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America, America,
I Love You, Let Me Count the Ways Survivors of Communism Travel Different Paths Together – Destination: America! |
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by Klara Sever and Agustin Blazquez with the collaboration of Jaums Sutton
Klara Sever and Agustin Blazquez are members of the Anticommunism Action Team Speakers Bureau.
Klara is celebrating 50 years in America, having left Czechoslovakia soon after the Soviet tanks rolled in.
Agustin fled Cuba in 1965 after Castro’s promises of democracy gave way to a ghastly new reality.
Klara Sever and Agustin Blazquez are members of the Anticommunism Action Team Speakers Bureau.
Klara is celebrating 50 years in America, having left Czechoslovakia soon after the Soviet tanks rolled in.
Agustin fled Cuba in 1965 after Castro’s promises of democracy gave way to a ghastly new reality.
America, America, I Love You, Let Me Count the Ways (Klara)
1. For welcoming hordes of people that you never knew existed. As a matter of fact, we never laid our eyes on persons of so many colors from yellow to charcoal black. They were mingling around purposefully while we were nervously looking around the huge hall of the airport, hoping to spot our friends. What if they are not waiting anymore? The plane was many hours late. Oh, there they are, our only familiar piece of the old world that we let behind.
2. For sharing the freedom that was not free; many paid for it with their lives and many still will in order to keep it. I will never forget--I stopped for the red light and realized the car ahead of me was carrying a casket covered by an American flag. My heart skipped a beat. Vietnam was still raging. Somebody’s son, brother or husband died for this country, died for me, too. I just got here, did not contribute much. He died, so this country could remain free. How could one repay that?
3. For giving most privileges to newcomers as soon as we step on your shores. I only later learned that whoever steps on America’s soil is considered an American. Of course, there are advantages that come with citizenship, but opportunities abound, just like a born American.
4. For the freedom to pray to their God in any language. President Washington welcomed Jewish immigrants and stressed that they are considered a valued addition to the young Republic.
5. For the freedom of thought, speech and to publish them. For us, coming from a country where all those were punishable by law; all were censored activities.
6. For freedom of movement. After we received our green cards we wanted to visit our good friends in Canada. A bit apprehensive, we asked around and learned that we needed to take proper documents, mainly for entry back into the U.S. When leaving the U.S. we tried to give the guard our green cards. He just asked where we are going and then asked all of us to say that “We are Americans”. Stunned, we obeyed. He wished us a nice trip and waived us on. What a country! Your word is your passport.
7. For the freedom to pursue your trade. When I found a company that reproduced sculptures, the owner glanced at my photos, asked a few questions and told me to start on Monday. I thanked him and asked for a letter of employment. He just looked at me: ”What letter, my word is not enough for you? Obviously you do not want this job.” ”Oh no, sir, I do.” “So, show up Monday, that's it.” I worked for him for 13 years.
8. For the freedom to educate your children as you see fit. Our younger son joined the Boy Scouts and we received a questionnaire asking about his church affiliation. Fresh out of the country where joining any church could result in peril, I explained our situation and the scout master asked me a simple question: “Do you believe that your son is honest, caring, loves his family and is ready to become a scout?” I agreed and again left shaking my head.
9. Freedom to vote for your representatives. After decades voting together with the rest of the 99.9 percent for only one candidate, I couldn't wait to get my chance.
10. For freedom to seek equal justice, where you are considered innocent until proven guilty. Where I came from, it was the opposite.
Real Surrealism (Agustin)
I came from a country which, in 1959, had the opportunity for a fundamental transformation to Socialism. We were told by the government and the media that equality and social justice will reign. However the government began taking away freedoms. It quickly became a surreal nightmare. We lived in fear 24/7. The government suddenly changed the currency and took all but $5,000 from all bank accounts. People lost their savings. That was “equality” and “social justice.” Soon, food, clothing and everything else became scarce. “This can't happen here.” But it did.
The government imposed a rationing book for all necessities. But, after waiting in long lines, usually there was nothing left. Schools of all denominations were confiscated by the government. Parents lost their right to educate their children. The government began to indoctrinate children to form loyal tools of the government as the idea of “family” was destroyed. There were massive executions--broadcast on TV to instill fear. Jails were filled to much more than capacity with anyone who didn't like the new Socialist system. Concentration and labor camps appeared for LGBT and other communities. Others were put in mental institutions, or just mysteriously disappeared.
