The Little Cabins
(Las cabañitas)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

Dr. Adolfo Rivero Caro
born August 24, 1935
Adolfo had been a political dissident for 20 years before being exiled from Cuba in 1988. During the struggle against Batista, he was national leader of the Cuban Communist Youth. After the Revolution, he was responsible, in succession, for foreign relations, ideology, and organization. After leaving the youth organization in 1964, he became professor of Marxist philosophy at Havana's University and head of the Commission of Social Investigation of the Communist Party Central Committee's Schools of Revolutionary Instruction. Expelled from the Party in 1968 in the aftermath of the "microfraction" crisis, he became one of the first militants of the Cuban Committee on Human Rights (CCPDH) and then its vice president.

Adolfo was arrested April 30, 1980, when Cuban citizens stormed the Peruvian embassy seeking asylum, which resulted in the arrest of all ex-communists. He spent 21 months in jail. He was arrested again in September 1986 and spent another 5 months in jail. Due to the efforts of his brother, he finally was allowed to leave Cuba in May 1988.

Dr. Emilio-Adolfo Rivero Caro
born April 5, 1928
Emilio-Adolfo, Attorney (Dr. of Law, 1951) and Journalist (Professional Journalist, 1951), had been pólitically active since March 10, 1952. Seven years older than his brother, he became known among the anti-Batista forces. He also opposed the sovietization of Cuba under Castro and became a leader of the anti-communist underground. Emilio-Adolfo left Cuba in June of 1960 and got back, clandestinely, two months later. Due to setbacks in conspiratorial activities, he left Cuba, clandestinely, on November 5, 1960. He parachuted back into Cuba on March 3, 1961, fifty days before the Bay of Pigs invasion after warning his American allies that the underground had expanded too rapidly, was unprofessional, and had been penetrated by communist agents.

Emilio-Adolfo was arrested April 23, 1961, six days after the Bay of Pigs invasion, at the home of a woman who had provided him shelter without knowing his identity. He was taken to La Cabana prison, a fortress surrounded by moats that was Havana's main prison. He was moved several times within a few months before being transferred to Las cabañitas, where the interrogation described herein occurred. He was later sentenced to 30 years in prison and was released on October 13, 1979. Eight days after his release he went to Costa Rica and on December 6, 1979 moved to the United States, of which he now is a citizen.

Both brothers carry the name of their father, Adolfo.

INTRODUCTION

Adolfo Rivero Caro

On the 21st of May, 1988, a Cuban Aviation Company airliner carried Dr. Adolfo Rivero Caro and his wife from Havana, Cuba to Paris, France. Efforts had been made for almost ten years on three continents to obtain permission for this human rights activist and former high official of the Cuban Communist Party to leave Cuba. When, finally, he was released, it was as an exile because Fidel Castro had decided to rid himself of one of the leaders of the Cuban Committee for Human Rights.

After passing through the passport control booths, Rivero Caro looked nervously toward the small group awaiting arriving passengers. A tall man in a gray jersey shirt signalled to him with a raised hand. It was Luis Ruiz, cartoonist and political humorist, whom he had known years before in the central yard of the Combinado del Este prison in Havana. With him were Hilario Sanchez and Lazaro Jordana Miranda, Cuban human rights activists now living in Paris.

In the midst of this typically Cuban uproar, all were looking for the official from France Terre d'Asile, who should have received the emigre but perhaps had been thrown off by the unexpected punctuality of the Cuban plane. Turning to scan the crowd, Rivero Caro came face to face with a sturdy fellow with a gleaming, shaven head who, with open arms and stentorian voice, shouted, "Willkommen, Bruder! Du bist frei! Endlich!" It was his brother, Emilio Adolfo, who had left Cuba and Fidel Castro's prison system eight years earlier, after eighteen years as a political prisoner.

Their joyous embrace was that of two brothers who had been intransigent political enemies. Emilio Adolfo, the older, an anti-communist, had fought first against the Batista dictatorship and then, when the Revolution had produced totalitarian rule, against Fidel Castro. Adolfo, the younger brother, had been a communist militant since before the Revolution and a mortal enemy of his brother's political beliefs. Eventually, he had become a dissenter in the Castro government, then, like his brother, first a prisoner, then an exile.

In meeting his brother at Orly, Emilio Adolfo had honored a pledge made eight years before to wait for him at any airport in the world where he might land. In the previous 19 years, the two brothers had scarcely seen each other. They had visited briefly when Emilio Adolfo had been in prison and had spent a few hours together during the eight days between his release from prison and his departure from Cuba. Through covert correspondence and guarded telephone conversations, they had managed to stay in touch during Emilio Adolfo's unceasing campaign to free his younger brother.

L A S   C A B A Ñ I T A S

Emilio-Adolfo Rivero

On August 12, 1961, I was transferred from La Cabaña prison to the G-2 headquarters. Once again there was overcrowding at cell three - more than 40 men in a room - a hole in the floor for a toilet, aprehensions about informers in the group, deafening noise from a public address system mounted on the outer wall just above the window. Among us there were some who expected to be executed in short notice or at most in a matter of weeks.

 In the two days I was there I met one of the luminaries of national boxing, "Puppy" Garcia, whose courage, agressiveness and human warmth had made him one of the most popular Cuban boxers ever. A few days earlier, "Puppy" had been subjected to a mock execution by G-2 agents, in a vain attempt to force him to talk.

We were fed rice with beans, which some prisoners identified as cattle feed. We called it "guanina", which may have derived from guano, a Spanish word for manure, though I never knew who invented the epithet. At times we also had small amounts of meat or fish.

After two days in cell number three, I was taken to the G-2 parking lot, where I was placed in the back of a small van. It had neither seats nor windows, and the floor and walls lacked interior padding and lining. Passengers had to sit or recline directly against bare metal. I noticed that neither driver nor escorts were on hand, and I wondered at the delay in leaving.

