As for the foolishness of our particular adventure, it is impossible to negate the absolute purity of its intentions. It might be considered irresponsible or just plain risky, but the price was paid by the individual participants. It would be idiotic and criminal to drive down a motorway the wrong way, because the eventual victims would be innocent. Yet accepting danger in order to fight for a better world is an act of sacrifice, involving a renunciation of material wealth and the sublimation of personality. It is not to be confused with terrorist martyrdom, which carries out someone else’s designs in return for a place in paradise. No, it is to assume a lifetime of risk, of fighting out of love for the right to a shared future.
Che’s project had this transcendental simplicity: forget any idea of glory, confront earthly perils without fear, stand up in this particular tropical region and say ‘here we are, here we want to build a new society, in which the fruits of our labours will not be taken away, where our rights will not be violated, where joy is not privatized, where culture is within everybody’s reach, where the smell of bread fills our homes, and dreams come with the sunrise to dislodge the terrors of the night. If you want to stop us, you will have to come and find us, and understand that we will fight.’
Security was always our major weakness, both in Cuba (the threat of infiltration of any kind), and also during the time needed for Che to transfer to the guerrilla base that would be set up in Argentina. Responsibility for this first phase of the operation fell to Masetti’s small and inexperienced group. Any disaster, at either end of the project, would effectively put an end to it. Che could not come if we failed; the plan could not succeed without Che.
Captain Olo Pantoja drove from the Malécon to the elegant suburb of Marianao around the Country Club, through streets of luxury mansions abandoned by the bourgeoisie when they fled to Miami. You could tell how exclusive it was by the air. It seemed purer and more transparent than what we were used to in Havana. The mansions, which you could hardly see for leafy trees, were enormous and surrounded by long grass. There was an overall sense of neglect in the contrast between the splendour and silence of the empty streets and the gardens abandoned to weeds and the sigh of the sea breeze. Each house occupied a block or more of luxurious vegetation.
The jeep stopped on a stony verge in front of large gates. At the discreet hoot of the horn, a young militiawoman appeared and opened them wide. The vehicle crunched down the gravel drive, coming to a halt in front of a neoclassical limestone building, slimy with damp and moss, its walls half covered by creepers reaching to the roof, its windows barred and shuttered. The front doors, standing proudly between columns of white marble, were solid wood with extraordinary pointed stained glass insets. They opened to reveal the black and white mosaic floor of an anteroom to a glass-domed indoor garden (like an Andalucian patio) with a fountain in the middle, encircled by wide galleries leading to a succession of doors. There was something modern about the style, a Byzantine-Roman-Californian mishmash that looked as if it was from a Hollywood set.
The Captain, who had jumped out of the jeep and rushed inside the house while I stared incredulously at my magnificent surroundings, reappeared with a couple of individuals, joined by a third from another door at the back. With typical Cuban irony, Pantoja alluded to ‘the entire army’ as he briefly introduced ‘another Argentine’ to ‘three compatriots’. A cursory handshake left us standing looking at each other. The quartet we formed left a great deal to be desired. Nobody looked like a hero: more like villains in a police line-up. In a comic strip, there would have been a bubble saying, ‘I’m not going anywhere with these guys.’
The tension ebbed after Pantoja gave us a quick run-down of our programme: first, unload the weapons from the jeep and put them in a store-room; then a tour of the house and grounds before eating; then wait for Segundo who would come that night, with someone else. We would receive provisions twice a week, as well as being given breakfast and dinner. Our only other visitors would be army personnel involved in the training, accompanied either by himself or his assistant Manolito. Obviously, we would not be allowed out. Olo Pantoja took his leave.
My three compatriots forgot their momentary doubts, and proved very friendly, even happy. An exchange of ambiguous personal questions, and tacitly secretive replies, placed us generally from the Argentine provinces – myself and two others – and the fourth from Buenos Aires. The latter, naturally the most cool, was also the tallest, had the best build, was self-assured but nice and polite with it. He took charge and suggested we continue exploring the house, as they had been doing when I arrived. The other two were from the Chaco. The thin bony one, hatchet-faced, pock-marked, and with a stiff crew cut, seemed a no-nonsense tough guy of few words. The other looked like a meticulous Italian immigrant from deepest Umbria who had swapped his mountain farmer’s clothes for a shirt and trousers with an impeccable crease he ironed himself. His attention to detail was obsessive: his shirt sleeves folded only twice, his two top shirt buttons undone to show the hairs on his chest, etc., and very well mannered. None of us seemed to have a name, so the Argentine expression ‘che’ filled the gap.
Our food, brought in an army jeep, was barracks food. In Cuba now there was no separate food for officers, as is usual in Latin American armies. Conversation was dominated by the endless twitter of Pepín, our militiaman who we insisted ate with us. He was from a group attached to the Ministry of the Interior (MININT). Sworn to secrecy, he was dazzled by the mission he had been given: to help relax and entertain a group of Argentines led by the legendary Che. He showed a real passion for guns, and knew all the models and their features. Swearing he had used all of them in a variety of circumstances, he imitated the sound they made with a special onomatopoeia: ‘Piripitipam!’ There was nothing for it but to call him that, Piripitipam, from then on.
Cubans ate early, like the Swedes. So it was not even dusk when, having coffee, we awaited the arrival of Segundo, as Pantoja called him. A jeep finally turned up. Several men got out, among them Masetti. His greeting indicated he knew everybody, but did not show how well. He said he was pleased the whole group was here, including a young lieutenant he introduced as Che’s bodyguard, name of Hermes, who would be joining the group and living with us ‘until death do us part,’ as they say. We set up a table under the dome on the patio and began our first meeting as the ‘army general staff’.
Masetti had experience of organizing a work schedule with disparate people, so he knew we had to start by getting to know each other. He did a quick profile of everyone present, starting with himself. We all knew who he was, but it was useful to see how he fitted into the picture. He said that, like the rest of us, he was joining something he believed in because the idea came from someone he respected: Che. No one doubted Che’s commitment to building the Revolution in Cuba, least of all him. But it had always been clear that Che wanted to take the struggle to Argentina, and Fidel Castro had supported him in this from the early days in the Sierra Maestra. Yet such a transcendental decision could not be left to chance. Che could not just get up and leave tomorrow; he could not neglect one revolutionary duty to take on another. Until such time as he could leave his Cuban responsibilities, he wanted the ground prepared for when – to call a spade a spade – he would be free to lead the armed struggle in Argentina, his homeland. So, time was of the essence.
We needed to set up a base as quickly as possible, explore the terrain, get to know local people, and set up channels of communications. We also needed to establish contacts in the cities, and create a countrywide support network so we could train anyone willing to run the same risks and fight for the same dreams. Such a huge project needed a minimum of people, but a maximum of qualities: sacrifice, stoicism, military skill, humanity. We did not need supermen, only men with moral integrity, human dignity, and a sense of shame at belonging to a society that does not value a man’s freedom.
Masetti had already been able to do military training, since the encroaching Stalinism had decreed he was out of political favour for other work. Sponsored by his mentor Che, he was one of the first batch of officers