This is a response to Emily's  "Spring Cleaning" Open Call. I wasn't sure what to write about until I actually started to do some spring cleaning and I ran into Hebertico, A Cold War Hero.

Hebertico a rubber toy puss 'n boots and Cold War Hero.
The felt ribbon was attached by my mother after his paint started to fade. 

I was born in Cuba during the fall of one dictator, Fulgencio Bastista, and the rise of another, Fidel Castro. My father was a sergeant in the army of the former and an enemy of the state of the latter. Through a shuffling of paperwork that was uncommonly fast for a pre-digital age,  military bureaucracy, my father’s military discharge was expedited and he retired to take over the family business. His retirement was without benefits since regimes that take over other regimes by force have a problem honoring their enemies’ retirement plans. But at least my father was able to leave alive, intact and without having to spend any time in one of Castro’s prisons for dissidents.

For some time things were okay, my father took over his father’s butcher shop, and my mother took care of me and my older sister. I took to what baby’s did best: eat, sleep and soil my diapers. Accompanying me in my crib, I had many stuffed animals, but I took a fancy to a small rubber toy cat. Later on when I could talk, I named him Hebertico. No one knows for sure why I came up with that name for my toy but it stuck.

 
Hebertico a rubber toy cat and Cold War Hero.

As Castro’s grip started to tighten over the small island nation, things started to change. Neighbors started to disappear. Some went to “El Norte” a.k.a the United States. They would just up and leave. They would either go to the United States, Spain, Mexico or other Central and South American countries. Some would leave by plane, or by boats or makeshift rafts.  However, others were sent to prison for crimes against the state, and still others were sent to forced labor camps or to face the firing squad. Most of these people were being turned in by neighborhood spies.

These happenings did not bother my family for some time. However, soon state rations were being imposed on everything. One of them was food. As the sole proprietor of his business, my father felt that he did not have to comply with those rules when it came to taking food to his family. Especially, since he always paid his suppliers. But the neighborhood spies ever eager to cull favors from the government, reported my dad. Soon Castro’s “soldiers”, more like armed thugs, started to come by our house, when my father was away at work, and make indirect threats to my mother. By the time I was four years old, my parents made the decision to leave the country.

In those days, regardless of how you left the country, it was done in a very clandestine manner. My mother did not even get a chance to tell her parents we were leaving. She just visited them the day before we left, made some plans for later on in the week, and left my grandparents home for the last time with a suffocating lump in her throat.

Around the time of one of the hottest moments in the Cold War: The Cuban Missle Crisis, my parents decided to leave Cuba by plane. My father’s sister and her family lived in New York City and they were able to sponsor us. On the day we left, we went to the airport and had to endure endless lines to clear an infinite number of checkpoints. These were basically a series of stations in which Cubans leaving the country were forced to go through a series of humiliating searches. Castro’s government wanted to make sure these “gusanos” (worms or caterpillars), as we were called, did not leave with government property e.g. money, personal jewelry, personal clothing, or anything of value. In other words, we were only allowed to leave with the clothes on our backs. The only jewelry my mother was able to take was her wedding band. My sister, who was older than me, was allowed one baby doll. I was allowed to take Hebertico.

However, one of the female “inspectors” (read harassers) was convinced that my mother was trying to smuggle more jewelry. After a rigorous pat down that would make any American TSA employee feel ashamed, the “inspector” took Hebertico from my hands and shook him rigorously. Not convinced that my favorite toy was not hiding any of Cuba’s "treasures", the inspector took a pocket knife and cut a gash into Hebertico’s side. With hate-filled eyes, I watched as this "Hero of the Revolution" perform his "duty".

This was a spiteful act more than anything else since Hebertico is hollow and made of rubber. Prior to the gash, the only hole he had was the small one that came from the manufacturer a.k.a. “foot-hole”. So it would have been hard to hide anything in him.

 Hebertico with the gash caused by Castro's goon.

 
Close up of Hebertico's Cold War wound.

After more waiting and harassing, we were able to board the plane. There was no assigned seating for these flights. You just grabbed the first seat. My mother and father were separated. I sat with my mother towards the front of the plane; my father and sister towards the back. As one last final “bon voyage”, it was common for some of Castro’s “soldiers” to board the plane, walk up and down the aisle, seize an unlucky passenger, and drag him or her off the plane. As we settled into our seats, my mother grabbed my hand. Even in the hot, humid Cuban air, my mother's touch felt icey cold. I looked up at her and saw beads of sweat drip down the side of her face and her eyes bulging with fear. I dared not say anything. Three “soldiers” boarded our plane and proceeded to walk down the aisle. Then we heard a scream and the thud of a rifle’s butt against flesh.

My mother squeezed my hand tighter. It hurt, but I did not cry. With my free hand, I gripped Hebertico for comfort. A few seconds later, the “soldiers” dragged a dazed man with a bloody face off the plane. All this time a woman from the back of the plane yelled profanities at Castro’s goons. They yelled back that if she didn’t shut up that they would take her too. Her children cried for her to sit down; she did. The door to the plane closed, the engines started and we took off. Realizing that we were finally leaving, my mother released her grip on my hand as she opened her eye’s floodgates. Not knowing what to do, I clutched Hebertico.

After a brief stop in Miami, the Freedom Tower (formerly the Miami News building) or “El Refugio” as we called it, we arrived in New York to start a new life in a strange land.

Over the years, Hebertico slept in my bed by my side. As I got older, I would hide him in my pillow case. Whenever, I felt scared or needed consoling in the middle of the night, I would reach for my pillow and clutch Herbetico. In my teen years, I placed Herbetico in the top drawer of my dresser. To this day, he resides in the top drawer of my armoire.

You might ask how could a rubber toy be a hero. Hebertico was my hero because he was the only constant in my life during those early years. Growing up in a strange land, he was the compass needle that faithfully pointed north when my world was caught up in a tordnado. He was and still is a link to my past.

Many spring cleanings have come and gone and I have parted with many things. Hebertico is the one possession I can never part with. I plan to give him to my daughter, so can she pass him on to her children. 

Check out Post Bay of Pigs Pipe Dreams a companion piece to this post. 

 Text and images by Trudge164. ©Trudge164, 2011