I soon realized the purpose of the van. Under a glaring August sun at mid-day, that tightly sealed compartment became an oven. In a few minutes, I had to take off all of my clothes, even my socks. I was sweating profusely. After almost two hours a soldier finally opened the back door, looked at me, and asked sardonically, "Warm?" I smiled, nodded, and replied, "A little." He slammed the door and, in a few minutes, the vehicle was set in motion. I became aware that two other cars accompanied us, one just ahead and the other following us closely. They were speeding, taking the curves like racing cars. In the cramped space, with nothing to grip on, I rolled from side to side. I had the impression that our course changed more than was necessary in order to confuse my sense of direction.

In less than an hour, we came to a place where the tires began to crunch over gravel. The guards opened the door, and I stepped down as I was, naked, carrying in my hands clothes and shoes. We had parked near a staircase at the rear entrance of a private residence. Some twelve men positioned themselves around me with exaggerated threatening expressions. Though their intent to intimidate me was clear I recognized in them the attitude of men who, swept up in the communist hate campaign, were forming firing squads and cutting down other men at La Cabaña Prison and throughout Cuba. They covered my face with a towel, and someone guided me upstairs.

When the towel was removed, I found that I was in a room that had been converted into a cell. Boards had been nailed tightly across windows and closets. A hole had been opened in the door forming a kind of wicket five or six inches high by two inches wide, at eye level. A movable wooden cover on the outside of the door allowed the guards to peep into the room when they wanted and prevented me from looking outside. Near the floor, the walls were ornamented with lines in a plaid pattern. The light fixture had been removed from the ceiling and replaced by a large bulb protected by a metal frame. The glare was intense and, in the tightly sealed room, it added to the suffocating ambiance. My guards took away my shoes and clothing, leaving only my drawers.

In the G-2 cells and at La Cabaña, I had heard rumors about private homes turned into detention centers where men and women were taken whose cases were of special interest to the security officers. With black humor, those homes were called Las cabañitas or "little cabins", an allusion to the inviting little cabañas that once were built around the swimming pools of Cuban luxury hotels. I was lodged now in one of those infamous cabañitas.

There was no furniture in the room. I had to lie on the floor when I wanted to rest. The heat, though not as intense as in the van, kept me sweating constantly. In thirty-one days there, I had only two or three days of respite from it, and those came only because a sub-tropical depression lowered the temperature in early September. Even my drawers felt unbearable, so I remained stark naked. At first I used them as a sort of pillow but, bothered by the glare, I hung them around the metal frame protecting the light bulb. Soon, a guard opened the peephole and shouted, "take those drawers away from there!"

"The light bothers my eyes," I protested, pretending that I hadn't understood the jailers' intention.

"That's why we put it there," he yelled.

I stayed at Las Cabañitas from August 14th through September 14th. Excepting the two or three relatively cool days, I was dehydrating the whole time and soon became emaciated. August normally is the hottest month in Havana, with temperatures often rising above 100 degrees fahrenheit. In that unventilated room, further heated by the large light bulb burning day and night, I reckoned that the temperature easily rose above 105 degrees. The glare also affected my sight, and for weeks afterwards, even after arriving at Isle of Pines, I still saw sparks before my eyes.

 During the first eighteen days, I was not allowed to bathe or shave. This exacerbated the scalp eruptions that had started at La Cabaña. I tried to ignore the intense itch. When weeks later I finally was allowed to bathe, using Fab detergent as soap, it was a bittersweet experience. The exhilarating sensations were tempered by my belief that I was been prepared for transfer to another prison, for a trial, or for my execution.

Sleep was irregular because, day and night, military people would run up the stairs yelling, "on your feet!" In those confined quarters, the shouts and the stomp of soldiers' boots on steps created a thunderous noise. All of this was conceived to make the hours unbearable and to keep prisoners on edge. I was given food three times a day. Breakfast was milk with coffee and a piece of bread. Lunch and supper consisted of a dish of rice and beans and at times meat or fish. A plastic container like those used for milk, cut in half, served as a water glass.

I became aware of the presence of two other prisoners on the same floor. I could see them sometimes through a crack in the peephole when they were being taken to the bathroom. One was a tall man, thin, gray-haired, wearing glasses. I saw him for a week, more or less. The other was a young man, tanned, with a grown beard, and seemingly strong. The latter I saw for only two or three days. What became of these men? I never knew their names or whether they suffered in prison or were lost in the executions that were common then.

Where was I? I never learned the address, but I chanced to find out to whom the house belonged. One day a guard was sitting in a chair, leaning against my door. Peering through the crack in the door, practically over his shoulder, I saw that he was leafing through a photo album. In several of the pictures I recognized the ex-president of Cuba, Dr. Miguel Mariano Gomez. I was at the residence of the ex-president's family! That president had been a defender of civilian power, and he was highly respected by the Cuban people. I promised myself that, if I survived, that family would know of me and what had become of their residence. It took me 19 years to fulfill that vow.

In those times, I already had been practicing hatha yoga for five years, generally in daily sessions of a little over an hour. I had not broken that routine either in clandestine life or in prison. In Las Cabañitas, knowing that I was subjected to great physical and psychological pressure, I lengthened the sessions. I stayed in the salamba sirsasana (headstand) for forty-five minutes, measuring the duration by the announcements of time on Radio Reloj^[1], which the military men often played at very high volume on the ground floor. Several times I prolonged the yoga sessions to two or three hours. My purpose was to maintain not only my physical and mental resistance but my emotional balance. It worked. Although my transit through Las Cabañitas caused me to lose forty pounds and to look very pale, when I left the place my health was normal, except for the sparks before my eyes.^[2] The discipline I imposed on myself was an important advantage in the duel of intellects and will with the three members of the G-2 who questioned me and with the men to whom they reported.

