Decision

TO DEFECT IS TO ALTER DRASTICALLY ONE'S WHOLE LIFE, and the lives of all members of the family. To defect is not merely to abandon an ideology, or to exchange one ideology for another. To defect is to forsake one's entire past, country, friends; to cast aside memories, background, associations. The decision to leave is a tortuous one; it is reached only after great soul searching and examination of realities. There is not only the act of leaving. There is also the facing of innumerable uncertainties, the seeking of a new life ‑ and what will that new life be?

My decision to defect was rooted in the very Revolution for which I had fought. The seeds were planted over a period of years; they grew and blossomed in Paris. Revolutions devour their sons; they can also betray them. Probably most Cubans sympathized with the Cuban Revolution in its initial stages; a great many turned against it when it changed course from freedom to communism and demagoguery and dictatorship.

I took part in the July 26 Revolution, but never with foreign ideologies in mind, communism, all that about proletarian internationalism. As I developed with the Revolution, I watched the revolutionary process. While I fought in the Escambray and at Giron Beach, I was never the fanatic who did things because he was told to do them and without seeing the realities of the matter. Friends of mine, some of them not in sympathy with the Revolution, told me of arbitrary acts that had been committed within the revolutionary process, and at first I thought that these acts were the fault of extremists, extremists who had managed to get into the Revolution. But as the Revolution proceeded and these things continued, I came to realize that they were more widespread, that they were part of the process itself. There was the mistreatment of those persons who criticized the Revolution, who saw that it was changing in character, that it was betraying the principles for which it had been fought. It was said that those who were critical were "foreign" elements, perhaps recruited by foreign intelligence. If you had opinions contrary to those held by Fidel, that was enough to label you as belonging to the C.I.A., as being counterrevolutionary. You then were no longer treated as a human being, but as a political enemy; you were an undesirable, a person who had to be cast off. Such a person had to be separated, he must not be dealt with, and anyone who did treat with him was viewed as a weak revolutionary, as perhaps someone who was himself suspect.

All that humbug, all those lies, all those promises that Fidel made, to elevate the level of life, to work for the social good‑I remembered those promises. Whenever he would say such‑and‑such will be carried out in thus‑and‑thus time, I would remember, and when it wasn't carried out, I knew this had been a hoax. They were lies, all that about raising the standards of the peasantry to that of the cities, making the differences between field and city disappear. As I came to know and understand these demagogic plans, and saw that they were not being fulfilled, I knew that the failures were not due to counterrevolution, upon which the blame was placed. The faults were within the system itself. I was a part of the revolutionary process and I saw that the defects were inside, within itself, a sickness of the system, and not the fault of "foreign elements."

During 1962 ‑ the year of the missile crisis ‑ with the blockade in effect against Cuba, even the most basic commodities became scarce. The government mobilized thousands and thousands of workers to do "voluntary" work in the fields in order to harvest the cane crop and other crops. Although at times this mass labor had ill results ‑ as when amateur cutters damaged the cane ‑ the general effect was very good, and the food level could have been raised. We were told that all that effort, that sacrifice, the product of all that work, would be used to benefit the entire people. But then we saw that it was not used to help the people, there was an unmerciful policy of exportation, ninety percent of the products were sent abroad, without heed to the fact that the Cuban people had to eat, had to have clothing. There were restrictions, rationing, and calls to more sacrifice, and there were proclamations of immense rewards to follow, great results for the people, a marvelous future. I began to understand that all this was part of the international Communist system, that this was the only way the people could be kept working. Their hopes must always be maintained.

I became disillusioned; there were disappointments and disappointments. There would be announcements of gains made by the peasants, and when I went out into the fields I saw the campesinos, and they were more hungry, their clothes more tattered, and there was no clear future for them. I could see the great deception that was being carried out by communism.

The reality was completely different than the reports that were given. The Cuban magazines, the publications sent abroad, told of the achievements of the Revolution as if these benefited the Cuban people. Propaganda went out to Latin America, to the entire world, aimed at presenting the Cuban Revolution as something magnificent, different than revolutionary processes that had occurred in other places.

There was that famous Agrarian Reform. The government pompously announced that the lands would be broken up and distributed, or would be used to benefit all the people. There was much propaganda about this. Books were published, and these became a catechism for revolutionaries. All the means of diffusion in Cuba told about the Agrarian Reform, this was one of the most altruistic measures of the Revolution, this was a tremendous good. But then the government took the land, the campesino was forced to sell; he was held by the neck, the land was seized, there was no more propaganda, nothing was said, nothing was printed.

