BLIND COURAGE
(Tony Cuesta Leaves
Cuba)
[Reference:
Personal papers of Tom Dunkin. Pages 3-5 only]
[NOTE: This seems to be an account of Tony Cuesta's
release from a Cuban jail in 1978.
Dunkin
and Cuesta collaborated on numerous occasions]
BLIND COURAGE
October 21, 1978. The chartered Eastern Airlines jet
was
scheduled to leave Havana at 2PM for the flight to Miami,
but, to my
surprise, we did not head straight for the airport.
General Enio Leyva drove Eugenio Zaldivar and me through the
Havana
traffic. He was a surprisingly high-level escort for
two men who
had been languishing in prison for a dozen years.
I nudged Eugenio. "Tell me what you see," I
whispered. "Tell me what streets we are driving
through."
As Eugenio described the points of the passing landscape, I
realized we
were heading in the direction of the government
offices. Why were
they not taking us directly to the airport? I thought I knew
the
answer. There was someone who wanted to meet with me
before I
left Cuba. The same man who 12 years ago refused
permission for
the operation that probably would have saved my sight now
wanted to see
me–even though I couldn't see him.
"Let's stop a minute here. Let's walk a second,"
General Leyva said softly.
I was assisted out of the car. Holding my right hand
against
Eugenio's shoulder, using him as my eyes, I followed the
general into
an office building. When I felt the rara cool breeze
of central
air conditioning, I knew with certainty where we were.
I knew who
wanted to meet with me before I flew away to exile.
I nudged Eugenio, as if to say, "Just you wait." We
were led to a
comfortable room and seated on a deep-pile sofa.
Someone thrust a
huge cigar into my hand and lit it for me; someone else
brought me a
glass of scotch on the rocks. The treatment as well as the
liquor was
dizzying. I steeled myself.
Suddenly I heard General Leyva stand up quickly as someone
entered the
room. Instinctively, following the good manners taught
to me by
my parents, I stood also. General Leyva muttered the
words, "El
Comandante en jefe." Then I heard the voice of my
enemy–not
pouring forth the shrill, angry demagoguery for which he is
infamous. He had engaged the charming, charismatic
side of his
personality. He spoke in a low, soft, sweet, gentle
tone.
If he had not chosen politics, he could have been a hit on
Broadway,
capitalizing upon his melodious voice.
Now I was forced by circumstances to shake the hand of the
one man in the whole world whom I most wanted to kill.
Nothing could blind my memories. In the eternal
darkness of my
mind I could conjure an image of the man. I could see
the bushy
beard that so complimented his appearance, hiding a weak,
receding
chin. He was 6'3 ˝" tall, a giant as far as most
Cubans
go. I stiffened my spine, taking advantage of the phenomenon
that had
always galled him. I was a half inch taller.
I knew that he was studying me, too, measuring the effects
of prison
upon my will, moreso than my appearance. I kept my
eyes closed,
lest he see darkness behind the shaded lenses of my
glasses. But
I did not hide my left arm and the stump above the
wrist. He knew
I had lost the hand in a last attempt to kill him. And
he knew
that I would have sacrificed my entire being in exchange for
the
success of the mission. The only reason he had not
executed me 12
years ago was his fear of my power as a martyr.
End of Page
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