Evidently, the guards and officers watched my exercises through the peephole, since, from the second interview on, every time I was to be interrogated, someone shouted from the foot of the stairs, "Bring down the yogi!"

I was in that house for thirty-one days. The seven interrogations to which I was subjected took place during the first twenty-two or twenty-three days. Each lasted two or three hours, though once or twice they lasted three or four hours. Although they were not accompanied by physical torture, they were exacting experiences, as my own life and the lives of many friends and conspirators depended on my responses, or so I thought. In each of the sessions I felt as walking on a minefield.

The first meeting took place a day or two after my arrival. Two soldiers came into the room while another stood outside at a distance holding a rifle. They followed this same procedure whenever I left the room, even if only to go to the bathroom, which was just outside the door to my room. One of the soldiers entered and put a towel around my head, then guided me down the stairs. I remember thinking, "Are they going to torture me? You have to take whatever comes without uttering a word." I felt the same resolve I always had felt during the struggle against Batista whenever I thought about being captured and subjected to torture.

When my face was uncovered, I was in a room that contained a small liquor bar. I was standing next to glass doors facing out onto the residence's terrace and backyard. Two young men also were there. They introduced themselves as members of the G-2. One was tall and thin and had light skin. The other was not as tall, sturdier, and had a darker complexion. They introduced themselves with given names that I assumed were pseudonyms and have since forgotten. The taller one, who appeared to be superior in rank, took the lead during the questioning. Years later, in prison, I found out that his family name was Blanco. I shall call the junior officer ""Ramon"".^[3]

They started by asking me when and how I had arrived in Cuba and what had been my activities since then. I told them that I had stowed away on a lumber ship that had sailed from Central America. My intention, I asserted, had been to use my experience in the revolution against Batista and my contacts in the government and armed resistance to write articles about the internal situation in Cuba and especially about the armed struggle; I had expected to sell those articles to CBS and the New York Times for a hundred thousand dollars. I spoke at great length about my activities during the revolution, about my impressions and criticisms of the course taken by the revolutionary government and of the antagonisms those had created. They listened with great attention and without interrupting.

At the end of my long monologue, Blanco made a chilling statement: "Brand, you are in a very dangerous situation. We know about your activities, how you came to Cuba -- not in a ship but in an airplane, and not as a stowaway but as a parachutist. If you want, I'll show you on a map the farm where you landed."

When he called me by my code name, "Brand" and mentioned the method of my last clandestine entrance into Cuba, I didn't allow myself to blink, I didn't move a muscle on my face, but I felt my blood freeze at the same time that a blinding wrath gripped me. Someone had talked! But who, and in what detail?

Blanco continued, "Even the cat has been arrested by us. Though we don't know all, our information on you is enough to take you to the firing squad. Your only chance of saving your life is to give us detailed information on all your activities - your contacts, arms caches, everything. I repeat, Brand, either you tell us what we want to know or you go before the firing squad."

"I don't know what you are talking about," I answered.

"Coño! Don't give me that crap!," exploded Blanco.

"It's useless, Brand,", interjected the darker skinned questioner, Ramon. "In that rough sea where you navigated we had a tiny boat. Not very big, but very seaworthy. We know more than you imagine.^[4] The G-2 knows what it says and what it does. Speak, we can reach an agreement."

At that moment, the glass doors facing the terrace swung open and a man in civilian clothing entered and addressed Blanco. "You have a phone call." Blanco stood and crossed to the doors. The newcomer motioned Ramon towards the terrace, where they talked in low voices. After a few minutes, the military men who had brought me down for interrogation arrived. Once again, they put the towel around my head and guided me upstairs. I felt the light in my room more annoying than before and the heat more unbearable.

Some days later, the peephole was opened suddenly and someone barked, "Brand!" I continued walking about the room as if I had not heard. The door was opened and again two uniformed men appeared with a towel. When I arrived downstairs, Blanco and Ramon already were at the bar. The former began by saying, "Look, Brand ..." I interrupted him, saying "my name is Emilio Adolfo Rivero." Blanco and "Ramon" exchanged grave looks, then Blanco continued: "We don't want to execute you. You are recoverable for the revolution. You can save your life by collaborating with us. We are not promising to set you free. You'll have to stay in prison for some time, but not much. Look, for the time being, it is not necessary for you to give us names. We know that there are arms caches in many places, but we don't know them all. I propose to you the following: we take you to a telephone. You call and tell your people that they should flee immediately, that the G-2 is going there. We don't yet have a system to enable us to locate a place you call in such a short time. Then you give us the address, your friends escape, we confiscate the weapons, and you save your life. That way, you can start working with us. I repeat, your situation is serious. We don't want to shoot you, but we will do it if you don't help us."

"I don't know where the weapons are, and I don't have information to give you," I answered.

Ramon and Blanco again looked at each other, then Ramon asked, "What can you tell us about Aureliano."^[5]

"He is a good friend of mine."

"Yes, we know he is a good friend of yours, but the question is, has he anything to do with what you have been doing?"

"With my journalistic project? Not at all, I have not seen him for more than a year."

Ramon looked at me then, I don't know whether with mockery or hatred or curiosity, and asked, "What can you tell us about your brother?"

"He's a fanatic communist. He spent about a year in Hungary. I remember a conversation we had in May 1960, the first time I saw him in Havana after he came back. I invited him to lunch. When we met, we embraced and went into the restaurant. It appeared to me that there was some reproach or irony in his voice when he told me, "you are overfed." We started talking about Pastorita Nuñez^[6] and her housing development plan in East Havana. She had been criticized for not adhering strictly to legal procedures in her eagerness to speed up construction. My brother and I were in agreement that the urgent thing was to build the houses. The rest would be taken care of at its proper time. In general, we were in agreement about all the revolutionary measures we talked about that day. Then I told him, 'Look, Adolfito, I would not have liked your becoming a priest, but having done it, you are my brother, and I would have wanted you to become the Pope. I don't like your being a communist, but since your are one, I want you to reach the highest positions in the Party's hierarchy. I want you to succeed.' His comment was, 'Well, I don't want you to succeed.'"

