Fighting Castro: A Love Story
By Kay Abella
Published by Kay Abella, 2007
ISBN 1595941460, 9781595941466
360 pages
The book is based on a remarkable true story, chronicling the harrowing but ultimately inspiring experiences of the Fernandez family, who personally shared their extraordinary account with the author.
The misery inflicted on individuals and whole segments of Cuban society under Fidel Castro's iron fist is no secret. People the world over are waiting and watching to see what changes will occur as the health of Cuba's dictator continues to fail.
Obviously the news stories, year after year, of people escaping to Florida, are a sign of a desperate society. But they tell little about the realities of a regime from which people are desperate to flee, or the horrendous choices that had to be made by families and individuals in order to survive in a totalitarian system.
Abella's book tells the story of Dr. Lino Fernandez, a practicing psychiatrist and young father, but also a resistance leader during Cuba's communist revolution. He is captured and imprisoned, while his wife Emy, with three children under the age of 5, has to choose between helping her husband stay alive in prison, or escaping to Miami along with her young children.
The book recounts the choices that were made, the consequences of those decisions, and what life was then like for all involved. It's primarily the dual story of Lino's time in prison and Emy's time in Havana as the wife of a traitor making her way the best she could as a third-class citizen.
At the heart of this saga is a tale of love.
"The story I have told in "Fighting Castro: A Love Story" is not a tragedy, but only because those who lived it would not allow it to become one," she said.
News-Times Staff, NewsTimes.com
From Chapter 18 – Lino in solitary confinement
The first hours all he could think of was the heat, his raging thirst. He begged for a drink without any real hope of getting it. And he didn’t. He was outraged to see how normal Cuban men, once they were made guards, could become so indifferent to the suffering of other Cubans, people like themselves. Didn’t they remember how a corroding thirst felt? How cold rough granite grated against bare skin? Could the people he knew in his old life be doing this to someone else? How far would uncertainty and raw fear push people?
At length he collapsed on the floor, too exhausted and discouraged to do anything but sleep. In the night he woke up shivering, his naked body curled tightly into a ball on his side with his head on his arm. His arm felt paralyzed, his whole body tensed and achy. But when he tried to stretch out, he felt the cold stone on every inch of his skin and he curled up again. He tried folding himself into a corner to conserve body heat, but the stone seemed to conduct cold, making him shiver even more.
Early the next morning there was a commotion in the hallway, and Lino thought maybe more prisoners would be put in the cells. As cramped as the cell was, he’d welcome having another human being with him. A few minutes later, however, a small flap near the bottom of the steel plated door was opened and a battered aluminum bowl of food shoved in. No words. No contact. The food was disgusting, tepid greasy liquid with a little macaroni pooled in the bottom. He wanted to gag but he drank it down quickly. He had eaten almost nothing in 48 hours and his body was already lacking nourishment from the hunger strike.
Over the next few days a bleak routine became apparent. No bed or blankets. No clothes. Food shoved in once in the morning. Sometimes a metal spoon to eat with and sometimes just his fingers. It was impossible to stay clean; there were bugs everywhere. Whenever he was motionless for too long, rats would nose their way into the cell through chinks in the stone.
Once a day, the small pipe near the latrine hole was turned on from outside for a few minutes - just enough to get a drink and clean the latrine. Sometimes he had to choose between thirst and filth.
The worst was not knowing when, or if, the isolation would ever end. Would he ever again be with other human beings, feel a warm touch, see his family? The other prisoners probably assumed the four of them had been hauled into this building and shot, were already decomposing in some anonymous grave. The thought of Emy not knowing if she was a widow haunted him.
He hoped she had gone to Miami to live with her parents and raise their children as best she could. Neither of them had really expected him to survive if he was captured. And whatever she could do for him here was not worth the hell of staying in Cuba – with or without the children. It was bad enough he’d deserted them; they mustn’t be alone, pariahs in their own country.
He prayed for his children, that they would understand. He prayed for his own strength. Most of all, he prayed he would endure - take whatever pain the regime could inflict and not give in. Even if he were executed, he didn’t want to leave this world beaten into submission by Fidel and his minions.