reading

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means such as electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.

Vivian Isabella, Juan Carlos, Sienna Nicole, Nicolás, and Pietro The joy of my days

I will shelter you with my hair
And in the air will I seek a balm
that mitigates the pain

**Poem by Vivian Pellas, which embodies her legacy of love for the burned children of Nicaragua and the world. The poem was engraved on the inaugural plaque of the first burn unit of the Fernando Vélez Paiz Hospital in Managua, 1992.

On October 21, 1989, airline TAN SAHSA’s Boeing 727-200, registered as N88705, was a passenger flight en route from San José, Costa Rica, to Miami, with stops in the cities of Managua, Nicaragua, and Tegucigalpa, Honduras. At 7:53 in the morning the plane crashed into Cerro de Hula as it approached the Toncontín International Airport in Tegucigalpa.

Of the 146 passengers on Flight 414, only 11 people survived. Vivian Pellas is one of them. This is her testimony of how she returned from the brink of death and how it changed her life forever as she came to understand the mission she had to fulfill.

They say that when you want to write your life story, the blank page calls for the movie of your life to start. Then . . .

you dust off your fears and count your scars, including those of your body, as well as those of your soul, you tear them open and pick at them until they bleed again.

I’ve asked myself many times, why did all of this happen?
What was the purpose of experiencing what I went through?
Why was I the protagonist of a story carved by pain?
Today I know that happiness comes from following your heart, and I found it in my family and in the smile of a child.

Foreword

When Vivian placed the final text of her autobiography in my hands, and as I became the first reader of this chronicle, I never imagined she would tell her story in such a sublime way. When I finished reading those words, which are now this book, with tears in my eyes I understood why it took her twelve years to write it.

Reliving everything she went through in her life—from her exile from Cuba to the trauma of the plane crash, and considering the implications of the complex and extremely painful rehabilitation she had to endure—must have been, unequivocally, more than an arduous exercise; it was an utter challenge to her spiritual tenacity.

Today I fully understand . . . and I could not hold back the tears as I read all those passages of the book, which deeply moved me. They not only brought back the tortuous moments that I went through, but also made me remember how essential we have been to each other, and how, at the most difficult moments in our journey, we have always been together to support, comfort, and encourage each other, overcoming the challenges that life gives us and that catch us by surprise.

Vivian writes that I was always her inspiration, but the truth of the matter is that she is the one who has inspired me. I have admired her strength and optimism since the moment I met her. Those are the values that empowered her to overcome the hardship of her exile as well as many of the ordeals she has had to face since childhood. I was even more surprised by her strength as she embraced her new homeland: Nicaragua.

Witnessing her torturous rehabilitation sessions heartened me not to give up, and to face the pain with the same courage and determination that she did.

Vivian’s life, which is depicted with simplicity and humility in her autobiography, is not only one of the most compelling stories I have ever read, but also one of the most inspirational ever written. Many people, who face a tragedy in which they unexpectedly lose a loved one or are part of an accident that leaves permanent wounds and critical aftereffects, spend much of their remaining lives lamenting in bitterness, incapable of finding purpose for their existence.

As the reader will be able to see in this narrative, Vivian’s life has not been easy at all, but her optimism and ongoing determination have helped her overcome the obstacles in her path. These challenges have forged her extraordinary character, making her not only a woman with great self-confidence, but also a woman with an enormous heart.

When I met Vivian, I fell in love with her immediately, and at that moment I knew she was the woman I would spend the rest of my life with. Nevertheless, I have to admit I never imagined she would become the Vivian Pellas she is today.

It is admirable how even with her flesh raw and with multiple fractures, she muttered: “I’m going to build a burn unit for children in Nicaragua.” Just at that moment, when anyone else would have been thinking about his or her own plight and extreme pain, she was already exploring her new reason for being, thinking about how to alleviate the suffering of others. She did not blame God for everything that was going on in her life. Quite the contrary: she was trying to find the divine plan that He had devised for her.

On several occasions, Vivian was on the brink between life and death. I’m sure that her love for our children and the fear of leaving them alone, the support of her parents, family members, and friends, and the magnificent work of the doctors and the nurse that took care of her were factors that helped her survive her precarious condition. However, the most important factor was, unquestionably, her unwavering faith in God!

