Boy Who Said No : An Escape to Freedom (9781608090815) Page 12

  “He’s no dummy,” I said. “He does it because you’re a whiz at firing rockets—better than any of us.” Manny smiled shyly at the compliment.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  We sat in silence for a moment while Manny lead a low spade. He was trying to flush out the queen, which I held in my hand. I took a sip of coffee and tapped my fingers on the table. There was a moment of silence while I appeared to ponder what card to play. I fingered my cards and followed suit with the ten.

  “I can’t figure out why he hasn’t been promoted to captain,” said Lazo.

  “Good question,” said Manny. He lit a cigarette and dropped the match into a metal ashtray. “Pino respects him, that’s clear.”

  “It’s probably just a matter of time,” said Lazo. We all nodded. I glanced at my watch to see that our recreation time was over. I had managed to escape without playing the queen of spades on my own trick. I gathered the cards and slipped the deck back into its cardboard box.

  • • •

  While my life at the base was evolving nicely, life in Guanabacoa was devolving into chaos. The combined effect of high unemployment, low productivity, and the American blockade were staggering. You just had to walk out your door to see the results.

  Every month an estimated seven thousand motor vehicles broke down for lack of spare parts. Streets were littered with abandoned cars that sat on the curbs like roadkill. People waited in vain for inoperable buses and rail cars no longer in service.

  The government handed out scarce consumer goods at distribution centers with no thought given to consumer needs. Some months there was no toilet paper or soap. Some months shoes were distributed without shoelaces. Some months there was toothpaste but no toothbrushes. Some months the reverse.

  One week the government distributed clothing supplied by the Soviets. Boys between the ages of ten and fourteen were issued one pair of pants, one shirt, and one pair of shoes. The next day the boys all showed up at the park wearing the same thing: red shirts, black pants, and black shoes. We dubbed them the “ladybug brigade.”

  Food was also in short supply. My father now had a libreta—a ration card—and a number—ninety-four—that he used when he went to the distribution center to pick up our family’s two-week allotment of food. One day he took me with him. I was appalled. My father waited for hours in an endless line before his number was called. Everyone was cranky and irritable, just wanting to get their goods and go home.

  “Number ninety-four,” the food distributor screamed. This infuriated my father since he had known Roberto for years. He lived down the street and he knew Pipo’s name full well. My father was a proud man, and it sawed on his nerves to be reduced to a number.

  “You get one pound of rice, one pound of flour, one bag of tea, and a half cup of sugar,” said Roberto. “Do you have twenty-five pesos for payment?”

  “What about beef? Or beans?” asked my father. “My family hasn’t had protein for months.”

  Roberto glared at him. “Stop grousing, number ninety-four, or I’ll write you up for counterrevolutionary leanings.”

  “I’m no counterrevolutionary, Roberto. I just want some beef.”

  Roberto smirked. “Are you unhappy with the revolution, number ninety-four? Are you unwilling to sacrifice for a better life for everyone?” My father’s back stiffened.

  “Right now, I’d just like a better life for my family.” Pipo fixed him with a baleful gaze. Roberto extracted a cigarette from his pack of Populares, lit it, and dropped the match on the grungy floor. He inhaled deeply and blew the smoke in my father’s face.

  My father’s lips flattened into a thin angry line while Roberto called several other food distributors to his side to confer. They huddled and whispered among themselves. When they emerged, Roberto scribbled something on my father’s chart. My stomach turned to gelatin. Roberto looked at my father with eyes of a zealot.

  “No beef and no beans,” he grunted. Roberto handed my father his groceries before saying, “You’d better watch yourself, number ninety-four or I’ll have you tracked as a troublemaker. Then you can tell your problems to the warden in jail.”

  My father crossed his arms and worked to steady his emotions. A line of perspiration dewed his forehead. He mumbled something under his breath. He was struggling to contain his frustrations until he got home. But I knew he would. He had seen less circumspect men handcuffed and tossed like sacks of flour into the backs of trucks by Fidel’s secret police. And he was too much of a survivor to allow that to happen to him.

