The Girl from Guantanamo

by Donald Lloyd Roth

  The rebels broke into laughter again, one almost falling down on the road.

  One of the men turned his attention to Pilar, “Let me guess, your name is Pilar, correct?”

  “How did you know?” she asked.

  “Alberto Campos sent word with our courier, the one who was going to bring you here by jeep, this morning. We’ve been expecting you. My name is Lieutenant Moreno, at your service.” The man removed his hat and signaled the others to do the same, which they did immediately. “You and Alberto’s moped are to be our honored guests.”

  Moreno addressed the captured soldiers. “We don’t appreciate having perverts and rapists prey upon our women, especially when they are bona fide heroines of the revolution like Señorita Pilar, the girl from Guantánamo!”

  Then, without warning or ceremony, Moreno put a bullet into each of the two Cuban soldiers’ heads, dropping them like bags of cement.

  The rebels placed their hats back upon their heads as if they were at a baseball game and the national anthem had just finished playing.

  Pilar was shocked by the brutality and suddenness of the execution. Lieutenant Moreno explained: “We don’t usually execute enemy soldiers. In fact, we either just release them or we’ve been successful converting many to our cause. But you aren’t the first victim of these men. We’ve found bodies of several women who were raped and then shot in the head. So I figure I just followed the Bible. An eye for an eye. Major Cienfuegos is waiting to meet you. Shall we go?”

  And with that, the group, with one of the rebel soldiers pushing the green moped, continued the journey up into the Sierra Maestra mountains.

  Pilar and the rebels climbed up a steep trail into the mountains, passing pods of fighters stationed to guard against an attack, until they reached a thatched-roof hut. Cienfuegos, smoking a cigar, emerged from the hut. He took one look at Pilar, who was wearing her running clothes and shoes. “Did you win the track meet?” he asked.

  He extended his hand to her. “Major Camilo Cienfuegos, at your service.” he said. “And you need no introduction, my dear Pilar.”

  “Ruiz,” she said. “My name is Pilar Ruiz. I worked with Alberto Campos on the navy base at Guantánamo.”

  Cienfuegos smiled. “I know, I know. We all know the story of the girl from Guantánamo.”

  He called his troops to attention with a loud whistle. “Hey, listen up everybody!” he yelled. “This is Pilar Ruiz, the girl who saved the lives of . . . well, every one of us! She is the one that warned us of the ambush at Bartolomé Masó!”

  A cheer rang out from the rebels. Cienfuegos shouted, “Viva La Revolucion!”

  He took Pilar by the hand, speaking gently to her. “My dear girl, I thank you from the bottom of my heart, as does every one of us. But why are you here? This is a dangerous place for young women.”

  “It’s the safest place in the world for me at this moment, Major Cienfuegos,” she said. “I’m sure that the men who tried to kill you know that I was the one who warned you. I came because of that and also on behalf of my family to fight for Cuba, against Batista.”

  Cienfuegos laughed, “You are Alberto’s friend, all right! Welcome to the Sierra Maestra, Pilar. We are happy to have you with us. And thank you for bringing Alberto’s vehicular contribution. I look forward to putting it to use.”

  That evening while mess was quickly devoured, Cienfuegos invited Pilar to sit with him and his squad leaders as they discussed strategy. He introduced them to Pilar, all of them already aware of her acts of heroism.

  One of the squad leaders, Doctor José Ramón Machado Ventura, was a veteran fighter who was one of the original eighty-two men who had come from Mexico on the Granma. Now a captain in the rebel army, he asked: “But can she shoot?”

  “Pilar joins the heroism of the other great women of the revolution, as my special assistant,” Cienfuegos said. “As for her abilities with a gun, I’m told she has already proven to be not only an expert shot, but an excellent amateur podiatrist, as well.” Cienfuegos laughed, referring to the Cuban soldier who had lost his big toe to Pilar’s marksmanship.

