Boy Who Said No : An Escape to Freedom (9781608090815) Page 29

  “Uh-huh,” I said, shooting the young man a sympathetic look.

  “This is the first time he has gone fishing since his release. We’ve accompanied him as part of his probation. We wanted to talk to him to make sure he was rehabilitated—that he had learned his lesson in jail.”

  “What lesson is that?”

  “That he needs to remain loyal to the Party.”

  “What has the Party ever done for him except rob him of his freedoms?”

  The man looked astonished at the audacity of the question. He did not reply.

  “Who are you?” I demanded, turning my attention to the second man.

  He was a thin, intense man with dark, beady eyes. “I’m a member of the Communist Central Party,” he said proudly. “I’m here to do my duty.”

  “Good for you,” I said, sarcastically.

  I turned to the man who had tried to escape Cuba.

  “And you?”

  “I’m nobody—just a guy trying to live his life.”

  “Well, it may be your lucky day,” I said. “Because we’re all on our way to Florida.”

  “What—?” started the director. I didn’t wait for him to finish his sentence before ordering the soldiers to gag the three men so they couldn’t cry out.

  The soldiers and I redistributed the people so there were slightly fewer than twenty in each boat. I ordered the pregnant women and the old men to remain in the boat with me. We tied the two boats together—one behind the other—and resumed our journey.

  We traveled for a couple of hours with me periodically adjusting our course by reading the stars. The wind was picking up, but with what Abuelo had taught me, I knew how to compensate for it, calculating how far north I needed to travel to reach the Florida Keys.

  I wondered whether my grandfather ever anticipated something like this. I guessed he had. I remembered him saying, “Mark my words, Frankie, someday this knowledge will come in handy.” I smiled thinking about him.

  Knowing we were approaching the danger zone—the area of the patrol boats—I ordered the two captains to cut their motors. I remembered Ralph saying the patrol boats could pick up an engine on radar. I ordered everyone to be quiet.

  We sat in silence while waves sloshed over the sides of the boat, occasionally splashing someone in the face. It was still very dark and the slap of cold water always came as an unwelcome surprise. It was just another assault on the nerves of people who were close to the breaking point.

  After what seemed like a lifetime of waiting, the passengers began to grumble. Several people had urinated in the boat and vomit was clinging to clothing and skin. The stench was horrific. Everyone was hungry, thirsty and, most of all, very afraid of dying.

  One man became hysterical, accusing me of waiting for nothing. No one was thinking clearly. People began doubting that the patrol boats actually existed—they even started accusing me of making up the need to patiently sit and wait. Why, I could not imagine—other than the fact that they were operating on pure emotion. But, without a doubt, two groups of people knew the value of waiting: the fishermen and the soldiers.

  Because the patrol boats traveled without lights, I knew they’d be difficult to spot in the distance. I kept a careful lookout and insisted we stay put, while trying to quell a near mutiny. People were pushing and fighting, and I was afraid we’d soon have a man overboard. The soldiers worked relentlessly to nip arguments in the bud and to calm people down.

  Suddenly, we heard a din in the distance. It soon became a hideous, thunderous roar. All arguments ceased and voices grew silent. Some people covered their ears, and children scrambled onto the laps of their parents for protection. The adults strained their eyes to see a patrol boat approaching.

  It looked like a black leviathan, a large, threatening, and ominous presence. The adults sat in stunned silence as my heart constricted in fear. This was the moment of truth. I blessed myself and whispered a short prayer to the Virgin Mary that we wouldn’t be apprehended.

  Then I spotted another patrol boat coming the other way. Both were heavily armed military boats with guns pointed outward. The passengers had never seen anything like them before—no one could believe their power and size. They totally dwarfed us. Our small boats looked like toys beside them. We watched in awe as the behemoths crossed in front of each other. Their horns boomed in the distance, producing a solitary, preternatural moan in the darkness.

