My friend, Boris, learned the hard way that it takes just one day to know that communism sucks.
That’s the story of my friend, Boris. He sat alone by the pool, staring into some far-off, unknowable place. Quietly waiting, with sadness and confusion etched into his face.My girlfriend and I walked over to his table. I didn’t even have to say a word.
Years earlier.
It was sometime in the mid-1980s, the height of summer —hot and humid as always in Cuba. It was the second week of July, and as I did every year, I headed off to work at the International Pioneer Camp 26 de Julio in Varadero.
Opened in 1977 by Fidel Castro, the place was meant to give Cuban children a chance to enjoy a beach vacation. That's ancient history, though. Today, it’s a hotel serving tourists —definitely not Cuban ones.
The former children's paradise is located at the far end of Varadero beach, near Las Morlas. Once a modest and secluded spot, it is today a luxurious resort catering to foreign tourists not Cubans. Every year, back in the day, my time there was also a vacation denied to most Cubans.
But that year, 1983 if I recall correctly, was going to be different. It was the year I met Dagmar, a teacher leading a delegation of Venezuelan children. She was young, open-minded, and a breath of fresh air in a place overflooded with communists and wannabes.
Nothing dramatic or romantic ever happened between us —none of the typical summer vacation fling clichés. Instead, over just two months, we forged a simple, genuine friendship that lasted for years —until one day, I don't remember how, we just lost touch.
Dagmar and the Revolution.
Dagmar wasn’t a communist —not even close. But as someone representing her country’s leftist organizations, her ideas leaned toward the Bolivarian.
Still, as I said, she was very open-minded. She listened attentively as we explained why the Cuban revolution —and communism in general— was a total scam.
We spent most days that summer discussing all sorts of things, including, of course, the revolution, socialism, communism, and every other convoluted idea imaginable. By the end of August, we said our goodbyes at the airport like old friends.
Time Passes.
Dagmar returned to Venezuela with a much less rosy view of the Cuban revolution. She admitted, just before leaving, that this new perspective would cause problems with her husband and his family, who were diehard communists. Her husband was even saddled with the middle name Ilich in honor of Vladimir Ilich Lenin .
Once she was back in Venezuela, we kept in touch through the somewhat legal, semi-legal, and outright illegal channels I had access to — that is, connections with people lucky enough not to have been born in Cuba.
Every month or so, I would get a letter from her. Our exchanges were always a Q&A session about communism. A constant theme was her husband, Boris Ilich, who, she said, was desperate to meet me. He wanted a serious discussion about communism because he refused to believe a word of what I wrote in my letters. He was convinced I was completely wrong.
Years Late.
Time moved on, and a few years later, I was living semi-legally with a Swedish girlfriend, Anna, thanks to a shady immigration form that cost me $20 a month and allowed me to stay home with a foreign citizen.
One day, I was coming back home and there was Anna. She greeted me at the door with surprising news: Dagmar’s husband, Boris Ilich was in Havana!
He had arrived the night before and spent his first day on official business of the Communist Party of Venezuela. But starting the next day, he wanted to hang out with us for the two weeks he’d be in Havana.
It was time for me to prepare for the inevitable Communism 101 debate. I told Anna about Dagmar, and together we got ready for the adventure ahead.
The Next Day Came.
Boris was staying at the Hotel Deauville, and he wanted to meet us early by the rooftop pool. Yes, the pool is located on the hotel’s roof.
Thank goodness for my semi-legal Swedish girlfriend! There was no way, back then or even now, I think, that a Cuban all by himself could walk into a hotel, take the elevator, and head up to the roof to meet a foreigner. But I was accompanied by a white girl with blonde hair and blue eyes.
The elevator stopped, the doors opened, and there we were — the pool. It was completely empty, except for Boris. The chubby, bearded, friendly-looking guy rushed over to hug me and, with no preamble, blurted out:
Communism sucks!
BORIS HAD BEEN ONE DAY IN HAVANA!!!