The Revolution that Wasn't: My Candid Observations about the Shared Cuba and US Histories

By Graciela C. CatasAos

While this work tries to be a primer in Cuban history in its relationship with its northern neighbor and mentor, the United States, before the Castro takeover, it is a great deal more. Aside from relating her experiences growing up in La Habana, the author documents Cuba's excellent economic strides and outstanding placement among Latin American and international nations, great educational system, and the impressive 1940 Constitution. The book aims at debunking the myth that Cuba required a revolution to cure any economic ills and/or that the Castro revolution delivered any improvements to the island.

In the process of relating the history of Cuba from its discovery by Columbus in 1492 through its travails seeking independence from Spain, and later being incorporated to the United States as a protectorate before its independence; many interesting political twists and turns are uncovered, along with glimpses into the actions of presidents, military men, politicians, US newspaper barons, and even spies. Throughout these developments, aspects of the Cuban national character that help explain much of what unfolded in January 1959 are exposed as well as, a US White House perpetrator who has largely escaped historical scrutiny.

Even though the Castro takeover of the island came to be on January 1959, this was not a disconnected occurrence; as several generally unidentified issues had been flying under the radar, helping to generate this seizure of power. Also, when considering the continuous United States meddling into Cuba's national affairs before and after its independence; as well as its veiled support for the Castro forces but, last-minute refusal to interfere in Cuba's affairs to preclude the imminent Castro Communist occupation, a clearer picture of the real culprit comes into focus.

Lastly, this book is about fairness, learning from history, and personal growth; as the author describes her evolution from a seventeen-year-old Cuban refugee in 1959 into an acculturated United States citizen, who understands her adopted country's history and democratic form of government and the similar hopes she holds for her fellow Cuban Americans, alongside a yearning for long-overdue historical justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781649529213

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The Revolution that Wasnand#39;t

My Candid Observations about the Shared Cuba and US Histories

Graciela C. CatasAos

Copyright © 2021 Graciela C. Catasús

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books, Inc.

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2021

ISBN 978-1-64952-920-6 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64952-921-3 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Introduction

The basic premise behind this book is to allay and properly refute all the incorrect, improper, erroneous, dishonest, unethical, offensive, insulting, and even criminal ideas that have been advanced about Cuba and that have taken hold in the Cuban, American, and worldwide minds and stage. By contrast, my hope is to have salvaged—through readings and research—important accurate information to replace these deceitful notions with true, historic, and well-founded facts.

As such, Dr. Carlos Márquez Sterling is not only an eminent chronicler of Cuban history, but he and his father have been distinguished participants in the history of the Republic of Cuba as well. Here, I enclose two paragraphs from Dr. Márquez Sterling’s Historia de Cuba (p 500) that echo my feelings and that I have tried to encapsulate in this book.

Many outrageous things have been said and published in relation with our social and economic progress in relation with the Communist-Castro revolution, and the Republic of Cuba has been represented as a backwards people who needed the help of a revolution to put an end to injustices of all kinds that were being committed.

No worst example than millionaire Chester Bowles, who briefly held the post of U.S. Deputy Secretary of State and who stated that, the Cuban people rebelled in 1958 because it had been exploited and treated unjustly, and he added, The United States must learn that, when a regimen with feudal mindset develops and denies the rights to its people, upheavals can occur.

This book’s premise is that Cuba didn’t need a revolution and didn’t receive a revolution, at least not in any positive way. What it did receive was a total setback, from its tortuous but progressively evolving historical course, resulting from a set of circumstances best described as a perfect storm. As such, this work does not have any information after the date of the Castro takeover, because what it tries to show is that there was neither a demand nor a delivery of a revolution in Cuba—at least, not in the sense of any comparative improvement.

To demonstrate this fact, given that I am not a world-renowned scientist nor historian, I have basically and consistently relied on individuals who have excelled in their historical work with regards to Cuba’s economic and social development and/or the law. Therefore, by listing them as references throughout, I try to do two things: (1) secure them as valid sources of what I am stating and (2) stimulate the readers’ curiosity into learning more about the subjects being discussed here through reading the quoted original works.

Also, because thick historical tomes rarely attract the attention of busy readers, it is my hope that by mixing up historical data with stories and anecdotes of my growing up in Cuba, as well as some of my bicultural experiences and observations while living in the US, this book may entice a good number of otherwise busy individuals toward the topic of history.