  Once they passed completely out of sight, I gave the captains the signal. “Go, go, go!” I hollered, as if screaming would make the boats go faster. I was filled with a sublime excitement and a boatful of apprehension. The captains revved up their engines, and I readjusted our course to compensate for the drift the boats had taken while we were waiting.

  I looked up at what had turned into a crystalline, star-sprinkled sky and hoped it wouldn’t be long now until we all tasted freedom. I held my breath as we slowly crossed into international waters.

  CHAPTER 42

  Believing that our biggest challenges were now behind us, my muscles relaxed, and I drifted into a deep sleep. I dreamt of Magda wearing a white lace blouse, her hair pulled back and fastened with a blood-red rose. She was unspeakably beautiful, standing on a red, white, and blue balcony, her smile broad, her arms outstretched. I was running toward her, my fingertips straining to touch hers. I was just about there, but I couldn’t reach her. She was dissolving into nothingness, slipping away. It was at once a soothing and unnerving dream, the kind I had grown used to in recent months.

  A breeze kicked up, and I struggled to lift my eyelids. When I opened my eyes, the water was pink. Red. Orange. Purple. A Crayola splash of storybook colors. The sky boasted long slivers of deep crimson that melded into scalloped gunmetal gray, creating mysterious shapes that hung as low as an old rope swing and then slowly burst into bubble-gum pink.

  The sun exploded through thick bunches of moving whirls that twisted back and forth upon themselves and then morphed into faces of dolphins, mermaids, and cats with long wondrous tails. A pyrotechnic display of smoldering embers under lit clouds of violet blue.

  The sun crested the horizon, trumpeting its arrival with blinding rays that shattered into a million gold discs that floated like water lilies atop a pond. The incandescent ball was radiant in its triumphant ascension, its rays shooting across the horizon as if blessing the ends of the earth.

  The boats rocked gently in the deep-blue water as the sun moved higher in the sky. It was an achingly profound and wordless moment. We sat in awe, some people crying softly, some nodding their heads, some closing their eyes in silent prayer. Mothers drew their children to them, holding their heads in the palms of their hands and thinking of how they would raise their offspring in a land of freedom. Fathers regarded their wives and children with renewed hope for their futures.

  I searched all the passengers’ faces, thinking of what this moment meant to them—and to generations to come. I thought about Magda and how I would someday tell my children and grandchildren how this all came to happen.

  Never was there a more glorious sunrise.

  Once the moment passed, the mood in the boats became almost celebratory. Although many of us were sick, the sun promised to both warm our bodies and to dry our clothes, and that alone was enough to make us feel better. The icing on the cake was that we were now free people, no longer suffering under the tyranny of Fidel. And, after our harrowing experience, we were now well on our way to the United States.

  I calculated that we had enough gas to make it to Florida. The bigger problem was that almost everyone was in need of medical assistance—some more than others. Our throats were parched. Our stomachs were empty. Many of us were suffering from either dehydration or hypothermia—or both. The children, the elderly, and the pregnant women were in the worst shape, but their spirits were buoyed by having crossed into international waters.

  We made our way toward Florida for about an hour before I spotted a massive ship in the distance. Russian cargo ships o
ften plied international waters and, given the Soviet Union’s close ties to Cuba, they were known to pick up Cuban refugees and return them to their native land for prosecution. Apart from your boat being shot out of the sea, this was an escapee’s worst nightmare.

  I hollered to Macho who was driving the other boat. “What do we have out there?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s damn big.”

  “Russian?”

  “Christ, I hope not.”

  “It’s white. Russian ships are always white,” I said. A feeling of dread was beginning to bind my throat. I didn’t want to believe this was happening.

  “Yes, but so are a lot of other ships,” returned Macho. He sounded more sanguine than I, and the tone of his voice lifted my spirits.