Most medicines disappeared from stores and pharmacies. People became dependent on relatives abroad for medicine but the government always kept half. The best hospitals were reserved for the government and their new loyal elite. But that elite has to be very careful, looking over their shoulders 24/7 because privileges given can be taken away. Some managed to escape at great risk, many died trying. Little did we know that Socialism was going to destroy my former country.
August 1968 (Klara)
A suffocating summer night. Nervously waiting for results of the Soviet-Czechoslovak negotiations. A horrible noise and a burst of light shook me back to reality. Under our window stood a Soviet tank, a young soldier with a red star on his cap was trying to read a map. This can't happen in my country, but the Russians are here.
Going to America (Agustin)
I left the country where I was born and educated in 1965 for Canada. After living in Montreal for three months, I went to Paris where it was legal for me to work—I cleaned floors and applied for U.S. residence. I also needed get an American family to sponsor me and provide a legal “Affidavit of Support”. I had not been convicted of any crimes, used drugs or been a member of any subversive group. I had to pass a medical examination to prove that I didn't have any contagious disease. Since I came from a communist country and knew the horrors of that inhumane system, I was very glad that the U.S. didn't allow Communist Party members.
The process to come here was fine with me, the minimum for a country to protect itself and its citizens, from crimes, political nightmares and contagious illness. A friend that applied with me was denied U.S. residence because his x-ray showed a spot on the lungs. He came two years later after it was resolved.
In July 1967, I arrived to the U.S. I got my Social Security card and began working as a dishwasher in a hospital in Washington, DC and later at a department store building displays for the windows. The America I saw was a melting pot of different nationalities striving to be Americans and living in harmony with the laws and culture. I love and I'm proud of America because it's a country that opens its doors and gives you a second chance to begin a new life with freedom of choice.
I don't think it's right or fair to enter the U.S. illegally and not integrate to this society, not learn English. To continue living as if you were still in the country where you came from, trying to impose the culture, religion and laws of your former country and pretend that American citizens adapt to yours is destructive to everyone. That is not a positive immigration. That creates tribal division that lets you be used by unscrupulous politicians and harm us all. Why did you come to this country if you want to continue living like in the country you escaped? Hell no, I don't want to go back to my former country, not even as a tourist.
Paris (Klara)
Two weeks after the tank arrived, our small family is standing on the Austrian border. The silhouette of our town’s iconic castle is now small. “You are not going to look back to see your country for the last time?” asked my husband. I could not look; my vision was completely obstructed by my tears. At that moment I recalled “Man without a Country” the story of a young officer of the American Navy. We are now “People without a country”.
The first night in Vienna, sleeping on the hard floor of the school was a very good entry path for the migrants. Our boys were playing with their little cars, but my husband, nervous by nature, was walking the corridors of the school, smoking. His reporter's mind was mapping our next move. Next stop: American Agency for refugees. There he was briefed on our future. We can’t stay in Vienna, too close. “By the way, keep your little boy close, there were cases of Russians snatching children.” Also, we could wait for America in two places, Italy or France. He spoke some French, but getting the visas was very difficult.
Next stop: French Embassy. To this day we count this achievement among the top! Miraculously, with the French visa we drove thru Germany and crossed Strasbourg into “Sweet France”.
Paris, City of lights and immigrants. Well, we got lost. Finally my husband found the French agency for refugees. New rules, support for a three month of stay renewable, but we believed we’d be on our way to the U.S. by then. Not so fast! We stayed in Paris for six months.
France keeps all their laws, even the Napoleonic ones. You can’t get a permit to work without the permit to stay, and the other way around. You can’t get to the U.S. without a sponsor who guarantees that you are not going to become a burden to the State. Most of our new friends already had their permits, happily starting to pack while we were still hanging on, not knowing what our future would be. Our New Year’s celebration with a bunch of refugees from assorted countries was bittersweet. We were happy for our friends leaving, but our outlook was still hopeless. We were hanging on to “next year in New York!”
