Sancti Spíritus (1955-1957)

A Private Family Matter: A Memoir
by Victor Rivas Rivers

This is a story about how I was saved by love, at a time when most people considered me beyond rescue.

So begins Victor Rivas Rivers in this powerful chronicle of his escape from the war zone of domestic violence — too often regarded as a "private family matter" — and his journey toward independence, recovery, and renewal.

In A Private Family Matter, Victor recalls his days as an angry youth living under the rule and wrath of his father. A Cuban immigrant, Victor's dad was nicknamed El Ciclón for his tempestuous temperament, which led him not only to beat his wife but to abuse — and eventually kidnap — his own children. How Victor managed to seek help for his family and criminal punishment for his father, overcome his demons and learn to love himself, and share his experience with other victims and survivors of domestic abuse is at the heart of this profound and affecting memoir.

Chapter 1

The multitude of palm trees of various forms, the highest and most beautiful I have ever met with, and an infinity of great and green trees; the birds in rich plumage and the verdure of the fields; render this country, most serene princes, of such marvelous beauty that it surpasses all others in charms and graces as the day doth the night in lustre. I have been so overwhelmed at the sight of so much beauty that I have not known how to relate it.

— Christopher Columbus, on Cuba,
to King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, 1492

Olga Angelica Lopez Ibarra was born prematurely on September 21, 1929, at 3 P.M. in a hospital in Havana. She was the size of a small Coca-Cola bottle, all of four pounds. With no neonatal units or incubators to nurture her into life, she began her existence much as she would live it — in struggle.

My mother, to me, was the embodiment of Cuba. She was a natural beauty, dark, exotic, proud, intelligent, opinionated, ironic with a sense of tragicomedy, but unspoiled; then later, like our island itself, conquered, exploited, oppressed. My father did his best to obliterate her; he broke her into many pieces, but she refused to be completely vanquished. She had native and Spaniard coloring but was a mix of other ethnicities, like Cuba, my homeland. Many of her memories and experiences were passed on in my cells, my DNA, or were told in fragments over the years, usually with her back to me as she bent over our various kitchen counters preparing countless numbers of meals, often, if Papi wasn't around, while her beloved Cuban music played on scratchy records or obscure radio stations.

In public, my mother danced with an abandon and joy — whether slow or fast, son or mambo — that seemed to belong to someone else, but at home she wasn't allowed to dance, as though it might rouse her to counterrevolution against Papi. But music or not, she moved with a sensual grace to some internal Cuban beat, its core from African culture, with the rhythm of the claves — two thick wooden sticks about a foot long — keeping time.

My mother had another distinctive quality that she kept secret. She had the gift of sight. She could read omens and feel the presence of ghosts. Her energy produced heat and caused still water left in drinking glasses to bubble up as in a boiling cauldron. She had innate healing powers that, had she been free to direct her own destiny, might have led her to become a licensed medical professional. These powers may have been strengthened in her earliest days when she struggled between life and death, "all eyes and hair" as her parents described her at birth.

Pero con el ayudo de Dios — but with the help of God (Mami's favorite phrase) — baby Olga survived and was soon allowed to go home. Her father, a handsome, stern policeman by the name of Jose Manuel Lopez — known as Manolo — carried his firstborn out of the hospital in one of the oversized pockets of his suit jacket. In their modest home, her mother, Eladia Ibarra, a pretty young seamstress, sewed garments smaller than doll clothes to fit tiny Olga.

Other struggles ensued. Less than a month after she was born, the Wall Street crash plummeted Cuba into its worst economic crisis up until that time. Four years later, a second child, Carmita, was born to the Lopez family, just as the country teetered on civil war. In the atmosphere of uncertainty, President Gerardo Machado resigned before boarding a plane to Miami, and a youthful army sergeant named Fulgencio Batista took control of the island nation.

Despite her family's relative poverty and the national instability, love and protection were in abundance at home, such that Olga remembered her childhood as simple and quiet. She never thought of herself as a great beauty, she would say, but admitted later, "I had a certain look and knew how to win people over." Was she too modest? "Well, they used to tell me that I was friendly and funny. Perhaps, due to my good nature, I was showered with happy moments."