  But the experience helped me understand why the black market was thriving. Even the threat of five years of hard labor could not deter some people from avoiding the distribution centers to buy what they needed.

  • • •

  The economy was now so bad that Fidel was sending young girls to the mountains to pick coffee. With no one to protect them, they were often molested, raped, and abused. When they left their homes, they were innocent señoritas. When they returned, they were hardened, coarse women, wearing torn, dirty clothes, and using language fit for the gutter. Scorned by society and often rejected by their families, some turned to prostitution to eke out a living.

  I watched all these developments every month when I was on leave. While peddling my bike through the neighborhoods of Havana, I’d endure hateful stares from lines of people waiting for bread, for soup, for fuel. People I’d known for my entire life regarded me with disdain. I was a soldier. I wore a uniform. I was one of them.

  Whenever I went home, I’d go for a walk with Abuelo. We were routinely stopped by the CDRs whenever we stepped out the door. I asked my grandfather how often that happened. “Every day, every day,” he said, biting back his bitterness.

  We discussed Marxist philosophy, the Bolshevik and Cultural Revolutions, and the economic problems in the Soviet Union. One day the idea of a classless society came up in the course of discussion. Abuelo scoffed at the notion.

  “The Communists talk a good game,” he said, “but I don’t see them living it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I see Party officials driving fancy cars and living in beautiful homes, while the rest of us try to scrape up enough to eat. That doesn’t sound like a classless society to me.”

  I shook my head. “But that’s what they’re teaching us in the army.”

  “Make no mistake about it, Frankie, communism equals wealth if you are selling it and poverty if you’re buying it.”

  “So you think the idea of a classless society is—?”

  “Pure poppycock. It’s against human nature.” As if to add emphasis, Abuelo kicked an empty tin can down the street. It rattled, echoing its hollowness.

  “So you don’t think Cuba is a classless society?”

  “Not only that, I don’t think such a thing is possible. We’ll always have different classes. That’s how people are wired. Humans are social creatures, and we rank ourselves according to who’s smarter, richer, more talented, more beautiful. Even the animals have a pecking order.”

  I thought about this for a while.

  CHAPTER 20

  My relationship with Magda and her family was growing closer every time I came home. I had always enjoyed her mother’s company, her keen sense of humor, and her ability to put me at ease. Now I was enjoying the company of her father.

  Since the night I asked permission to visit Magda at home, Señor Hernández and I had developed a relationship as close as father and son. He had even asked me to call him Sergio. A warm, generous man who was eager to please his daughter, he readily gave me permission to take Magda to social events, dances, and parties.

  One weekend I fixed Manny up with Magda’s cousin, Carmen. Manny was thrilled, even if Carmen wasn’t. Carmen tolerated Manny’s company on several occasions, and Manny was grateful that I had arranged for him to see her. After every date, Manny would ask me what Carmen had said about him. I hated to hurt his feelings by telling him the truth.

  When
ever I came home on leave and Magda was home alone, I’d tell her I’d have to come back later—when her parents returned. I respected her, and I didn’t want to tarnish her reputation—a fact not lost on her father.

  On warm summer days, Sergio allowed me to take Magda to the beach. We usually hung out with my cousins and friends—sometimes with Lazo and Manny—swimming, chasing the waves, and playing volleyball in the sand. Afterward, Magda and I would lay on the beach blanket together, my arm draped around her waist, our legs touching, our feet entwined. Sometimes I’d read a novel to her while she closed her eyes and covered her face with a hat. Occasionally, I’d rub her back with suntan lotion, my fingers lingering longer than necessary on her soft, supple skin.

  The first time I saw Magda in a bathing suit, I could hardly breathe. Her skin was a toasty brown and as taut and as smooth as ripe mangoes. The suit was two shades of pink with a V-neck that revealed the top of her breasts. I thought about how she looked in that suit for weeks.

