Vivian Pellas - Vivian Pellas - Turning tears into smiles

I grew up with my brother, Alejandro, in our Santa Ana home in the “Nuevo Vedado” neighborhood of Havana. Alejandro was two years older than me. Surrounded by the simplicity and wellbeing that our parents and grandparents cultivated, in addition to the warmth and affection they showered upon us, I had a life full of happiness.

Turiana de la Torre, Vivian’s paternal grandmother. Havana, Cuba, 1954.

Those wonderful years of my childhood were free of fear. I only remember how enthusiastic I was about riding my bicycle. My mind recalls the magical scene at the moment when I found it hidden in my grandparents’ closet, spoiling the surprise that my parents had prepared for me for Three Kings’ Day.

My grandfather, Manuel, with his infinite kindness and boundless joy, became the most important person of my childhood. He was my closest ally and my greatest accomplice. As I sat on his lap, he would not only teach me how to turn the car’s steering wheel, but also how to place the domino pieces during animated evenings with his friends. It was my grandfather who taught me how to ride the bicycle and how to savor fruits, and I still treasure the hours spent with him as the most endearing moments of that golden time. That is why it pained me so much to leave my grandparents when we had to abandon Cuba in exile. I left part of my soul behind.

Vivian and her mother. Havana, Cuba, 1955.

I turned five as Cuba was under a cloud of unrest and political turmoil. Fulgencio Batista’s government was strongly criticized as corrupt, which led guerrilla forces to overthrow him. At 3:00 a.m. on January 1, 1959, Batista fled Cuba in a plane bound for Santo Domingo in the wake of the triumph of the Cuban Revolution led by Fidel Castro. At first, Batista remained in exile in the Dominican Republic, then on the island of Madeira (Portugal), and again in Marbella, Spain, until a heart attack took his life in 1973.

Unaware of what was going on, I could feel the anguish of my parents and grandparents. Their distress was not in vain. The news of the victors proclaiming their triumph and vowing vengeance against their defeated enemies was alarming. To some, the word “socialism” became synonymous with chaos, terror, and death, while to others, it meant freedom and justice. The illegal confiscation of the private assets of all citizens was the act of duplicity that, as Cubans put it, “capped the bottle” and brought an end to hope. Life and freedom, as we knew it, had been “confiscated.” The exodus and the division of Cuban families had begun. It was an absolute nightmare. Suddenly, everything was lost all at once. The dreams that my grandparents had fulfilled disappeared from dusk to dawn. Everyone wondered, Why? What did we do to deserve this? Who did we harm?

Vivian’s first birthday celebration with her brother, Alejandro, and her parents. Havana, Cuba, 1955.

In those days, my greatest act of independence was being able to ride my bicycle through the streets near my home, or when I escaped to the Chinese cemetery, which was somewhat more secluded. But I clearly remember that afternoon when I was riding around the block and suddenly, a big white car pulling out from one of the mansions brought me to a halt. To my surprise, the passengers were Che Guevara and Camilo Cienfuegos. I watched them with fear, and right at that moment, they gave me an intimidating look. They both had a haughty attitude. I recognized them immediately since they were already famous. As a matter of fact, I was very attracted to Camilo Cienfuegos. The terror of such an encounter kicked in and made me speed off on my bicycle.

Vivian at her birthday party with family and friends. Havana, Cuba, 1959.

By that time, the Cuban Revolution had already started. Sometime after that episode, Camilo Cienfuegos suddenly “disappeared.”

My dad along with many other Cubans were reluctant to believe what they saw with their own eyes. With a group of friends and a full understanding of the value of freedom, he went on a quest to protest the abuses, joining the Revolutionary Movement of November 30, created in 1960. This was the only movement my father was involved in throughout his entire life. His participation was limited to acts of political protest. He said that he had always been a great individualist with an absolute fear of collectivities.

He inherited his entrepreneurial spirit from my grandfather, Manuel, who, with his remarkable skill and vision, went from being a salesman to a sales manager at “Café Pilón.” He would then become a vice president of the company and after that, a partner.

Vivian at the age of five at her birthday party. Havana, Cuba, 1959.

Vivian at the age of five. Havana, Cuba, 1959.

Café Pilón became the most famous brand of coffee in Cuba and the United States. The business exported coffee from Havana to Miami. Thousands of Cubans still remember its advertising slogan.

My grandfather was an expert at extolling that catchy commercial that Celia Cruz would sing as part of her performance during the splendor of Cuban television: “Café Pilón, tasty to the last sip.”

The truth is that the Cuba that we knew, the one that my grandparents believed was the promised land as their destination after leaving their Spanish hometowns of Gijón and Bilbao, filled with dreams, would change forever.

What we were experiencing was just the beginning. The worst was yet to come.

José Fernández de la Torre, Vivian’s father; Lydia García, Vivian’s mother; and Carlos Hüeck, at El Tropicana nightclub. Havana, Cuba, ca. 1957.

My First Farewell

In that faraway and painful month of April 1961, the sepulchral silence of two in the morning was shattered by the brutal arrival of the G2 to our home. Heavily armed men from that military intelligence group violently broke into our home after kicking down our door. They destroyed everything in their path. Their shouts and insults even woke up our neighbors.

I was sleeping in a room with Alejandro. I was seven years old and my brother was nine. Out of despair, Mom ran to find us in our room, but she collided with the militiamen, who were armed with rifles and pistols. She was pushed out of the room. They searched the kitchen and took everything that was edible. They found my father in the other room. I fearfully followed them with my eyes. I saw them grab him as he tried to throw on the first thing at hand after hearing the racket of the banging and pounding. My Mother, disconcerted and unable to contain her cries, fired questions at the intruders and pleaded for them to take her as well. In response, those threatening beasts glared at her in hatred, provoking more tears, anguish, and impotence. Those were moments of terror.