One Immigrant in a World of Many

Chapter 1

When the End Becomes a Beginning

It was early morning in Havana when the household was awakened by the insistent sound of knocking and kicking on the front door. I still remember the day: Wednesday, February 4, 1959. My father was already awake, in his study, so he rushed to see what was happening. The rest of us were still in bed. Through the peephole my anxious father could see three or four-armed militia, rifles drawn, irate demeanor. Heart pounding, he opened the door, and without a single word, the men pushed their way in.

“Move it,” they finally said to my father’s “What is this all about?” They simply sneered. The commotion woke everyone. My siblings and I froze in panic at the top of the stairs, while our mother ran downstairs to join my father. Tata and Carmen, our loyal lifelong caretakers, stood by their rooms in total dismay watching these men push furniture out of the way, and throwing our valuables around without any regard for the family. It was a home invasion, except that we could not call the police since they were the perpetrators.

Tata, my fearless nanny, finally faced them without concern for her safety. Her family was being attacked. “What do you think you are doing here? This is a decent family who does nothing but good.”

We finally learned that these men were searching for Batista’s Chief of the National Police, Brigadier General Pilar García. My father, having recovered his composure, assured them that we did not even know the man, and that he would not risk his family’s safety for anyone. The men were unconvinced, and the hunt for García continued for several hours. By this time in the Revolution, many of Batista’s close allies had either been executed or they had fled the country. Since they were considered war criminals by Castro, aiding or abetting them was punishable by death or life imprisonment.

After taking apart our lower floor, the officers pushed their way upstairs, where my brothers and I stood like frozen statues. The men aggressively pushed us out of the way with their guns and continued with their search. They looked in closets, under the beds, inside of drawers. My mother followed them protesting that García was too big to hide in those places. Father was concerned they would harm her, but quieting her now was hopeless.

A frustrating few hours had passed when the men finally gave up their search. There was devastation everywhere they had been. It seemed that our home had been converted into a war zone. Just as abruptly as the militia had arrived, they left with a very clear warning that all hope for our homeland was gone. We later found out General García had actually fled the country a month before along with Batista and his close associates.

We never found out if this was a valid search or if it was meant to intimidate, but harassment did not end with this experience. Searches continued with regularity to remind us that we no longer belonged. The only thing left for us was to create a different future.

With great sadness I was reminded of British novelist Raymond Chandler’s words, “To say goodbye is to die a little.” We had a tough choice now, saying goodbye to our homeland or facing a life with no future. That was the world I left behind….