DAY SIX (I); May 10, 1962
(04:00am to 10:45 am)
VIII
We slept for a couple of hours, out of sheer exhaustion. After we woke up I got up and walked a little bit in that controlled chaos, which was the waiting room.
-“Rafelito, te vas en este vuelo?” I heard my name called and looked around. I saw, in a corner of the room a man and woman whom I knew to be very close family friends, almost relatives. Blas and Antonia and her children, who were also leaving on this plane. All of the sudden, I felt a relief inside which although did not quite take away all the numbing coldness that was felt, at least gave me access to some people whom we recognized.
-“Carmenchu” (my sister’s nickname) “look who is here!!” I exclaimed, and I could see her reaction when she recognized the family; she also felt the same sort of relief which said that there was a little ray of hope. We would not be totally alone in this trip.
-“Muchacho” said Blas, “we are going to travel together” “At least we will know where each will be once we get to Miami”.
It did not cross my mind they had to deal with their own problems and scary thoughts about their future as a family. They were also going with very little and, as most people who migrate for overwhelming reasons, they had almost nothing to help them in their journey into a new life ahead, and even less with which to make it except desire, hope, determination and prayer. None of this crossed my mind; all I knew is that two adults we knew (be it barely) were on the same flight. It gave us a sense of security and, as false as it truly may have been, it was something to grab and hang our hats on at that particular, very stressful moment.
-“EVERYBODY, line up over here!!”. The officer in charge barked the order. It was now 4:30am.
-“All of you traitors and ‘gusanos’ (means “worms”. Meant to be an insult, but a nametag we wore proudly) who are running away, get your papers and your bags ready”. He continued to yell -“We will tell you what to do and when to do it…” he looked around and added –“maybe we will let you go”.
While he was yelling this and other not so veiled threats and insults, the guards around him had their hands on their machine guns and looked –at least to us- very menacing. All of us got into the line clutching our possessions, trying to be as cooperative as possible. Of course, we tried to remain as close as possible to our newly found lifesavers, while we looked back to our mother and grandfather, who had hardly moved all night. It seems now, as I look back to their images as I saw them at that moment that they had aged over the last 5 hours. They looked old, tired and the usual determination I knew them to have, seemed to have disappeared.
We stood in line for over an hour, while the guards and the paper guys talked and drank coffee. It seemed this was done on purpose, just to heap insult and misery where there was already a big pile of it.
The line began moving on very slowly, while all the documents, papers, photos and assorted requirements were looked at and met. We were inching up to the head of the line.
-“YOU, with the brown shirt, move out of the line”, one of the guards at the head table yelled to someone a couple of spots ahead of us. Another guard had come in from the outside and had pointed this person to the first guard. The poor bewildered man, somewhere in his late forties, was visible shaking while he moved from the line.
-“What do you want?” he almost cried out; -“I have not done anything wrong”.
-“PULL THE SHIRT OUT OF YOUR PANTS” barked the guard. After the poor man did so, the guard approached him and, taking a sharp knife in his hands, ripped open the sewn bottom of the shirt. To our surprise, and to the man’s consternation, out of this small pocket-like place, came out a number of bills, totaling perhaps four hundred dollars.
–“YOU THOUGHT YOU WOULD GET AWAY WITH THIS?” yelled the guards at him. –“YOU ARE GOING TO PRISON NOW” he continued.
As we watched in panic, the man was physically pulled away and dragged, kicking and screaming, out the door which led to the tarmac and into a waiting small van. Some time later, while still in Miami, some of us learned from a relative of that person that he was ratted on by his own teenage son, who had decided to stay behind in Cuba and was angry because his father was taking that cash with him.
From the very beginning of the new government, a child who denounced his family of any revolutionary wrongdoing, was brought forth to the front of the school and hailed and treated as a hero, being given special treats and rations at lunch time. The family unit as such had begun to disappear. It is my understanding that what happened that day at the airport was not the first such scene and certainly would not be the last.
My sister and I made it to the head of the line at about 6:45am. After much fumbling with papers, she was given the go ahead. This meant she would now move to the other side of the room, where those cleared would wait for departure time.
-“How old are you” asked the guard of me. For better or worse, I have always been tall, especially for a Cuban. At age 14, I was already 6 feet tall (already taller than most Cubans) and looked older than my age. Those over 16 could not leave the country; they were considered of military age and, therefore, property of the government. After all, we were under constant threat of “invasion” from the US government (according to our government) and all able bodied men (children included) had to be present. I was just over 15 at the time, but not quite 16.
I believe the guard wanted to make an issue of my case; there really was no other reason for his not wanting to stamp my documents. After reviewing my papers, he had what can be called and “evil grin” on his face when he said –-----“You are under age and need the signature of your father to leave the country, and I don’t see it here” and then he added –“you will not leave today boy!!”.
My father had left some years before. His departure had nothing to do with Castro; he was running away from other issues. Therefore, it would be impossible to get this signature, since we did not even know –at the time- where he was. This was all in the documents, which also showed that my grandfather, as my co-guardian along with my mother, had the legal power to sign for my departure. None of this made any difference to the guard. Interestingly enough, my sister had just gone through and she is a year younger than I, which would make her more “underage” than I. Yet, she had been allowed through without too much fuss. I looked over at her next to our friends, already cleared, and with a shake of my head told her –and them- to be quiet, not too make any waves.
I was told to move over and stand by the glass wall, away from those who were already checked out. It was now past 7:30am. A bit later, there was a minor commotion at the glass door which opened to this main room. Somehow, my grandfather had become aware of what was going on and managed to, at no small personal risk, enter this glass bowl and face the guard at the table.