That charm, that positive, attractive energy drew her many suitors. After her diminutive start in life, she grew surprisingly tall — five foot six, taller than most Cuban girls of her generation; and with her milk-chocolate-colored eyes, thick long lashes, and a mane of wavy black hair, Olga Lopez, struggles notwithstanding, had the sparkle of one fated to be lucky in love. But then, through an unlucky series of circumstances, she met Antonio Rivas. Her gift of sight apparently fled her. For the rest of her days, Olga could not for the life of her recall what she had seen in him.

Nor could she fathom why she had recently broken off her engagement to Artemio, the true love of her life. Maybe it was partly because she had been only twelve years old when they met on the Havana city bus that she took to school (where her adored English teacher was Miss Amelie, who, as it so happened, went on to have a son named Andres, later to become famous as the actor Andy Garcia).

Aside from the fact that Artemio was nine years older and worked as a bus driver, he had qualities Olga liked. He was dark-haired, six feet tall, with a stylish thick mustache and a wonderful smile. Even though she was too young for suitors, he was a gentleman and very persistent, eventually earning her parents' permission to take her on chaperoned dates. They made a striking couple, everyone agreed. With her gentle but hawk-eyed mother at their side, Olga and her beau experienced the glittering, glamorous Havana nightlife of the late 1940s. Though she was only the daughter of a civil servant, and he was but a humble bus driver, they were the most popular couple on the dance floor. With his rich singing voice, Artemio also made her feel special when, on occasion, he was asked to join the orchestra to sing and dedicated his crooning to her.

The plan was for them to be married once Olga completed the teaching program in which she enrolled after graduating from high school with honors. This career path was not entirely of her choosing. When she had told Manolo that she intended to become a nurse, her father had said, "Absolutely not." A good man and a protective father, he was of the old-fashioned mind-set that nursing was not a respectable profession for an unmarried young lady. Why? "Because," he insisted, "doctors carry on affairs with their nurses, ruining their reputations."

Engaged to marry Artemio, in accordance with Manolo's wishes, she pursued her teaching curriculum, but without her father's knowledge and consent, she enrolled in nursing school at the same time. For three years, on top of her demanding studies to become a teacher, Olga secretly worked as a nurse's aide at a local hospital that treated police officers.

In her circle of friends, there was a general attitude that fine, educated young ladies ought to seek marriage above their station in life. At first, this did nothing to mar her feelings for Artemio, who had patiently, attentively watched her blossom from adolescence to womanhood, remaining respectful of her innocence all the while. Olga's friends agreed he was handsome and polite, but pointed out other concerns. Money and social status mattered, as did a prospective groom's family name, despite what the love songs said. In fact, in America front-page headlines blamed the escalating divorce rate on crooners who made romantic love seem so simple, when, as everyone with any sense knew, marriage was work, hard work.

Olga couldn't keep these notions out of her head. With what looked to be a life full of promise ahead of her, she broke off her engagement. The towels had already been monogrammed.

Only later did she come to regret ending her relationship with Artemio as the second worst decision of her life.

Meanwhile, after graduating with her teaching degree, Olga was preoccupied by an unexpected set of adventures and challenges that had come her way. Though she had assumed her first assignment would be in a school in Havana, she was instructed to pack her bags, as her job would be taking her out to classrooms across Cuba, in the underserved countryside. Almost like a young missionary, sometimes traveling on her own, she subsequently saw her island as few did, visiting every province of the land that lay beyond Havana — Baracoa, Santiago, Bayamo, Camagíey, Trinidad, and Sancti Spíritus. No doubt this turn of events worried her father, but she assured him that wherever she went, she was well treated.

Senorita Lopez taught students from all walks of life — from the families of wealthy ranchers and from the poorest of peasant families. She marveled at those who had little or nothing but managed to be very generous with whatever they did have. As she taught, she was also learning — picking up, for example, some of the folk medicine and healing rituals of Santeria, the white magic that combined African and native Caribbean spiritual beliefs, in addition to food recipes from the different regions.