Vivian was convinced that, behind all this personal tragedy, there was a mission that God had in store for her. This faith filled her with strength, helped her withstand the colossal pain of the treatments and, essentially, transformed her life to pursue one cause: to create a world that is more just, compassionate, and inclusive for the thousands of children from low-income families that are severely burned in our country every year.

After witnessing what Vivian has accomplished through APROQUEN, God’s mission for her couldn’t be clearer: to make her the Guardian Angel of pediatric burn victims in Nicaragua.

No doubt Vivian’s story will become an inspiration for many others to channel their efforts into creating a more tolerant, just, and benevolent world.

PART I

Our story is precisely that of . . . continuous rebirth.

Mother Teresa of Calcutta

I came into this world on March 5, 1954. I was born in the former “Quinta La Covadonga” Hospital in Havana, the same place where my brother was born. I was a joyful and vigorous baby. However, I had a problem in my pylorus: I would expel milk every time I was fed. Had it not been for the timely opinion of a doctor, who determined that the cause of my symptoms was nervous spasm, I would have needed surgery. Nonetheless, a few drops of medicine before the bottle cured me completely.

Even so, the truth is that, during my first months of life, I cried a lot and would not let my mom sleep. The passing days and the baptismal water that the priest sprinkled on my head at the Church of the Sacred Heart of Jesus eventually soothed my crying. I was baptized Vivian, because when my mom was single, people in the street would ask her if she was Vivien Leigh, the actress playing the main character in the movie Gone with the Wind, which was very popular at the time. She was asked the same question so often that she decided, if she ever had a daughter, that would be her name. My mother’s dream came true and she named me Vivian.

I started kindergarten when I was three. My mom said I was a fast learner. That is where I took my first ballet classes. It was my first introduction to dancing, a passion that would accompany me all my life and that saved me in the most trying times of my existence.

I grew up with my brother, Alejandro, in our Santa Ana home in the “Nuevo Vedado” neighborhood of Havana. Alejandro was two years older than me. Surrounded by the simplicity and wellbeing that our parents and grandparents cultivated, in addition to the warmth and affection they showered upon us, I had a life full of happiness.

Those wonderful years of my childhood were free of fear. I only remember how enthusiastic I was about riding my bicycle. My mind recalls the magical scene at the moment when I found it hidden in my grandparents’ closet, spoiling the surprise that my parents had prepared for me for Three Kings’ Day.

My grandfather, Manuel, with his infinite kindness and boundless joy, became the most important person of my childhood. He was my closest ally and my greatest accomplice. As I sat on his lap, he would not only teach me how to turn the car’s steering wheel, but also how to place the domino pieces during animated evenings with his friends. It was my grandfather who taught me how to ride the bicycle and how to savor fruits, and I still treasure the hours spent with him as the most endearing moments of that golden time. That is why it pained me so much to leave my grandparents when we had to abandon Cuba in exile. I left part of my soul behind.

I turned five as Cuba was under a cloud of unrest and political turmoil. Fulgencio Batista’s government was strongly criticized as corrupt, which led guerrilla forces to overthrow him. At 3:00 a.m. on January 1, 1959, Batista fled Cuba in a plane bound for Santo Domingo in the wake of the triumph of the Cuban Revolution led by Fidel Castro. At first, Batista remained in exile in the Dominican Republic, then on the island of Madeira (Portugal), and again in Marbella, Spain, until a heart attack took his life in 1973.

Unaware of what was going on, I could feel the anguish of my parents and grandparents. Their distress was not in vain. The news of the victors proclaiming their triumph and vowing vengeance against their defeated enemies was alarming. To some, the word “socialism” became synonymous with chaos, terror, and death, while to others, it meant freedom and justice. The illegal confiscation of the private assets of all citizens was the act of duplicity that, as Cubans put it, “capped the bottle” and brought an end to hope. Life and freedom, as we knew it, had been “confiscated.” The exodus and the division of Cuban families had begun. It was an absolute nightmare. Suddenly, everything was lost all at once. The dreams that my grandparents had fulfilled disappeared from dusk to dawn. Everyone wondered, Why? What did we do to deserve this? Who did we harm?