Amazingly, while as a fairly well-educated Cuban—both in an excellent Cuban high school and later in very good US universities—I have been favorably surprised and happily impressed by much of the positive information that I have uncovered during my research on the Cuba before the Castro takeover, with a few exceptions, of course. Sadly, I have not been so favorably impressed with the information I have learned regarding the conduct of the Catholic church during Cuba’s Spanish rule, nor with the actions and policies of Spain and the US governments in their relations with Cuba before—and after—its independence.

Therefore, my heartfelt and most essential wish for this work is to both educate the Cubans inside and outside Cuba, Americans, and the general reading world about the importance of democracy and the value of not only developing a fair and concise national concept about each of our countries but also that this concept continue to be a true reflection of each country’s stated aspirations and constitution.

For instance, as will be seen, particularly in the chapter on Cuba, the US, and their Shared History, the Cubans—as the emerging group entity seeking its independence—often had to fight both the Spanish on one side and the US on the other in order to obtain and institute fair treatment for its indigenous peoples first and the Black African slaves later, both of whom they considered to be part of their national identity and realm. Unfortunately for Cuba, as can be seen in chapter 6, The Grand Finale, its unhealthy relationship with the US continued even after becoming independent, coming to its sad conclusion on January 1, 1959.

Moreover, it is shameful that neither the exiled Cubans nor the Castro revolution have acknowledged the important contributions made by Cuba’s most important minority groups—the indigenous population and the Black slaves—in giving the island its unique national character and personality.

While the exiled US Cubans have retreated into their whiteness to disregard any and all influences provided to Cuba by other—just as suitable—contributors to the detriment of their own credibility, they have done so by not fully understanding their own country’s cultural history. If they had, the differences between the management of Cuban African slaves by the Spanish and, by contrast, the treatment of the US slaves by the English would have been better understood. In absence of this knowledge, they have become just another uneducated and uninformed racist faction, not even interested enough to delve into the true nature and reason for their exile. Do they think Fidel Castro just sprouted out of the Cuban fields? Do they still think Castro was a noble response to Batista’s government, as the US press led everyone to believe? Do they still think the Eisenhower administration had nothing to do with the Castro takeover? Are they blaming JFK for something that happened after-the-fact? Do they wish to know the truth of what really happened to them and their country? Are they not curious? In life, one must do for oneself as no one else will take on that responsibility! I hope I can help to answer these questions here.

By contrast, the highly hypocritical Castro movement, while it represented itself as a populist movement of racial and class inclusion, only to obtain world approval, later turned its back on those he/they shamelessly used to curry favor and, upon takeover, for the first time in Cuba, persecuted Blacks and gays with impunity.

Lastly, any repetitive pieces of information detected by the reader are not in error but are purposefully included as an overlapping strategy to counteract decades of misinformation, deceptions, and misrepresentations on this subject and to remind everyone that propaganda and misinformation are still presently being used by demagogues and cheaters to gain the support of naïve and uninformed citizens.

Please keep in mind that events recounted here are compressed so as to present the most information in the least amount of space. This does not mean that life in Cuba was chaotic at all times, on the contrary. Life in Cuba was peaceful and pleasant for the most part—for those not involved in politics and/or with the University of Havana students. The violence within the student groups started very subtly during the Zayas presidency in 1925, continued to grow through the later presidencies, and reached a crescendo during the Machado revolution in 1933. Afterward, the political violence not only continued with the university students’ political gangsterism in the 1940s, but it grew and broadened to include the Communists who, by this time, were brazenly and openly participating in all political institutions, as well as in armed violence to overpower Cuba’s democracy.

Chapter One

January 1, 1959: The Beginning of the End

The Beginning of the End

That short night completely changed my life. The oldest child, I had just turned seventeen. My three siblings and I had carried on with a silly last-day-of-the-year Cuban tradition—throw a bucket of water out the door and say, Let the bad stuff go out—and had gone to bed soon after midnight. It was January 1, 1959. My father, a pilot and senior officer in the Cuban Air Force, telephoned from headquarters about 2:00 a.m. And without an explanation, he asked my mother to meet him there. She woke us up, told us to dress, and we drove silently through one of the darkest nights that I can remember. Our lives and my country’s fate would be radically changed from that day on.

My father’s early morning call to my mother would result in an incredibly rough awakening. As I was to learn later, many perverse circumstances had convened to help create this historical event. The repercussions of the Cuban revolution would be many and far ranging as it generated great social changes in my country’s culture, helped upset the balance and direction of several Latin American countries, and ultimately would develop into a dangerous Cold War conflict between the two most powerful nations on earth. This historical milestone put an abrupt end to my adolescence and would influence my thoughts and actions for the rest of my life.