In the meantime my husband met with a reporter from Paris Soir who sent him to Vienna to interview refugees. The newspaper published his articles, which got the attention of the press attaché at the American Embassy. A meeting ended with an invitation for my husband to call Washington as soon as we arrived.
Finally, that day came; we went for the interview, then, complete check-up, which unfortunately, I did not pass. As a smoker, my lungs showed some irregularities. There was to be another examination and if I don’t pass, I will have to stay behind. After a few nerve wracking days, all clear!
Moving on. My husband and I contracted a nasty flu. With high fever, barely controlled by huge portions of quinine, we arrived in Brussels to get on an El Al plane to the States. Under strong scrutiny due to the attack on the Israeli Olympians, finally, we took off.
Goodbye, Europe . . . (Klara)
From the plane’s window we tracked the countries we flew over. The plane made a stop in England, but we were not allowed to enter the airport. Our status of “people without a country” hung over us like a dark cloud. . . We are getting close. . . Canada and . . .
New York, here we come!
Welcome to America in a Taxi (Klara)
After an arduous flight halfway around the globe, we finally met with our dear friends at the JFK airport in New York, March, 1969. In a New York taxi, a friendly driver asked if we had come to the U.S. to visit. The answer: “Oh, no! We want to stay here.” “Well, that's great. Welcome to America!” was his surprising reply. Even in our country, where we were born and which we loved, our presence was, at best, merely tolerated. After waiting six months in Paris and the long hours of questioning at the sûreté générale there, we did not expect such a welcome. After all, we were refugees from a communist country, in transit. Being a family without a country for six months, we were surprised and delighted to be welcomed in America.
Going to Jean-Paul Sartre's Film (Agustin)
After a play rehearsal, I left for the official Film Institute to see The Respectful Prostitute, a 1952 film based on the famous 1946 novel of Jean-Paul Sartre. As an artist and with Sartre being one of the key figures in the philosophy of existentialism, I decided to dress all in black-- perhaps a stereotypical identification of that philosophy. But that was a naïve and serious mistake on my part since it was the Cuba of the 1960s.
Fidel Castro invited Sartre, who also was a Marxist, to visit Cuba in 1960 to report on his new revolution. Since Sartre became a friend and admirer of Castro, he was fine and dandy. I arrived late at the screening because the public transportation in Cuba was very bad after Castro's revolution.
The movie theater was crowded because it was a French film and Cubans detested Soviet films and the other Eastern European satellite countries. So I sat in the only empty seat I saw in the dark. Suddenly, I was touched on my left shoulder and a voice telling me that I was under arrest. I was extremely surprised but not to attract attention, I got up and went with him to the lobby thinking all would be clear once I identified myself.
When we got to the lobby he held me forcefully by my arm and despite my protests conducted me to a police car and to a police station where they told me to sit on a bench. Surprisingly, there was a puppy dog and I passed the time playing with him while I was waiting until my situation was cleared. I asked to call my home but they said no. After a few hours they called me and forced me to sign a paper in exchange for my freedom. So I did as I was advised—how naïve I was! Then they took me to the infamous prison, The Prince Castle. There they took a silver dollar that my father gave me when I was a child that I always carried with me. They never returned it to me.
I was taken to a big crowded dungeon jam-packed with prisoners where I slept on the floor. Next morning I was released thanks to one of my mother's brothers who was a member of Castro's feared secret police. He took me to one of those fast trials of Castro's revolution. Thanks to that uncle I was found guilty, but they released me! I realized years later why I was detained. It was because I was dressed in black like an “existentialist”. Such individualism was not permitted.
This is a sample as to why I know the value of freedom and living in America. With all its defects, there is nothing like America.
Trip to The Opera (Agustin)
As an actor under contract by the state, one evening I went to the opera with another actor. After the performance, we planned to go to eat with the two female stars of the show. From the main entrance of the theater we walked around the block to wait at the stage door. Nearly there, we were questioned by a guy dressed in plain clothes saying he was a policeman who wanted to know where we were going. We told him we were actors and we were going to meet our singer friends to go to eat. Another opera singer friend came out with her husband, the conductor of the orchestra. She saw us before she entered her car and asked “What happened?” Thinking that the situation was going to clear, we replied, “Don't worry, it's nothing.”