I was part of the system, even though I saw these problems. Perhaps it was opportunism. Many of us who had fought for something different ‑ now we were not interested in any of these questions, we had fought and won and wanted to enjoy, we wanted to rise within the system, to acquire positions of importance without concerning ourselves about the misfortunes of the people.

Did I want my children to grow up in such a society? Norma and I now had two boys (one of them born in Paris). I wanted them to respect their nation, to respect me, too.

When comes the awakening of the conscience? Friends of mine had been imprisoned, their lands arbitrarily seized. They were good people, honorable, and all their lives they had done honest labor.

I knew that I was an instrument of the system, of that monstrosity, of that deception. I was in it not because of fanaticism, but because I was carried along and did not resist, and so I could not close my eyes to what was there, to occurrences that I did not like, defects that were apparent, bad things that I saw. By the time I was preparing to go to Paris, it was probably in my subconscious that I would break with the Revolution. Then, in Paris, there were these officials who personified all the deceit, all the falsities of the Revolution, men who only wanted to keep climbing, who didn't care a fig about the calamities of the people. They were blind, or made themselves blind, to reality.

Which is the drop that overflows the cup? In the fall of 1968 a plan was announced at the Paris Embassy for the setting up of a circulo infantil for the children of the staff. Instead of attending French schools, the children would study and play at the circulo, where they would receive a proper revolutionary education. The wives of the Embassy personnel would work at the circulo.

The plan was pushed by a militant Cuban woman, Cordelia Navarro, who was attached to UNESCO and was in Paris on a visit. Navarro called a meeting of the staff wives and told them that the running of the circulo would provide them with a worthwhile "revolutionary" task. Those who could teach would teach; those who could cook would cook. Participation would be "voluntary," but everyone was expected to participate. A work schedule would be set up, and each woman would be present in accordance with this schedule.

My wife, Norma, had been a teacher in Cuba, and therefore she was expected to teach at the circulo. She was, however, not interested in propagandizing children for the Revolution. She did not wish to work without pay, nor did she want to give up her time, including that spent with me on weekends.

Norma's reluctance to participate drew an angry response from Navarro, who told her: "This is for the children. It must be done. In Cuba the women are making great sacrifices. They cannot go out, they cannot dress the way you can. They are working in the fields, and it is a privilege to live abroad. You must forget about going out."

Norma was accused of not being "ideologically strong," and she was told that I would be directed to concern myself more about her attitudes.

"Leyda," wife of "Julio," chief of the European section of D.G.I. in Havana, was also visiting Paris at this time, and she and Lopez conferred with me about my wife's behavior. "If your wife cannot give you full attention and cannot go out with you, or take the children out in the sun, remember that it is for the good of the Revolution," Leyda asserted.

I objected to Navarro's treatment of my wife and said, "I don't even know who that woman is."

"She is a revolutionary. She has made sacrifices for the Revolution."

"Well," I replied, "I, too, am a revolutionary. I have fought for the Revolution and I know what I have done for the Revolution, but I don't know what she has done. She is probably an opportunist and wants to make the circulo another step in her career."

"You must not speak like that," Leyda cautioned. "That is not the way of a true revolutionary."

I angrily replied: "Look, don't give me lessons on revolutionary conduct. You put your daughters in a circulo in Cuba and they got lice, they had eye troubles and other sicknesses, they were undernourished, and so you took them out. You should have discussed this with the director of the circulo instead of removing them. You had relatives with whom you could place the children during the day, but other revolutionaries didn't and they had to leave their children there."

The end result of the discussions was that the circulo would be established. Whereas it had been hoped the work would be "voluntary," it would now be clearly obligatory. One point won by us, however, was that a work schedule would not be imposed upon the wives. Rather, schedules for participation would be worked out by the women with a commission that was set up, composed of the D.G.I. chief, the second in command, and several other members of the staff.

Which is the drop that overflows the cup? The ill will aroused by Norma's rebellion lingered on, and she found herself ostracized from the social life of the Cubans in Paris. She was not invited to some functions, and when she was invited, she was shunned by other wives. She was criticized for dressing well ‑ while the other women, less courageous, would buy five pairs of identical shoes, or three identical dresses, hoping that their husbands would not be aware of their unrevolutionary extravagances. I was faulted, too: I had five suits, when two or three were considered sufficient, and there were hints that I must be careful, for that smacked too much of the petit bourgeoisie. So did the fact that we liked to entertain a great deal at our home.