It is difficult to remember much of what we did before we all got into the car that day, but I can still sense the darkness outside the house and the numb feeling of not quite understanding what was going on. After a fifteen-minute trip, my mother’s station wagon arrived at Camp Columbia, the Air Force command center, and the military police let up the barrier to allow our car to pass. We had gone through this gate many times before, but as we entered the military base that night, there was a new and ethereal quality to the process. It may have been the unusualness of the hour or the mysterious circumstances surrounding this trip, but all activity surrounding us appeared to be taking place in slow motion. Inside the station wagon, my younger siblings—two sisters and one brother—were transfixed. None of us uttered a word. The blend of disconcert and concentration trapped us all in a surrealist warp.

Outside the car, everyone’s mood was not only quiet but also somber. The men in uniform went about in what appeared to be business as usual, but then we saw the airplanes! My mother parked the car, and we walked around the building to where a small crowd had gathered. I had always loved visiting my father’s place of work because the Cuban Air Force (Fuerza Aérea Ejército de Cuba or FAEC) was housed in a beautiful old building. Built during the late1920s, this structure had formerly been known as the Hotel Almendares. It had a curved and covered portico that could rival any elegant hotel and—I am sure—a fascinating history all of its own.

Inside the curve of the building’s white balustrade semicircle driveway, imparting shade and offering a screen of tropical splendor, was the biggest banyan tree I had ever seen. The diameter of its trunk, together with its secondary air roots, must have added to twelve feet or more. And the tree’s perennial bounty of large red berries was always strewn around the parking area, adding another source of regard for its remarkable presence. I used to weave among the banyan’s sinuous and convoluted air root system as if it were some kind of enchanted forest. To me, this tree represented another symbol of nature’s endowments and mysterious deeds.

Once inside the vestibule of this classic building, its architectural charm gave way to a simpler and more functional appearance. But still, there were arches, French doors, curved stairwells, and elaborate banisters gracing its handsome interior. The building’s square configuration allowed for a large interior patio that contained lines of wooden armchairs—the seating for an open-air auditorium—where American movies were shown every day at sundown. The movies also could be viewed from a loggia just off the grand salon in the officers’ club on the second floor. An environment of fun and camaraderie always permeated our movie-watching visits as we shared the feature with other air force officers and their families.

As a youngster, the officers’ club ladies’ restroom was one of the most elegant rooms I had seen. It contained several kidney-shaped vanity tables, assorted French-period chairs, and thick red velvet drapes tied back with red and gold braiding. The décor was sparse but classy, I am sure leftovers from the building’s former life. Many years later, while living in the US, I was fortunate to visit other similarly well-appointed buildings of the same vintage and style, such as the Everglades Club in Palm Beach and the Indian Creek Country Club north of Miami Beach. My visits to these Florida architectural jewels were not only a true delight for the senses but also an imaginary trip through my childhood’s memories remembering the grand old building that housed the Air Force command in Havana.

However, during the dawn hours of January 1, 1959, my usual regard for the building had given way to a different feeling—the sense of uncertainty and expectation—that made me feel as if I weren’t breathing. The three-passenger planes that we had seen upon arrival did not belong to the Cuban Air Force, and they looked huge and imposing parked so close to the building. They were DC-4s bearing the insignia of Q Airways, a small passenger airline that operated out of the Columbia military airfield and carried passengers and cargo to Miami and other nearby locations.

We spotted my father and made our way toward the group where he was in. Even though entries in other books depict this scene as consisting of women wearing long evening gowns, men’s faces contorted by fear, and soldiers shouting ‘Viva Fidel,’ this is nonsense. We did not witness any of these things. Maybe the above descriptions make for more dramatic copy, but all I could see and feel was the tension. When we reached my father, there were no greetings, only blank stares, and I was not able to hear what words he spoke to my mother. Apparently, he had not given my mother any more information on the telephone because he didn’t have any to give. He didn’t know any more than we did. But by now, the feeling of emptiness that I had been feeling in the pit of my stomach was being replaced by a sudden tightness, as it was becoming obvious that we all would be taking a plane ride soon.

Without any fanfare, we walked up the steps to the waiting plane and were soon airborne. I never suspected that getting on that plane would result in a sixty-plus-years-to-life banishment sentence from the land of my birth and from everything I knew until that very moment.