  As the ship moved closer, it was evident that those aboard had spied us. Several men were hanging over the rails of the boat, waving their arms wildly and hollering something to us. But I couldn’t tell what they were saying—or whether their movements were friendly or hostile.

  “Can you read the lettering on the boat?” shouted Macho.

  “Not from here, can you?”

  “No. What do you want to do?”

  “There’s not much we can do. If it’s a Russian ship, they’ll have guns, artillery. There’s no way to escape them.”

  Back in Cojimar, Gerardo was manning the radio, listening to the open airwaves for any information regarding my disappearance. Lazo, Manny, and several other soldiers were standing by, examining maps of the area that were spread on an old wooden table.

  Lieutenant Brown looked on almost casually, knowing full well that Pino was not thinking the way I would. Not being a military strategist, he had made many tactical errors in his attempt to find me. And Brown was content to let him continue to make them.

  Since their thorough search of the docks and the fishermen’s boats had yielded nothing, Pino was eager for any scrap of news. He glanced at Manny and Lazo who were talking softly to each other. He strained to overhear their conversation. He still suspected they knew more about my disappearance then they had let on.

  Suddenly, a grin crossed Gerardo’s face and he turned toward Pino.

  “I’ve got a report that a ship is approaching what’s believed to be two boats of Cuban refugees needing medical assistance.”

  The soldiers looked up expectantly. A broad smile crossed Pino’s face. He was almost salivating. “That’s him.” He grabbed Macho’s brother by the arm excitedly. “That’s my man.”

  “It could very well be,” said Gerardo levelly, although he found Pino’s excitement about this development annoying. His back stiffened and he looked at the lieutenant with an astringent eye.

  “What are they saying?” demanded Pino.

  “I can’t quite make it out,” said Gerardo. “It’s an SOS, but they aren’t talking directly to us. I’m only intercepting this.”

  A heavy mist blew in as we drew closer to the boat, making it impossible to make out the name of the ship. It had reduced its speed and was heading our way. A man was leaning over the side of the ship photographing us.

  It didn’t seem typical of Russian behavior, but I couldn’t be sure. Perhaps they were refugee sympathizers documenting our escape for history. Or perhaps they were Russian communists gathering evidence for a trial. There were no tracks in the snow for me to follow, and I didn’t want to take any chances.

  People in our two boats began arguing among themselves about what we should do. Some believed it was a friendly ship that would provide us with much-needed medical attention.

  Others thought we should refuse to step on board. They wanted us to take our chances getting to Florida on our own. I was besieged by doubts about what action to take. I didn’t have enough information on which to base such a momentous decision. I was in desperate need of something—or someone—to guide me.

  The soldiers remained calm, quiet, and alert, confident in my ability to handle the situation.

  Manny and Lazo looked on anxiously as Pino pushed Gerardo aside, attempting to preempt his actions.

  “Give me that radio. I’m taking over now,” he said.

  “No, you’re not,” said Gerardo, pushing him back. “This is my job. I’m in charge here.”

  “Damn it, I want the coast guard to go after those worms and pick them up immediately,” barked Pino.

  “But if it isn’t a Russian ship, it could turn into an international incident,” said Gerardo. “We’ve got to be careful. I could lose my head over something like this.”

  Pino scowled at him and let loose with a colorful string of expletives before saying, “You’re making too much of this. Just do as I say. Send out the coast guard. We need to get to these fugitives before the Americans claim them.”

  Gerardo eyed him warily. “I need more information,” he said, trying to keep his resentment from showing. “I’ve seen this kind of thing before. It can get very complicated very quickly, and then we’ll have Fidel down our throats. I’m not chancing it. I’m going by the book.”

  Pino mumbled something incomprehensible, and all eyes turned back toward Gerardo. He looked the lieutenant up and down. Neither man appeared ready to back off. Pino glared at Gerardo while Gerardo thought for a moment. There was a long, pregnant pause. Everyone in the room stood somber and silent. Finally, Gerardo told Pino that he was not turning this situation over to him without knowing exactly who he was after.

