Pilar settled into a daily routine. Much of what she learned working for the US Navy came in very handy in her new role, the biggest difference was that in her new job, nearly all of the creature comforts enjoyed on the navy base were absent. Instead of going to the ladies’ room, she used a makeshift latrine, basically a hole in the ground. The commissary was replaced by an open fire with an iron pot over it.
As the top aide for Cienfuegos, she handled coordination between Cienfuegos and his squad leaders, often soothing bruised egos and mediating disputes between the junior officers. She was also privy to the most sensitive correspondence and became intimately aware of details involving troop movements, morale, arms shipments, supply requisitions, and disciplinary matters. She was asked to do an interview for the recently established Radio Rebelde, a pirate radio station set up for the revolution by Che Guevera to broadcast their message nationwide. Even though she was told that its powerful transmitter reached Caracas and Miami, she declined feeling she could be more effective for the cause by keeping a low profile. Cienfuegos applauded that decision saying, “this girl just demonstrated wisdom beyond her years.”
One morning, on the last day of March, only a week after she arrived in the rebel camp, Pilar received a coded message on her radio from Fidel’s assistant that a special shipment would be arriving that day, and Fidel would be coming personally to receive it. There was no mention of what the shipment was or how it would be arriving, so Pilar was slightly surprised when, a few hours later, a DC-3 airliner with a faded Pan Am logo on its tail came roaring over the camp, nearly shearing off the treetops on the mountain ridge where Cienfuegos enjoyed the strategic advantages provided by the high ground.
The lumbering, twin-engine craft was a civilian version of the C-47, the plane best known for its role as a troop carrier in the allied invasion of Europe. It looked heavy as it continued down into a nearby valley and made a gentle turn before lowering its landing gear and flaps, audibly reducing its throttles. Gravity took hold of the winged behemoth, and from Pilar’s vantage point, it seemed to drop like a stone as it disappeared below the tree line.
By this time, nearly everybody in camp was watching for a plume of black smoke confirming that the plane had crashed, but since there was none, it was assumed the landing in the small clearing below was in fact successful.
About thirty rebels, including Cienfuegos and Pilar, made the one and a quarter-mile hike to the landing strip to find the plane intact. Standing in the open doorway, Pilar saw the man she would come to know as Huber Matos. At forty years of age, he was older than most of the fighters by far and he had apparently only recently grown a beard, since he couldn’t seem to stop scratching it. He waved to the approaching column.
“I come bearing gifts from the President of Costa Rica for the 26th of July Movement!” he shouted.
Matos was a schoolteacher and rice farmer from the town of Manzanillo in Oriente Province who had joined the revolution. When he was captured, he managed to escape to Costa Rica. There he convinced President José Figueres, a man committed to the promotion of democratic government in Latin America, to supply the plane and its cargo to aid the rebels.
Cienfuegos asked, “What have you brought us this fine day?”
Suddenly, a jeep appeared from the forest with a man standing up, smoking a cigar. It was Fidel Castro.
“I want to open it! Wait for me!” Castro shouted.
This was the first time Pilar had seen Fidel, who had travelled at great risk to personally receive the shipment and thank Matos. He was jumping with joy—like a child who wakes up on Christmas Day.
Cienfuegos’ men removed some crates from the plane, opening one of them for Fidel to inspect. The mysterious cargo he was so excited about turned out to be five tons of arms and ammunition.
“Now we’ve really won the war,” Fidel rejoiced. “With these weapons we can finish them.” He recklessly fired a machine gun into the sky to the delight of everybody except Huber Matos, a serious man, who seemed worried that valuable bullets were being wasted on the frivolous celebration.
After the celebration died down and Fidel took the weapons with him, Pilar took care of Matos’s sparse accommodations and issued him a uniform and personal supplies, as he would now be joining the rebels for the duration of the war.
Later that night, Matos confided to Pilar that he was worried that Fidel, whom he had known for many years, had become a rash and temperamental man with despotic tendencies. He had seen how the majors, captains and other officers obeyed and admired him, and how what had once been a more egalitarian movement now seemed to be turning into a cult of personality.
“What will happen in the future?”, he wondered aloud. “Am I the only one who has doubts?” he asked Pilar before falling asleep.
Pilar was not sure of what to make of Matos’ observation, but she filed it away in her mind.
A few weeks later, Pilar woke up feeling horribly sick. She threw up her breakfast, and went back to sleep, remaining in bed all day, eating only soup that night. The following morning, the same thing happened.
When he visited the makeshift infirmary to get some medicine to relieve her nausea, the doctor who saw her broke the news: she wasn’t sick; she was pregnant.
Pilar was devastated by the news. “Are you sure? Maybe you’re mistaken,” she said.
The doctor, who happened to be the legendary revolutionary and Camilo’s close friend, Ernesto “Che” Guevara, smiled patiently. “I’m quite sure. You should tell the father the good news.”
Only Pilar knew that she had had sex with one man and now carried his child—the man who had taken her virginity and brutally raped her,
She begged the doctor not to tell anybody yet, but that evening Cienfuegos approached her and asked about her pregnancy. She burst into tears, telling Camilo everything—how she was raped by Chip Thompson and was now forced to carry his child. She told him of her shame.
Cienfuegos tried to reassure and comfort her. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. Your child is the result of the sacrifice you made for the revolution. You should be proud of yourself and accept this child.”
“Would you be proud of having a bastard child if you were the one who carried it?” she demanded.
“Pilar, I am very sympathetic to your situation and want to help you in the best way I can. If it’s helpful, you can tell people that I am the father. I would consider it a great honor if your child carried my name, Pilar.”
Pilar threw her arms around Camilo in gratitude. It was the kindest thing anybody had ever done for her, and she found that she had suddenly gone from feeling the worst she had ever felt to being nearly happy. It was only her concern about three other people that clouded her mind. She thought her Mama would be distraught and wondered if her Papa would still be proud of her. She wondered what Teddy would think.
Cienfuegos went out of his way to make Pilar comfortable, doting on her whenever his duties allowed the time. Although their relationship remained platonic—Cienfuegos treated her as a sister—to everybody else, they seemed as close as lovers, a position that carried no negative stigma for Pilar whatsoever. Her status, already quite exalted for her role in foiling the ambush against the leadership, was now that of royalty. She was treated like a queen by all who came in contact with her. Her morning sickness soon passed, and she resumed her normal duties.