Then the guy asked to see our IDs. We showed our actor's union and the theater company IDs. Not satisfied, he said, “We have to go to the police station so they can see your IDs.” We repeated that the two stars were waiting for us to go out. He brought out a gun and said, “You are detained and have to go to the police station.” Thinking everything would be resolved there, we walked with him at gunpoint. When we arrived, he pushed us in and said to the policemen there, “Two more.”
They pushed us into a dark, over-filled cell of prisoners standing as sardines, all with arms raised because of the lack of space. People were protesting and saying that they too were detained there for no reason. After some hours, we were put in an equally crowded paddy wagon, and driven through the dark streets to an old, colonial mansion and pushed into a dark, crowded room. I felt that I was in a hellish nightmare. There were people crying and yelling. It reminded me of the films of Hitler during WWII.
Afterward, I was conducted to a large room upstairs converted into an office with many old desks and filing cabinets. At each desk was a detainee and an interrogation officer. I could not see the fellow actor who was detained with me. I had no idea why I was part of such a grotesque situation. I had heard from other actors, artists, intellectuals, that the new government was conducting such raids, but I didn't believe them--”That can't happen here.” Now, with my own experience, I realized that they were telling the truth.
A detainee nearby whispered, “Declare yourself 'anti-social' in the document you have to sign and they will let you go.” When I got my turn the official said, “If you sign this document we'll release you”. So I did. Then they conducted me to a very long line in the courtyard of the dark mansion. Soon I find out that it was to take mug shots with a number. Then I was released in the very late hours of the night. The fellow actor was also released and we walked back to our respective homes through the dark streets.
My mother and father knew that something happened to me that evening because one of the opera singers had called inquiring why we did not join them for dinner. My mother had called one of her brothers who was a member of the dreaded State Security and he came the next morning.
He told my mother and father that they were detaining actors, singers, artists, intellectuals, because Castro's government considered them “scum” and “anti-social” because there was no use for them in the new Socialist society. They were to be sent to concentration camps called UMAP (Military Units to Help Production). That was an idea of Che Guevara.
These forced-labor camps were located across the country. He explained that after they have the files with name, addresses and photos they will start sending telegrams to go to their assigned camp. He, in his position, could not do anything. So my best choice was to escape abroad.
The government immediately cancelled my contract with the theatrical company and I went into hiding and incommunicado in my house for over a year. I was finally able to escape by a nerve-racking scheme and to a government bureaucratic error. You can read details of my escape here.
A week later my mother received the telegram for me to report to the concentration camp. But I was safe in Canada. Most Americans have no clue what living inside a Communist regime is like and take for granted what they have and cannot realize what they are losing day by day.
1. For welcoming hordes of people that you never knew existed. As a matter of fact, we never laid our eyes on persons of so many colors from yellow to charcoal black. They were mingling around purposefully while we were nervously looking around the huge hall of the airport, hoping to spot our friends. What if they are not waiting anymore? The plane was many hours late. Oh, there they are, our only familiar piece of the old world that we let behind.
2. For sharing the freedom that was not free; many paid for it with their lives and many still will in order to keep it. I will never forget--I stopped for the red light and realized the car ahead of me was carrying a casket covered by an American flag. My heart skipped a beat. Vietnam was still raging. Somebody’s son, brother or husband died for this country, died for me, too. I just got here, did not contribute much. He died, so this country could remain free. How could one repay that?
3. For giving most privileges to newcomers as soon as we step on your shores. I only later learned that whoever steps on America’s soil is considered an American. Of course, there are advantages that come with citizenship, but opportunities abound, just like a born American.
4. For the freedom to pray to their God in any language. President Washington welcomed Jewish immigrants and stressed that they are considered a valued addition to the young Republic.
5. For the freedom of thought, speech and to publish them. For us, coming from a country where all those were punishable by law; all were censored activities.
6. For freedom of movement. After we received our green cards we wanted to visit our good friends in Canada. A bit apprehensive, we asked around and learned that we needed to take proper documents, mainly for entry back into the U.S. When leaving the U.S. we tried to give the guard our green cards. He just asked where we are going and then asked all of us to say that “We are Americans”. Stunned, we obeyed. He wished us a nice trip and waived us on. What a country! Your word is your passport.
