The Girl from Guantanamo

by Donald Lloyd Roth

  “Sorry, that didn’t come out the way I intended it to,” he said, worried that he may have blown the interview before it had even begun.

  Pilar put Doug at ease. “Don’t worry, it came out fine,” she said. But I must be honest with you. We are not so naive as to invite any stranger who shows up at our door into this house. Your face was photographed before you rang the bell. And Roberto who spent a part of his long military career as a Navy Seal determined that you posed no physical threat.

  “Now, you want to know about the revolution? You came to the right place. But if you still want to hear my story, you will have to agree to the terms and conditions of the agreement my daughter-in-law Megan has her associates already drafting as we sit here. While I realize that you will be the author and own the copyright, I must insist on sufficient editorial rights to assure that you stick to the actual story. Also, I must confess that we are in a process of vetting you personally. Megan estimates we should know if it is a deal or not, and have the agreement ready by a week from today.” So, Mr. Evans are you still interested?

  “Yes ma’am. More than ever.”

  A week later to the day, having already met with Megan Hernandez, Esq., and executed an agreement without changing a comma, Evans returned to Casa Hernandez. Teddy escorted him to the porch where Pilar awaited him. They sat in cushioned wicker chairs. Doug set a digital recorder on the table, and for the next four and a half hours, Pilar told her story.

  She had obviously thought long and hard about what had happened to her, because she didn’t once lose her train of thought. Every hour or so, Teddy would appear to refresh their coffee. They took only one break, when at a particularly sensitive part, Evans detected the elderly lady becoming uncomfortable and excused himself to use the bathroom so she could do likewise. But other than that one break, the story was laid out in its entirety in one sitting.

  When Pilar finished, chills were running down Evan’s spine. He could hardly believe the story he had just heard, but he was absolutely ready to believe it was true. Despite being in her late seventies, Pilar’s recollection of details was very clear, and her retelling of it was very natural.

  As she had for most of the story, Pilar kept staring out over Biscayne Bay.

  “I’m speechless,” Evans finally managed.

  “Well, I’m exhausted from reliving it,” Pilar replied.

  “This is a story of great historical significance,” he said. “It must be told. Will you allow me the honor of being the one to write it?”

  Pilar smiled. “Teddy, Consuela, Roberto, Megan, and I talked about this long before you showed up with your tape recorder,” she said. “We all agreed that the first nice person with a sincere interest in the history who asked us about it would get the story. Your teachers at both NYU and Columbia all sang your praises. And your boss, Sally, who my investigators suspect has a crush on you, even if she is much older than you are, testifies to your integrity.”

  After stopping to smile at Doug who had just blushed crimson, Pilar continued. It’s been fifty-five years since the US imposed an embargo. How long does it take to realize it hasn’t worked. I acknowledge that Cuba has not opened up to democracy as much as I would like to see. But America does trade with other countries run by dictators. I wish for nothing more than to see the two peoples I love so much embrace each other. I may not have enough years left to see that happen. But, perhaps my story may help, even if only a little bit.”

  Evans leaned over and gave Pilar a kiss. A million thoughts started whirring through his head. Even though Pilar’s tale left him disgusted with both of the men she told him about, he needed to grill Thompson and really circle back and dig into Salazar. He wanted to interview Teddy, Ernesto, and Consuela separately. But most of all, he needed a place to publish the story. It was far too good, far too important to be dumped in the back of a tabloid.

  “I will take good care of your story,” Evans said.

  BEGINNING THE TALE

  Doug was practically walking on air. He knew that this was the story that would make him a star. He made a decision to take at least nine months, or as much as a year, about all he could afford, off from his job to work on the manuscript. He owed that to himself and even more so to Pilar and her marvelous family.

  Evans spent nearly the entire drive to Fort Lauderdale thinking things through. He would ask Sally for a leave of absence to write the book. If she refused, he would quit.