  Sometimes I’d playfully chase Magda around the beach. We’d run back and forth, kicking up sand before splashing into the gently cresting waves. I would hold her against me, her body supported by the water, her legs wrapped around my waist and her cheek pillowed snugly into my shoulder. She would lean back and float, her back arched, her long black hair gently moving with the rhythm of the water and her legs firmly gripping my buttocks. Those were the times when I was most tempted not to return to base.

  When we got back to Magda’s house, we would shower and change into dry clothes before the Hernándezes would serve us dinner. After dinner we’d stay up late talking about the situation in Cuba, the fate of the Church, and the role of the Party.

  On Sunday nights, we often went to Havana to dine with Magda’s Aunt Sophia and Uncle Rigo. They lived in a large brick home with a wrought iron fence located in a lovely section of Havana. Stone fountains misted the bougainvillea and other tropical plants that bloomed in their garden, and large paddle fans cooled their tiled floors. Ever gracious hosts, they welcomed guests to their home with the fragrance of roses and lemon oil and the promise of coconut shrimp and generous Cuba libres.

  Sophia was a lively, vivacious conversationalist, never reluctant to express her opinions on education, politics, and sports. An elegant woman, she liked to dress in long graceful skirts with blouses trimmed in lace. Her fingernails were always manicured and polished a bright red and her feet were usually cosseted in fine leather sandals.

  Her husband, Magda’s Uncle Rigo, was a warm, welcoming man. He was less talkative than his wife, and tended to get flustered and nervous. Still, as a successful business owner, he frequently voiced his disdain for Fidel, at least among family members.

  Rigo, Jr., was friendly, polite and respectful. He looked up to me like a big brother. We listened to music together, discussed The Beatles, and talked about baseball. Occasionally, I’d take him to the park. He had the open, curious, and engaging manner of a thirteen-year-old boy who was pampered and adored by his parents.

  He and his cousin, Sergio, Jr., liked to question me about my life in the army. They were very curious about what I did and how I did it, and I told them what little I could. Sergio was a year younger than Rigo and both sets of parents lived in fear that their sons would be drafted.

  On Sunday nights Sergio would drive me back to the army base so Magda and I could spend an extra hour with each other. It was a gracious gesture that Magda and I appreciated.

  I looked forward to our rides in the car. It was one of the few occasions during the weekend when Magda and I got some privacy. We would snuggle in the backseat and exchange an occasional kiss when we thought Magda’s father wasn’t looking. I’m sure Sergio knew what was going on, but he was too polite to notice. It was so wonderful to feel the warmth of Magda’s body next to mine, to bury my nose in her hair, and to dream of the day when I could make her my wife.

  In early 1965, Pino was sitting in the front of the class next to a portrait of Che Guevara. The Cuban flag hung to his left and Brown was seated to his right. He began to lecture us on how poorly minorities were treated in the United States.

  He berated Americans for relegating Negroes to the lower class and for making them attend segregated schools, ride on segregated buses, and drink from segregated water fountains. He had shown us pictures of the “Coloreds Only” signs posted on public restrooms in America’s southern states and used this as an example of the problems inherent in the American way of life.

  “In Cuba everyone goes to the same schools, we ride the same buses, we all have the same opportunities. There are no classes in Cuba. We live in a classless society.” He said this as a matter of fact and it irked me. I squirmed a little in my seat.

  Pino looked directly at me and said, “Mederos, Fidel says it is the duty of every revolutionary to make revolution. Having lived in a classless society in Cuba, would you become a revolutionary to fight segregation if you lived in America?”

  I don’t know what possessed me. I just couldn’t stifle my views one minute longer. I hesitated only a second before saying, “I agree that the Negroes are not treated fairly in the United States, but I don’t agree that there are no class differences in Cuba.”

  Lieutenant Brown sucked in his breath and shot me a withering stare, while Pino looked totally baffled. All eyes were suddenly upon me. Alfredo, a fellow ATGM operator, kicked me under the desk in warning.