As I was to learn later, humans—individually or in group—are doomed to failure by not first considering all the possible solutions to a problem as much as by making bad choices. True human success ought to be measured by degrees of fairness in obtaining the most benefits for the most people, while failure ought to be described by short- or long-range gain for only the very few. In an ideal scenario, possible solutions need to involve all affected individuals who, in turn, would consider all possible perspectives and their potential outcomes. This is democracy at its most basic. Unfortunately, this is not how the human animal or its societies operate. As a rule, the course of history has largely been decided by the most powerful, whether in physical or economic strength. And as in our individual lives, historical events don’t just happen by chance. They represent reactions to earlier actions or to decisions taken—or not taken.

It was the beginning of 1959, and whatever air travel is today, this was not it. DC-4s have four propeller engines and are relatively small passenger airplanes by today’s standards. There were two rows of two seats each on either side of the aisle, and my parents and their four children sat in adjacent seats in the mid-to-rear section. There was still a surrealist quality to the surrounding scene, and I couldn’t help but be glued to the comings and goings inside the plane. Even though no one had the time or the presence of mind to explain what the plans were or if there were any, I had figured it all out by now. The political situation in Cuba had deteriorated greatly in the last few months, and even though leaving my country had never been in my realm of choices, this was exactly what I was about to do.

Thirty years later, by 1989, I would finally find the time and the psychological fortitude to read about the specific events surrounding January 1, 1959. I found the information in one of the first Cuban history volumes that I acquired—The Winds of December by John Dorschner and Roberto Fabricio. Here I read that the planes had been requested by Batista himself to be on constant standby alert and had been in place for over a week because the political situation in the island had been so precarious. As the established Cuban government crumbled, the few months prior to December 31, 1958, had been times of high anxiety, diplomatic deceit, military disloyalty, and general turmoil. However, the very first book I read on this subject had been The Fourth Floor: An Account of the Castro Communist Revolution by Earl E. T. Smith, who had been the American ambassador at the time of the Castro takeover. Mr. Smith was a wealthy businessman who, as a loyal Republican and major contributor to his party, had been rewarded with the ambassadorship to Cuba by President Eisenhower and served from 1957 to 1959. However, Mr. Smith and his book were highly critical of the role played by the US government and its agencies in support of the Cuban Revolution. It is obvious that Mr. Smith was not just a rubber-stamp type of person. Rather, he called it exactly as he saw it, regardless of the risk. Mr. Earl E. T. Smith, who lived to eighty-seven years old, died in Palm Beach, Florida, on February 15, 1991. He will be remembered as a gentleman and a man of honor.

Mr. Smith recounts how, upon his arrival to Cuba, he had been told that he would be the second most powerful man in the island—sometimes, even the first. And he had enjoyed sharing this piece of popular wisdom in his most expansive moments. Because of the bird’s-eye view his position as ambassador had afforded him, I chose to read his book first. On page 115, in the chapter entitled American Intervention and the Fall of Batista, Mr. Smith lists twenty different actions taken by those who shaped US foreign policy toward Cuba, whereby the US not only caused the fall of Batista’s government but also helped Castro come into power. Reading as fact in its full cruel detail, what I already suspected, relieved me of what little political innocence I might have had left and set me on a path of political wisdom that will forever be with me.

I loved my country very much, identified strongly with its culture, and was proud to be Cuban. Also, because my father was a military officer, I had lent my unquestioned emotional and rational support to the established Batista government. And even at my childish level, I had heard many discussions about whether Fidel Castro was a Communist and how he would not represent a political improvement for our country’s future. On the other hand, I also could see signs, particularly during 1958, that many middle-class Cubans supported Fidel Castro and were opposed to the Batista government.

Once, while visiting the Vedado Tennis Club as the guest of my friend Clarita, I noticed that among all the social clubs’ flags lined around the ceiling in one of the club’s rooms, the only one which had been overturned was the one belonging to our club—el Círculo Militar y Naval. Also, sometime during the late fall of 1958, the nuns of the catholic school that I attended, the Lestonnac Academy, had openly hosted a mass in support of Fidel Castro. Even within my own family, there were relatives who openly supported Fidel Castro.

It was all very confusing. Somewhere inside my head—or my heart, I don’t know which—I had saved a small neutral space to store any doubts regarding this issue. I could review any new evidence that might serve to sway my reasoning either way and therefore throw my support in a different direction. I now realize that even before January 1959, as an innate observer of human nature, I had been somewhat politically aware. However, afterward, due to this experience, political awareness became political vigilance and has remained this way. Also, in the midst of having abandoned everything I knew or had, and not knowing where I was going or even if my family would survive, I discovered that my feelings for my country superseded whatever selfish feelings I might have had for myself. This was probably due to the idealistic nature of my age, a strict and disciplined upbringing, and my timid but independent personality reacting toward my country’s politics. So my attitude at that time could best have been described as youthful nationalism.

