He was almost unrecognizable. Our joy was absolute, but it was only the preamble for a new separation.

After his release, Dad decided we had to leave Cuba, which, in addition to being prohibited by Fidel Castro’s government, was almost unfathomable. It took forever to make the official request and obtaining permission to leave could take nine, ten, or more years. Besides, we knew we’d never get a permit to leave!

So my father decided to write letters to three friends in Venezuela, Panama, and Nicaragua. Weeks later he received an answer from his great friend, Carlos Hüeck, President of the Beer Factory of Nicaragua, who sent a warm and positive response to my father’s request to travel to Managua. He was the person who acted as the intermediary in processing the visas and permits with the Consul of Nicaragua in the Netherlands back then: Marcelo Ulvert, along with Guillermo Sevilla Sacasa.

Dad had to be present at the Rancho Boyeros Airport in Havana for ten days and wait for a seat on a KLM flight. In those days we were saying good-bye to him until he was able to take the seat of a man who was removed from the plane on some random excuse. My father got through the red tape and managed to leave Cuba with the ticket Mr. Hüeck had sent to him.

The farewell at the airport was one of the hardest moments I had ever experienced emotionally. A deep pain tightened my chest so much that I thought it would explode and the discomfort made me vomit. I was filled with fear. After a long goodbye, with tears in his eyes, my dad walked up the stairs to board the plane. He quickly flashed a shadow of a timid smile and lifted his hand to wave good-bye.

He left Cuba on a KLM plane on June 9, 1961, in search of a better future for him and for us. He was still hoping to find it despite the uncertainty.

He left with his pockets empty. His only luggage was his passport. He flew from Havana to Kingston, Jamaica, which was the only route to reach Miami. Once there, he had to sleep on a park bench. Then he had to wait until the next day to withdraw the money that his friend, Carlos Hüeck, had sent him from the Royal Bank of Canada. He waited for a week before he received the authorization for his transit visa in Miami, and then had to do the same to travel to Nicaragua.

When Dad finally arrived in Managua, Carlos Hüeck was waiting for him at the airport and he uttered the phrase that would change the course of our lives: “Pepe, don’t worry, as long as I am alive, you and your family will have everything you need.” A hug sealed the affection and gratitude that my dad would feel and express to him throughout his life. Don Carlos was like a father to him, and undeniably, a true angel.

At the end of July 1961, almost two months later, my mother, my brother Alejandro and I were able to leave Cuba. We also traveled by KLM, via Jamaica to get to Miami. We left the country penniless, with only a change of clothes in a small suitcase. That was all we could take from the island. We waited at the airport until four in the morning and finally managed to leave at ten in the evening, but the anxiety we felt the whole day was indescribable.

Everything on that long day was pure anguish. The feeling that pervaded those endless hours was uncertainty and the thought that you may never see your relatives again crushes your soul. Behind the glass, my grandparents’ eyes were obscured by their tears as they anticipated the final goodbye. I can still remember the strident voice of the security guard who called over the loudspeaker the names of the passengers whose departure from Cuba was arbitrarily cancelled. My mother, nervous and afraid of the horror imposed by the “system,” prayed that our names would not be the next to be called out.

Nevertheless, I felt the greatest fear when they inspected us. They first searched my mom, patting down her whole body. The officials were constantly monitoring people to make sure they didn’t take any jewelry or money with them. After that they exhaustively searched our very scanty luggage. I remember the angry scowl on the militiamen’s face and their unconcealed contempt.

I felt like I was going to faint at inspection time because my mom had sewn into my pink fisherman pants her solitaire diamond ring, the one my dad gave her as an engagement ring. She didn’t want to leave it behind, thinking that she could sell it if needed. The military official put his hand inside my pants and I, who had seen my mother hide it there, felt the blood run down to my feet. It was a desperate act on my mother’s part that could have cost us our exit from Cuba. I was still a child and I don’t know how I managed to remain calm. Luckily for all of us, the man didn’t discover the ring.

This method of hiding jewelry became common during the early days of the exodus. People used it to be able to take this sort of items out of Cuba. The address and phone book of our friends and family in Miami that my mother was carrying was confiscated. We no longer had anyone to go to or to call if we got lost.

Once we were on board, the crew started calling the names of some people to get off the airplane. Terror was in the air. The plane reached the end of the runway, but the control tower gave the order to return. Everyone was trembling, thinking that any one of us could be removed from the plane. My mother’s face was filled with panic.

The dolls that Vivian left in Cuba. Havana, Cuba, 1963.

Finally, we departed for Jamaica. My mom was crying as she felt a jumble of nostalgia, anxiety, and joy. My grandparents and my cousins were in my mind, and curiously I felt sad about leaving my bicycle.

I was leaving behind a happy life.

We arrived in Kingston after a 45-minute flight. Nobody said a word on the way. Emotions were mixed because we felt free, but very afraid. We arrived at the hotel that Carlos Hüeck had reserved for us. When we entered the hotel, we were warned not to leave because there was a strangler on the loose. So my mother added another anguish to her worries, which were already considerable. So once we entered the room, she closed all the windows and locked the door. We didn’t leave that room a all during our stay. Another reason we stayed inside was that the money my father sent us with a friend of his never arrived, so we didn’t even have enough money to eat! Carlos Hüeck had to send us some.

Two days later, we left to Daytona Beach, then to Miami, and from there, to Nicaragua.

Once we arrived in Managua, we were able to hug Dad again, who was happily waiting for us at the airport.

This was a goodbye to our life in Cuba, to our grandparents, and to everything I knew up to that time. Finding a future in another land that opened its doors to us would be the next step.