Then there was the matter of the salaries: the Centro staff was told that a policy of austerity was in effect in Cuba, and we must also participate. This participation was to take the form of giving back such portions of our salaries as we did not require for basic living. The staff was told that we must give up things: if we had wines with our dinner, we must dispense with them; if we ate desserts, we must forego them. As a small concession, the Ministry of Foreign Relations, which had been paying eighty percent of our rental costs in Paris, would now pay the full costs. I rebelled at relinquishing any substantial portion of my pay. I would be asked sarcastically, "Well, and what's wrong with you? " and I would answer, "I have heavy expenses."

And so at some point the cup spills over, and a decision is reached, and a person's life makes a dramatic and total turn. There had been occasions during the past months when Norma and I had brought up the possibility of leaving the Centro, and communism, and Cuba, but this had been oblique, half joking talk. Serious talk, no, for such a move seemed almost too transcendental to think about. I never quite faced the possibility squarely. Norma had, in her own mind, but she was unsure about bringing up the matter with me except in off-handed ways. Families had broken up in Cuba over just such questions as this, ideological differences which had forced husbands and wives apart, brothers and sisters, children and parents.

Not acknowledged, nevertheless there, the decision began taking shape within my mind. Perhaps it had been made long before, and I had been shunting it aside, and then finally I could neither ignore nor evade it. There came a comparatively quiet day at the Centro, and I had time for my own thoughts. I faced myself and faced reality, examining alternatives and weighing consequences. There could as likely be unhappy consequences for failing to act, as for taking action. I had been at my Paris post almost two years now, and it was possible that I would soon be transferred back to Cuba. If I did return home, I might never have another good opportunity to make my break.

I knew not where it would lead, but that day I came to my decision.

That night, in bed, I spoke to my wife. I had not dared say anything earlier: I could not be sure there were no microphones hidden somewhere in the house. Using a sheet to muffle my voice, I said: "I have something to tell you. A decision I've made."

"But, why so low? " she asked. "You make me nervous."

"There may be a microphone here. They might hear us, and tomorrow we would be prisoners and on our way to Cuba. Look, I've decided to break with communism."

Norma alternated between joy and confusion. She hardly seemed to know what to say. We whispered back and forth.

It was a night without sleep. We talked until the early morning hours, considering how we could make our break, how we could get away, what we would do afterwards.

The time was the beginning of November. There would be many more sleepless nights and restless days in the weeks ahead.

When I had first arrived in Paris, I became acquainted with another official named Miguel Amantegui (code name "Antonio"), who, like myself, served as a third secretary. Amantegui had lived most of his youth in Paris and been educated there, and he spoke French fluently. Amantegui personally knew Pineiro, the chief of D.G.I., and he had been picked for intelligence work in France because of his French upbringing. I early noticed a coolness toward Amantegui on the part of the Centro chief, although the reason for this attitude was not apparent. Then, one day, Amantegui was instructed to take a report to Moscow immediately. He left for that city, and did not return to Paris. Days passed, and the officials wondered where Amantegui was. Lopez told his staff, "Amantegui has committed an error, and he has been sent to Cuba for a hearing." The nature of the "error" was not explained. Amantegui was not seen again, at least not in Paris.

Having decided to make my break, I remembered the Amantegui case and the lesson to be derived therefrom. I decided if ever I were ordered to go to Moscow or Prague I would defect immediately. I arranged a code with my wife: should I at any time phone her and say, "I have too much urgent work, and I can't take you the medicine you wanted," she would know that she was to gather the children and flee the apartment. I would go to the airport, as if departing for Moscow as instructed, but would then leave the airport and proceed to a prearranged spot to meet my family. I had no intention of becoming a second Amantegui.

I discussed with my wife possible ways in which we might defect. This was not simply a matter of walking out of the Centro: we would need outside assistance ‑ assistance in hiding, in getting to another country, and, most important, in setting up new lives for ourselves. We carefully considered approaching the American Embassy in Paris, but finally discarded this idea as being potentially dangerous. The staff of the Cuban Embassy were constantly told that any Cubans who sought asylum with the Americans would be turned away: the Americans would suspect them of being infiltrators or provocateurs and would refuse to help. This might or might not be true, but if it did happen to us, we would be at the mercy of D.G.I. This was too great a risk to take.