The two interrogators laughed when they heard that part of the story.

I continued, "By that time, my parents already were in Washington. I told my brother, "los viejos (the old ones) are suffering because of their separation from us. Call them once in a while. Even though the Party is paying your expenses, they must understand that you have to talk with your parents." He answered me, "don't compare your morals with mine." His intransigence in this family conflict hurt me, but, at the same time, I was convinced of Adolfito's love for our parents and felt admiration and pride for the purity and self-denial with which he maintained his principles." Thus I ended my story that day.

Ramon commented, "Your brother has a clear mind," then they said goodbye, and the guards escorted me back to my room, blindfolded, as usual.

I understood that I was in a trap that would be difficult to escape alive. Executions continued routinely throughout Cuba, and there was no doubt that the G-2 held me responsible for more serious "crimes against the Revolution" than many who already had stood before the firing squads. What did they know about me? From Blanco's comments, it was clear that others had talked. The name he had used, "Brand", was precisely the pseudonym that I had used with the leaders of the armed clandestine organizations and with them only; he already had identified me as a leader of the underground. The few men who had assisted my clandestine parachute drop had only very fragmentary information on my activities, but it was enough to tell the G-2 my method of entry. That alone placed me under sentence of death.

Nevertheless, in this second interview, something had happened that I considered very important and advantageous to me. My brother's name had come up, and it had been raised by my interrogators, not by me. I knew that important leaders of the Communist Party's old guard felt love and admiration for my brother because of his past and present activities in the Communist youth organizations. I assumed that this was known to the G-2. By giving additional detailed and truthful information on Adolfo's qualities as an inveterate and self-effacing communist, I was perhaps fostering doubt in the minds of the G-2 officials handling my case about the convenience of executing me. This alone could not save me, but, in combination with efforts that I assumed (correctly, as I learned later on) were being made on my behalf abroad, and considering my roles as a lawyer, a founder of the Revolution, and, above all, a journalist, the adverse publicity that would result from my execution might prevent it.

In the third interview, I sensed that my interrogators were more tense, and so was I. I tried to evade their questions and to divert the conversation toward ideological issues or to my experiences in the struggle against Batista. I talked a lot about Aureliano Sanchez Arango and of his great work heading the Frente Nacional Democratico, the "Triple A". I spoke of how he had become a legend, not only among the conspirators but also within the armed forces; his recruits among army, navy, and police officers made possible the defeat of the 10th of March Regime.^[7] I discussed how the insurrection had overthrown forces that effectively had been defeated already through their moral disintegration.

I also dwelt on recollections of Fidel Castro when we had been first-year classmates in law school and when I had visited him in prison on the Isle of Pines and later in exile at the home of Maria Antonia in Mexico City.^[8]

Finally, Blanco interrupted me. "What can you tell us of your life at the Focsa?"

"I know no one there," I answered. He was referring to one of the biggest and most luxurious condominiums in Havana. I had seen Alfredo Izaguirre there many times. At that time, "Alfredito", as I called him, had been serving his apprenticeship as a conspirator under me. But it was not the fact that Alflredito might have been compromised that upset me most about the question. Rather, it was that I had had two interviews in that building with one of the key persons in the conspiracies that had been developing in Cuba. Was Blanco referring to that person? If so, it meant the collapse of almost all insurrectional activities on the island. I was inclined to think that he was speaking of Alfredito, which later proved to be the case. Alfredito, who always had courage and talent to spare, was very fond of women, and I suspected that it was through those channels that the G-2 had learned of my contacts with him.

Ramon then told me that, if I decided to collaborate with them, they would put me to work as their agent inside the prison. The would remunerate my work, and gradually I would earn more and more money. My only comment was, "Don't offend me." They did not bring the subject up again.

Blanco began the fourth interview by telling me that "the Department", as they sometimes called the G-2, was demanding results from our interviews. However, the Department was disappointed again that day, as it received only my analysis of the situation in which Cuba found itself. I insisted that the Revolution faced a grave danger because of its antagonistic stance toward the United States. I believed at the time, and so told them, that the American government would not accept indefinitely the presence in Cuba of a regime allied to the Soviet Union. It was just a matter of time and opportunity before the United States would sweep away the Revolutionary Government.

Blanco insisted then that my long, evasive conversations did not convince them or anyone else and that I should not deceive myself, I would go before the firing squad.

Often before they had threatened to shoot me, and the hostility this had created in me must have become uncontrollable, because at that moment I made a pointless and dangerous joke: "If it is decided to execute me, I will say the same thing the Chinaman said when he was taken to the firing squad."

"What did he say?", asked Blanco, curious.

"Una 'peliencia má'," ("una experiencia más", or, "one more experience") I said, mimicking a Chinese accent.

Blanco laughed uproariously, but Ramon stared at me very somberly. I had never seen him so serious. Immediately I thought, "What am I doing? I'm about to be executed and still making jokes?"

Blanco suddenly turned serious, too. He stood up and said, "it's useless. It seems that you already have made a decision. You want to commit suicide. Look, the questioning is over. If we see each other again, it will be for you to tell us about your life. Whatever you want - your boyhood, youth, studies, loves, marriages. In short, whatever you want. It is possible that we are interested in knowing you well." Then they left. Until that day, there had never been such tension among us. I had the impression that, had the decision been theirs, they would have killed me there, at that very place and moment.

Back in my room, I thought I would never see them again. I did not imagine that, in fact, we were entering a final phase of a chess game in which my life was at stake. Unwittingly, I had positioned my pieces well for a daring move.

