BAREFOOT TO FREEDOM

By Hilda p Valenzuela Wendtland

Life under communism is cruel and inhumane for non-government sympathizers.

On April 1st, 1980,

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hilda Valenzuela Wendtland
• Release date: Apr 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088083826

Book preview

Barefoot to Freedom

Memoirs of a Teenage Girl. Her Search for Freedom and Democracy, and the Impact of Their Absence.

HILDY VALENZUELA WENDTLAND

Copyright © 2022 Hildy Valenzuela Wendtland.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my father, who was willing to pay the ultimate price to free his children from Communism. To my three brothers, Vicente, Victor, Laz, and my sister Pily. We all made it out alive!!! To my husband Dennis Wendtland, who inspired me and insisted I finish this story. To my children, Rudy Jr, Damaris, Jason, Danny, and Gaby, and to all children who understand the value of freedom because of the sacrifices of their parents. To Cubans everywhere who keep dreaming and fighting for freedom and will never give up. Viva Cuba Libre!

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 – Pressed Bodies

Chapter 2 – April Fools’ Day

Chapter 3 – The Tiebreaker

Chapter 4 – In or Out?

Chapter 5 – Peter Pan Kids

Chapter 6 – No Longer Standing

Chapter 7 – An Old Friend

Chapter 8 – A New Friend

Chapter 9 – One Potato

Chapter 10 – Incomprehensible Cruelty

Chapter 11 – Vicente’s Concoction

Chapter 12 – A Deadly Proposition

Chapter 13 – Bay of Pigs Invasion

Chapter 14 – Chaos and Compassion

Chapter 15 – Food from Heaven

Chapter 16 – The Mastermind

Chapter 17 – No Faith Allowed

Chapter 18 – The Neighbor Boy

Chapter 19 – Butterflies Return

Chapter 20 – A Piece of Bark from a Tree

Chapter 21 – April 19th - A Day I Will Never Forget

Chapter 22 – It Was All a Lie

Chapter 23 – An Unexpected Act of Kindness

Chapter 24 – Caged Birds

Chapter 25 – Time For Worship

Chapter 26 – The Sun Sets for Me

Chapter 27 – Our Peruvian Intercessor Ernesto Pinto Bazurco Rittler

Chapter 28 – The Sun Returns for Us

Chapter 29 – The Phone Call

Chapter 30 – Cleaning Up the Island

Chapter 31 – Laz’s Rescue

Chapter 32 – Mother’s Day

Chapter 33 – Clean And Ready

Chapter 34 – The Businessman

Chapter 35 – Back at the Hospital

Chapter 36 – The Proposition

Chapter 37 – Trusting a Communist

Chapter 38 – The Announcement

Chapter 39 – Pity and Pizza

Chapter 40 – Concentration Camp

Chapter 41 – Two Boats

Chapter 42 – Rescue at High Sea

Chapter 43 – We are Here!

Epilogue

Chapter 1

Pressed Bodies

My dad’s chest is pressed against my back; his ribs don’t bother me, but I think my pointy shoulder blades must be bothering him. I have tried unsuccessfully to find the right place to snuggle in without hurting. After standing for hours in this awkward position, his lungs expand and contract to harmonize with mine, whether he sighs, accelerates, or slows his breaths.

For the first time in my life, my body is pressed against another person, making me extremely uncomfortable. I am aware that I am a bit naive about physical interactions, and usually the only one in any group of girls who has yet to hold a boy’s hand or have a crush on one. Like many teenagers, I have fantasized about prince charming; young girls are imaginative like that when we dream and giggle. But for two days now, I have been surrounded by hundreds of men; there is no prince here and no room for one either.

I am fourteen years old, and my only physical contact with strangers has been to greet them or say goodbye. If fifty people are present at a Cuban gathering, we must kiss each of them on the cheek when we arrive and leave. I wonder if this is asked of children in other countries too. My dad has a unique and low-key way of letting me know when it is time to leave a party. Start handing out hugs and kisses, he tells me. What young person wants to hand out kisses on unshaven, unmanaged facial hair or hug relatives who want to squeeze and plant big wet kisses on our cheeks? I often wonder if this social ritual is to teach or punish children.

I wish I could be at one of those gatherings right now. We are amongst thousands of people inside this place, the Peruvian Embassy in Havana. We huddle against each other like canned sardines. Oh God, is this how we look? Thinking about it makes me nauseous. Canned sardines have no heads; they cannot feel or think. Humans should never feel like stewed fish in a container. Someone should have prevented more people from entering this place because one body cannot fit inside another; it is impossible! Unable to move, people’s ribs are pressed against strangers’ backs, with their butts glued to other people’s pelvises. I am glad to be between the two most extraordinary men I know, my little brother and my dad. But two strange half-naked men are pressed on each side of me.