Manolo had been a mess chef in the military and had taught both of his daughters to cook at an early age. By the time she was nine years old, Olga had been cooking most meals for her family. Now added to her repertoire were recipes she collected as she traveled across the countryside, yielding her versions of traditional Cuban dishes like arroz con pollo and lechón that were arguably among the best ever tasted, and eclectic creations without rival — like her Cuban fried rice, inspired by descendants of the Chinese traders who had once come to the island expecting to pass through but could never bring themselves to leave.

For a young woman who had been so sheltered, Olga Lopez became unusually independent — traveling in various modes of transportation not limited to boats, trains, and buses, but sometimes by coche (horse-drawn buggy) or even on the backs of horses and mules. She had many occasions to be fearful but managed to survive the ordeals of travel, until one of her assignments took her out into the countryside at night and she was caught in a torrential downpour, on horseback, while crossing a river whose banks had overflowed. Terror seized her. For an instant she panicked, pulling back on the horse's reins to turn him around as he pitched and reared, almost throwing her off into the turbulent water. She was sure she was going to die. Then she closed her eyes, allowing a calm to wash over her as she put herself in God's hands, asking him to guide her horse. Beneath her, the horse began to swim and she clung to his mane the whole way, finally ending up miles from her destination — wet, still terrified, but safe.

Beautiful, strong, a teacher and a nurse who happened to cook like an angel, and an exceptional dancer, Olga attracted many suitors, among them a doctor, a sugarcane engineer, and an officer in the military. Despite the fact that she was almost twenty-three — by many standards old not to be married yet — she was not in a hurry to become engaged, and enjoyed their attentions. That changed when Batista's minister of agriculture, Eduardo Suarez Rivas, began making unwanted advances toward her.

Minister Rivas first spotted her at a public art exhibit of her students' work in the city of Sancti Spíritus, the capital of the province of the same name. Olga had taught in various schools in the region that catered to the children whose parents toiled on the big sugarcane plantations, as well as to the children of plantation owners. She also continued to offer her nursing skills to the local populace when she could.

The city of Sancti Spíritus — or Holy Spirit — presented her with further history lessons regarding her country's early struggles. When the Spaniards first attempted to establish the city, a well-organized defense was staged by the area's native inhabitants — hordes of notorious stinging ants — which made life unbearable for the conquistadors. The city of Sancti Spíritus was then moved to a new location, which was subsequently burned to the ground, not once but twice, by pirates. Lost in the blazes was Cuba's first church, the Iglesia Parroquial Mayor del Espiritu Santo, built in 1522 and rebuilt later.

As a journalist riding with the Spanish army, a young Winston Churchill had visited the city in 1895. The region's lush beauty and its undercurrent of imminent danger were impressed upon Churchill when he narrowly escaped death during a skirmish with Cuban independence fighters.

Senorita Lopez had no inkling of her imminent danger when the head of the ministry of agriculture first laid eyes on her at the public gathering to view the artwork of the students in the city. Aristocratic and chivalrous, the elderly minister merely took note of her, masking evidence that he was quite smitten. He may have turned and said something to a younger man at his side, his twenty-two-year-old nephew, Antonio Arturo Guillermo Rivas Garcia-Rubio — who also bore an aristocratic, charming air — to find out who she was. Neither said anything to her until another gathering in Sancti Spíritus provided an occasion for the minister to approach her, introduce himself, and ask her where she was from, how she had come to teach in the area, and who her family was. Innocently enough, Olga answered his questions, volunteering that she was hoping to return to Havana soon to see her family.

"Well, then," Minister Rivas declared, handing her his card, "you must come to see me when you're in Havana." He promised that if she did — and his desires were now clear — he might be able to arrange for her to receive a promotion.

Since Olga was still in an apprentice program and had not obtained her permanent teaching credentials, she badly wanted a promotion. But not if it meant submitting to the lust of a man older than her father. When she didn't come to see him in Havana, the official continued to pursue her; she continued to fend off his advances. Finally he threatened that unless she gave in to him, he would arrange for her dismissal.

Distraught that all of her schooling and hard work would go to waste because she hadn't fulfilled the fantasies of an old man, Olga, when she happened to run into the minister's nephew, couldn't refrain from confiding in him.

Antonio Rivas, or Tony, as his friends called him, listened empathetically. "Don't worry," he told Olga, "my uncle will change his mind. I'll see to it."