Therefore, what I most clearly remember about that dawn on January 1, 1959, is my silent prayer to God soon after takeoff: Dear God, please help heal my country. If our departure is a necessary evil to help accomplish this important deed, so be it. We’d be happy to leave. Amen.

The way I felt then was that this was the greatest sacrifice we could be asked to make. To suddenly give up the land of one’s birth, culture, family, language, personal history, and everything else that fills one’s daily life and is routinely taken for granted is the greatest sacrifice anyone can make, short of giving one’s life. Exile is the penultimate sacrifice.

But in the middle of the ongoing tribulations, all I could think about was our three dogs. All females, it had been miraculous that we had been allowed to keep them after all. Because our former male dog, Pitusa, a small brindle mixed breed, had run away, and after a week’s absence, he had come home to be diagnosed with rabies! Because my three siblings and myself may have possibly been nipped by him upon his return, we were administered the fourteen-shot course vaccination treatment for rabies on our dorsal muscles! This was doubly dangerous as any of us could have developed rabies from the vaccine itself! And after that very close call, my father had pronounced in no uncertain terms—and in his own inimitable stern demeanor—that There will be no more dogs in this house!

Fortunately, even though we technically followed our father’s command of no more dogs, we managed to adopt not one but three bitches! The first one to appear, Mónica, had a most beautiful whiskered face that had successfully cracked my father’s no-more-dogs mandate. And as the eldest child, I had laid claim to Mónica right away! She was tricolor and looked like an Australian terrier mix. She had beautiful hazel eyes with two-inch eyelashes and was very smart and determined. Because terriers have been bred to work without human supervision, they are very smart, resourceful, and persistent—the very same qualities that make them highly independent and somewhat testy. It appears that I have always been partial to terriers, and they, in turn, have been attracted to me. Mónica was the twenty-pound matriarch who would rule the pack with an iron paw.

Negri, short for Negrita, had shown up at our house with an injured back leg over one year before we left. She was a black Labrador mix, and she and my brother Feli immediately hit it off. At the time of her arrival, my father had been enduring a bout of what is commonly known as shingles and was staying at home a lot. The medical name for this very painful skin eruption that involves the sensory nerves is herpes zoster, and it is caused by the varicella-zoster virus. Because of my father’s condition, my uncle Antonio, who was a medical doctor, made house calls every day and also set a course of treatment for Negri’s injured leg. Her therapy involved daily stretching of the leg and massage.

Negri recuperated of her injury completely and turned out to be a most intelligent and loyal addition to the family. Linda, the third canine addition to the pack, was a boxer puppy given to my sister Cris by our Uncle Cucho and Aunt Tata. Linda must have been the runt of the litter because she was small for a boxer and very pretty and dainty. Linda was not only the youngest and the latest arrival, but she turned out to be a very politically astute pooch, as she always looked up to the others, waited to see their reactions, and then mimicked whatever their behavior was with boundless zeal. Linda was an absolute riot to watch!

Even though our ranch-style house in La Coronela had spacious fenced and gated grounds all around, the dogs were considered to be family members and always slept inside and on our beds with us. When leaving our house at dawn that day, even though my father had not given my mother any specific information, she had used her best judgment and asked that we leave the dogs outside before locking the house. I guess her hope was that if her worst fears were to come true, the dogs would stand a better chance outside, where they could attract the neighbors’ attention and—hopefully—care.

For me, leaving our dogs behind was a nightmare within a nightmare. Upon arrival in Florida, every time my thoughts turned away from our own predicament, I would think about them and be tormented by the guilt of having left them behind, as much as by the frustration of not having been able to do anything about it. Some people might think this was not such a terrible deed because they were only dogs and not humans. All I can say to them is that living beings are living beings. And much more so when the living beings in question are as intelligent and loyal as dogs are!

Even though humans consider themselves superior to the other animals, they could learn many things from dogs—the domestic breeds as well as the wild. The only way in which humans could show their own superiority would be by honoring their inherent responsibility to all helpless beings rather than by taking advantage of them, as is often the case. Taking selfishly comes naturally to all animals, humans and otherwise. It is altruism, however—giving to others—that is so much more difficult to achieve. And since dogs’ loyalty toward humans is unquestioned, if we were to follow their example, there would be fewer problems in the world.