I try to convince myself, repeating a mantra aloud, like a crazy person who talks to herself:

It is okay like this; this is good; it is good that we are together; better to suffocate by being too close than to be far away.

Most people around me shout out words I have never heard before. I am sure they are not nice since the tone of their voice is mean. My chest tightens as people press Laz, my little brother, against me. I close my eyes and pretend this is not real, but I can still hear screams all around me that are almost deafening. I know that if my eyes and ears fail me, my nose will not. I can smell a latrine-like stench, and even if I pretend and wish to go somewhere else, I cannot move; my feet are buried up to my ankles in mud, surely mixed with poop and pee. I wish this were a nightmare and I could wake up. I would not be as tired, wet, filthy, and scared as I am. If I cannot wake up from this hell, I wish I could sleep through it.

We have not eaten anything in two days, just tipped our chins up to drink rainwater. The combination of rain, heat, sweat, and hunger makes me dizzy. My dad has both hands under my arms, crossed in front of me, and holds me firmly. I keep my little brother alert and on his feet, holding him the same way and trying to help him stay up. I can hold him without effort, but my hands often slide off him because our clothes are wet and slippery. It is hard to tell when I am holding him just tight enough to keep him from sliding without hurting him. I occasionally see black and white spots, and I am afraid of fainting. When this happens, I hold on tighter, blink several times, and the feeling disappears. I once again chant my mantra between the two men I love.

I don’t know if I should refer to my brother Laz as a man. He is only eleven years old and barely four feet three inches tall, sixty pounds; a lad who does not have the slightest appearance of a man. He is so skinny that people may even describe him as a bit skeletal. We sometimes joke that he may have tapeworms. He eats everything he can find but does not gain weight, having the metabolism young ladies pray for.

Children in the neighborhood nicknamed him Calabazitas, which means little pumpkin head. They named him after a cartoon starring a boy whose head was disproportionately large for his body. Boys are rascals sometimes and seem to enjoy coming up with irritating nicknames for their squad. His head does not justify such a comparison. It is the average size for his age, although his forehead is wider than most children’s.

You are identical to José Martí, the great poet and writer, the island’s pride, and the man that all Cubans call the Father of the Country. Laz’s eyes twinkle when we compliment him this way.

We have been standing up for almost two days, unable to sit for even a minute! I have been holding Laz close to me as if someone wants to take him away. It is the first time that I feel responsible for another person. My dad must feel a great weight and responsibility for all of us. Since we got here, I have felt my mother’s spirit entrusting Laz to me. How would she hold him? What would she say to him? He is the legacy she left to us. As long as he lives, she will be alive. Having him so close to me these last days has been like holding on to her.

Today she would have been proud because he has been a little soldier. From where does he get his strength? What happened to the boy who always wanted attention and would always let us know when he was hungry or upset with a situation? While he is shy, he is not the silent, self-sacrificing type. The three ladies in my grandmother’s house pampered him before my mother’s death. He is a skinny orphan with bright eyes and a big smile, whom we all love to spoil.

As my mother predicted, this child is a warrior and a survivor. Standing here hugging him tightly, I remember moments of joy our family has had because of him. We call him Laz to abbreviate his name, which is Lazaro. He was named after Saint Lazarus, a man whom, according to the Bible, Jesus brought back from the dead. The only person who calls him Lazaro is a boy from the neighborhood who frequently stands in front of our house and yells:

Lazaro! My sister is asking if you want to be her boyfriend. Lazaro, my sister is asking if you wish to be her boyfriend?

Laz runs and hides under the bed while his hopeful future brother-in-law screams at the top of his lungs. Watching such a display of childish love has always been hilarious and cute. We know for sure that more than one neighbor enjoyed it. His sister was eight years old, but she already sensed that a brave man lived inside that little boy, and he was worth the embarrassment.

At this moment, Laz, my dad, and I are huddled against each other in a single file, looking in the same direction. I feel a little guilty about how I have manipulated Laz’s head to the exact spot where it now rests in the pit of my stomach, which at the right angle, helps me not to feel so hungry.

Open your mouth and drink water; that is all we need, I tell him repeatedly.

I tilt his head back and try to open his mouth.