  Camilo reassured Pilar that, as a woman, she was in good company, telling her about Vilma Espín and Celia Sanchez, two legendary female revolutionaries. Espín, had acted as a messenger between the 26th of July Movement in her native Oriente Province and the relocated rebels when they were training in Mexico. She assisted the revolutionaries in the Sierra Maestra after the return to Cuba on the Granma and later became Raúl Castro’s wife. And he also told her of the incredibly courageous Haydee Santamaria who had been with the rebels at the Moncada Barracks and who had seen close family members tortured and executed by Batista’s soldiers.

  “Will I meet them?” Pilar asked.

  “Without a doubt, and soon,” was Camilo’s reply.

  Sanchez, who had become Fidel’s “Secretary,” had, in addition to the diversion created by Frank País, mustered about a hundred men to await the landing of the Granma. She became a member of the general staff of the rebels and risked her life transporting messages, weapons, food, and medical supplies back and forth between the commanders.

  Pilar thought about telling Camilo that she had already killed one man by firing three bullets in his chest as he attacked her with a bullwhip and a machete, but she decided not to. In the days and months ahead there would be plenty of opportunity to see that she was willing and able to kill for their cause when it was killing that was needed.

  “Pilar Ruiz is to be treated with the utmost respect and left unmolested, is that clear, gentlemen?” Cienfuegos announced.

  A groan of disappointment swept through the ranks. Some of the men had clearly hoped that she represented romantic possibility, but it seemed that Cienfuegos was claiming her for himself, an illusion that suited his purposes. In reality, he saw Pilar as more of a younger sister and sought only to protect her.

  After evening mess, Pilar, now wearing an olive drab jacket and pants, joined some of the fighters around a campfire where stories were told before going to sleep on a variety of makeshift ground coverings. The stories and occasional group singing, was a welcome distraction for the bedraggled revolutionaries from the stress of fighting. It had been a very long, tiring day, and Pilar was exhausted. As she drifted off to sleep on her first night as a soldier of the revolution, though dirty, hungry, and more than a bit uncomfortable, Pilar felt a sense of belonging that she had never experienced before. She was part of something bigger than herself, and even though she was in great physical danger, Pilar felt truly hopeful about the future for the first time since that horrid first night when she and Maria arrived back in Cuba.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Pilar settled into a daily routine. Much of what she learned working for the US Navy came in very handy in her new role, the biggest difference was that in her new job, nearly all of the creature comforts enjoyed on the navy base were absent. Instead of going to the ladies’ room, she used a makeshift latrine, basically a hole in the ground. The commissary was replaced by an open fire with an iron pot over it.

  As the top aide for Cienfuegos, she handled coordination between Cienfuegos and his squad leaders, often soothing bruised egos and mediating disputes between the junior officers. She was also privy to the most sensitive correspondence and became intimately aware of details involving troop movements, morale, arms shipments, supply requisitions, and disciplinary matters. She was asked to do an interview for the recently established Radio Rebelde, a pirate radio station set up for the revolution by Che Guevera to broadcast their message nationwide. Even though she was told that its powerful transmitter reached Caracas and Miami, she declined feeling she could be more effective for the cause by keeping a low profile. Cienfuegos applauded that decision saying, “this girl just demonstrated wisdom beyond her years.”

  One morning, on the last day of March, only a week after she arrived in the rebel camp, Pilar received a coded message on her radio from Fidel’s assistant that a special shipment would
be arriving that day, and Fidel would be coming personally to receive it. There was no mention of what the shipment was or how it would be arriving, so Pilar was slightly surprised when, a few hours later, a DC-3 airliner with a faded Pan Am logo on its tail came roaring over the camp, nearly shearing off the treetops on the mountain ridge where Cienfuegos enjoyed the strategic advantages provided by the high ground.

  The lumbering, twin-engine craft was a civilian version of the C-47, the plane best known for its role as a troop carrier in the allied invasion of Europe. It looked heavy as it continued down into a nearby valley and made a gentle turn before lowering its landing gear and flaps, audibly reducing its throttles. Gravity took hold of the winged behemoth, and from Pilar’s vantage point, it seemed to drop like a stone as it disappeared below the tree line.

  By this time, nearly everybody in camp was watching for a plume of black smoke confirming that the plane had crashed, but since there was none, it was assumed the landing in the small clearing below was in fact successful.