-“He has all the papers in order, what is the problem?” he asked the guard in charge. The guard, apparently not used to have his little domain challenged, was taken somewhat aback by this older man’s questioning.
-“I don’t care; he will not leave the country without his father’s signature” barked the guard, starting to become angry at this unexpected challenge; especially in front of the other guards and the rest of the people, silently cheering for my grandfather.
My grandfather quickly realized that this poor fool was not the person he had to question or from whom he would get a satisfactory answer. He looked at me (could not talk or touch me) and, in his look, I saw a fierce determination that this small, yet huge battle would be won. He then went out the door and made some phone calls. Remember the afternoon before? While we were walking around, he had laid the groundwork as if expecting this very problem.
At 9am, the plane which was to take us away came in from Miami and taxied up to position. A Pan American Airways DC3, which sat some 130 people. I looked at it and, as this is being written, I remember that the thought that it could be 129 people on this flight instead of the 130 did cross my mind.
Everyone was herded to a far door line. My sister began to cry, and Blas and Antonia (our friends) were doing all the comforting they could, in order to keep her as quiet as possible. At 9:40 the door opened and they were ordered to board the plane so it would be ready to leave at 10:00am. I was at the same place by the opposite door, with the guard looking over from time to time, as if to say “I told you so”. By 9:50 everyone on the line had boarded the plane and was ready to leave. I was standing alone by the glass door, my mother on the other side, just staring at me in a silent cry of a prayer. My grandfather was still fighting his fight somewhere out of my sight.
Several things happened in the next 20 minutes.
In the plane, my sister was now openly crying. The stewardess, thinking it was out of fear of the flight, was trying to comfort her. The adults, in broken English, told her what was going on with me and she brought this story to the Captain.
Inside the Pecera, the phone at the head desk rang. It was now 09:55am. I saw that the guard who answered the phone became very agitated, as he told the head guard he was wanted on the line. When the head guard asked who it was, all I heard was –“…Capitolio”… this meant the Presidential House. I really did not pay too much attention; it couldn’t have anything to do with me… or could it?
During my growing up years, in our hometown of Cienfuegos, our next door neighbors were a local well to do attorney and his wife. They were also members of the club we frequented and Maria Caridad was an especially sweet person, who became good friends with my mother and grandparents. In fact, a few times I had fallen asleep while visiting them I had awakened the next morning in one of their spare bedrooms; they had no children and Maria Caridad took to me like a surrogate mother.
After the revolution had taken over, we came to know he had been a helper in the process, and eventually he was rewarded (although his eventual end could not truly be called a reward) with a position in the government. At the time of my attempted departure, he was the president of Cuba, Osvaldo Dorticos Torrado; one of only two presidents the island has had since 1959. The other? A guy by the name of Castro.
So the call from the Capitolio did have to do with me. At 10:00am, expected time of departure, the guard received a direct order to let me go. From the president. As a last, spiteful attempt to keep me from flying, I was ordered by the guard, now openly furious, to go to the search room; this was a small side room where I was ordered to strip and to open my bag. I thought, for sure, the plane would leave without me. If it did, the chances of my being able to again go through the departure process (I would have to start at the beginning again) were extremely slim, if at all. I would then be of military age and this would certainly keep me in the country.
Meantime, inside the plane’s cockpit, a small drama was unfolding. The Captain, aware of what was going on, did not acknowledge the tower’s communication with the departure order. I guess he faked some sort of malfunction, just hoping to gain a few minutes of time in order to give a miracle an opportunity to happen. It did.
It was now 10:05am and, inside the search room, the guard could not hold me any longer. The fact we could only take the barest of minimums worked in my favor… how long does it take to search a shirt, a pair of pants and a pair of shorts? This guard, an older and somewhat kinder man than the one inside the room, looked at me with some sadness and said –" Corre muchacho, corre por tu vida" -“Run boy, run for your life!”, opening a small door that went directly to the tarmac, bypassing the room where the other guard presided and where I would certainly be further detained.
At 10:07 am, I ran for my life. The plane, on the tarmac to my right, with the stewardess standing by the door at the top of the ladder and wildly gesturing for me to hurry up… I, running to the plane with my shirttail hanging out and my bag half opened.
There was a rooftop area where people would gather to watch the plane leave; this was to my left. The place was full and I remember the cheers from the people and in one corner, silhouetted against the morning sun, the figures of my grandfather and mother, waving goodbye.
I could not see his face in the shadow, but I could (and still can) feel his look, saying to me –“I told you we would win this battle”. I would never see that man again; my grandfather, my friend, my father. Yet, he is always present in my life; sometimes in an almost physical way. I would see my mother later on down the road, but by then my grandmother would also be gone, without that reunion she so desired.
10:10am… the communication malfunction is suddenly fixed and the pilot acknowledges the tower; the plane begins its roll down the tarmac and takes off, leaving our world behind.
The mood inside the plane was a quiet one. Having lived under a repressive government, I guess we half expected an order from the tower to return. About 45 minutes into the flight, the Captain, over the PA system and in almost perfect Spanish, said –“Ya hemos entrado al territorio aéreo de los EEUU”. “Señoras y Señores, bienvenidos al territorio libre de los EEUU”. “Ladies and Gentlemen, we are now over US territorial waters, welcome to the land of the free”.
With that announcement, a huge collective cheer came from 130 throats.
No comments:
Post a Comment