We settled upon a plan to appeal to a Catholic organization. Both of us had been members of the Catholic Youth, and the Catholics were known to be active in helping people leave Cuba and assisting them to get started in new countries. It was a matter of selecting and making contact with the right organization or person.

Then I received a rude shock. Lopez one day handed me the files on two men with whom Intelligence had made contact and who would be serving as agentes. Both men were Catholic priests, members of what they called "the revolutionary left of the Church." The priests were to be in the charge of myself and a D.G.I. collaborator, Luis Alberto Gutierrez (code name "Reyes").

I immediately reconsidered my plan to contact Catholics in my effort to break away. If there were two priests working for Cuban Intelligence, there might be more ‑ what if I were to appeal to one of these? The results would be disastrous for our family.

No further thought was given to approaching a Catholic organization. Instead, a new plan was formulated. There was a couple, W. and A. A., now living in the United States who had been close friends of ours in Cuba. However, we had not been in touch with them for years. At the Paris apartment house, the mail was handled by the concierge, and since there were a number of Cubans living at 10 Rue Faraday, there was always the chance one of them might get a letter meant for someone else. And if it had become known that we were receiving mail from the United States, we would have fallen under grave suspicion.

Now, however, the risk would have to be taken. Norma wrote a letter to A. A. It was a normal, chatty letter, aimed only at reestablishing contact. It contained no hint of our intentions. As a precaution against an answering letter falling into the wrong hands, I requested the concierge to be careful to give my mail only to me personally, a request which I supported with a gift box of Cuban cigars.

And now began a period of nervous waiting, waiting which was to become all too familiar.

In this particular instance, however, the wait was not too long. A. A. replied within a few days, expressing delight at hearing from her old friend and giving details of their life in the States.

Norma now wrote a second, bolder letter, telling of her unhappiness and stating that "the brother of Panchito ought to be reunited with you." "Panchito" ‑ nickname for Francisco ‑ was one of Orlando's brothers; the Castros knew that the A's would understand that the oblique reference was to myself. As she wrote the letter, Norma cried. So much to say, so little that could be said, and the fate of our family in the balance. She asked the A's for suggestions as to what could be done.

Before mailing the letter, I made certain that I was not being followed. Even so, an additional precaution had been taken: the letter was written in such a way that anyone reading it might think it was of Norma's making alone, and that I had had nothing to do with it. In the event the letter should somehow fall into the hands of Cuban Intelligence, we hoped that I would be questioned about my "wife's" actions before any punitive measures were taken, and this might give us enough time to escape.

An ironic result of the ambiguous wording of the letter was that the A's, upon reading it, were themselves uncertain whether I was involved, or whether the letter represented Norma's feelings alone.

A second letter from A. A. arrived, and it directed that a telephone call be made to her brother, E., who also lived in the States. The phone number was included in the letter. At this time the Cuban oficiales in Paris were going through one of the periods of close surveillance by French Counter‑Intelligence, and I decided not to make the call from our apartment or a public booth. Instead, I waited two days until there was a quiet time at the Embassy, with few people about, and then placed the call from there. I knew the call would not be listed on the phone bill for two months or so, and by that time I would, hopefully, be well gone. Even so, I gave the operator the name "Armando," which was that of a Cuban army officer who was visiting Paris and who was considered to be a somewhat careless individual.

The conversation with E. was a cautious one. E. wanted to assure himself that he was indeed speaking with me. He asked me questions about my childhood, and when these were answered satisfactorily, E. was convinced. He said: "O.K. Now, you want to come to the United States ‑ is that right? "

I replied affirmatively.

E. asked why I simply did not go to the American Embassy and ask asylum. I explained my fears about this.

There was momentary silence at the other end, while E. seemed to do some thinking, and then he said: "Look, perhaps there is an answer. My uncle and aunt are traveling to Europe in a few weeks. They will be in Paris, and then I think they are going on to Luxembourg."

We talked further, and I emphasized the need for caution. E. assured me that the aunt and uncle could be trusted completely.

And now, still more days of waiting. Anguished waiting, uncertainty, fear, the passage of time versus the steadfastness of our courage. We would go walking along the paths of the Bois de Boulogne. This was the only place we could be sure we weren't being overheard, and the quiet strolls in idyllic surroundings served to soothe and clear our troubled spirits. They days wore on, and Norma became increasingly uneasy; she worried that D.G.I. would kidnap one of our children in order to maintain control over us. I reassured her, but I, too, was deeply concerned. Where was all this taking us? Always there were questions, speculation, more questions: How would contact be made? Had D.G.I. intercepted any of the letters?