  About thirty rebels, including Cienfuegos and Pilar, made the one and a quarter-mile hike to the landing strip to find the plane intact. Standing in the open doorway, Pilar saw the man she would come to know as Huber Matos. At forty years of age, he was older than most of the fighters by far and he had apparently only recently grown a beard, since he couldn’t seem to stop scratching it. He waved to the approaching column.

  “I come bearing gifts from the President of Costa Rica for the 26th of July Movement!” he shouted.

  Matos was a schoolteacher and rice farmer from the town of Manzanillo in Oriente Province who had joined the revolution. When he was captured, he managed to escape to Costa Rica. There he convinced President José Figueres, a man committed to the promotion of democratic government in Latin America, to supply the plane and its cargo to aid the rebels.

  Cienfuegos asked, “What have you brought us this fine day?”

  Suddenly, a jeep appeared from the forest with a man standing up, smoking a cigar. It was Fidel Castro.

  “I want to open it! Wait for me!” Castro shouted.

  This was the first time Pilar had seen Fidel, who had travelled at great risk to personally receive the shipment and thank Matos. He was jumping with joy—like a child who wakes up on Christmas Day.

  Cienfuegos’ men removed some crates from the plane, opening one of them for Fidel to inspect. The mysterious cargo he was so excited about turned out to be five tons of arms and ammunition.

  “Now we’ve really won the war,” Fidel rejoiced. “With these weapons we can finish them.” He recklessly fired a machine gun into the sky to the delight of everybody except Huber Matos, a serious man, who seemed worried that valuable bullets were being wasted on the frivolous celebration.

  After the celebration died down and Fidel took the weapons with him, Pilar took care of Matos’s sparse accommodations and issued him a uniform and personal supplies, as he would now be joining the rebels for the duration of the war.

  Later that night, Matos confided to Pilar that he was worried that Fidel, whom he had known for many years, had become a rash and temperamental man with despotic tendencies. He had seen how the majors, captains and other officers obeyed and admired him, and how what had once been a more egalitarian movement now seemed to be turning into a cult of personality.

  “What will happen in the future?”, he wondered aloud. “Am I the only one who has doubts?” he asked Pilar before falling asleep.

  Pilar was not sure of what to make of Matos’ observation, but she filed it away in her mind.

  A few weeks later, Pilar woke up feeling horribly sick. She threw up her breakfast, and went back to sleep, remaining in bed all day, eating only soup that night. The following morning, the same thing happened.

  When he visited the makeshift infirmary to get some medicine to relieve her nausea, the doctor who saw her broke the news: she wasn’t sick; she was pregnant.

  Pilar was devastated by the news. “Are you sure? Maybe you’re mistaken,” she said.

  The doctor, who happened to be the legendary revolutionary and Camilo’s close friend, Ernesto “Che” Guevara, smiled patiently. “I’m quite sure. You should tell the father the good news.”

  Only Pilar knew that she had had sex with one man and now carried his child—the man who had taken her virginity and brutally raped her,

  She begged the doctor not to tell anybody yet, but that evening Cienfuegos approached her and asked about her pregnancy. She burst into tears, telling Camilo everything—how she was raped by Chip Thompson and was now forced to carry his child. She told him of her shame.

  Cienfuegos tried to reassure and comfort her. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. Your child is the result of the sacrifice you made for the revolution. You should be proud of yourself and accept this child.”

  “Would you be proud of having a bastard child if you were the one who carried it?” she demanded.

  “Pilar, I am very sympathetic to your situation and want to help you in the best way I can. If it’s helpful, you can tell people that I am the father. I would consider it a great honor if your child carried my name, Pilar.”

  Pilar threw her arms around Camilo in gratitude. It was the kindest thing anybody had ever done for her, and she found that she had suddenly gone from feeling the worst she had ever felt to being nearly happy. It was only her concern about three other people that clouded her mind. She thought her Mama would be distraught and wondered if her Papa would still be proud of her. She wondered what Teddy would think.

