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Vivian at the age of seven riding “Corsario”. Managua, Nicaragua, 1962.

Nicaragua: A New Beginning

On August 3, 1961, we arrived in Nicaragua. At the age of seven I was disconcerted. I deeply missed my grandparents, as well as the life I had in Cuba. There was a flood of emotions within me. Now I knew what deep fear and desolation meant. For only a moment, the reunion with my dad allowed me to forget the mourning I was experiencing from the painful separation from my family. A new path was opening up before my eyes.

With Carlos Hüeck’s help, my father started his new job in Nicaragua at Aceitera Corona, an oil producing company. With the first payments he received, he was able to rent a space to live in the Colonia Molina area, on the fourth mile (at kilometer 6.5) of the southern highway. That place would be my refuge in Nicaragua.

Colonia Molina was on the outskirts of Managua, with Cerro Motastepe in the background. We were surrounded by vegetation. The properties in that area were still a far cry from the hustle and bustle of the cities, which were overrun with urban developments. This calming atmosphere helped me cope with my heartache. Little by little, I discovered another world: nature, which taught me a new form of freedom. My companions were the trees, the rocks, the mountains, the cows, and above all: the horses. I entered the paddocks to herd them. I also rode bareback, jumping from a wall to get on the horse and riding through the countryside, making it gallop and stand up on two legs, holding onto its mane. If I fell, I would immediately get up, act tough, and not cry over the spill. I would just dust off my rubber slippers and get back on. I didn’t have time for anything else, not even to eat. I loved to bathe the horses, especially my mare “Criolla,” who had a white spot on her forehead. I would give her bran and comb her mane. Life started to be beautiful again. I remember that, every morning, don Silverio, the owner of the horses that we also rented for riding, would sell us a pichinga1 with fresh cow’s milk.

I had a lot of contact with the people who lived near our house. They were humble people, good people, village people. I learned to drive a Jeep, and would drive it around the cows, going up and down the mountain. I preferred baseball instead of playing with dolls and played with my brother and his friends. Pitching to and playing tag with them was something that fascinated me. I always liked exciting games, challenges, and unusual situations. I would climb the nearby chilamate trees. I had fun playing with the shooter marble and the chibolas.2

My mother insisted on dressing me up like a girl, but I liked shorts for biking and horseback riding, climbing trees, and jumping fences. To me, dresses were “itchy.”

Vivian and her dog, León. Managua, Nicaragua, 1962.

The memories of my grandparents repeatedly flooded my memory. I conjured them up in my dreams. I wrote everything I dreamed of in the letters I sent to Cuba, and they answered me. Through their letters they suggested names for our horses: Alejandro’s horse would be named “Furia” and my mare, “Criolla.”

It took up to six long months for the letters to get to Cuba. Actually, it was the only means of communication available, because telephone calls had to be requested, and the government would grant them only when they wanted to. It could take two or three months for the Cuban regime to give this permission, and we were allowed to talk for only a minute, since they would cut the call off all of a sudden. The isolation at that time was total. Not only did I lose my grandparents, but I also lost my uncles, aunts, cousins, and godparents. There were no internet or cell phones. The world was different. The revolution in Cuba was worse than any revolution in Latin America. There, families were torn apart and . . . I was left without the rest of my family.

**

Private schools in Nicaragua were half a school year away and did not accept new students in the middle of term. That meant total freedom for me! At that stage I matured a lot, maybe because I never fully assimilated the separation from my grandparents. I wrote them letters asking why we could not be together, and at the same time, I nourished their hope and mine by assuring them that in a not too distant future we would meet again.

During that time, I made my first communion. I was extremely serious during the entire ceremony. I didn’t smile for the photos, since I was a shy girl and didn’t like to be photographed. After the mass, we went to a restaurant to have breakfast with my parents and some friends. They took the usual photos and my face was always a little bit sad. That’s the great contrast with my life today where laughter comes easy.

I started school soon after, but this transcendent event did not change my habits and character. I left Cuba after completing first grade and being the “excellence of the class,” as we used to say in Cuba. Nevertheless, I was re-enrolled in kindergarten and first grade at the Colegio Americano Nicaragüense, the American school in Managua, because I did not speak English. I was a very good student and my penmanship was very nice, but I didn’t speak English! The directors wanted to move me up to fourth grade, but I was afraid of changes. Certainly, leaving my loved ones and my home behind to move to a new country, especially in such a violent way, was part of my childhood trauma.

The Teresiano School was the solution to educate me, because the nuns would apply more discipline. For the third time, and due to the different systems of the three schools, I had to attend first grade again—another change, another regression, another way of seeing life that came to affect my character. The strict regime suffocated me. My need for freedom clashed with the severity of the school. However, today I think it was the best education I could have received.

Vivian at the age of eight, with her parents and her brother. Managua, Nicaragua, 1962.

