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