7. For the freedom to pursue your trade. When I found a company that reproduced sculptures, the owner glanced at my photos, asked a few questions and told me to start on Monday. I thanked him and asked for a letter of employment. He just looked at me: ”What letter, my word is not enough for you? Obviously you do not want this job.” ”Oh no, sir, I do.” “So, show up Monday, that's it.” I worked for him for 13 years.
8. For the freedom to educate your children as you see fit. Our younger son joined the Boy Scouts and we received a questionnaire asking about his church affiliation. Fresh out of the country where joining any church could result in peril, I explained our situation and the scout master asked me a simple question: “Do you believe that your son is honest, caring, loves his family and is ready to become a scout?” I agreed and again left shaking my head.
9. Freedom to vote for your representatives. After decades voting together with the rest of the 99.9 percent for only one candidate, I couldn't wait to get my chance.
10. For freedom to seek equal justice, where you are considered innocent until proven guilty. Where I came from, it was the opposite.
Real Surrealism (Agustin)
I came from a country which, in 1959, had the opportunity for a fundamental transformation to Socialism. We were told by the government and the media that equality and social justice will reign. However the government began taking away freedoms. It quickly became a surreal nightmare. We lived in fear 24/7. The government suddenly changed the currency and took all but $5,000 from all bank accounts. People lost their savings. That was “equality” and “social justice.” Soon, food, clothing and everything else became scarce. “This can't happen here.” But it did.
The government imposed a rationing book for all necessities. But, after waiting in long lines, usually there was nothing left. Schools of all denominations were confiscated by the government. Parents lost their right to educate their children. The government began to indoctrinate children to form loyal tools of the government as the idea of “family” was destroyed. There were massive executions--broadcast on TV to instill fear. Jails were filled to much more than capacity with anyone who didn't like the new Socialist system. Concentration and labor camps appeared for LGBT and other communities. Others were put in mental institutions, or just mysteriously disappeared.
Most medicines disappeared from stores and pharmacies. People became dependent on relatives abroad for medicine but the government always kept half. The best hospitals were reserved for the government and their new loyal elite. But that elite has to be very careful, looking over their shoulders 24/7 because privileges given can be taken away. Some managed to escape at great risk, many died trying. Little did we know that Socialism was going to destroy my former country.
August 1968 (Klara)
A suffocating summer night. Nervously waiting for results of the Soviet-Czechoslovak negotiations. A horrible noise and a burst of light shook me back to reality. Under our window stood a Soviet tank, a young soldier with a red star on his cap was trying to read a map. This can't happen in my country, but the Russians are here.
Going to America (Agustin)
I left the country where I was born and educated in 1965 for Canada. After living in Montreal for three months, I went to Paris where it was legal for me to work—I cleaned floors and applied for U.S. residence. I also needed get an American family to sponsor me and provide a legal “Affidavit of Support”. I had not been convicted of any crimes, used drugs or been a member of any subversive group. I had to pass a medical examination to prove that I didn't have any contagious disease. Since I came from a communist country and knew the horrors of that inhumane system, I was very glad that the U.S. didn't allow Communist Party members.
The process to come here was fine with me, the minimum for a country to protect itself and its citizens, from crimes, political nightmares and contagious illness. A friend that applied with me was denied U.S. residence because his x-ray showed a spot on the lungs. He came two years later after it was resolved.
In July 1967, I arrived to the U.S. I got my Social Security card and began working as a dishwasher in a hospital in Washington, DC and later at a department store building displays for the windows. The America I saw was a melting pot of different nationalities striving to be Americans and living in harmony with the laws and culture. I love and I'm proud of America because it's a country that opens its doors and gives you a second chance to begin a new life with freedom of choice.
I don't think it's right or fair to enter the U.S. illegally and not integrate to this society, not learn English. To continue living as if you were still in the country where you came from, trying to impose the culture, religion and laws of your former country and pretend that American citizens adapt to yours is destructive to everyone. That is not a positive immigration. That creates tribal division that lets you be used by unscrupulous politicians and harm us all. Why did you come to this country if you want to continue living like in the country you escaped? Hell no, I don't want to go back to my former country, not even as a tourist.