I was enrolled in a semi-boarding school, taking classes from 7:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. and arriving home at almost 7:00 p.m. since the school was on the outskirts of Managua. I was the last one on the school bus route. During lunch they served me beans with weevils! Obviously, I put them aside so that I could eat, but many times some nuns forced me to swallow them. I would hide them in my uniform bag and show them to my mom when I got home.

Mother Valeria taught one of the classes. She used to say that I had a call from God to become a nun. When she gave the class, she would look at me and raise her eyebrow. As we lined up for recess, she would ask me if I had already felt God’s call. It gave me goosebumps! I was in sixth grade at that age, so I did not understand the significance of this vocation, but I felt the urgency of Mother Valeria to fulfill her mission to get more followers for her congregation. This situation frightened me so much that it added pressure and a new fear to my life. It was clear to me that I did not want to become a nun. But Mother Valeria believed that, like her, I was “feeling that divine call.”

I have always had enormous faith. God has been my island and my refuge. However, Mother Valeria’s obsession affected me. My grades dropped. That pressure disconcerted me, making me feel very insecure.

My mom was completely devoted to us. She was always happy and never complained about a thing. Everything she did was for her happiness and that of others. The only thing that worried her was the burden of loneliness my grandparents had been left with. Every time a letter arrived from Cuba, we celebrated, because it brought news of our beloved homeland. We would sit around and listen as it was read aloud. We laughed and cried.

In 1968 my grandparents, Manuel and Isidora, left Cuba via Mexico to come live with us in Nicaragua. My dad traveled to Mexico City to receive them. All I needed now were my other grandparents, Pachín and Turiana, and to be able to recover the time I lived without the special love and tenderness that only grandparents can give. I left them when I was 7 years old and I saw them again when I was 14. The reception at the airport in Managua was unforgettable. I hugged and kissed them. Seeing them there seemed unreal. They couldn’t stop talking and laughing. That reunion revitalized my life. I recovered part of my family. They came to live in our home and were immensely happy with us. However, one day Mom told me: “Vivian, it’s better not to move older people because they are used to their lives.”

Soon we heard about my grandfather Pachin’s death on the island. My grandmother Turiana endured a year of solitude before traveling to Nicaragua in 1969. She moved into our house when I turned fifteen.

Vivian on the day of her first communion. Managua, Nicaragua, 1963.

Vivian at the age of eleven. Managua, Nicaragua, 1965.

We moved to Bolonia, a more central location in the city of Managua. We were there until we built the house in the same neighborhood where we had lived for five years.

When I turned sixteen, I told my parents that I wanted to change schools. I wanted to go back to the American school, and they agreed to it. This made me very happy and it was a good decision. I attended classes from 7:00 a.m. to 12:00 p.m. I drove my car to get there and made other friends, who were people with more open minds. There I met my great friend, Rogelia. I finished learning English and graduated. In the meantime, Dad had started his own company: Distribuidora Interamericana S.A. – DIASA, the largest food distributor in the 1970s in Central America.

I really enjoyed my teenage years and lived unforgettable moments with my friends. Every day was an exciting adventure. I was assigned the task of faking the written excuses that our parents supposedly sent to justify our absences from school. I had a special skill in mastering different handwriting styles and copying our mothers’ signatures. There were so many fake messages that we were discovered and sent one by one to the principal’s office, because there were just too many coincidences. We were sat down face to face with the principal, who kicked up a fuss and threatened to call our mothers. We were suspended for three days. Immediately after, Rogelia called her house to warn Chepona, a domestic servant who loved her very much, spoiled her, and did everything she asked her to do, so she would pretend to be her mother when the school called. This woman went straight into her imitation of the voice of Rogelia’s mother.

The school principal, still not satisfied with the explanations that Chepona gave, asked my mother to meet with her. Since my mom didn’t speak English, I served as her translator, taking advantage of the situation to say the opposite of what the principal was telling me. For example, the principal would say, “Lydia, your daughter doesn’t pay attention in class,” and I would translate for my mom, saying that the principal had affirmed that I was an excellent student. The principal would continue to list her complaints: “Lydia, your daughter is late for class,” and I would say, “Mom, don’t listen to this lady . . . she is a little crazy,” and I would tell the principal that my mother assured me that she would keep me in line from now on. That scene would have made anybody laugh. In the end, my poor mother just nodded her head and the director was satisfied. Later I would tell my mom the truth about the principal’s speech and she would answer me in her very Cuban accent, “Oh, for your mother’s sake, Vivian, don’t do this to me,” and we would laugh together.

When we weren’t celebrating birthdays at any of our homes, we would go to the Drive Inn, across from the old El Retiro Hospital, to have some soft drinks.

That was where I first saw Carlos Pellas. I had no idea what destiny had in store for me.