What if we heard nothing further ‑ what would we do then? I had arranged a signal with my wife to be used should I suddenly be ordered to Moscow. Now we arranged a second signal: if contact were made with either of us while we were apart, that person would call the other and say certain medicines were needed. There would be nothing unusual about such a request, particularly at the time, since both of our children were feeling poorly.

Twenty days went by, a small eternity, and finally one afternoon, while at work at the chancellery, I received a call from Norma. Barely containing her excitement, she asked me to bring home nose drops for little Osvaldo. I shot out of the chancellery and, driving an Embassy Peugeot, made the trip to my home, which ordinarily took about fifteen minutes, in half that time.

I entered our apartment, greeted Norma, and quickly looked around. I expected to see a visitor, and when I saw no one, I thought perhaps the visitor was hiding in order to give me a surprise.

"No," said Norma, "no, there is no one here. There was a man, but he left. He said he was E's uncle."

"What else did he say? " I asked anxiously. "Are you sure he was the uncle? "

"Well, he told about E. and his family, and about A. A., and he spoke Spanish. He said not to be frightened ‑ that everything would be all right." The visitor had spent half an hour with Norma, asking questions and talking with her. He had preferred that she not call me until he had left, saying that he did not feel it wise that we should meet in the apartment. He had asked that I meet him the following evening at 7 at a cafe called Le Franc Tirailleur. He told Norma he would recognize me because he had a photograph of me, but in addition I was to carry a brightly‑wrapped box in which the man had brought candy for our children.

I had strong misgivings. This was not going the way I had visualized it. Amateurs playing at espionage were not to my liking. This matter was too serious, too dangerous. I could not even be sure as to whom I was dealing with. True, in order to identify himself, the man had brought a letter from A. A., as well as one of the letters Norma had written. The letter from A. A. stated that the bearer was a "friend" who could be trusted. I knew, however, that in intelligence work it is easy to forge signatures. As for Norma's letter, it was not inconceivable that it might have been intercepted at some point. If Cuban Intelligence had become aware of my intentions, they might well have provided an agent ‑ perhaps a Soviet agent ‑ with the proper papers and had him call on us, posing as a friend.

I questioned Norma closely: what had the man looked like, how had he acted, what had he said? I examined every detail, and I made my wife go over and over the visitor's statements. I searched for any clue that might indicate the man was an enemy and not a friend. This whole affair was increasingly dangerous, and I was determined to be as careful as possible. That was another sleepless night for us.

The following day was a routine one at the chancellery, where I was on duty. My tasks were to take care of the diplomatic pouch, as well as deal with matters of protocol. I was edgy, and every time another official spoke to me, I searched the man's face and his words, wondering whether behind the facade of normality there was suspicion. And every time I saw other officials speaking among themselves, I felt they were saying: "We're going to catch this guy when he goes to the meeting, we'll catch him with his hands in the jar."

I lunched by myself at a nearby cafeteria, and early in the afternoon I told my chief that I was going out, explaining that I planned to look over possible future rendezvous points. Using a Volkswagen that belonged to the Centro, I drove around Paris for several hours, making certain that I was not being followed, and then I headed toward Le Franc Tirailleur.

I parked three blocks from the cafe, got out of the car, looked around, and began walking. Under my arm was the candy box. Under my coat was a Browning pistol, a gift from Lopez when I had arrived in Paris. If this were a trap, I was prepared to shoot my way out.

I walked slowly. The month was February. The weather was cold, and I wore a topcoat. It was already dark, but street lights provided good illumination, and I could keep my eye on passersby. I felt confident that no one was following me. I had parked on a street which ran in front of the cafe, and I could clearly see its lights as I walked toward it. The cafe was typical of its kind, partly indoors, partly outdoors, so that either portion could be used, depending on the weather. Now only a few customers sat on the outside terrace.

I did not get to enter the cafe. A man came from the opposite direction, his approach timed so that he encountered me just as I reached the cafe. The man wore an overcoat, no hat, and was of medium height. He asked, "Are you Castro?"

"Yes‑yes, I am Castro."

"Well," said the man, breaking into a smile. "I am the uncle of E. and A. A." He placed his arm on my shoulder in a gesture of friendship. "We have much to talk about."

