"Patsy!": The Life and Times of Lee Harvey Oswald (15 page)

Until January 1, 1959, the thousands of prisoners held inside during those middle years of the 20th century were suspected revolutionaries. All had been rounded up by strong-armed military envoys and rudely escorted from their homes—enclaves within the city, small farming villages spread across the 761 mile long island—to this dreaded place. Once inside its clammy structure, they were starved, beaten, interrogated and tortured. In some cases, innocent and guilty alike were dragged back out, forced into canvas-covered trucks, the weeping victims, who grasped their coming fate, carried off to stretches of open land ten miles south of the city, there to be executed.

On several occasions, victims of such mass killings were buried. More often, corpses were allowed to rot in the fields so passing farmers and humble tradesmen would bear witness to what might be their future if they were to join, or even offer tacit support, to the insurgents. See and fear. Fearing, continue to work the fields without question.

Conventional wisdom in Cuba prior to ‘59: Do not mention democracy, American style, much less the communism spreading across the post-WWII world. To be heard whispering about such things, even in casual mid-day street conversation or after imbibing too much at some crude cantina during evening hours, might well chart a one-way route to El Principe.

No man in his right mind wanted
that!

Everyone in Cuba knew that their current leader maintained friendly relations with the U.S. They also understood Batista had no interest in altering his corrupt state by adapting such a constitutional government. The Americans were to be tolerated as they feared those communists that posed a threat to Batista's power. The U.S. government not only closed its collective eyes, allowing vicious tyrants to rule in global hot-spots, but supported them. In some cases, openly; in others, covertly.

Dictatorship, Hitler style, which America had not so long ago opposed, was upheld. That was then; this, now. Anything, according to foreign policy, John Foster Dulles style, was better than communism. In the end, it all came down to a simple philosophy: Any enemy of my enemy is my friend.

*

The situation in Cuba in general, El Principe in particular, altered on a New Year's day that opened the final year of the 1950s. The tower of terror would remain filled with prisoners. What altered was the make-up of those held in the assortment of small, filthy cells, modeled on the interior of a bee-hive. In a period of 48 hours, the constituency in El Principe reversed itself. One American journalist who witnessed all that occurred, Lee Lockwood, immortalized the event in photographs and words.

Batista-friendly American political advisors and Mafia casino owners deserted by plane on December 31, 1958 when their New Year's Eve celebration degenerated into a bloodbath. The dictator absconded in the darkness as his armed forces hastily threw down their weapons, running away to hide in the hills or reversing loyalties, joining the guerilla invasion. Though Castro remained in the Sierra Maestra range, hundreds of miles away, his 26 de Julio Movement swarmed into Havana's streets.

The rebels waved red banners, wielding rifles above their heads, shouting "Down With Batista!" In the early hours of the following day, droves of humble citizens threw open their doors to the motley crew, offering what little beer and wine they possessed to the guerillas now heralded as ‘liberators.' Those few who owned cars drove around an open city, honking their horns in unison, eager to let the rebels know that, despite their ownership of such luxury items, they too supported the revolution. It was a great day in the morning, all agreed.

Almost everyone. Ninety-plus-percent of the people had been living in near-starvation under Batista. Less pleased were the one in ten who had achieved middle-class or higher still status, desiring nothing more than to live like their American friends, reveling in the superficial joys of consumer culture. Their first and all-pressing thought:
How do I get the hell out of here? Next question: where in the name of God will I go?

“We arrived at El Principe,” Lockwood wrote, where “wives and mothers” of men long imprisoned “could already be seen struggling up the hill, hauling suitcases, shopping bags, and other containers stuffed with civilian clothing” to replace the filthy white cotton uniforms worn by prisoners. “A roar went up as someone found a key to the jail. A moment later, the prison's massive iron gate was flung open, releasing a hoard of inmates, who surged (out) in a white river, tumbling down the hill.”

“Viva Fidel!” they shouted. “Viva Cuba Libre!” Others chimed in: “Viva la Revolucion!" The current Cuban revolution, also too the great worldwide revolution each present sensed must be right around the corner.

