Rest in peace and in light my friend

It is early Saturday on a chilly Miami morning. I woke up ready to take on the new day. But then… I learn of the passing earlier of German Piniella, a friend, a mentor, and one of the original members of the group that helped create Progreso Weekly. He had been stricken with cancer for some time. He was in his early 80s.

German was a writer and an artist, a musician. But he was so many other things. A man for all seasons, and a connoisseur of almost everything. There was not a thing discussed that German did not have an opinion on, and information to back what he said. 

He wrote numerous important pieces for Progreso Weekly. But his key role with us was as Spanish translator. He was one of the best translators (from English) that I have known. He has translated books written by well-known authors from around the world. In my case, most of what I’ve written in the past 20 years, including important essays and speeches I’ve given, was translated by German Piniella. I can attest to the fact that I would often read German’s translations of my work and would end up enjoying his writing much more than mine. He was that good.

I will never forget receiving calls from so many of our writers in English over the years after their works had been published in Spanish to ask who had done the translation. It was always to complement the work. 

German and his wife, Amelita, for years also wrote a recipe column for Progreso known as “Eating with Doña Lita.” I had the good fortune of eating some of that food later prepared by Doña Lita and German. But what was as enjoyable was reading German’s stories of how that special plate or meal was developed or where it came from. 

He loved to tell stories. 

There were many sides of German that I did not know. In fact, I knew him very little. A meal here or there while visiting Havana, a conversation over email, or a staff meeting in the days when I visited the Cuban capital more often. I have heard the stories of his professional exploits, but many of those I could not tell you because I was not there.

But how can one like and admire a man one knows so little? I guess that’s one of the mysteries of life. German was special. He had an aura that made you respect him. Funniest of all was the fact we’d often lovingly call him Carlos Marx because he could be so stubborn. But even when we might disagree, I enjoyed the disagreements. I knew they came from a good place.

In the end, all I can say is that as little as I knew this man, I considered him a friend. And there’s no greater gift in life than a good friend. 

German. May you rest in peace and in light.