Vivian Pellas - Vivian Pellas - Turning tears into smiles

Vivian’s parents with her brother Alejandro. Havana, Cuba. 1952.

My shocked grandparents could not comprehend the reason for such violence. Alejandro and I watched as my dad was handcuffed and shoved to a truck that would take him to an unknown destination.

At dawn, the search for my father became an ongoing pilgrimage to all the jails in Havana. And for weeks my mother wandered through the streets with food and clothes that she would leave under his name. However, he never received anything. Like many other men and women who inquired after their relatives, never suspecting that all the cinemas, theaters, and stadiums had become prisons holding thousands upon thousands of Cubans, she relentlessly continued her interminable search for days. I would watch her in silence as she went out to the streets. My grandparents made a great effort to shield us from this. The same scene continued to replay over the course of several months.

Her face sunburnt from the merciless rays that beat down on her day after day on her exhausting and futile quest, finally, one day she found him at the Blanquita Theater (today known as the Carlos Marx Theater). I was holding onto Mom’s hand when I saw him from the street as he poked his head, with difficulty, through a small window. In one of life’s great ironies, the same theater they had attended before as spectators had become my dad’s prison. Then Senator of the Republic, Alfredo Hornedo Suárez, built that theater—the largest in the world at that time—and named it to honor his wife, Blanquita.

Now, the performance was being given by hundreds of militiamen who, from the enormous stage, were pointing their rifles at the more than ten thousand prisoners, including both men and women, who were sitting in the theater’s beautiful seats or standing on the lavish carpets. These captives were astonished as they observed the new characters of the Revolution, holding at bay big ferocious dogs, complementing their custodial mission. My mother was never permitted to see my father during the sixty days of his captivity in the theater. Hungry, packed together, claustrophobic, and desperate with the heat and thirst, they protested for better treatment, the release of pregnant women who gave birth to their children in any available seat, and for the opening of the bathrooms, since all the prisoners were allowed to use only one. To make their extreme distress more emphatic, men and women removed their shirts and confronted the militiamen demanding their requests be met. However, they didn’t succeed. Instead, all they got in return were bullets, which led to the death of many of them, and the opening of small windows at the top of the theater to allow them to breathe.

Vivian with her mother and cousins at the Malecon walkway. Havana, Cuba, ca. 1961.

Our home was overflowing with loneliness and sorrow. This tragedy deeply wounded the entire family and significantly impacted my childhood. Nevertheless, no one faltered. I believe love kept us united and strong. Thank God, my mom wasn’t taken away at that time. My dad was imprisoned after the invasion of the Bay of Pigs. That was unquestionably the first traumatic experience of my life.

Today I remember everything with absolute clarity. My memory insists on evoking all of this. Years later I would visit the island of Cuba. I would visit the neighborhood where I grew up. I would feel the music resonate within me in a different way, strengthening these roots. Something about those people, that land, and that sea, made me feel complete.

One day, a few months later, my dad appeared at the door of our home. He returned pale, emaciated, extremely thin, and with a long beard. He was almost unrecognizable. Our joy was absolute, but it was only the preamble for a new separation.

After his release, Dad decided we had to leave Cuba, which, in addition to being prohibited by Fidel Castro’s government, was almost unfathomable. It took forever to make the official request and obtaining permission to leave could take nine, ten, or more years. Besides, we knew we’d never get a permit to leave!

So my father decided to write letters to three friends in Venezuela, Panama, and Nicaragua. Weeks later he received an answer from his great friend, Carlos Hüeck, President of the Beer Factory of Nicaragua, who sent a warm and positive response to my father’s request to travel to Managua. He was the person who acted as the intermediary in processing the visas and permits with the Consul of Nicaragua in the Netherlands back then: Marcelo Ulvert, along with Guillermo Sevilla Sacasa.

Dad had to be present at the Rancho Boyeros Airport in Havana for ten days and wait for a seat on a KLM flight. In those days we were saying good-bye to him until he was able to take the seat of a man who was removed from the plane on some random excuse. My father got through the red tape and managed to leave Cuba with the ticket Mr. Hüeck had sent to him.

The farewell at the airport was one of the hardest moments I had ever experienced emotionally. A deep pain tightened my chest so much that I thought it would explode and the discomfort made me vomit. I was filled with fear. After a long goodbye, with tears in his eyes, my dad walked up the stairs to board the plane. He quickly flashed a shadow of a timid smile and lifted his hand to wave good-bye.

He left Cuba on a KLM plane on June 9, 1961, in search of a better future for him and for us. He was still hoping to find it despite the uncertainty.

He left with his pockets empty. His only luggage was his passport. He flew from Havana to Kingston, Jamaica, which was the only route to reach Miami. Once there, he had to sleep on a park bench. Then he had to wait until the next day to withdraw the money that his friend, Carlos Hüeck, had sent him from the Royal Bank of Canada. He waited for a week before he received the authorization for his transit visa in Miami, and then had to do the same to travel to Nicaragua.

When Dad finally arrived in Managua, Carlos Hüeck was waiting for him at the airport and he uttered the phrase that would change the course of our lives: “Pepe, don’t worry, as long as I am alive, you and your family will have everything you need.” A hug sealed the affection and gratitude that my dad would feel and express to him throughout his life. Don Carlos was like a father to him, and undeniably, a true angel.

At the end of July 1961, almost two months later, my mother, my brother Alejandro and I were able to leave Cuba. We also traveled by KLM, via Jamaica to get to Miami. We left the country penniless, with only a change of clothes in a small suitcase. That was all we could take from the island. We waited at the airport until four in the morning and finally managed to leave at ten in the evening, but the anxiety we felt the whole day was indescribable.

Everything on that long day was pure anguish. The feeling that pervaded those endless hours was uncertainty and the thought that you may never see your relatives again crushes your soul. Behind the glass, my grandparents’ eyes were obscured by their tears as they anticipated the final goodbye. I can still remember the strident voice of the security guard who called over the loudspeaker the names of the passengers whose departure from Cuba was arbitrarily cancelled. My mother, nervous and afraid of the horror imposed by the “system,” prayed that our names would not be the next to be called out.