Please drink rainwater; rain collects good stuff on its way from heaven to earth. You will feel full because rain fills your stomach more than regular water.

I do not know what I am saying, but I like the idea and the possibility that it could be true. The rain will become the manna from heaven given to the Israelites in the desert. The Jewish people love to tell the story of how food fell from the sky to feed them as they escaped Egypt. We are running from this crazy modern-day Pharaoh named Fidel, who is also a dictator. A miracle could happen.

I know I am rambling, but I am desperate and do not care if I lie. I encourage Laz to keep sipping rainwater, but I can barely find his mouth. My fingers caress his face and hair non-stop until he reacts to my touch. He takes longer and longer to respond, and I am starting to wonder if he is sleeping, unconscious, or worse. If I could look into his eyes, I know we would both feel better. I can barely keep my eyes open, despite the noise in this place, which is unbearable. I do not think God can hear me, so I plead with Him aloud:

Please, God, take care of Laz; if he is okay, we’ll all be okay.

My head rests on my dad’s chest; my forehead barely reaches his chin. He is 6’1, and I am only 5’3. After two days with his ribs wedged into my back, they are starting to bother me, though not enough to complain. If my little brother does not complain, how could I, and to whom? He cannot move, even if he wants to; no one has moved an inch in any direction. The chain-link fence has proven to be kinder than the crowd. It has stretched inches in the last few hours, but this has not resulted in more space or comfort. There is a smell of despair on the second night of this hell.

I am glad I accepted the shorts the Pastor’s wife, Rosita, gave me. I put them on to avoid snubbing her, although I did not think they were necessary. Not only that, but I like the skirt I am still wearing; my oldest sister sent it to me after she escaped to Venezuela. Rosita said it would be nice to have shorts underneath if I had to sleep at a bus station or an airport. I will thank her if I ever see her again. When I remove this heavy skirt and soiled underwear, I will wear just shorts. Eventually, we will move or die standing here.

Every fifteen minutes, my dad says something to keep us alert. That is the kind of man he is. His parental intuition lets him know that we need to hear his voice. He speaks loudly over my shoulder and right into my ear so Laz can hear him. I could tell him it hurts me, but I know Laz needs to listen to his voice, so I stay quiet. We must be coordinated, and he speaks when I need him most:

Do you know April is the coldest month of the year? He earnestly tries to cheer us up.

Seriously? Whatever idiot said that never spent forty-eight hours standing up without shelter, I mumble, hoping Laz will not hear me.

I regret snapping at him angrily, and I cannot believe I said that; it is not like me to be disrespectful, especially to him. He does not correct me either and ignores my comment. These are truly extraordinary times; none of us is acting normal. He keeps telling us stories, and the rebellious adolescent in me is too hungry and sad to listen to any of it.

I cannot get my mind off how wrinkled my feet feel. At first, there was dampness on my toes; by now, I imagine they look like raisins. I sink deeper into the mud with each hour, but I cannot do anything about it. I try not to cry; if Laz knows I am crying, he will freak out. I will be creating more problems than we already have. Either way, what will crying solve? Our perseverance and endurance in this place will last if the youngest member of our family can bear and endure this hell. Keeping Laz comfortable, positive, and distracted will be our greatest challenge and our biggest hope. I suspect that is what my dad is trying to do:

Do you know humans can live up to forty days without food? My dad waits but continues when I don’t answer. But only three to four days without water. The good thing is that we have water here. Is he trying to convince himself?

I love and admire him for how hard he tries to cheer us up, but it does not stop me from mumbling,

It is good to know that we can be here for another thirty-eight days before dying of hunger.

My stomach does not feel as hungry as it did the first twenty-four hours. Initially, it would grumble and make noises; but now, it feels like a gaping hole, and I am dizzy.

When I think I cannot manage this anymore, I lie back and listen to my dad’s heartbeat; everything is more tolerable there. I could be imagining things, but he seems taller; his chest feels wider than before. His heartbeats are so forceful that not only can I hear them, but I can also feel them. Boom! Boom! Boom! It is as if his pulse is subtly pushing my head forward. It reminds me of when I was younger and misbehaved in public. He would discreetly try to correct my antics by lightly touching the back of my head. How can two people such as us, with a strong will that demands independence, feel so powerless? I must remember that we are voluntarily shackled in this way; this temporary bondage is a token of the price of our freedom.