Emilio Adolfo Rivero

THE PROPOSAL

After a few days, Blanco and Ramon returned. As Blanco had mentioned, they asked no questions about subversive activities. Instead, "Ramon" asked me to tell them about my life -- whatever I wanted. I agreed and, in our longest session ever, I outlined my life for them.

While we were talking, Blanco was summoned away from the bar two or three times, which seemed odd to me. I had noticed in previous meetings that he occasionally would be called away on some pretext. I had concluded that some person or group, possibly including Russians, was eavesdropping from a nearby room and would summon Blanco to make observations on my behavior or to suggest a line of questioning. What puzzled me on this day was that no questions had been addressed to me and that Blanco's consultations seemed to have no effect on our session.

Blanco and Ramon listened attentively to my monologue but were aloof. When they were about to leave, Blanco said, "I ask you, is there anything you want to do to save your life? You know what we want. You have refused to cooperate. Does anything else occur to you? We are willing to listen."

Blanco's questions caught me off guard. My first thought was that he was proposing something like a last will and testament. I said nothing for awhile, and he and Ramon waited silently for an answer. Finally I said, "Could you give me two or three days? I want to think." They looked toward each other, then Blanco turned to me and said simply, "All right.", and they left.

Back in my room, I pondered Blanco's words. It was clear to me that any proposal I advanced for the sole purpose of saving my life would be met by demands from my interrogators. That was a dead end street, because I would reject any conditions they would set, such as collaboration against my fellow conspirators. I reasoned that, to the new communist government of Cuba, a prisoner's life or death mattered only in a political context. An appeal from me that my life be spared would carry no weight. My apparently imminent execution could be avoided only if my living would benefit the government or my death would harm it. Clearly, my life depended on political factors that were remote from my being held in Las Cabañitas, and I began to review them.

My assessment of Cuba's internal situation was based on my personal knowledge of the condition of the Cuban underground. Those forces consisted mainly of men who were highly motivated but devoid of conspiratorial experience, lacking in political acumen, and unrealistic in their expectations. Moreover, many of them had devoted much of their planning to the shape of Cuba after Castro's overthrow, even though the main battle had not yet been joined. They still were thinking of Cuba as they had known it only two years before and were not paying attention to the social and political forces unleashed by the revolution.

All of these ambitious fantasies had flourished because of the central delusion that one thing was certain: the government of the United States would not tolerate a Soviet military base only ninety miles off the American coast. Castro's days were numbered, no matter what the underground did or failed to do. Individual lives might be lost, but the cause would be won. Or so we believed, until late April, 1961.

The foundation of our faith and of our movement was shaken, if not shattered, by the refusal of the United States government to support the small invasion force it had put ashore at Playa Giron and by the arrest of more than 300,000 Cubans and an undetermined number of foreigners in the days just before and after the invasion. Cubans abruptly awoke to the realization that a new system and a new tyrant gripped the island for which our experience fighting non-communist tyrannies had not prepared us. For a population the size of Cuba's^[9], the arrests were on a massive scale. They were also arbitrary, requiring no evidence of involvement in a conspiracy. Middle class and wealthy persons were arrested on the assumption that they were hostile to the communist government, as were active duty and retired military. Independent labor union leaders were enemies of the state. Anyone who had had contact with Americans was a potential enemy. All of these persons were rounded up and incarcerated in makeshift jails, sometimes in stadiums, because of their numbers.

The massive sweep netted almost everyone in the underground, along with hundreds of thousands who were not. The utter destruction of the covert networks ended not only immediate resistance, but also any hope of rebuilding an underground, with or without external help. The mass arrests alienated much of the Cuban population from the communist government, but that was a cost that Castro could bear. Without external help, malcontents were only a nuisance and no threat to the regime.

Those were times of hectic activity for the Cuban government. A boisterous and ceaseless campaign of revolutionary slogans in newspapers, magazines, radio, and television accompanied the daily drilling of newly formed militia units, which marched through the streets of every town and city in Cuba. The militia displays served the double purpose of encouraging people to join the new order and of fostering dread of the powerful and the unknown in those inimical to the changes taking place.

At the same time, Castro rapidly was forming close ties to the Soviet Union. Cuba was being "sovietized" by technicians and "advisers" streaming in from the Soviet Bloc. (In time, those "advisers" stood at the elbow of every Cuban holding a responsible job and became a shadow government.) Simultaneously, the first steps were being taken to foster Soviet-sponsored subversion throughout the Western Hemisphere. It was reasonable, then, for the Cuban government to be concerned about direct American military action. Despite American abandonment of the 2506 Brigade at Playa Giron, Castro had to worry that some of his actions would provoke massive American intervention, and he knew that the Soviet Union would not risk destruction for the sake of the Cuban Revolutionary Government.

In my conversations with fellow prisoners and visiting lawyers at La Cabaña prison, I had become aware of persistent rumors and great hopes placed in guerrilla groups that supposedly were being formed in mountainous areas of the Western, Central, and Eastern provinces of Cuba. Other hopes and expectations were based pm military conspiracies that allegedly were gaining momentum within the armed forces and the militia. Though there were elements of truth in these rumors, I was convinced that the Cuban government not only was aware of these movements but deliberately was exaggerating their importance and fostering rumors about them for the purpose of heading off the more serious threat of American invasion. Castro's reasoning, I believed, was that if American leaders received information that Castro's government might fall due to internal problems, they would put off action while awaiting a cheap victory.

The constant propaganda about imminent American attack, however, had permeated the ranks of the Revolutionary Government. Members of that government were especially receptive to such thoughts, as they were engaged in subversive actions against American allies and were planning a long-range campaign against the United States itself. To their thinking, it was only natural that the United States would retaliate.

