My dinner with Fidel: Recalling a brush with the dictator

As the world reflects on the death of Fidel Castro, I am brought back to one summer memorable evening I spent with Castro in Havana.

I had traveled to Cuba with the American Jewish Congress to deliver medicine to the Jewish community in Havana. After several days there, we learned that Castro wanted to have dinner with our group, and I began to mull over the questions one might ask the world’s longest-reigning dictator.

My thoughts turned to a Cuban American couple I had met a few hours earlier. Describing the Cuba that they were seeing for the first time since Castro took power, they said, “It was day when we left, and now it is night.”

After we collectively agreed that Jack Rosen, the group’s leader, would ask all the questions during our dinner, my mind stopped racing. Jack, a broad-shouldered real estate entrepreneur with a gregarious personality and a wonderful family, had organized the trip.

To get to Castro’s presidential palace, we followed a military escort, and whether we were driven in circles or were too anxious to speak, it seemed to take an eternity to arrive at what appeared to be a nondescript building. Once there, guards guided us to a large staging room where we waited for hours.

Just after 9 p.m., we were told to line up in single file to meet Castro. When it was my turn, I walked slowly down a long, colorless corridor, turned the corner, and then, suddenly appearing in front of me, was the man himself: tall, imposing, slim, with his famous beard and dressed in military garb.

All I could do was muster a soft “Very nice to meet you, Mr. President” as I shook his hand and silently berated myself for being excited to meet someone who had unabashedly repressed the human rights of millions.

The evening began far more informally than expected, as we mingled with Castro for two hours over cocktails. One topic that intrigued our mostly New York group was Castro’s views on Liván and Orlando Hernández, the Cuban baseball players who had recently defected from Cuba. Castro’s tongue-in-cheek perspective: “It is wonderful to see that even the mediocre baseball players in our league are the best players in your league.”

Enrapt by his powerful presence and openness, I, too, asked him a baseball question: “Mr. Castro, is it true that you were a great baseball player in your youth?” To which he boasted, “I was a good baseball player, but I was a great revolutionary!”

Over drinks and hors d’oeurves, Castro regaled us with numerous other stories, from his world travels to his favorite Scotch to his special lobster recipe (which was later served at dinner).

He did not try to remember anyone’s name, nor can I recall any distinct personal gesture except the unlit cigar he held. But he was a gracious host and gifted raconteur, and no detail of any story was lost as his translator served as an intermediary. When we finally sat down for dinner close to 11 p.m., Castro had revealed to every one of us his legendary charm.

Rosen asked Castro perhaps six questions over dinner, with a typical response lasting about 45 minutes. Castro dazzled us with his knowledge on an array of topics from life in Cuba to Latin American democracies, from the Jewish exodus from Egypt to the Pope’s trip to Cuba, and from the fall of Communism to U.S. politics.

Even after dessert and cigars (Castro participated in neither), he wanted to continue our conversation. To our fatigued group, his stamina was impressive, although I attributed it to a dictator’s regime of sleeping during the day and staying awake at night to thwart assassination attempts.

As we prepared to leave around 3 a.m., Castro approached one of the group members to inquire why he had not asked Castro any questions throughout the evening. The startled guest responded nervously: “I was told Jack Rosen would ask all the questions.”

Without hesitation, Castro replied, “Ah, yes, I understand. That Mr. Rosen, he is such a dictator!”