He continues in his quest to cheer us up. He always starts with a thoughtful comment and then waters it down with what he considers funny:

The great Gandhi did not eat for twenty-one days during a hunger strike. He was demanding the independence of India, a colony of England. Gandhi sat on the ground for days during that time. Can you imagine a skinny, bald, big-eared, short man with round glasses sitting on the floor with his feet crossed, only wearing a simple white cloth wrapped around his waist?

He laughs at his jokes. I am sure he hopes his laughter will encourage us and keep us alert and in a good mood. After every joke, there is always a message or a serious point he wants to make, and this is no different.

That is determination and courage, don’t you think? Gandhi never gave up; just like us, he knew the purpose of his fight. We will be successful too, because we fight for a just cause.

I do not care about what the man in the diaper with glasses did, but I have no more outbursts or disrespectful comments. My dad knows me well. He knows I am interested in learning about history, but right now, I am so tired and hungry that I would trade an autographed copy of Cervantes’ Don Quixote for food. If someone sweetens the deal by adding a bed, I would give them a whole collection of Hemingway manuscripts if I had them.

I have dreamed about holding those manuscripts one day, if I ever leave this island, and if they exist somewhere in the universe. I thought they would be my most valuable possessions and imagined holding the pages these great geniuses touched. I want to see which words they scratched off or the paragraphs they moved from the top of a chapter to the bottom. To think of trading such treasures for food and a bed is heartbreaking. I do not own much on this island, but two skirts, three blouses, and two dresses; I am lucky enough to have two pairs of shoes. I do not think the ones I am wearing will be any good when I pull them out of this mud. It is too bad because these were my best shoes.

We had to go to five homes to find these shoes a few weeks ago. There are none for sale at the stores, so people know to trade their children’s shoes, up or down, as they grow. My dad and I must have spent three hours walking all over town. I have to laugh at how stupid this system of trading sounds. We knocked at a stranger’s house and told them that someone said they had a pair of girl’s shoes they needed to trade. I tried them on, and they didn’t fit. Then that person told us about someone else who needed a trade. It was about 5 pm and getting dark when I finally put on these open-toe shoes that fit. I didn’t care what they looked like, I just wanted the search to end, but they were pretty. The lady we traded with was very happy about my close-toe shoes for her younger daughter. Who would have thought my pretty shoes would soon be buried in waste?

Even if he irritates me sometimes with his corny jokes, I count the minutes until I hear my dad’s voice again. I trust him like no other, and he knows the exact moment I need to hear him. With story after story, he makes the hours seem shorter. How can he have so much energy? I do not have the strength to speak, and he has enough to laugh. I hope to God that this is contagious and that it gets to my little brother. My dad is like a flash of lightning that illuminates everything around him.

He seems to be the only person acting normal in this place, including being the only one who still has his shirt on. Most people, including women, have removed their upper body wear to their bare bras. I feel their sweaty, stinky skin against mine. Within this limbo, most people curse and shout obscenities and blasphemies. They use language I have not heard before, not even in street fights between tough, macho men. Spending time with my two older brothers and groups of young men, I have heard street thugs’ vulgarity, but this reality of constant swearing in my ears is one that I could never have imagined. The women scream as if someone is ripping their bodies apart while standing still and pressed against other people.

I try to block out the thousands of voices that howl around us and struggle to cover my little brother’s ears; he does not seem to mind or get upset. I pretend that there are only three people I can hear, see, or feel pressed against, but this is increasingly more difficult. Laz does not talk much, which is why I am worried he is unconscious. When my dad asks if he is okay, I tell him he is, but a sudden worry creeps inside me that I may be lying to him. It is a possibility that weighs heavily on me. When I cannot get a reaction out of Laz, I shake his head for a few seconds; hearing his voice calms me. Laz is the legacy my mother left us; as long as he is alive, so is she. And so are we.

How long we will last in this hell hole, though, I do not know. I gaze around our new surroundings, unable to turn my head without confronting an armpit. Just days ago, I would have never guessed this future was in store for me, Yet here I am, clinging to Laz among thousands of strangers. How on earth did we get here?

Chapter 2

April Fools’ Day

My mind goes back to five days ago, April 1, 1980, the day that triggered this nightmare. My dad told us that the first day of April in the U.S. is called April Fools’ Day. He said that people play pranks on each other, making it sound credible enough to fool others. Such a day does not make sense to us. Why would someone fall for the trap if it is a day known for silliness? Shouldn’t people expect a trick from someone?

We don’t have the resources or the energy in this country to play silly games or prank others; our fun and jokes cannot include any waste. What happened on April 1 in Havana may seem crazy and stupid to the rest of the world, but our goal was sane. People become irrational and desperate to be free, to be whom they want to be, to worship whomever they would like to worship, and to have the fundamental rights of every human being. April 1st was like any other day of the year for us to do something foolish in our search for freedom.