Vivian’s first birthday celebration with her brother, Alejandro, and her parents. Havana, Cuba, 1955.

In those days, my greatest act of independence was being able to ride my bicycle through the streets near my home, or when I escaped to the Chinese cemetery, which was somewhat more secluded. But I clearly remember that afternoon when I was riding around the block and suddenly, a big white car pulling out from one of the mansions brought me to a halt. To my surprise, the passengers were Che Guevara and Camilo Cienfuegos. I watched them with fear, and right at that moment, they gave me an intimidating look. They both had a haughty attitude. I recognized them immediately since they were already famous. As a matter of fact, I was very attracted to Camilo Cienfuegos. The terror of such an encounter kicked in and made me speed off on my bicycle.

By that time, the Cuban Revolution had already started. Sometime after that episode, Camilo Cienfuegos suddenly “disappeared.”

My dad along with many other Cubans were reluctant to believe what they saw with their own eyes. With a group of friends and a full understanding of the value of freedom, he went on a quest to protest the abuses, joining the Revolutionary Movement of November 30, created in 1960. This was the only movement my father was involved in throughout his entire life. His participation was limited to acts of political protest. He said that he had always been a great individualist with an absolute fear of collectivities.

He inherited his entrepreneurial spirit from my grandfather, Manuel, who, with his remarkable skill and vision, went from being a salesman to a sales manager at “Café Pilón.” He would then become a vice president of the company and after that, a partner.

Café Pilón became the most famous brand of coffee in Cuba and the United States. The business exported coffee from Havana to Miami. Thousands of Cubans still remember its advertising slogan.

My grandfather was an expert at extolling that catchy commercial that Celia Cruz would sing as part of her performance during the splendor of Cuban television: “Café Pilón, tasty to the last sip.”

The truth is that the Cuba that we knew, the one that my grandparents believed was the promised land as their destination after leaving their Spanish hometowns of Gijón and Bilbao, filled with dreams, would change forever.

José Fernández de la Torre, Vivian’s father; Lydia García, Vivian’s mother; and Carlos Hüeck, at El Tropicana nightclub. Havana, Cuba, ca. 1957.

In that faraway and painful month of April 1961, the sepulchral silence of two in the morning was shattered by the brutal arrival of the G2 to our home. Heavily armed men from that military intelligence group violently broke into our home after kicking down our door. They destroyed everything in their path. Their shouts and insults even woke up our neighbors.

I was sleeping in a room with Alejandro. I was seven years old and my brother was nine. Out of despair, Mom ran to find us in our room, but she collided with the militiamen, who were armed with rifles and pistols. She was pushed out of the room. They searched the kitchen and took everything that was edible. They found my father in the other room. I fearfully followed them with my eyes. I saw them grab him as he tried to throw on the first thing at hand after hearing the racket of the banging and pounding. My Mother, disconcerted and unable to contain her cries, fired questions at the intruders and pleaded for them to take her as well. In response, those threatening beasts glared at her in hatred, provoking more tears, anguish, and impotence. Those were moments of terror.

My shocked grandparents could not comprehend the reason for such violence. Alejandro and I watched as my dad was handcuffed and shoved to a truck that would take him to an unknown destination.

At dawn, the search for my father became an ongoing pilgrimage to all the jails in Havana. And for weeks my mother wandered through the streets with food and clothes that she would leave under his name. However, he never received anything. Like many other men and women who inquired after their relatives, never suspecting that all the cinemas, theaters, and stadiums had become prisons holding thousands upon thousands of Cubans, she relentlessly continued her interminable search for days. I would watch her in silence as she went out to the streets. My grandparents made a great effort to shield us from this. The same scene continued to replay over the course of several months.