Soon after takeoff, the weather was getting bad, and our ride in the DC-4 was getting bumpy. Because of this, as the most experienced pilot, my father was asked to take over the controls, and he went into the cockpit. Of the three Q Airways planes parked close to the building, ours had been the first to take off. Later, I was to fantasize, without any real reason, that our plane’s taking off first might have been a test, and if we had been shot down, the other two planes would not have taken off! But Havana was very quiet, and so had been Camp Columbia. Fidel Castro’s forces would not get to the capital for a full week after our departure.

Batista’s own plane went to the Dominican Republic, where he would remain for some time. Our plane’s original plan to land in New Orleans was scrapped to avoid trouble, since it was believed that the many Castro sympathizers in that city would give our group an unfriendly welcome. Not counting on the changed flight plan or any deviation caused by a bad winter storm, our plane’s propeller engines would have taken from five to six hours to deliver its emotionally shaken fifty-people cargo to Jacksonville, Florida, USA.

And January 1, 1959, was a cold, wet, and dreary morning in the Jacksonville area. We had spent most of the night aboard a plane that, as far as I could tell, had no definite destination or specific time of arrival. We landed sometime after 9:00 a.m. and were met by US military soldiers with long weapons trained on us as we descended from the plane. This was some welcome party! However, almost half of the plane’s passengers were military personnel which had been in charge of Cuba’s armed forces until just a few hours ago.

A sampling of the travelers in our plane included a brigadier general, who had been the chief of staff for the Cuban Armed Forces and his three sons. Two were generals and headed the army and Air Force, respectively, and the third was a colonel and a pilot in the Air Force. Another of the passengers was a general that had headed the police department and who traveled with his military aide. Also part of a military family, this general’s two sons were colonels. One had headed the secret police, and the other was a pilot in the Air Force. The general’s military aide deserves special mention as he was, by appearance, either a full-blooded indigenous Cuban Indian or a mixed Indian and Black! Randón, as we only knew him by his last name, had copper-color skin and the perfectly defined native features I had only seen in my history and geography schoolbooks. He had broad shoulders, appeared to be strong as an ox, and had the sweetest temperament and demeanor, always helpful to everyone around. He was very loyal to the general, stayed within the family, and lived to a very ripe old age, possibly ninety years old!

After having been in the US for some time, I learned from my brother that my father, a colonel until mid-December, had then been promoted to general, but my father never mentioned any of this. Supposedly, this promotion would not have changed his position as second-in-command and chief of operations within the Air Force. We had not seen too much of him lately because he had been busy flying defensive air missions in the easternmost Cuban province, Oriente, where Fidel Castro’s insurgency campaign had mostly been concentrated.

Another family nucleus traveling in our plane was Batista’s eldest son, his wife, and two young children. All of the military men mentioned above were traveling with their wives and children, but there were also a few men traveling alone. Upon landing, and much to my infinite shock and jealously, I saw that we also had two four-legged traveling companions. Because of their convenient travel size—these two dachshunds had been very lucky—they had fit snugly inside their mistress’s heavy coat!

No one had a choice. No one had much notice. No one was prepared. There was no luggage on board. The men were still dressed in their uniforms, which included holstered weapons. Also upon landing, our entire group had been escorted at gunpoint—so to speak—to a wooden building on stilts somewhere within this Jacksonville military airport, which may have been Cecil Airfield, a facility that had opened in 1941 and served as a joint civil-military base to service military and air cargo, as it was not an ordinary airport. It was bitter cold. We had not slept. Some of the small children were crying. There was not enough seating to accommodate all of us in our new elevated quarters. And by late afternoon, we still had not had any food. This could not get much worse, or so I thought.

Arrangements were finally made. Each nuclear family was assigned a rental car, and our caravan began its journey south from Jacksonville under police escort. Everything was new and strange. The gray landscape and barren trees fit the mood to perfection. It still rained, and the cars’ headlamps reflected off the satiny wet pavement. Still, no one spoke. We were stunned. During our drive, and while crossing an intersection, I noticed that an elderly man had taken off his hat and placed it on his chest. This was a gesture of respect and mourning as our caravan crossed his path. He was wrong, but it was still a very appropriate salute. He had mistaken our caravan’s headlights and police escort for a funeral and was showing his respect.

