REY OF HOPE

Interview by Gary McKechnie
and Nancy Howell

His story is a twist on a standard Hollywood formula: He went from riches to rags and then back to riches. Tony Rey Sr. was born, he admits, “with a silver spoon” in his mouth, although the spoon—along with his freedom and most of his family’s possessions—was taken away by Fidel Castro. After spending time in prison, Rey faced the prospect that, even while out of jail, he would have to endure a lifetime of being told what to do and what to think. The alternative? Escape. When he reached the United States in 1970, with only the torn shirt and pants he was wearing, there was no visible indicator that he would succeed. But in his mind, he was always rich—and it was only a matter of time before reality caught up with his imagination. So his early tasks of washing dishes and sweeping floors were only rungs on the ladder Rey climbed to become head of Rey Homes, a $36-million-per-year company that has built thousands of homes throughout Central Florida.

I was born on November 11, 1947 in a small town called Moron in northern Cuba. It was a little tourist town that had lots of wild birds and fishing and beautiful beaches. My mother’s family had come from Sweden by way of Boston and started farms—orange groves, mostly—and my father’s family had come from Spain. My grandfather started a lumberyard and then he began building houses that he’d lease and sell. The Depression caused some problems so my grandfather Rey migrated to a farm he had taken in trade, and that’s where my father fell in love with a young Swedish woman. . . .

At that point, the Reys became farmers. And since there were a lot of industries affiliated with farming, our family had rice plantations and orange groves and cattle ranches, sold farm equipment and we had the second largest Land Rover jeep dealership in Cuba. Back then, farming was king, and I think our province was the wealthiest in Cuba.

I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I had a great time growing up. I was the middle of three kids. I have an older brother and younger sister. My dad was a great dad and my mother was a saint. They were always helping people and charities, and they gave me whatever I wanted. One day when I was in fifth grade, my father comes to the school and asks permission for me to come out. When I do, he has the most beautiful bicycle I had ever seen. A chrome bicycle. I don’t know why he gave it to me. I hadn’t asked for it. I also had a horse and my dad had boats and when I asked, he got me a rowboat.
Everything was hunky-dory until the political situation changed. Castro takes over. He’s the son of a rancher, and the CIA tells Eisenhower he’s OK and will bring democracy to Cuba after he overthrows [Cuban President Fulgencio] Batista. One of my uncles actually fought for the revolution. Castro was a great speaker—a charismatic guy—but he had no clue how to run a government.

In the beginning, Castro was just confiscating foreign companies. But then, six months later, he starts taking over Cuban companies. Uniformed soldiers—his banditos—would show up at your ranch or farm with machine guns. Aside from your home or one vehicle, everything was confiscated. Castro would just get on the radio and say, “From today on, all the gas stations are confiscated,” and he’d already have his guards at the stations taking over.

The Rey family was allowed to keep one farm, but then a sequence of things happened and things started to deteriorate. Soldiers could search your house without a warrant and they took my dad’s guns and a knife he had. Billboards that had advertised Cokes and McDonald’s now read “There Are No Rights, Only Obligations, in the Revolution.”

The first time I tried to escape I was 16. It was me and my brother and some friends and fishermen. It was very difficult to be separated from my family. I said goodbye to my parents, which was very hard, and we snuck away on a boat. We went at night, first through a lake and then we transferred to a bigger boat to get us to the barrier islands, and then there was a third boat waiting in international waters. Around five o’clock one morning, I heard guards jumping on the boat. It was not a pleasant event.
They put us in trucks and drove us to the jailhouse where they interrogated me and my brother separately. They held me in a small, cold cell no wider that my body and then transferred me to a hot cell. They’d come in and say, “Your brother’s already confessed!” and they’d hit me or hold a gun to my head and call me a worm. At night you could hear them executing people in the yard. I remember there was a father in his 30s who had let freedom fighters stay at his house. He was on his knees looking at
pictures of his daughters and saying that he was sad that they’d never know him. Later that evening he was taken out and I heard the shots. It wasn’t pretty. I had 40 days and 40 nights of that.
I was allowed to see my parents there. I remember them sitting across from me—I wasn’t allowed to touch them—and my father told me, “All things work out for the best for God’s children. . . .” I thought, “Dad! What are you telling me this for? Look where I am!”

Additional articles along with the remainder of this excerpt can be found in the current issue of Orlando Magazine.