Her face sunburnt from the merciless rays that beat down on her day after day on her exhausting and futile quest, finally, one day she found him at the Blanquita Theater (today known as the Carlos Marx Theater). I was holding onto Mom’s hand when I saw him from the street as he poked his head, with difficulty, through a small window. In one of life’s great ironies, the same theater they had attended before as spectators had become my dad’s prison. Then Senator of the Republic, Alfredo Hornedo Suárez, built that theater—the largest in the world at that time—and named it to honor his wife, Blanquita.

Now, the performance was being given by hundreds of militiamen who, from the enormous stage, were pointing their rifles at the more than ten thousand prisoners, including both men and women, who were sitting in the theater’s beautiful seats or standing on the lavish carpets. These captives were astonished as they observed the new characters of the Revolution, holding at bay big ferocious dogs, complementing their custodial mission. My mother was never permitted to see my father during the sixty days of his captivity in the theater. Hungry, packed together, claustrophobic, and desperate with the heat and thirst, they protested for better treatment, the release of pregnant women who gave birth to their children in any available seat, and for the opening of the bathrooms, since all the prisoners were allowed to use only one. To make their extreme distress more emphatic, men and women removed their shirts and confronted the militiamen demanding their requests be met. However, they didn’t succeed. Instead, all they got in return were bullets, which led to the death of many of them, and the opening of small windows at the top of the theater to allow them to breathe.

Vivian with her mother and cousins at the Malecon walkway. Havana, Cuba, ca. 1961.

Our home was overflowing with loneliness and sorrow. This tragedy deeply wounded the entire family and significantly impacted my childhood. Nevertheless, no one faltered. I believe love kept us united and strong. Thank God, my mom wasn’t taken away at that time. My dad was imprisoned after the invasion of the Bay of Pigs. That was unquestionably the first traumatic experience of my life.

Today I remember everything with absolute clarity. My memory insists on evoking all of this. Years later I would visit the island of Cuba. I would visit the neighborhood where I grew up. I would feel the music resonate within me in a different way, strengthening these roots. Something about those people, that land, and that sea, made me feel complete.

One day, a few months later, my dad appeared at the door of our home. He returned pale, emaciated, extremely thin, and with a long beard. He was almost unrecognizable. Our joy was absolute, but it was only the preamble for a new separation.

After his release, Dad decided we had to leave Cuba, which, in addition to being prohibited by Fidel Castro’s government, was almost unfathomable. It took forever to make the official request and obtaining permission to leave could take nine, ten, or more years. Besides, we knew we’d never get a permit to leave!

So my father decided to write letters to three friends in Venezuela, Panama, and Nicaragua. Weeks later he received an answer from his great friend, Carlos Hüeck, President of the Beer Factory of Nicaragua, who sent a warm and positive response to my father’s request to travel to Managua. He was the person who acted as the intermediary in processing the visas and permits with the Consul of Nicaragua in the Netherlands back then: Marcelo Ulvert, along with Guillermo Sevilla Sacasa.

Dad had to be present at the Rancho Boyeros Airport in Havana for ten days and wait for a seat on a KLM flight. In those days we were saying good-bye to him until he was able to take the seat of a man who was removed from the plane on some random excuse. My father got through the red tape and managed to leave Cuba with the ticket Mr. Hüeck had sent to him.

The farewell at the airport was one of the hardest moments I had ever experienced emotionally. A deep pain tightened my chest so much that I thought it would explode and the discomfort made me vomit. I was filled with fear. After a long goodbye, with tears in his eyes, my dad walked up the stairs to board the plane. He quickly flashed a shadow of a timid smile and lifted his hand to wave good-bye.

He left Cuba on a KLM plane on June 9, 1961, in search of a better future for him and for us. He was still hoping to find it despite the uncertainty.

He left with his pockets empty. His only luggage was his passport. He flew from Havana to Kingston, Jamaica, which was the only route to reach Miami. Once there, he had to sleep on a park bench. Then he had to wait until the next day to withdraw the money that his friend, Carlos Hüeck, had sent him from the Royal Bank of Canada. He waited for a week before he received the authorization for his transit visa in Miami, and then had to do the same to travel to Nicaragua.