  “Would you care to elaborate on your statement, Mederos?” Pino’s eyes were spearing me like swords, making me feel even more belligerent.

  “Well,” I said, warming to the subject, “if everyone is treated the same in Cuba and everyone is so happy, why have a million Cubans left the country? And why have two hundred thousand more Cubans been sent to jail for trying to leave?”

  The class grew deathly quiet, knowing full well that I had overstepped my bounds.

  Pino tightened his lips and glanced around the room, looking for someone to call on. He was silently challenging anyone to come to my defense.

  “Lazo, would you like to answer the question posed by your friend here?”

  Lazo looked up, startled. He was none too happy about being put in this position. I watched him carefully. His face froze for a moment while he thought about what to say.

  He straightened up and said, “I can’t answer your question because what Mederos says is true. A million Cubans have left this country and a whole bunch of nice people are now rotting in jail.”

  Pino looked unruffled, like he was chastising unruly boys. But despite his cool exterior, I knew he was rattled by our remarks. It was unheard of for a soldier, especially a member of the force, to publicly disagree with a tenet of the Party. A thin line of perspiration erupted at his hairline.

  “You are mistaken, Lazo, in calling these people Cubans. We don’t consider those who have left this country to be Cubans. They are worms, subversives, enemies of the revolution.”

  Lazo shot the lieutenant a challenging look. Pino turned to Manny.

  “What do you have to say about this, Cadiz?”

  Manny stood tall, squaring his shoulders. He had grown much less timid since he had joined the force. I think the physical training had given him a newfound confidence. He looked at Pino and said, “I don’t understand, sir. If they were Cubans before they left the country, why aren’t they Cubans now?”

  Pino wrinkled his nose. The class had grown so quiet you could hear the leaves rustle in the trees outside the window. Somewhere nearby a bird trilled a mating call. The lieutenant squinted as if trying to bring the conversation into focus. He shook his head.

  “We don’t need to go into that subject right now,” he said. He glanced at the class. “What you must understand is that we do not consider anyone who has left the country to be a Cuban citizen. Nor do we consider anyone in jail to be Cuban. These people are our enemies. They are scum, parasites, worms.” His voice rose an octave and he repeated the word worms. “Do you understand?”

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p; Lazo, Manny, and I nodded and sat back in our chairs. When class was finished, Pino demanded to see the three of us in his office. A coil of fear gripped my throat. We marched in together, saluted, and looked straight ahead. Manny was breathing heavily. I wondered whether his asthma was acting up.

  “What is wrong with you men? You seem confused,” said Pino. He walked back and forth in front of us, seething. “You must be talking to worms when you go home on leave because only worms could have filled your heads with such poison. I want you to give me a list of everyone you speak to about politics when you are on leave.” He looked me square in the eyes.

  “I don’t speak to anyone,” I said. There was no way I was about to give him Abuelo’s name—no matter what the consequences.

  “Are you telling me you speak to no one? Not to your father? Your uncles? Your friends?”

  “I don’t talk to anyone,” I insisted. I was afraid I didn’t sound too convincing. Lying was not something that came naturally to me. But despite my Catholic upbringing, I knew I’d have to get a lot better at it to survive.

  “You must be talking to someone. Where else could you get such radical ideas?”

  “With all due respect, sir,” I said, “José Martí said it’s the first duty of each man to think for himself. That’s what I do—I think for myself.” The lieutenant closed his eyes for a moment. He was aggravated at my response and quite unconvinced. He turned to Lazo.

  “What about you, soldier? Has your friend here been filling your head with poison? Or has it been someone else?”

  “No sir. I also think for myself.”

  Pino crossed his arms in front of his chest, signaling his contempt.

  “What have you to say, Perez?”

  “The same thing, sir. My ideas are my own—nobody else’s.”

  “Mederos, you know that Cuba is the finest country in the world, do you not?”