Paris (Klara)
Two weeks after the tank arrived, our small family is standing on the Austrian border. The silhouette of our town’s iconic castle is now small. “You are not going to look back to see your country for the last time?” asked my husband. I could not look; my vision was completely obstructed by my tears. At that moment I recalled “Man without a Country” the story of a young officer of the American Navy. We are now “People without a country”.
The first night in Vienna, sleeping on the hard floor of the school was a very good entry path for the migrants. Our boys were playing with their little cars, but my husband, nervous by nature, was walking the corridors of the school, smoking. His reporter's mind was mapping our next move. Next stop: American Agency for refugees. There he was briefed on our future. We can’t stay in Vienna, too close. “By the way, keep your little boy close, there were cases of Russians snatching children.” Also, we could wait for America in two places, Italy or France. He spoke some French, but getting the visas was very difficult.
Next stop: French Embassy. To this day we count this achievement among the top! Miraculously, with the French visa we drove thru Germany and crossed Strasbourg into “Sweet France”.
Paris, City of lights and immigrants. Well, we got lost. Finally my husband found the French agency for refugees. New rules, support for a three month of stay renewable, but we believed we’d be on our way to the U.S. by then. Not so fast! We stayed in Paris for six months.
France keeps all their laws, even the Napoleonic ones. You can’t get a permit to work without the permit to stay, and the other way around. You can’t get to the U.S. without a sponsor who guarantees that you are not going to become a burden to the State. Most of our new friends already had their permits, happily starting to pack while we were still hanging on, not knowing what our future would be. Our New Year’s celebration with a bunch of refugees from assorted countries was bittersweet. We were happy for our friends leaving, but our outlook was still hopeless. We were hanging on to “next year in New York!”
In the meantime my husband met with a reporter from Paris Soir who sent him to Vienna to interview refugees. The newspaper published his articles, which got the attention of the press attaché at the American Embassy. A meeting ended with an invitation for my husband to call Washington as soon as we arrived.
Finally, that day came; we went for the interview, then, complete check-up, which unfortunately, I did not pass. As a smoker, my lungs showed some irregularities. There was to be another examination and if I don’t pass, I will have to stay behind. After a few nerve wracking days, all clear!
Moving on. My husband and I contracted a nasty flu. With high fever, barely controlled by huge portions of quinine, we arrived in Brussels to get on an El Al plane to the States. Under strong scrutiny due to the attack on the Israeli Olympians, finally, we took off.
Goodbye, Europe . . . (Klara)
From the plane’s window we tracked the countries we flew over. The plane made a stop in England, but we were not allowed to enter the airport. Our status of “people without a country” hung over us like a dark cloud. . . We are getting close. . . Canada and . . .
New York, here we come!
Welcome to America in a Taxi (Klara)
After an arduous flight halfway around the globe, we finally met with our dear friends at the JFK airport in New York, March, 1969. In a New York taxi, a friendly driver asked if we had come to the U.S. to visit. The answer: “Oh, no! We want to stay here.” “Well, that's great. Welcome to America!” was his surprising reply. Even in our country, where we were born and which we loved, our presence was, at best, merely tolerated. After waiting six months in Paris and the long hours of questioning at the sûreté générale there, we did not expect such a welcome. After all, we were refugees from a communist country, in transit. Being a family without a country for six months, we were surprised and delighted to be welcomed in America.
Going to Jean-Paul Sartre's Film (Agustin)
After a play rehearsal, I left for the official Film Institute to see The Respectful Prostitute, a 1952 film based on the famous 1946 novel of Jean-Paul Sartre. As an artist and with Sartre being one of the key figures in the philosophy of existentialism, I decided to dress all in black-- perhaps a stereotypical identification of that philosophy. But that was a naïve and serious mistake on my part since it was the Cuba of the 1960s.
Fidel Castro invited Sartre, who also was a Marxist, to visit Cuba in 1960 to report on his new revolution. Since Sartre became a friend and admirer of Castro, he was fine and dandy. I arrived late at the screening because the public transportation in Cuba was very bad after Castro's revolution.
The movie theater was crowded because it was a French film and Cubans detested Soviet films and the other Eastern European satellite countries. So I sat in the only empty seat I saw in the dark. Suddenly, I was touched on my left shoulder and a voice telling me that I was under arrest. I was extremely surprised but not to attract attention, I got up and went with him to the lobby thinking all would be clear once I identified myself.