After all, considering what had happened here, who or what could possibly stand in their way?

By noon, those who'd served as prison guards found the tables turned, forced into recently vacated cells at gunpoint. In charge marched former prisoners, each with an ax to grind, in some cases literally. Shortly, the onetime oppressors would be joined in communal misery by wealthy citizens who had supported Batista. The wisest among them had already deserted by any means —planes, boats big or small—heading for Miami.

While all revolutionaries love to shout “Solidarity,” always they prove incapable of maintaining that state for more than one glorious moment. In several days time, those favoring communism gained the upper hand. Recent comrades who now argued in favor of democracy found themselves in El Principe. From the moment that Castro arrived, it was the revolution according to one man, and only one: Castro. Get with him or get out.

Democracy? No. Moderately applied socialism? No. Hardcore communism immediately became the rule, Castro on the far left as totalitarian as Batista had been on the far right.

Communism, Castro style. Love it or leave it!

The majority of Cubans did the former, or at least accepted this as the new order. A minority, the latter. Cubans of means, favoring democracy and capitalism,
embarked on an exodus to America. Among them, Manuel Artime Buesa, crossing the waters in a leaky rowboat with two other men, knowing that if and when he arrived in Miami, he would present himself at the offices of the CIA, offering his services. On that day when Buesa announced himself he was led down a hall to an office door identified by the name ‘Frank Sturgis.'

Once inside, Manuel gasped at the sight of an old friend whom he believed had been killed somewhere in the jungle. Standing there with a welcoming smile stood ... George!

*

No one ever moved faster than Johnny Rosselli when he considered himself on a mission from God. It must be noted that the object of Rosselli's worship was not the wrathful Yahweh of the Old Testament nor gentle Jesus of the New but Sam Giancana, considered by others of a different mind-set to be the anti-Christ. Ruthless, intelligent, confidant, vastly experienced in the ways of the world, supremely in control of organized crime in America, hair-trigger quick to judge though slow to fire any literal or figurative gun, employing this as a final solution to serious problems, Sam 'Gold' Giancana possessed many aspects of some worldly-wise mystic, a contemporary Merlin of the Mob. As such, he sized up every situation with the hard, cold, calculated intellect of a Genghis Khan.

That well described what Sam had been contemplating as to The Cuban Situation since New Year's Eve, when Meyer Lansky called in a panic from the Riviera hotel to inform Giancana that Batista, along with his sycophants and all CIA personnel, were making hasty getaways. Concerned, Sam had instructed Lansky to get the hell out there fast. For once, Meyer steadfastly refused a direct order. He and his second wife Teddy remained until the bitter end, earning Sam's immediate gratitude for not doing as told and, afterwards, his lifelong admiration.

As rebels ran wild through the streets, firing guns in the air, shouting the slogans of revolution, drinking themselves into an alcoholic stupor, the hotel's staff deserting, Meyer calmly stepped into the kitchen and did the cooking himself. Teddy, displaying a facade of calm, pranced from table to table, managing a frozen smile while serving the few American and Cuban customers who hadn't yet fled. She and Lansky would shortly leave, with dignity intact. Another high-ranking mobster meanwhile slipped in to replace them.

The chaos continued. Giancana called Santo Trafficante in Tampa, since he was in charge of Cuba since Luciano, now living in Sicily, had decreed this in the 1946 Havana meeting. Clearly, the time had come for Santo to get on top of the Castro problem. As soon as he'd hung up the phone, Trafficante called Las Vegas and asked for Johnny Handsome. No one possessed Johnny's gift for pulling off the impossible.

Johnny? Get your ass to Havana and do so fast!

Three days later Johnny arrived, no one save Giancana and Trafficante aware that the man born Fillipo Sacco had even left Vegas. Johnny took up residence in the Hotel Nacional and held steady for orders. Johnny would wait, calm and quiet, until word arrived from Sam the Man, even now pondering what ought to be done.
We'll play it cool for the time being
, Giancana decided;
wait and see if Castro can be reasoned with. If not? In that case, the Beard must be whacked, and quickly.