We stopped for the night at a roadside motel, and after almost twenty-four hours, we were finally able to clean up, eat, and rest. We had endured our first day as political refugees. The rest of them would come soon enough. In the morning, my brother and I walked outside the motel to investigate the area. The weather was still cold, but now the sun was out. We saw some Black motel workers nearby, and I was surprised at their absolutely black skin color tone. We had never seen anyone that dark before. There were plenty of Black people in Cuba, but they were really brown—dark or light. I tried to use my high school English with them, but I was not very successful. The Black men spoke English in a heavily accented Southern drawl, which made them doubly difficult to understand. Feli and I were still outside when I saw our fellow passenger lady walking her two dachshunds, and I thought about our three dogs left behind and became terribly depressed all over again.

Upon arrival in Lake City, the entire group checked into the Lake City Hotel. And since we only had the clothes on our backs, plans were made to stop at a store and get a few items of clothing and other basic necessities. After purchasing some inexpensive dress items and changing into some pants and sweats, we started to blend better into our new environment. Two nights earlier, when my mother had awakened us and asked us to dress, I had reached into my closet and picked out an oyster-color one-piece sleeveless wool dress with a little jacket that my mother had just made for me. I guess this must have been what tropical winter dressing was all about in Cuba. It was a pretty dress, but hardly one to be worn in the northern Florida winter. The other worldly possessions I traveled with were a tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush that I had grabbed from my bathroom on the run as I was going out the door.

The Lake City Hotel was an old four-to-five-story stucco building located in the center of the town. The hotel was very quaint and had that characteristic smell of old buildings that I have come to love. I liked it. I like old buildings. I have often wondered what gives them that peculiar smell. Is it the wood, the wallpaper paste, or the combination of the two? Later on in my life, as I tackled a couple of house restorations in Washington, DC, I remembered the old-building smell again. The hotel’s hallways were carpeted and wide, the doorframes were dark-stained wood with transoms, and there was small-print blue-and-gray paper on the walls. Considering our ongoing ordeal and the northern Florida winter outside, the hotel was welcoming and cozy.

Since our unplanned visit to Lake City was taking place much before mass tourism became an accepted part of the northern Florida scene, the hotel’s staff tried their best to be efficient and agreeable in accommodating such a large group. The political situation in Cuba had been fodder for the American press for months, and on the second day of January, this media coverage crescendo had reached unbelievable highs—as reflected by the huge front-page lettering even for the Lake City newspapers. Everyone knew or suspected who we were and—at least the folks in the hotel—were trying to make our life bearable under the circumstances.

I remember how mortified and depressed I had been when about two years prior to all this, the US press and TV personalities had been obviously siding with Fidel Castro and his movement. Because I didn’t think Castro would be good for Cuba in the long run, I couldn’t believe why Americans, who were supposed to be the good guys, would be making such a terrible mistake. However, the US press involvement in Castro’s movement would come to be viewed as a pivotal point in this new chapter of Cuban history.

One way the hotel staff tried to indulge our group was by including in our dinner’s menu what they thought would be one of our favorite desserts—Spanish cakes. That night during dessert, I realized that I had not completely lost my sense of humor, considering our predicament. So after reading the menu and speculating to myself about the wonderful delicacy that was in store for us, I ate dinner and curiously waited for the serving of the Spanish cakes. The cupcake-like dessert was dark brown, had white icing on the top, and looked appealing enough. However, as I raised the Spanish cake closer to my mouth, I could smell the strong odor of ginger! The smell of the cupcakes was so potent that I could not even force myself to bite into it.

The smell of the cupcakes reminded me of Pinaroma, a liquid detergent that was used in Cuba to clean and disinfect the tile floors. I couldn’t help but laugh when I looked around the room and saw all the cakes standing untouched on the plates. Dislike for the Spanish cakes had been unanimous! The dining room hostess was concerned enough to inquire why we had not liked the Spanish cakes. I did not know enough about baking, spices, or even English at that time to know how to respond to her. Later on, I figured that ginger, although traditionally used in English baking, is not a commonly used spice in Spanish, Cuban, or even European desserts. How this delicacy came to be called a Spanish cake remains a mystery to me.

Our caravan continued south, and when we reached Palm Beach County, we drove as far south as Riviera Beach and took up temporary residence at the White Caps Motel on US Highway 1. The motel had a red brick and white wood façade and a very pleasant and homey feel inside. It also smelled of what I had started identifying as the old Florida building smell. I liked it. It was a comfortable smell. The entire group set up housekeeping at the White Caps, but within a week’s time, they would start moving out as it appeared they had already purchased houses to move into. My family stayed on for about two more weeks since we had nowhere to go and no money to go anywhere with.