When we got to the lobby he held me forcefully by my arm and despite my protests conducted me to a police car and to a police station where they told me to sit on a bench. Surprisingly, there was a puppy dog and I passed the time playing with him while I was waiting until my situation was cleared. I asked to call my home but they said no. After a few hours they called me and forced me to sign a paper in exchange for my freedom. So I did as I was advised—how naïve I was! Then they took me to the infamous prison, The Prince Castle. There they took a silver dollar that my father gave me when I was a child that I always carried with me. They never returned it to me.
I was taken to a big crowded dungeon jam-packed with prisoners where I slept on the floor. Next morning I was released thanks to one of my mother's brothers who was a member of Castro's feared secret police. He took me to one of those fast trials of Castro's revolution. Thanks to that uncle I was found guilty, but they released me! I realized years later why I was detained. It was because I was dressed in black like an “existentialist”. Such individualism was not permitted.
This is a sample as to why I know the value of freedom and living in America. With all its defects, there is nothing like America.
Trip to The Opera (Agustin)
As an actor under contract by the state, one evening I went to the opera with another actor. After the performance, we planned to go to eat with the two female stars of the show. From the main entrance of the theater we walked around the block to wait at the stage door. Nearly there, we were questioned by a guy dressed in plain clothes saying he was a policeman who wanted to know where we were going. We told him we were actors and we were going to meet our singer friends to go to eat. Another opera singer friend came out with her husband, the conductor of the orchestra. She saw us before she entered her car and asked “What happened?” Thinking that the situation was going to clear, we replied, “Don't worry, it's nothing.”
Then the guy asked to see our IDs. We showed our actor's union and the theater company IDs. Not satisfied, he said, “We have to go to the police station so they can see your IDs.” We repeated that the two stars were waiting for us to go out. He brought out a gun and said, “You are detained and have to go to the police station.” Thinking everything would be resolved there, we walked with him at gunpoint. When we arrived, he pushed us in and said to the policemen there, “Two more.”
They pushed us into a dark, over-filled cell of prisoners standing as sardines, all with arms raised because of the lack of space. People were protesting and saying that they too were detained there for no reason. After some hours, we were put in an equally crowded paddy wagon, and driven through the dark streets to an old, colonial mansion and pushed into a dark, crowded room. I felt that I was in a hellish nightmare. There were people crying and yelling. It reminded me of the films of Hitler during WWII.
Afterward, I was conducted to a large room upstairs converted into an office with many old desks and filing cabinets. At each desk was a detainee and an interrogation officer. I could not see the fellow actor who was detained with me. I had no idea why I was part of such a grotesque situation. I had heard from other actors, artists, intellectuals, that the new government was conducting such raids, but I didn't believe them--”That can't happen here.” Now, with my own experience, I realized that they were telling the truth.
A detainee nearby whispered, “Declare yourself 'anti-social' in the document you have to sign and they will let you go.” When I got my turn the official said, “If you sign this document we'll release you”. So I did. Then they conducted me to a very long line in the courtyard of the dark mansion. Soon I find out that it was to take mug shots with a number. Then I was released in the very late hours of the night. The fellow actor was also released and we walked back to our respective homes through the dark streets.
My mother and father knew that something happened to me that evening because one of the opera singers had called inquiring why we did not join them for dinner. My mother had called one of her brothers who was a member of the dreaded State Security and he came the next morning.
He told my mother and father that they were detaining actors, singers, artists, intellectuals, because Castro's government considered them “scum” and “anti-social” because there was no use for them in the new Socialist society. They were to be sent to concentration camps called UMAP (Military Units to Help Production). That was an idea of Che Guevara.
These forced-labor camps were located across the country. He explained that after they have the files with name, addresses and photos they will start sending telegrams to go to their assigned camp. He, in his position, could not do anything. So my best choice was to escape abroad.
The government immediately cancelled my contract with the theatrical company and I went into hiding and incommunicado in my house for over a year. I was finally able to escape by a nerve-racking scheme and to a government bureaucratic error. You can read details of my escape here.
A week later my mother received the telegram for me to report to the concentration camp. But I was safe in Canada. Most Americans have no clue what living inside a Communist regime is like and take for granted what they have and cannot realize what they are losing day by day.