  “I need the name and description of the man for my records,” he said.

  Pino heaved a heavy sigh, exasperated at Gerardo’s intransigence. He glanced at his watch impatiently. He drew a picture of me from his chest pocket, angrily slapping it down on the desk. “That’s him: Frankie Mederos. Are you satisfied now? That’s the guy I’m after.”

  Gerardo picked up the picture and examined it closely. The man in the photograph looked somehow familiar, and he was feeling a vague sense of unease. Then it struck him who I was. While he didn’t know my name, he knew my face from the night of our confrontation in Macho’s home. It suddenly dawned on him that I was the man his brother had tried to help escape.

  The muscles in his face began twitching, alerting him to danger. His eyes moved back and forth as his mind raced to make a connection. It occurred to him that if I had left the country, Macho might be with me. And so might his nieces and nephew.

  His mind returned to the morning his nephew stood among the crowd, hugging his teddy bear for comfort and protection. He pictured the boy’s small hands, his narrow shoulders, and his shy, timid smile. Then he thought of how his nieces always greeted him with hugs and laughter. As tough as Gerardo was, he couldn’t bear the thought of them all being killed.

  Not hesitating a moment, he threw the photo down on the table and flew out the door before Pino could react or object. He was mumbling something about urgent business, leaving the lieutenant standing confused and speechless. Manny and Lazo watched him in amazement. The door banged shut behind him, punctuating his departure like an exclamation point.

  Gerardo ran up the hill to Macho’s house, hoping against hope to find him there. He raced up the front steps and rapped repeatedly on the front door. No answer. He frantically tried to turn the knob, but the door was locked, something Macho and his wife never did.

  He cupped his hands against the reflection as he peered through the living room window. The interior of the house was oddly dark and lifeless—no cooking smells, no radio playing, no children laughing. His heart sank like a boulder when he realized the house was empty. He drew in a deep breath, knowing for certain that Macho and his whole family were with me.

  CHAPTER 43

  The captain of the Gran Lempira, a Guatemalan freighter, was hauling cargo to Canada when he spotted two boats filled to capacity and struggling to make their way to America. Suspecting we were Cuban refugees, he immediately radioed the United States Coast Guard.

  “I’ve got two small boats full of people in my line of sight,” he reported.

  “Wh
at’s your determination?” inquired the American officer.

  “Best guess: Cuban refugees.”

  “Number?”

  “Thirty to thirty-five.”

  “Destination?”

  “On course for the Florida Keys.”

  The captain had dealt with refugees from this large Caribbean island before, and he knew that few boats came across the bow of his ship without passengers in need of immediate medical attention. Sympathetic to the fact that refugees risked their lives for freedom, he was eager to get us to safety as quickly as possible.

  “Request permission to take them aboard.”

  “Permission granted. I’m notifying the Guard in Key West—a boat will be on its way shortly.”

  Having returned to his post at the fort, Gerardo picked up the American rescue order on the airwaves.

  “What have you got?” demanded Pino. Gerardo glanced at Manny and Lazo who were listening intently. Thinking Macho and his family were safe, Gerardo told Pino, “The United States Coast Guard has been alerted. The Americans are coming to rescue the refugees now.”

  Manny, Lazo, and Lieutenant Brown looked at each other. They stifled smiles while Pino fumed. They had never seen him so angry. Eyes ablaze, he stood up abruptly and kicked over a chair. “The hell they are,” he roared.

  Alarmed, Gerardo could only stare. This was not behavior he expected from a military officer. This lieutenant was clearly overwrought. He seemed to have lost his ability to reason. This was a potentially explosive situation that could quickly spin out of control.

  “Dispatch two Cuban boats to arrest them,” ordered Pino, his voice coarse with rage. “They may still be closer to Cuba than to the United States. Hurry, damn it, while there’s still a chance to bring them in.”