  He reached the office just after 6:00 p.m. and headed into Sally Hughes’ office. He owed her the courtesy of a heads-up on the book thing, but he also needed permission to take the story with him. After all, he was still a South Florida World employee.

  Sally, alone in the office, was still sitting at her desk, sucking on a Starbucks iced coffee through a straw and staring at her computer screen. He knocked as he entered. Forewarned by the inquiries about Doug in the last week, she knew he must have something and wanted to take it elsewhere.

  “Forget the Cuba CIA story,” she said tongue in cheek. “We’ve got a lead that Jay Z is opening a night club and the Cuban government is giving him permission. I need you on that.”

  “I want to take a leave of absence, to write a book,” he blurted out.

  Wondering if she had been too effusive in her praise of Doug, Sally glanced up from her screen. “I’ll approve five days in Havana,” she said, acting like she had missed his point.

  “No, Sally, I really intend to write this book,” Evans said. “I want to do serious journalism, and I should start before—”

  “You get too old and jaded, like me,” she interrupted.

  “And before I have to work for your douchebag deputy Xander Lavin.”

  Sally walked over to Doug and gave him a bear hug that felt a little like an invitation. “Get your ass out of here. Go write your book, and if you don’t sell it, come back and be a whore again.”

  “Thanks, Sally. You’re the best. I’ll let you know if anyone takes it.”

  Evans spent the next few weeks filling in the missing pieces. He reconnected with Salazar, grilling him about the parts of his story Salazar had conveniently left out, getting what he needed, or at least all he expected from him.

  He made a list of people to interview who would be able to fill out the details he needed. First on the list was Chip Thompson.

  It took him all of forty-five minutes to locate a home address through Palm Beach County property records. He found a street address that fell within The Club at Ibis, a large gated community really located in Palm Beach Gardens, but with a West Palm Beach address.

  After several unreturned calls over a two-day period, he finally reached Thompson at his home in the posh Hawks Landing neighborhood.

  “Chip Thompson, I’m Doug Evans and I’d like to speak to you about a story I’m writing that concerns events that happened at GTMO in 1958 involving you, Pilar Ruiz, and Héctor Salazar,” he said.

  Thompson’s stomach clenched. Shit, Salazar’s rantings had caught someone’s attention. He agreed to meet with Evans at a steakhouse on Okeechobee Boulevard to try to sell his side of the story.

  Over the next few weeks, Evans interviewed Thompson, at times growing furious when he knew Thompson was lying. Doug also visited with several secondary sources given to him by Pilar. He also returned to the Hernandez estate in Key Biscayne twice to talk separately to Teddy, Ernesto, and Consuela. Over dinner in New York his former professor at Columbia who was an expert on Cuban affairs refreshed his memory on the historical details of Fidel Castro’s 26th of July Movement.

  Evans had an opportunity to revisit the late 1956 voyage of eighty-two rebels led by Fidel Castro, his brother Raúl, and Che Guevara who sailed from Mexico to Cuba to organize the revolution against the dictatorship of Fulgencio Batista. The voyage was a disaster. Because the overcrowded yacht arrived several days late, they missed the advantage of meeting rebel forces awaiting them with food and arms. Their boat also ran aground near the wrong landing place, forcing the r
ebels to abandon most of their equipment. They fled toward the safety of the mountains named Sierra Maestra. But they were tracked down, surrounded, and nearly annihilated by the Cuban Army. Most of the rebels were killed or captured. The rest scattered and fled in separate little groups seeking to reassemble in the jungle-covered mountains. Only Fidel Castro, his brother, Raúl, Camilo Cienfuegos, a wounded Che Guevara, and a small number of other men eventually found each other in the mountains.