As these thoughts crystallized in my mind, I decided to use this atmosphere to try to save my life and perhaps return again to the battlefield. My interrogators had tried to use my survival instincts to obtain something from me. I decided to use their survival instincts for my own purposes. The more I thought of Blanco's words, the more certain I was of my decision. In any case, I had nothing to lose, as otherwise my execution appeared certain.

I was left alone for several days to consider my answer to Blanco's questions. When finally I was brought before Blanco and Ramon again, I told them I needed another hour to think. In that brief contact, I had detected that they were not in an aggressive mood and so had decided to request the additional time in order to raise their expectations about my proposal as well as to refine my thinking.

When I was brought back to the bar, they asked what I had thought about their suggestion to think of something to save my life. I began by discussing my assessment of the political situation in which the Cuban revolution found itself. I told them that the United States perhaps could live with a Tito-like regime in Cuba but never would tolerate a pro-Soviet government in the Caribbean. The Cuban government had been extremely clumsy in its dealings with the United States. They had to understand that American international policy was shaped mainly in the Senate, and Castro's attacks on that institution, which had been amplified in the Cuban media, had alienated Senators and the American public. Those attacks had to stop.

In the modern world, I told them, intelligence agencies had gone beyond the role of information gathering and had become policymakers -- in fact, if not in law. They handled enormous amounts of data that was not available to the general public, and the heads of those agencies could make the most intelligent decisions. Through such ex cathedra statements I hoped to shape the image of the American government in the minds of my interrogators, especially the invisible ones who were guiding the questioning, and also to create a longing in them to attain greater influence in the Cuban government.

Returning to the subject of the Soviet presence in Cuba, I emphatically stated that, sooner or later, the United States would invade Cuba and sweep away the Revolutionary Government. In this I was reinforcing the impression they were receiving through government propaganda that the United States was ready to attack Cuba. I wanted to make clear that agreements always were possible, but that they should look for them realistically, understanding that this required a process of give and take. Both parties could benefit only if both bargained in good faith and made concessions.

Then I added that I wanted to be instrumental in reaching an agreement between the United States and Cuba. Blanco immediately interrupted me; "What level can you reach?" Without hesitation, I answered, "The White House." They made no comment, and so I continued.

"I will not do this for free. If I am decisive in mediating an agreement, and I think I can be, I want recognition, honors, and monetary rewards." At one time or another in our previous interviews, "Ramon" had mentioned that I was a very ambitious person. By demanding compensation, especially in the form of recognition, I intended to confirm their evaluation of me and to give credibility to my proposal.

I continued with my assessment, saying that, in the first months after the revolution, American officials had said more than once that the United States was willing to provide Cuba with financial assistance, which could be extremely beneficial in implementing revolutionary projects. Finally, I restated that, should the Cuban government persist in its hostility towards the United States and increase its ties with the Soviet Union, American intervention was inevitable. I was ready to act as a negotiator and felt confident that an agreement was attainable.

This quasi-monologue took about two hours. When I was done, Blanco said, "We don't have an answer for that. We'll consult the Department." With that, I was sent back to my room.

Left alone, I reflected on the interview. I had the impression that Blanco and Ramon were interested in my proposition. I also thought it very unlikely that it would be accepted. I was dealing with low-level officials and would not be given a chance to present it to officials at the level that could make the decision. It was unthinkable that approval could be obtained in the bureaucracy of the G-2. In a revolutionary government, where errors could lead to disgrace or even to the firing squad, few would be willing to risk taking my proposal seriously. Among the leaders of the revolution, there were several with courage enough to accept the challenge, but the voice of one prisoner among many thousands would not reach them.

Nevertheless, I had to consider the possibility that my proposal would be accepted. With the Cuban revolution steering ever closer to the Soviet Union, Soviet entrenchment in the Caribbean was becoming more likely. This would mean not only enslavement for the Cuban people but a threat of subversion for the entire hemisphere. That would create a qualitative change in the strategic position of the United States. For the first time in 150 years, America would be challenged in its own hemisphere by a world power, and one with a base only ninety miles off American shores. I believed then and still believe that a threat to the United States was a threat to freedom around the world. I wanted to continue in the campaign against that danger.

Convinced as I was that my proposition would not be accepted, I still had to consider what to do it if were. One thing I had determined: I would honor the letter of my commitment to the G-2. I knew that any commitment made by the Cuban government would be for the sole purpose of buying time to consolidate its power. Therefore, if asked by American officials for my recommendation, I intended to answer, "Arrange for my having an interview with President Kennedy. Your government must be convinced of the necessity of invading Cuba! Do what is politically costly, do what you don't want to do, do what many allies would recommend you not do: invade! Alone or with allies, but invade! It is too risky not to do it." I rehearsed these and many other conversations in my mind so that I would be effective in presenting my case.

I expected that at some point an American would assert that my proposal of mediation was for the sole purpose of fooling the G-2 into setting me free. I would have answered, "No. My commitment was not to represent their interests, which they never would have believed. I offered to act as a mediator. I think that after the Bay of Pigs disaster, your government must be convinced of the need to invade Cuba. If this is not the prevailing thinking, do you have an intelligent policy for negotiations? If so, I will act as a mediator, but that is not what I recommend. And if you don't want negotiations, and you do not decide for war, then I will return directly to the mountains of Cuba, with or without your help. I have preached war. I believe it is the only solution. Many of my friends already have died. My struggle will honor the memory of those who fell and perhaps set an example for others to follow, now that everything seems lost. Survival for me must be a miracle, not a goal."

That is how I thought back in 1961.

I was to see Blanco and Ramon only once more. In that meeting I learned the answer to my proposal, but it took me twenty-seven years to find out how the decision was reached. As it happened, they sought out the one communist official in Cuba who could assess my proposal accurately. They met with my brother.