I sometimes dream of what it would be like if I were able to say out loud:

I do not think Fidel is a good leader.

Why can’t I say that in this country? Why do I have to like him? I don’t understand why someone cannot express an opinion. If a human being likes or dislikes something, they should be able to say it. If I like something today, I should be able to change my mind and not like it tomorrow. If it does not hurt another human being, why should someone be punished for saying what they think? People who cannot think or express themselves are not free. Slavery was awful because one person should not own someone’s physical body. Isn’t it just as bad to own someone’s mind? Why can’t someone in this country ever say anything negative about this government without getting punished?

We have heard of dozens of cars and buses with people inside crashing into embassies looking for political asylum in the past. Still, no one imagined that one of those would result in a situation like the one we find ourselves in now. A man named Abel, who has been pressed against us for the past two days, was across the street and saw everything that had happened on April 1st. He is unbelievably detailed in his explanation, which is interesting. Unfortunately for me, his mouth is inches from my face. He speaks loudly to get attention from people around him, and he inadvertently spits in my face when he raises his voice. I feel the wetness of his saliva, so I close my eyes while he speaks.

Abel explains how a bus began its journey along the street called La Quinta Avenida. That is the street my family and I found each other on that God-awful evening we got here. The bus accelerated like lightning and crashed into the chain-link fence of the Peruvian Embassy, which bent like a spike. Finally, it stumbled over giant stones strategically placed behind the fence. Abel uses colorful language to describe what he saw and heard across the street from the Embassy:

The immaculate green lawn and the garden were all screwed up by tire marks. The bus stopped in the middle of the front lawn, and the lucky people inside the bus made it to the right side of the fence. They were in Peruvian territory to request political asylum. Like a thunderbolt, the Cuban guards assigned to prevent people from entering the Embassy began firing at them. The guards kept screaming non-stop, saying, ‘shoot, shoot, shoot those useless traitors, Abel emphasizes with gestures and sounds.

He says the driver and the crew were huddling inside the bus like sheep in the slaughterhouse. Even a young girl like me knew this would happen, and they should not have expected anything less from Fidel’s trained assassins. It would have been surprising if they held their gunfire. Abel interrupts my thoughts:

The people inside the bus held their breath and kept their minds on God; He was the only one who could save them from this hellfire. Who could count so many bullets? Ten? Twenty? One hundred? The shooting went on for a while. It seemed longer to those watching from afar, and it must have felt like an eternity for those waiting inside the bus. Well, the officer in charge had to decide when it was wise to order a ceasefire? Able pauses after that question.

I am used to my dad expressing his opinion, especially on political issues, but most definitely when someone has a question. Even though his body remains pressed between the wire fence and thousands of people, he feels freer than ever:

This regime does not care about the expense of bullets when used to kill those who disagree with them. Firing squads have been Fidel’s favorite form of execution since the beginning. I lost friends and could easily have lost my brothers to a firing squad. As much as the communists enjoy shooting people, they risk injuring diplomatic personnel, which would be dangerous for any country, especially a dictatorship like this one. Excessive shooting by guards can have grave consequences- My dad gets interrupted by the half-naked man on my right.

What can they do to Fidel? No one cares about the people he continues to kill. Before he finishes his thoughts, my dad is at it again:

… Other countries care, the Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations clearly describes the treatment that an ambassador and his staff must receive on foreign soil. Repressive dictatorships hate incidents that make international news. The sound of those bullets could resonate around the world. When he finishes his lengthy explanation, there is silence around us for a minute.

I wonder how my dad knows so much about these things. Maybe it is because he visited different embassies to follow up on our exit visas over the years. His brothers in the U.S. presented several requests for political asylum for us through various countries. They spent thousands of dollars to secure our family’s departure, but they denied it every single time without explanation. He got upset when he opened envelopes from immigration and would risk getting arrested by refuting the denial, even inside our house. How often have I heard him plead with God in desperation: Please do not let my sons go to a Cuban prison. Please get us off this island before Vicente turns fifteen and gets drafted. I was five when I understood what that meant, and I started fearing Vicente could go to prison soon since he was eight years older than me.

My dad often reminisces about the days when Cubans could travel freely to any country. We had heard the stories since my parents were married in 1952, until the day in 1959 when Fidel made time stop, which is how my dad likes to put it. Anyone could arrive at Havana airport, buy