  It is likely that one to two dozen, mostly educated, rebels became the core of the guerilla army that began the Cuban Revolution. Then, as they recruited peasant soldiers, the men saw firsthand the extreme poverty and terrible situation of the rural populations who suffered from joblessness, lack of education, and medical and social services under Batista’s dictatorship. A few women revolutionaries were drawn to the rebels and assisted Fidel’s operations. The well-known Cuban activist Celia Sanchez joined Castro and became his close friend and most valuable aid. She organized the transport of supplies of food, clothing, and arms to the rebels in the inaccessible Sierra Maestra and assumed a leadership role in his battles. Evans wondered if this legendary woman, and other women mentioned by the professor, had a role in helping his heroine.

  Although he had never been worried that Pilar’s story was embellished, he was relieved that it fit seamlessly into the events of the Cuban Revolution. Of course, the remarkable part was that it added a new personal layer to the historical events.

  It was an exciting moment in his life and his career. Evans thought he had gathered all the information he needed and was eager to tell his story.

  PART TWO

  GUANTÁNAMERA

  by Douglas Evans

  CHAPTER ONE

  The sugar farm in southeastern Cuba’s Oriente Province where the Ruiz brothers toiled had been purchased by their grandfather in 1882, the same year he emigrated to the island from Spain. It was modest but not insubstantial in size, approximately fifteen hectares (over thirty-seven acres), large enough to support a family but not so large as to require much additional labor. It was, by definition, a family farm.

  Sugar, which had been Cuba’s principal source of economic livelihood for centuries, was the only crop ever grown on the farm, and in 1947 the price was determined by the American sugar refining industry. The sugarcane itself, along with current market circumstances, had made financial slaves of those who sought to support themselves by farming it. The plant needed to be processed within twenty-four hours of harvest or else evaporation and breakdown of the sugar content would result.

  This biological fact gave tremendous leverage to the foreignowned mills, or centrales, which were centrally located throughout eastern Cuba. In fact, many of the farmers who previously owned their lands had, over time, become tenants or colonos who farmed the now corporate-owned land. While the Ruiz brothers were still technically entrepreneurs, they were dependent upon the US business interests that controlled the market. Their economic position was tenuous. Although they were not poor, they were vulnerable to imminent poverty at any time from a shift in sugar prices.

  But sugar was their life. The brothers, Miguel and Jorge, had built separate houses on opposite sides of a small stream, each raising a daughter born just one week apart. The cousins, Pilar and Alicia, were more like twin sisters. They attended school together from eight in the morning until three in the afternoon, walking the mile and a half to and from school at each other’s side. As was their custom during the sugarcane harvest, or zafra as it was known locally, upon arriving home, the girls split up to search for their fathers in the fields.

  Pilar, just seven years old with skinny legs and a pixie haircut, followed the sound of her father’s machete. She enjoyed solving the mystery of his whereabouts as she wandered through the tall stalks, her excitement growing as the sound grew louder and guided her toward her quarry. As she crisscrossed through the fields, listening and readjusting her course, she pictured her father’s well-muscled arm using the machete to separate the sugar cane from the earth that had nurtured it.

  The machete, which hung on a hook outside the front door of her house when at rest, was to her like a tangible bolt of lightning. In the powerful hand of her father it seemed supernatural. The wooden handle was cracked and had been wrapped in yellow baling twine to hold it together. Its cutting edge was razor sharp.

  The instrument of his livelihood since Miguel was twelve years old, the sharp blade contrasted with the dullness of the repetitious hacking it was used for. Miguel wasn’t an unintelligent man, but he had found comfort in surrendering to his perceived fate, that of a simple farmer tied to the land that along with his family was his entire world. Under the brutal tropical sun, it seemed easier if one didn’t dream too big, and under the current economic conditions, survival was enough. Perhaps there would be time for ambition later.

  In moments stolen for himself—of forgetfulness of the dire stakes that animated the three pounds of hammered steel—Miguel recognized and appreciated the sublime beauty of the land. The peaks of the Sierra Maestra Mountains were visible through the mist nearby in the western sky. These were the mountains that had harbored the numerous battles for Cuban independence fought over the centuries. The verdant, rolling fields where the sugarcane flourished so vibrantly and the dramatic clouds in the Caribbean sky were all pleasing to his eye. The earth itself was rocky, yet with soil so rich that almost any seed would probably take root and blossom if planted there.