Adolfo Rivero Caro

THE JUDGMENT

That morning, Joel Iglesias, Fernando Ravelo César Gomez, and I had stayed after a meeting to talk. Our conversation touched matters regarding the first conference of non-aligned nations. We discussed Lumumba's assassination, the weakness of countries only half decolonized, the necessity for revolutions to radicalize themselves in order to survive. I bitterly criticized the Chinese and bet that they would isolate themselves with their sectarian policy.^[10] Cesar thought that Dorticos^[11] would act as a balance against the Chinese influence and would place the prestige of the Cuban revolution on the side of peaceful coexistence. I recalled for the group how, as a delegate of the World Federation of Democratic Youths (FMJD)^[12], I had fought against the ultra-revolutionary rhetoric of the Chinese. When I raised the issue of disarmament, Joel and Ravel dismissed it as nonsense. "If the Imperialists are never going to disarm," Joel asserted, "why propose this to them?"

"In order to put them in a position of political inferiority," I answered.

" But, if they have a monopoly of the means of communication in their countries, how is this going to be exploited politically?"

My comrades didn't lack arguments or rationales, and Cesar and I felt happy that the intellectual combatants, without theoretical preparation, thought with their own heads. We felt the pleasure and pride of the pedagogue whose students dispute him effectively.

I was about to leave the building and return to the "Mella"^[13] when I was told that two compañeros wished to see me. This was strange to me. I didn't have a private life. All my life had developed inside the Association of Rebel Youths (AJR)^[14]. Any proposition or discussion related to me would take place first with the Party or its representatives within the AJR, and they would be ones to approach me. Who could want to see me and why?

The compañeros were young men in civilian clothing, but with a seriousness and a way of looking at me that were new to me. If they were of neither the AJR or the Party, where were they from?

That was my first encounter with State Security.^[15] As Joel had left, we went up to his office for the interview. The two didn't identify themselves, because that was unnecessary among us. They simply told me that they were my brother's interrogators. Many years later, as I was preparing to leave Cuba, I met one of them again and learned that his name was Blanco.

Blanco carried the weight of the conversation that day. he was tall and thin and looked tired. He didn't beat around the bush, nor did he give unnecessary explanations. The compañeros needed help. They wanted to know my opinion of my brother.

How was I to describe the character of the man they were interrogating? Did they know that he could kill them with his hands, that he could cut them into pieces with a machete, even though they had themselves been cutters of sugar cane? That he could put a revolver bullet through them at 50 meters or escape them by piloting a plane or a fast boat? Yes, surely they knew this.

I took a deep breath and tightened my lips. "He is a man of great personal courage." I concentrated, trying to be accurate. "He was always against Batista but, unfortunately, he involved himself with the ranks of the "Triple A". That they did nothing against the tyranny didn't mean that he would not have been ready to do something. I hated that organization. My brother wasted away his fighting will with them. Had he been in the 26th of July Movement, he might have developed politically -- contact with the peasants, guerrilla life - but his old connections and probably his anti-communism took him to the ranks of those fakes."

"Yes, it is a pity", said Blanco. "He is courageous."

I smiled involuntarily. How could I explain my thoughts to them? For me, courage isolated from or opposed to a just cause was a primitive vestige, a trait closer to animals than man, an evil. Yet, my brother was neither primitive nor evil. There was a problem there that I didn't have time to reflect on. How could I express it?

"To my brother, danger is a sport."

Blanco smiled. "Yes. He also is very intelligent. We have been discussing with him for many hours. He has stated that he can reach Kennedy personally and mediate an agreement between Cuba and the U.S.. Is it trustworthy, what he says? How would you evaluate it?"

I wondered who these men could be. Party cadres, ideologically formed men? 26th of July revolutionaries, honest but politically naive? If the latter, how could they face my brother's intellect, his persuasive powers? If they were Party cadres, perhaps it meant that the Revolution needed an agreement with Kennedy and the American Government. What agreement was possible that didn't mean the end of the Revolution, which had enormous internal contradictions and was vulnerable to traps of all kinds?

There was no one with whom I could consult on this question. These men came to me not only as the brother of a detainee but as a Party cadre. They wanted guidance. Suddenly I realized that their questions were absurd, that they implied a worrisome ideological weakness. No, they were not from the Party. They needed help in a difficult fight, not only against my brother - who didn't count as an individual, the same as myself or anyone else -- but against American imperialism, the powerful leader of world capitalism, hence, the root of all earthly evil.

"My brother worships honor," I said with energy, "but that is not the question. He is a CIA agent. What agreement can there be between the CIA and the revolution? Are we going to forget now about the Platt Amendment^[16] and how the 100-Days Government ^[17] ended?"

They looked at me without uttering a word. What were they thinking? I didn't know then, but I learned some of Blanco's thoughts many years later, when I met him again under very different circumstances.

"In your opinion," Blanco asked, "what do you think we should do?"

What could I tell him? My brother was a CIA agent, a lifelong anti-communist, a professional cadre, a very dangerous enemy. All my advice to him had been useless. How many warnings I had sent him through the old woman! Why had he not listened to me? Now, as I had feared, here he was, a prisoner. It had been inevitable. What awaited him? Execution before the firing squad? Twenty to thirty years in prison? How could one think of eternal prison for that man, who was so extraordinarily aggressive, so in love with women, with life? What would that do to my parents, to the old lady, for whom he was the apple of her eye, her permanent problem, her daily preoccupation? What would it do to the old man, who would suffer not only his own pain but also our mother's?

"I believe that you should execute him before the firing squad. With my brother, there is no deal. There will never be one."

We stood looking into each other's eyes. It seemed to me that for an instant, Blanco couldn't meet my gaze. "Thanks", he said. We will see each other again, soon."

We shook hands and they left. They never came back. For twenty-seven years, I never spoke with anyone about this conversation, except with Cesar a few days afterward. "You did right," he confirmed, "I would have done the same."