I touched my pistol, and the man noticed the action. He asked, "What is that?"

I replied, "Something because I have no confidence in this."

"You can have confidence, you must believe me," the man said earnestly. He stopped under a street light and showed the letter of introduction from A. A. I carefully perused the note. It could be genuine, but then again, it might be a forgery. There could be no assurance as to its authenticity.

I came to a decision, a showdown born of uncertainty, an end to pretense. I said bluntly: "Look, I do not trust you, but it does not matter. I have taken a step, and I am determined to go through with it, and when I came to this meeting I was ready for whatever might happen. If you are an enemy, you can try to do whatever you wish, and I am prepared for anything, anything at all that I have to do."

"There is no need to talk that way," the man said reassuringly. "Do not be afraid. I will help you."

The meeting lasted a brief ten minutes. Another was set for the following day. I stated frankly that I still had no confidence, and intended to do some checking.

The next day I went to a telephone exchange and from there made an overseas call to E. I told E. of the contact that had been made and asked him to describe his uncle. The description E. provided fitted the man who had met me. When E. mentioned the letter of introduction from A. A. which his uncle carried, I was convinced of the uncle's authenticity.

That evening I again saw the uncle ‑ he brought his wife along this time ‑ and this was a friendlier meeting. Again we were at a cafe, and we spent hours discussing ways by which I could make my break and our family flee from France. Safety was the prime consideration, and this could best be achieved if all of us were quietly and swiftly spirited out of the country. Should Norma and the children leave first, and I follow? Was it preferable to get out of Paris by plane? Train? Car? A minimum of fuss was desirable because this would lessen the chances of the escape being detected before it could be completed.

The uncle and aunt, after spending several weeks in Paris, intended to go on to Luxembourg. A feasible plan seemed to be for us to accompany them. An added attraction of the idea was that there was no D.G.I. Centro in Luxembourg.

That night I told Norma of the plan that was being formulated. She liked it and hoped that it could be undertaken without much delay.

I met the uncle several more times at different cafes in order to work out details of the projected departure. Getting to Luxembourg was not in itself a full solution. Eventually I could be traced there. I would need some sort of protection. Very much in my mind were the recent attempts by Communist agents to kidnap a Chinese defector in the Hague and a Cuban defector in Mexico.

The uncle said, "When you arrive in Luxembourg, you will have to ask the Americans for help."

"But will they give it? " I asked. "Won't they think I am a plant by Cuban Intelligence?"

"You will have to take the chance. You will have to convince them you are genuinely seeking asylum."

And from this conversation a new facet of the plan evolved. If I could prove that I was truly a defector ‑ yes, there might be a way I could prove this to the satisfaction of the Americans. If I could bring with me the Centro's secret documents, the Americans would surely accept that I was a legitimate defector, and not a plant. It would be a difficult task to get those documents, however ‑ not only were they contained in locked boxes within a safe, they were also protected by an alarm system.

Those were taut days. Norma was exceedingly apprehensive. Every time there was a knock on the door, she was fearful that someone had come to inform her that her husband was under arrest and the family was being sent back to Cuba. On one occasion Lopez had made a casual visit, while I was away, and she later reported that Lopez had looked at her "strangely," as if aware of something. When I would arrive home from work, Norma would complain about her constant worry and would bombard me with questions: Is there anything new? Do you think anyone is suspicious? The waiting was not doing much for my nerves, either.

Over a period of weeks I removed, a few items at a time, most of the family's clothes and personal possessions from the apartment.

When the break was finally made, we would have no need to carry anything. We could walk out, and if anyone was watching, there would be no cause for suspicion.

I was scheduled for Sunday duty at the Centro on March 31. It was less likely there would be other officials about on that day. This would provide the best opportunity for making a try for the documents. If anyone else should be there, I could stay at the Centro as late as necessary, making a pretense of working. Then once the other person or persons had left, I would make my move.

Nildo Alvarez, the D.G.I. collaborator, was returning to Cuba with his family that Sunday. A farewell party was planned, and Norma agreed to provide a typical Cuban dish. Saturday evening was a busy one, the Alvarezes getting ready for their trip, visitors coming and going, preparations being made for the party.

We were up until late, and even when we finally went to bed we did not fall asleep until shortly before dawn. Upon awakening later, I found a gray day, gloomy and rainy, the temperature near freezing.