*

Rosselli did not have long to wait. On January 7, after Castro had arrived, headquartering himself on the 23rd floor of the Havana Hilton, The Beard ordered all casinos closed, all gambling banned. The United States, in his estimation, had turned his once clean Cuba into a decadent brothel. Shortly after this announcement aired on Radio Havana, picked up by the networks, a call came through from Santo, who had received one from Sam. Trafficante now reiterated Gold's orders to Johnny.

Minutes later, fully prepared, Rosselli set off on his errand. The streets seemed different than even a day or two earlier, the vivid sense of rich, colorful life that had filled them diminished. People were casting off their bright garb for drab fatigues. Instead of an ecstatic celebration of life Johnny had witnessed, most wandered about in a dull, serious manner. The good ol' days he had so loved to partake of were gone! Perhaps, though, this current assignment might bring them back.

Rosselli arrived at the Hilton, briefed by Trafficante as to what had already become Castro's ritualistic daily habits. Johnny took up a position adjacent to the main doorway. Panic overcame him when he felt one of his irregular asthma attacks coming on. As the mid-afternoon heat abated now that sweet breezes wafted in from nearby waters, Johnny spotted a sudden movement at the door. He reached under his coat for the weapon hidden there, a WWII-era German Luger, Johnny's pistol of choice since becoming one of the Mob's crack shots decades earlier.

Half a dozen figures drifted out of the building, Castro central to the group. Rosselli noted that in front of The Beard a large, rugged man with a Zapata mustache pushed forward. He obviously must have been the chief bodyguard. If only that important call from the states had come two days earlier!

Then Castro, believing himself to have the unanimous support of Havana's citizenry, dared strut about unprotected. That ended when a friend from college days, architect Enrique Avarez, hid in a high/wide modern building across the street from Castro's favorite dining place, the Casalta over on the east edge of town. Avarez planned to shoot his leader with a high-powered rifle, augmented by a telescopic lens, while The Beard gulped down shrimps, drenched in lemon and butter, roasted over coals, the house specialty. At the moment when he must squeeze the trigger, Avarez experienced a sudden failure of nerve and fled.

Spotted running away suspiciously, Avarez was captured. When Castro, face-to-face with the traitor but as yet unable to grasp what his comrade's motivation might be, demanded to know the reason why, idealistic Avarez defiantly shouted that he'd watched televised executions of confused citizens who, for one reason or another, Castro considered his enemies, in some cases rightly, with others wrong, operating as Batista had to supposed rebels. Viewing such brutality in his apartment, Avarez retched at the public spectacle, performed for a rowdy, delighted mob, French-revolution style. Onlookers cheered the flow of blood, purchasing beer and soda from street vendors who had rushed in to, in a capitalist manner, make a fast buck off the event.

Also Avarez complained that, winning over fellow students back in their university days, Castro had presented himself as an open-minded egalitarian. Now, he had revealed himself to be a Communist dictator. A communist, yes, Castro shouted at Alvarez. Not a fascist like Batista.
Do you think it makes any difference if authoritarianism comes from the left rather than the right?
Alvarez demanded.
Yes,
Castro blurted out.
That is where we now disagree,
came the answer,
and why I wish that I'd have had the courage to shoot you.
He spit on Castro and was summarily shot.

When Castro recovered from his shock and humiliation, he arranged from that moment on to be completely surrounded by hand-picked guards. While the big mustachioed man's formidable presence, stepping out of the Hilton as Castro's human shield, might have deterred any citizen-assassin, Rosselli was no such amateur. Schooled in the art and tactics of killing while an apprentice to Al Capone in Chicago, 1922, during the golden era of the Scarface Gang, the looker with thick oily hair and a strong Roman nose drifted around and past the bodyguard like a shadow passing through quick-silver. Rosselli closed in so quickly that no one alive could have stopped him. He whipped out the Luger, slamming its barrel against Castro's thick forehead.

“Do you want to die?” Rosselli softly said. For a moment, the Cuban leader could not form words. His bodyguards were at a loss; any movement might cause this Italian-American in a slick sharkskin suit to kill Castro. Each remained stock-still.