My fears were reinforced when my father showed the appointment telegram to the Cuban guard at the entrance. He reviewed it, nodded at my parents and demanded: “And who’s he?” pointing to me. “It’s my son” declared my father, adding in a firm voice: “He’s coming with us.” The guard was about to protest, but the Swiss clerk intervened: “That is OK. Let them through.”
We sat in an auditorium, in the company of about a hundred other men, women, and small children. As we waited, we witnessed scenes of human distress and anguish. The couple sitting behind us had a minor daughter alone in Miami. They were set to rejoin her, but the wife had a conflict: her other, older daughter had cerebral palsy and had nobody to care for her. They were trying to decide whether they would go together to the States, or the mother would stay behind. The wife wavered, once and again changing her mind, wringing her hands, and crying desperately. Finally, the exasperated husband turned to her and almost bellowed: “Listen, a horse has four legs and all go on the same road. Either we all go together or we stay here and pray that God protects our Felisa.”
We never knew how the unfortunate couple dealt with their dilemma, because my father’s name was called and we were taken to a small office adjacent to the auditorium. There, behind a desk, sat the blondest man I had ever seen. He was in his forties, pale as chalk, and immaculately dressed in a grey suit and a matching silk tie. He wore in his lapel a carefully stenciled name tag that read: “Klaus Spenhauer, First Secretary.” He spoke gently, but with great authority.
“So, you are the parents of [my brother]. Do you wish to travel to America to reunite with him?” My mother almost didn’t let him finish. “More than anything else!” she exclaimed.
“Well, you are in luck. The ferry trips are over, but there have also been flights that came to bring perishable medications and took people back to the United States. The next to last of these flights leaves on Wednesday, May 22, five days from today. Can you be ready by that day?” My mother replied impetuously: “Yes, yes!!”
My father placed a restraining hand on her shoulder. “Mr. Spenhauer, Sir, there is a problem.”