  Cienfuegos went out of his way to make Pilar comfortable, doting on her whenever his duties allowed the time. Although their relationship remained platonic—Cienfuegos treated her as a sister—to everybody else, they seemed as close as lovers, a position that carried no negative stigma for Pilar whatsoever. Her status, already quite exalted for her role in foiling the ambush against the leadership, was now that of royalty. She was treated like a queen by all who came in contact with her. Her morning sickness soon passed, and she resumed her normal duties.

  Operation Verano

  IN THE SUMMER of 1958, the rebels withstood Operation Verano, a rigorous offensive by the Cuban Army. Batista’s top general had marshaled some 12,000 men (of whom 7,000 were new recruits) and came at the Sierra Maestra from all sides.

  The first attack wave in June was thwarted by Che Guevara’s men, who spread out across a hillside and ambushed the government troops marching across open terrain. As the army took on causalities, they retreated.

  The second attack came two weeks later from the water. Batista’s forces landed on the beach at the mouth of the La Plata River. Their plan was to move the troops up the river into the Sierra Maestras and split Castro’s forces in half. Again, the rebels were ready, ambushing the first wave of forces, and then pressing on to the beach to stop the second wave cold.

  The rebels lost less than ten men in all the attacks, while Batista’s Army took on more than a hundred causalities. The rebels also captured more than two hundred men and held them as prisoners. Rifles and ammunition taken from captured Cuban soldiers had become a significant source of supply for the rebels.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Over that summer, the Cuban army had stepped up their attacks on the Sierra Maestra, but the rebels held strong and turned back every assault. Feeling confident that Batista’s forces were in retreat, Castro ordered the advance of three hundred men. But it turned out that Batista’s most cagey general, General Eulogio Cantillo, had set a trap. The rebels were stuck in a valley and surrounded by the army. They were used to winning, but this time the army had them pinned down.

  Castro sent a message to Cantillo, asking for a cease fire and on August 1, Cantillo accepted. One of Batista’s closest advisers, a man he grew up with, was sent to negotiate with Castro.

  Cienfuegos was concerned about the future of the revolution, as everybody, was, but he was very focused on the safety of Pilar. He went to her amid the chaos of the events of the d
ay.

  “I’m moving you to Yaguajay, Pilar. You can stay with someone very close to me who has been a great source of information to our cause. Her name is Consuela,” he told her. “You will be well taken care of. Food is abundant there, and she’s a wonderful cook.”

  Pilar protested. “Sir, I can stay with the movement,” she said. “I am not afraid.”

  “Pilar, you are not afraid of anything, of that I am certain,” he said. “But we must think of the baby. Pack your running shoes, and I will have a few of my men take you to Yaguajay.”

  Cienfuegos turned and walked away. After a few steps, he turned back toward Pilar. “And I will see you in Havana, if not sooner.”

  As bad as things looked for the rebels, Pilar did not doubt him one bit. Her instincts told her that there was not even a small chance that Camilo Cienfuegos would be captured or killed by Batista’s army.

  The journey was long and difficult. In all, she spent five nights on the road. On the final night, she stopped at a hotel that was a regular stopover for rebels traveling the country and learned the oddest news, though it was incomplete.

  During the cease fire, the Batista forces had only protected the perimeter around the negotiations. As the talks dragged on, with Fidel essentially discussing terms of surrender, the rebels quietly packed up their camp and began moving out. Over the course of six days, all of Castro’s troops slipped out from under the army’s grasp.

  On the final day the eighth of August, Castro simply didn’t show up for the negotiations. Cantillo, the general in charge, ordered his forces to attack and take down the rebels. Only there was no one to attack. They were all gone.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It was about eight o’clock on a Saturday morning in mid-August of 1958 when Pilar arrived at her destination. The driver, one of several who relayed Pilar in a zigzag pattern across more than three hundred miles of rugged back roads like pony express riders, waited with his passenger in front of a two-story French Colonial–style home just off the main street in Yaguajay. She was now more than half way between Cienfuegos’s camp in the mountains and his ultimate destination, Havana. Pilar knocked on the ornate door.