  Miguel kept swinging the blade. A smile formed as he discerned the movement of his little sweetheart happily humming a tune as the sound came closer to the row he worked. When they were close enough to make eye contact, they peeked through the sugarcane curtain to acknowledge one another.

  Shusswhack kaching, shusswhack-ack kaching-ing.

  In moments like this, there was joy in the work. Magic, even.

  When Pilar finally appeared before him, energized and smiling at her sweat-soaked father, he removed his hat and grinned goofily at his little girl. Again, there was joy and magic. But more than that. Love.

  “Its time for lunch, Papa,” she almost squealed with joy.

  “Better not keep your mother waiting then.”

  He took his daughter by the hand, and together they walked toward the house as she told him about her day at school.

  Maria, who was carrying her second child, had carefully prepared the afternoon meal for her husband and daughter. The pregnancy had not been an easy one. Her morning sickness was so severe that she, who had never been sick a day in her life, found herself unable to leave her bed for more than an hour at a time for several weeks. But Maria was beginning to feel on solid ground as she entered her third trimester. She had the same good sensations when she carried Pilar, and being pregnant again made her feel complete and powerful. The swelling in her belly and breasts was a source of pleasure, creating a familiar inner sense of well-being.

  For his part, Miguel made no secret of his wishes for a son. Having fought as an amateur boxer when he was younger, he dreamed of teaching the boy the finer points of the science of boxing and many other things that he felt he couldn’t share with a daughter. He looked forward to a boy who might someday work this land like his father and grandfather, but hopefully might move on to a better life.

  He had come to view the fact that Maria had experienced difficulty conceiving as a blessing in disguise, as Pilar would now be the perfect age to help her mother with her new sibling.

  Before Pilar was born Maria had worked as a file clerk at the US Naval base at nearby Guantánamo Bay. Her mother, a Spanish immigrant, had learned to speak English and made sure her daughter learned it as well, a skill that paid dividends for the young couple building a nest egg in preparation for building a family. It was also a comforting feeling that in an emergency she could always go back to her old job since local English-speaking support staffers were in short supply at the growing American naval base.

  The living quarters on the farm were humble
but comfortable, consisting of a single-story main house with two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a large veranda with hammocks for sleeping on hot nights, which was also where the family would relax after the evening meal. There was a long barn with a thatched, palm-leaf roof that sheltered the animals: two oxen, a horse, three goats, and a fluctuating population of hens that either produced eggs or became candidates for Maria’s pot. The dogs, five of them, were free to roam where they pleased, but spent most of the day sleeping in the cool shade—they earned their keep at night by maintaining a secure perimeter around the compound.

  As father and daughter entered the kitchen it was obvious to Miguel that something was very wrong. Possessed of a naturally calm disposition, it wasn’t in his nature to panic. But when he saw Maria looking up at him from the kitchen floor, the adrenaline jolt nearly caused him to jump out of his shoes. Her face was ashen and her expression fearful.

  Not wanting to upset her child she said, “I think I’ve twisted my ankle. Perhaps I should see the doctor.”

  Miguel recognized the lie, and while he was worried, he followed Maria’s lead. Already on one knee, he turned to Pilar to block her view of the blood stains on her mother’s dress.

  “Go to Alicia’s house for lunch. Tell Tio Jorge I took mama to the doctor.”

  Pilar, usually obedient, hesitated.

  “Is mama hurt?”

  “Yes, mama hurt her ankle. It’s not too bad. Go now. Please.”

  Pilar hugged her mother and then moved slowly towards the door, still not sure.

  “When will you be back?”

  “We’ll be back a little later. Don’t forget to tell your uncle.”

  And with a final glance back, Pilar left the house and headed across the rickety bridge to her cousin’s house.