Now a captain, Che had formally appointed him his second in command. The next to be introduced, the guy from Buenos Aires, was a doctor who had arrived in Cuba just before me, motivated by the same instincts and passion. A similar fortuitous chain of events had brought him here. A specialist in preventive medicine, he had worked in the countryside on the chronic diseases endemic to the island and got friendly with several Rebel Army doctors. They noted his enthusiasm for the Revolution and put him in touch with Masetti. From his name, Leonardo Werthein, I guessed he was Jewish.
The lads from the Chaco were the result of the trip my own guardian angel, Alberto Granado, had made there at Che’s behest the previous winter, a couple of months before our meeting in his macabre pathology lab. Alberto had contacted left-wing groups in the city of Resistencia, had done a quick evaluation (although way below the required minimum checks), and deemed them potential candidates. He invited them to Havana to discuss the possibility of taking the armed struggle to Argentina. Back in Cuba, Granado organized their trip and they had arrived a few days before the training started.
Of the two, hatchet face was the most able. He was a mechanic, a weapons expert, and had hunted by himself in the ‘impenetrable’, the desolate wastes of the Gran Chaco where even the indigenous people don’t like going. He knew the history of devastation in Argentina’s two northernmost provinces, the Chaco and Formosa, was used to the rigours of the mountainous forests, and familiar with new technology. Rather unsociable and shy, he seemed committed, no holds barred. His name was Federico Méndez.
His friend from the Chaco lost his name in subsequent events, and became Miguel, a pseudonym he chose himself. Of all of us, he looked the healthiest and most sporty, a classic candidate for the Argentine military academy. Then there was me, who coughed the whole time from the aftermath of my recent bout of flu. It eventually turned into a chronic bronchial condition.
Masetti did not want to be involved in those parts of the project Che would deal with personally. His job was to oversee the training and to get the group to bond. We would be taught by a large number of specialist instructors, although numbers were to be kept to a minimum. None of them, no matter how important, must know our real identities. The only exceptions were those responsible for the support operation, like Olo Pantoja, and a team led by Comandante Barbaroja (Red Beard) Piñeiro from the intelligence services. The rest would know only our pseudonyms, and we would get used to calling each other by these names. For example, from now on, Masetti was Segundo. The doctor opted for Fabián, although he would have liked Alejandro, Fidel’s name in the Sierra. Federico chose Basilio after a much-loved uncle, his Chaco friend was Miguel, and I became Laureano. Our original documents – passports, Argentine identity papers, driving licences, etc. – went via Segundo to the intelligence services. We were like newborn babies.
The only non-Argentine was Hermes, native of the Sierra Maestra. He had joined the Rebel Army just as Che was made a comandante (Fidel’s first appointment) and was forming his own column. He was a young mestizo, just a boy then, whom Che taught to read in the few calm moments of the fiercest battles in the Sierra. He had been with Che ever since: during the long march, at the Battle of Santa Clara, and the triumphant entry into Havana. After an army training course, which he finished with the rank of lieutenant, he became one of Che’s official bodyguards. He had now temporarily left this post so that he could be in situ when his comandante returned to his native land. Hermes, a farm boy in a uniform too big for him, was like a typical Argentine cabecita negra. He would look a lot less conspicuous than us ‘posh city boys’ lost in the jungle. His immediate task was to inculcate military discipline into the group, establishing a logic that said, for example, whoever was on guard duty from two to four should make breakfast at five, or the person who was best at something should do that the most. As Segundo’s expert in guerrilla matters, he would teach us about exploring, choosing camp sites, and organizing camp life. He was allowed to keep his name given that in Argentina it would mean nothing.
The next step was to turn one of the bedrooms into a dormitory. Making us all sleep together would force us to accept that, come what may, we were a group, sharing things, even our personal irritations, dislikes or phobias. The life we had chosen required us to learn to respect each other, our need for sleep, our moods, sense of humour, silences and even our defects and obsessions, as long as they did not disturb the rhythm of the work or were not a deliberate provocation. The desired effect was a kind of symbiosis that would be our insurance policy in time of need. Our common weaknesses and strengths, shared needs and dangers, and joy at successes for the common cause had to become second nature. We had to learn to act as one, never doubting each other, instantaneously, like a gestalt, guided by all-encompassing force.
With this pretty feeble group of men, plus one more who would be appearing any time, the army of Che’s dreams came into being: an army of five crazy guys, like Sandino’s ‘crazy little army’ in Nicaragua, although Sandino had five hundred men, not five. In this initial phase, the operation of getting into the country meant it would be risky to be more numerous. It was on this point that we had different opinions, material for discussion and timid analysis. The subject came up repeatedly, but there was nothing for it but to accept the general plan. Being an armed group from the start meant we would have no recourse to the legal system. The idea (an ethical one) was not to operate clandestinely then resort to habeas corpus, but to dispense altogether with the law that only protects the rich and powerful against whom we were fighting. Added to which, we had to bring in weapons, and you can’t put those in your luggage. We had to start by breaking civil laws pertaining to immigration and contraband, illicit association and forming an armed group, and military laws of insurrection and conspiracy to bring down the government. These laws were used exclusively against poor people, never against big-time smugglers, corrupt governments and military coup-makers. If we failed, we would be accused of trying to show that justice is not divine, but man-made and the product of a pre-mercantile human condition. Did we think we could do it? We thought we could.
For me, all great social transformations – historical and political contexts notwithstanding – have been led by the genius, will and charisma of a great man: leader and soul, brain and emotion, catharsis of the hidden, even ignored, desires and needs of a people at a given time. No mass movement can get off the ground without the emergence of such a figure, either out of the whirlwind of action, or from serenity and reflection, no matter how much praise populists heap on the masses. They can generate spontaneous social movements, but without the figurehead they are nothing but a boil erupting on the skin. From Spartacus to Mandela, Alexander the Great to Mao, Jesus Christ to Gandhi, the existence of the leader justifies the moment.
However, there are intellectuals who not only reject the notion of the great leader but actually demonize him and strip him of importance; intellectuals who watch the century go by from their armchairs, building castles in the air – like the socialist camp – without lifting a stone, until the castle collapses and they move seamlessly on to something else. But to lift the stone, you have to roll up your sleeves and run risks, and face the possibility, inherent in history, that your goals be misappropriated, and your dreams turned to dust.
For me, Che embodied honesty and ethical behaviour in the smallest details of every one of his actions. The masses, who will follow a man because of his ideas, even after he is dead, hate intellectual arrogance which, they sense, is expressed in books they will never read, and symbolizes a superior class that despises them.
The crazy side of our project, the feeling that we were insanely on our own, did not intimidate me. It excited me. My only doubt was existential. Do I do it, or do I watch others do it?
Training and the Missile Crisis: October 1962
It was daybreak. ‘Get up … !’ barked Hermes. Nobody seemed to have heard him, so he repeated in Cuban: ‘Get up, coño!’ We looked at him as if he were mad. His work schedule had begun with breakfast at six, followed by a series of exercises that from now on would be our introduction to the day. By nine o’clock, we had run, jumped, crawled, and flexed our muscles. Surely there must be some mistake?