True to his word, he pulled the appropriate strings and she was able to keep her job, continuing, for the time being, to teach throughout the province of Sancti Spíritus. Olga felt indebted to Tony and appreciated how he had so gallantly extended himself on her behalf, without asking anything in return. Or so she thought.

What she didn't suspect was that perhaps Tony wanted to prove himself by snaring the unobtainable woman that even his powerful uncle couldn't obtain, not so much because he was smitten or in love, but almost as a kind of macho contest. Ironically, when he made occasional visits to see her at the schools where she taught, Olga assumed that his interest was only platonic. Of course, she wouldn't have minded if he had romantic intentions. With his white freckled skin, light reddish brown hair, and intense light eyes — not to mention that he wasn't so tall — he wasn't her type. But he was rich. Or so she thought.

Antonio Arturo Rivas Garcia-Rubio had been born into one of the most prominent families in Sancti Spíritus. His father, Victoriano Rivas, was locally revered as the magistrate of the province. The majority of the family wealth came from cattle ranching through the Garcia-Rubio lineage of Tony's mother, Maria Garcia-Rubio. The family owned and resided on a sprawling ranch called Las Minas — the Mines.

Yes, Olga had to admit that she was impressed by his pedigree, by his stylish, immaculate attire, by the articulate way he spoke — with his flair for drama — and most of all, by his flattering words about her generous spirit, which he witnessed in her classroom. Tony told her that it was obvious how much all the students loved their friendly, funny, and attractive teacher, and that he admired her infectious goodness, which made it so easy for her to win people over. He also expressed his shock and concern that she had to suffer working conditions that were unsanitary for both her and the children — without any form of ventilation or fans to relieve the monstrous tropical heat and humidity. He pledged to use his influence to help.

In this subtle, chaste way, he was pursuing her, Olga soon understood, not with any sexual overtures but with personal interest that was more than that of a kind friend, and that possibly — she may have secretly hoped — would lead to a marriage proposal. She waited coyly for a courtship to evolve. It never did. He did not ask to be her boyfriend, or invite her to elegant places to woo her. They didn't go dancing, never held hands, never kissed.

Instead, to her surprise, Antonio Rivas arrived at her parents' home unannounced during one of her visits to Havana, asking to have a conversation with her father.

"Senor Lopez," Tony began respectfully, "I don't want your daughter to work anymore. The conditions are unbearable. She shouldn't have to suffer such hardships."

Manolo was annoyed at the young man's presumption, aware that he was rich and couldn't fathom the fact that some people had no choice whether to work or not. Biting back his annoyance, he said, "Yes, that's true, but I do not approve of a single woman not having a legitimate job, with the implications that go along with that."

"I understand," countered Rivas. "In three months I intend to marry Olga. Con su permisión, of course."

"What? Three months, you say? Is there a reason for such a quick wedding date?" As a policeman, Manolo had been trained to control his anger. But he was clearly furious.

Tony apologized profusely for any misunderstanding, explaining that he wished to marry her as soon as possible in order for her to stop working so that she could take her rightful place in his home. "I would marry her tomorrow," he swore, "except that it will take a little time to organize a proper wedding, as she deserves. With my parents' help as well." His family would take care of the costs, he insisted.

Manolo was now impressed. Who was he to stand in the way of his daughter's marrying into a family of the stature of the Rivas Garcia-Rubios? Throwing off his earlier misgivings, he acquiesced to the plan. After Antonio left to return to Sancti Spíritus — pleased to have, in effect, just bought himself a beautiful, virtuous bride — Manolo presented the news to Olga.

She was overjoyed, even though it occurred to her, in passing, that she was sorry to give up her work — the teaching and especially the nursing. But this was a sacrifice she was willing to make, if it mattered to Tony, because other than that, the life she was about to begin seemed like a dream come true, a Cinderella story. Caught up in imagining a future married to the heir of a vast fortune, Olga didn't consider how little she really knew him. She didn't question how she really felt about him, assuming perhaps that she would grow to love him in time, and she ignored warnings that she would have otherwise heeded.