During our time at the White Caps, I recall being present in one of the motel’s lobby rooms while my father and the eldest son of the gentleman who had been chief of staff in Cuba’s army were having what appeared to be an important and serious discussion. I couldn’t get the gist of the talks, but I do remember glimpsing at a neatly typed list the man had in his hand and was showing to my father with the names of all our plane’s passengers. However, my father’s and our names had been added in pencil at the very bottom of the list, as if it were an afterthought! This was how close we came to having been left behind.

The time we spent at the White Caps Motel couldn’t have been a worse disaster for my family. After our week-long traumatic experience, reality was starting to set in. The only money we had was in Cuban pesos, and it wasn’t even much money at all! My mother had been wise enough to grab her January household and school expense money as we had left the house, but that was only about $800! True to form, my father had been busy doing his job rather than sensing important political environmental signals.

Up to the time he was told to call us at home, my father did not have the foggiest suspicions about the national or international political schemes that were being played with regards to Cuba’s future. Actually, he had not even wanted to think or prepare for an eventuality such as the one we were presently living through because the few times my mother had tried to warn him about the seriousness of the situation, she had been chastised. According to my father’s values, sending money out of the country or preparing a getaway would have been disloyal to his military peers and his men. Nevertheless, it appeared that others in our group didn’t quite have such high values. The year 1959 gave my father such a hard emotional jolt that, I do not think he ever quite recuperated from it.

One of the things that amazes me about my fellow Cubans is how they have been able to surmount their remarkable national ordeal without greater emotional scarring. Many Cubans, mostly among the first groups that left the island, had led lives of privilege for several generations, and abandoning their country meant giving up the only life they had ever known. Since my father’s father was a medical doctor, he had been able to pay for his sons’ college education. However, upon having been sent to the US to study, my father had chosen to leave Georgia Tech School of Engineering after only one semester to enroll in the Spartan School of Aviation in Arizona—without telling his father. This is what Papá wanted to do because flying was his passion. He was also mechanically inclined and very handy around the house, but of late, he seldom had the time for any of these things.

Even though my mother’s parents also could have afforded to give their two children a college education, neither of them chose to go past the equivalent of junior high school. By 1959, and after having been married about eighteen years, my parents had also become members of the Cuban middle class. There had always been wonderful nannies to take care of us kids while we were babies and a maid to cook for the family. In retrospect, I can see aspects of my 1919 vintage mother that would fit in with more contemporary women. She learned to drive at fourteen, won many medals in competitive swimming, and had been agile and well-coordinated all her life. She developed her talent as a seamstress while in the US working in some of the elegant boutiques in Palm Beach, but cooking was nothing she was ever able to master! She had no concept of any of the cooking-related necessities such as devising menus, shopping for ingredients, and balancing meals. These concepts were like a foreign language to her.

So my mother’s lack of talent in the kitchen made life particularly difficult for our family as we started life over in the US in our new roles as penniless refugees. Our stay at the White Caps Motel forced her into the kitchen—as the main protagonist—for the first time in her life! A typical Cuban meal consists of a meat dish; vegetable, tuber and/or salad; and rice with some type of bean potage. During the first two weeks, every day that she would attempt to cook a meal for the family, she would burn the rice. It seems that she would start cooking and would forget about it altogether. It was a daily catastrophe that added unnecessary pressure to our badly frayed lives.

From the evolutionary standpoint, this was a bad tactical break for our family’s survival. Generally, human societies and social animals have depended on a natural division of labor that, based solely on utilitarian principles, selects males or females to execute whatever survival chores are most efficiently accomplished by each gender’s physical abilities. This does not mean that as humans, we are doomed to consciously follow nature’s blueprint forever, because since knowledge translates into power, human intellectual development has given us the freedom to choose, and this has become our most important distinction from the other social animals. However, unfortunately for my family, we came very close to starvation for financial as well as evolutionary-adaptive reasons. My mother’s many other skills—physical coordination, athletic capabilities, and general dynamic demeanor—were no substitute for our daily nourishment intake requirement!

And my father was the last person that we could count on to take up that slack! He had schooled himself in a tradition that barely allowed him to open the refrigerator door to pour himself a glass of water! But there are benefits to be learned from every bad situation one encounters in life. The lesson I learned from our near-fatal experience was that no matter how much I dislike any task, I always learn how to do it. This principle