Two or three weeks later, Joel Iglesias, Cesar Gomez, and I went to visit Comandante Manuel Piñeiro, "Red Beard."^[18] He was an aggressive fellow whom I liked very much. Joel complained to him of the problems we were having in consulting on problems with the Party leadership, that is to say, Fidel. "Red Beard" understood us well.

"And don't you think that I have the same problem?" he answered Joel. "What I do is, I take the car and run after him until I catch up with him, anytime, anywhere. Then, I get close to him, and I don't leave him until I have had the opportunity to consult with him about things. There is no other way."

At some moment during that conversation, he turned to me and said, "I am sorry about your brother. Revolutions are like that. At least, you have nothing to be ashamed of: he is a man. For a long time, we had been after a certain "Brand", who had been everywhere, like a ghost. It happened to be him. A tremendous character. He tires the interrogators. When he is taken back to his cell, he stands on his head, and in five minutes he is fresh again." "Yes," I explained to him, "he was one of the first to practice Yoga in Cuba. I remember, he tried to get the old folks into it."   "And don't you practice Yoga?" he asked me. "A little, but not systematically," I answered. "I would like to learn, but I don't have the time," Piñeiro commented. "Running after Fidel, I don't have time even to see my wife, how would I have time for Yoga?" We all laughed.

 "You resemble each other a great deal" Piñeiro said suddenly, looking me directly in the eye. Pressing my arm, he concluded, "it is a pity that he is on the other side."

The next day I chanced to meet Carlos Rafael^[19] at the Party's main headquarters. Although he was always in a hurry, this time he stopped in front of me. "Adolfo," he said sympathetically, "I found out about the yogi. It is hard to make a revolution, isn't it?"

Yes, it is hard. I don't think that either of us knew then how hard it would be.

Emilio Adolfo Rivero

THE ANSWER

After a few days, I was taken back to the barroom a final time. As soon as I saw Blanco and Ramon I sensed their tension and hostility. Blanco said, "Your proposition has not been accepted. The Department has determined that you wanted to take us for a ride. We cannot afford to lose Brand." I felt a chill. Blanco had announced my death sentence.

I answered that I regretted the decision, that I thought a good opportunity was being lost, and that I had nothing more to say.

Among Blanco's few comments, one phrase had immediately caught my attention: "For you, danger is a sport." Adolfito had made a similar remark to me a year or two before. I remembered it because it had hurt me. He had meant that I was frivolous in taking risks, a judgment based on his communist outlook. Blanco's remark could not be a coincidence. They had been in touch!

Then Blanco asked, "Are you thinking of telling the Revolutionary Tribunal the same stories you have been telling us?" I replied, "I don't know. It might be that I become a brute, and then I will not utter a word." They received this comment impassively, apparently unconcerned as to how I might act at my trial.

Blanco and Ramon didn't come again. I remained in my room another eight or ten days until, around noon on September 14, 1961, someone opened the peephole and shouted, "Brand, get ready. You are leaving." A guard opened the door and gave me my clothes and shoes. After I had dressed, the guards again put a towel around my face guided me downstairs and out to a small truck. I was placed in the back compartment, which had no windows or seats, and in a few minutes we left Las Cabañitas.

EPILOGUE

Paris, May 1988

Adolfito and I were in a room facing Place Malraux, in the very center of Paris. For days we had been reminiscing and writing random portions of a book in which we would convey our experiences to the Cuban people and the world. It was our hope that one day the Cuban people could be reunited as we had been.

Ours had been a divided family, with one brother pitted against the other in a merciless conflict, to the despair of our parents. Now, after years of mutual suffering, we were together.

I was sitting on a chair. My brother was reclining on the bed when suddenly he took off his glasses. Choking with emotion, and with tears streaming down his face, he declared, "I told them to execute you before the firing squad." I was deeply moved. I rushed to him and embraced and kissed him repeatedly. "No, no, no!", I exclaimed, "You don't understand! By doing that you saved my life! You saved my life!"

For twenty-seven years he had been carrying the weight of his recommendation, made heavier by my efforts over eight years to gain his release from prison and eventually from Cuba.

From Adolfo I learned that my reasoning at Las Cabañitas had been correct, after all. My one, slim hope then had been that, by truthfully describing his uncompromising nature in terms that were high praise of a true communist, I would strengthen his image in the minds of my interrogators and thus, perhaps, make it embarrassing for them to kill me. In proposing that I be executed, he had acted like the selfless, dedicated, intransigent communist I had depicted to them. By acting "objectively", he had increased their respect and admiration for him, which finally was an important factor in deciding them to forego executing me. Had he wavered, the Party might have killed me in order to discipline him. Because we both acted true to our natures, my life was spared.

The impression Adolfo made on his comrades by recommending my execution was enduring. Just before he was exiled, he met with a high official of Cuban intelligence for an exit interview. It was Blanco. Others also had recognized the quality of the shrewd and sometimes brilliant young security officer who had led my interrogation, and he had risen to the top ranks of his profession. Twenty-seven years later, he still recalled how impressed he had been by my brother's clear judgment and decisive action in condemning me to death.

Odd though it may seem, when I learned of Adolfo's verdict on my proposal, I too was confirmed in the respect I always had had for him, for his self-denial, his honesty, his purity. That day in Paris, I felt that I never had loved him so much.

*****

My brother and I always have been agnostics. Our parents were not churchgoers, but in their own way they were believers. "God" was a word they often used. Were they alive today, knowing how it had happened that Adolfito and I were together again, I'm certain they would repeat a phrase I heard many times from both of them. "Díos escribe recto con lineas torcidas." God writes straight with crooked lines.

.
New Cuba Coalition
P. O. Box 14077
Washington, D. C. 20044-4077
Dr. Emilio-Adolfo Rivero — President
Ernesto Díaz-Rodríguez — Vice President
e-mail: cuba@idt.net