When Dad finally arrived in Managua, Carlos Hüeck was waiting for him at the airport and he uttered the phrase that would change the course of our lives: “Pepe, don’t worry, as long as I am alive, you and your family will have everything you need.” A hug sealed the affection and gratitude that my dad would feel and express to him throughout his life. Don Carlos was like a father to him, and undeniably, a true angel.

At the end of July 1961, almost two months later, my mother, my brother Alejandro and I were able to leave Cuba. We also traveled by KLM, via Jamaica to get to Miami. We left the country penniless, with only a change of clothes in a small suitcase. That was all we could take from the island. We waited at the airport until four in the morning and finally managed to leave at ten in the evening, but the anxiety we felt the whole day was indescribable.

Everything on that long day was pure anguish. The feeling that pervaded those endless hours was uncertainty and the thought that you may never see your relatives again crushes your soul. Behind the glass, my grandparents’ eyes were obscured by their tears as they anticipated the final goodbye. I can still remember the strident voice of the security guard who called over the loudspeaker the names of the passengers whose departure from Cuba was arbitrarily cancelled. My mother, nervous and afraid of the horror imposed by the “system,” prayed that our names would not be the next to be called out.

Nevertheless, I felt the greatest fear when they inspected us. They first searched my mom, patting down her whole body. The officials were constantly monitoring people to make sure they didn’t take any jewelry or money with them. After that they exhaustively searched our very scanty luggage. I remember the angry scowl on the militiamen’s face and their unconcealed contempt.

I felt like I was going to faint at inspection time because my mom had sewn into my pink fisherman pants her solitaire diamond ring, the one my dad gave her as an engagement ring. She didn’t want to leave it behind, thinking that she could sell it if needed. The military official put his hand inside my pants and I, who had seen my mother hide it there, felt the blood run down to my feet. It was a desperate act on my mother’s part that could have cost us our exit from Cuba. I was still a child and I don’t know how I managed to remain calm. Luckily for all of us, the man didn’t discover the ring.

This method of hiding jewelry became common during the early days of the exodus. People used it to be able to take this sort of items out of Cuba. The address and phone book of our friends and family in Miami that my mother was carrying was confiscated. We no longer had anyone to go to or to call if we got lost.

Once we were on board, the crew started calling the names of some people to get off the airplane. Terror was in the air. The plane reached the end of the runway, but the control tower gave the order to return. Everyone was trembling, thinking that any one of us could be removed from the plane. My mother’s face was filled with panic.

Finally, we departed for Jamaica. My mom was crying as she felt a jumble of nostalgia, anxiety, and joy. My grandparents and my cousins were in my mind, and curiously I felt sad about leaving my bicycle.

We arrived in Kingston after a 45-minute flight. Nobody said a word on the way. Emotions were mixed because we felt free, but very afraid. We arrived at the hotel that Carlos Hüeck had reserved for us. When we entered the hotel, we were warned not to leave because there was a strangler on the loose. So my mother added another anguish to her worries, which were already considerable. So once we entered the room, she closed all the windows and locked the door. We didn’t leave that room a all during our stay. Another reason we stayed inside was that the money my father sent us with a friend of his never arrived, so we didn’t even have enough money to eat! Carlos Hüeck had to send us some.

Two days later, we left to Daytona Beach, then to Miami, and from there, to Nicaragua.

Once we arrived in Managua, we were able to hug Dad again, who was happily waiting for us at the airport.

This was a goodbye to our life in Cuba, to our grandparents, and to everything I knew up to that time. Finding a future in another land that opened its doors to us would be the next step.

On August 3, 1961, we arrived in Nicaragua. At the age of seven I was disconcerted. I deeply missed my grandparents, as well as the life I had in Cuba. There was a flood of emotions within me. Now I knew what deep fear and desolation meant. For only a moment, the reunion with my dad allowed me to forget the mourning I was experiencing from the painful separation from my family. A new path was opening up before my eyes.

With Carlos Hüeck’s help, my father started his new job in Nicaragua at Aceitera Corona, an oil producing company. With the first payments he received, he was able to rent a space to live in the Colonia Molina area, on the fourth mile (at kilometer 6.5) of the southern highway. That place would be my refuge in Nicaragua.

CONTENTS

Foreword

PART I