For example: in Havana, Tony Rivas had a reputation as a playboy and a troublemaker. He was a known member of a motorcycle club that raced in a pack across the island along the palm-tree-lined highways, wearing their black leather jackets and black leather-brimmed caps, with no political agenda other than following the drive of their testosterone. (Later photographs revealed his stark resemblance to Marlon Brando in The Wild One.) This was how Tony earned his nickname as El Ciclón — the Cyclone; he was at the center of the storm that roared into Havana to raise hell in the nightclubs before blowing out, back to the provinces.

Olga also didn't know that the reason Tony's parents had sent him to America to be educated at a Georgia military school was disturbing behavior in his childhood and youth that had given him, as the youngest of their three children, the role of black sheep in the family. She was aware that he was extremely smart, capable of attaining success in any number of professional capacities. But she dismissed clues that he had already squandered most of his inheritance and had no money of his own, and that one of the reasons his parents were eager for him to marry her was probably the hope that her responsible, upstanding nature would rub off on him.

Of course, none of that was suggested by his parents or siblings when they arrived in Havana a few weeks before the wedding. Unlike the Lopez family, which had more indigenous blood, the Rivas family members were essentially Spaniards in their appearance and attitudes. Tony's father, Victoriano, a distinguished-looking gentleman with a head of well-coiffed white hair, carried himself with the stately air that went along with the office of a provincial magistrate — reminiscent of President Woodrow Wilson. Tony's mother was likewise elegant, gracious, and sweet, "a saint" in Olga's eyes. She was equally impressed by Tony's older brother, Jose Luis, who was tall and dashing, with a quiet intelligence, and their beauty of a sister, the fair-skinned, regal Maria Rosa.

In the midst of her unfolding fairy tale, only days away from the wedding — planned as a simple ceremony to be well attended — Olga was just too excited and busy to entertain second thoughts. But Manolo was not as blindsided. When he sat his daughter down for a talk, his face was grave as he began, "Don't marry this man."

Dumbfounded, she sat frozen until she could muster the courage to ask why her father had changed his mind about Antonio.

"Because," Manolo stated without reservation, "he is not a good man."

Was he forbidding her to get married? No, but he begged her to call the wedding off. "Mark my words," Manolo warned, "he is a mama's boy."

Olga saw her father's genuine worry. She knew he wanted only what was best for her, to protect her for as long as he could, and she also believed he was deeply perceptive, that he usually saw through the most adept of disguises — a quality she had inherited from him. So she deliberated carefully, weighing his concern against thoughts of how the invited guests would react if she called everything off, not to mention Tony's parents, who had taken care of all the expenses of the wedding and the lavish honeymoon, in addition to the house they had rented for the new bride and groom in Sancti Spíritus — complete with expensive furniture and all the necessary items for a couple to begin married life together. Ultimately, she decided that Manolo was just being overly protective, not so uncommon for any father about to give his daughter's hand away in marriage. No, he had to be mistaken about Tony. He would see.

On July 24, 1953, Olga Lopez married Antonio Rivas in a chapel in her hometown of Arroyo Narango, a suburb of Havana. She was radiant, the most stunningly beautiful bride any of the guests had ever seen, or so many repeated at the wedding reception — which, oddly enough, seemed to bother the groom after hearing it said with every "congratulations." Olga didn't notice that when they posed for family photographs, he was the only person in the wedding party who refused to smile for the camera.

On July 26, two days later, the theretofore little-known Fidel Castro and his band of revolutionaries attacked the army barracks of the Moncada garrison in Santiago. The coup was a total failure and those who survived, including Castro, were imprisoned on the Isla de los Pinos — the Isle of Pines. But it was not the last of Fidel or the revolution; rather it was the beginning of the end of everything Cuba had been before.

That same night, in her honeymoon suite, my mother's fairy tale was quickly unraveling. It was the end of everything she had been before, the beginning of the nightmare.

As I was growing up and hearing the different pieces of her story, Mami spared me the graphic details of how that first assault took place. She had a talent for understatement that way, always facetiously referring to Papi as "El Caballero": "the Gentleman."

Copyright © 2005 Atria Books

About the Author

Victor Rivas Rivers, a veteran actor who has starred in more than two dozen films (including The Mask of Zorro, The Distinguished Gentleman, and Blood In, Blood Out), is the spokesperson for the National Network to End Domestic Violence. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and son.