Boy Who Said No : An Escape to Freedom (9781608090815) Page 30

  Gerardo knew better than to confront the Americans, and he wanted to get that point across to Pino without engaging him in a violent confrontation. This was a tall order, since he himself was seething, none too happy that the lieutenant was throwing his weight around. He tried to siphon the anger from his voice.

  “I don’t think that’s wise,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “It’s wise if I say so.” Pino was not about to have his authority challenged by Gerardo.

  This guy is loco, thought Gerardo. He regarded the lieutenant with disdain. He knew the personality type. Calm to the point where he exploded in anger. And if you challenged him, it was curtains—maybe not immediately, but eventually. The man was relentless.

  Gerardo paused, assessing the situation while growing more anxious by the moment. It was the height of the Cold War, and people were trigger-happy.

  He looked at Pino. “Do you remember the Missile Crisis, Lieutenant?”

  “Of course,” said Pino.

  “Well, maybe you don’t remember very well.” He hesitated. “Or maybe you’ve never seen pictures of the victims of Hiroshima.”

  “I don’t need you to talk to me about Hiroshima.”

  “Damn it, I’m going to talk about it,” said Gerardo. “In case you’ve forgotten, the whole island of Cuba could be incinerated with the touch of a nuclear button. We could be on the brink of triggering the largest disaster this country has ever seen. I consider myself to be a tough guy, but I’m not stupid.”

  “What exactly are you getting at?”

  Gerardo glared at the lieutenant. “I’m trying to keep you from starting a goddamn war. And if you keep up this behavior, that’s exactly what will happen.”

  “I’ll do what I damn well please,” responded Pino. “I’m not going to start a war, and I’m not about to have my career ruined over the likes of you.”

  Pino pushed Gerardo roughly aside and issued an order for the Cuban coast guard to bring us back—dead or alive.

  I stared up at the ship, desperately trying to figure out what to do. Although I couldn’t see them clearly, the people on the ship gave every indication of being friendly. But it could all be a trick. I had been through too much not to be careful, not to be suspicious.

  I turned and looked at the passengers in my boat and then at those in Macho’s boat. A small boy was asleep on his mother’s lap, exhausted and oblivious to his surroundings. Mucus caked his nostrils and his breathing was ragged. He looked like he was running a fever.

  I stared at the two pregnant women, both sitting with their hands folded neatly beneath their stomachs, and thought about their babies. It was almost too much to take in. The lives of thirty-one people—as well as two unborn children—were in my hands. I had to make the right decision.

  I turned and looked at Miguel. For an old man, he was hardy and alert. Out of the blue, a thought occurred to me. I climbed over several people and moved my body next to his. Many of the passengers were studying me. Suddenly, a stark silence descended over the boat. The only sound was the raspy breathing of a sick child. It felt like the moment before the heavy velvet drapes rise at a theatrical performance. Everyone was watching.

  “Miguel,” I said, “I need to talk to you.” He looked at me curiously, sensing that I was about to ask him an important question. I cleared my throat and narrowed my eyes.

  “How old are you, Miguel?” I asked bluntly. There was no time for further preamble.

  “Eighty-three.”

  “Have you had a good life?”

  “Good enough.”

  I waited a moment. “Well, you have already lived your life. I know you would like to live a few years longer but, under the circumstances, would you be willing to do something for the lives of others?”

  Miguel sat up straighter and shifted his weight. He looked at me respectfully. “I would,” he declared like a true Cuban gentleman.

  “Good.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  I took his hand in mine. “Look at me. I want you to be the first one to go onto the ship—like a canary in the mine shaft. If everything is on the up-and-up, walk to the back of the ship and give me a signal—wave to me that it’s okay. If it’s a Russian ship, don’t come out—even if they pressure you, even if they threaten to kill you. You must be willing to die rather than betray us. Will you do that for us, Miguel?”

  The old man hesitated for just a moment as if trying to absorb what I was asking him. Then his eyes cleared of confusion and a sense of purpose eclipsed his fear.

  I studied Miguel carefully. He had been suddenly gripped with a sense of honor and purpose. He was welcoming the challenge.

  “Yes, I will do it. I will not betray you. I will die if I have to.” He pointed to his fellow passengers. “I will do it for you and for all of them.”

  “Good, Miguel. Good,” I said.

  Miguel looked at me and smiled. I sighed in relief now that a plan was in place. A few people clapped in recognition of Miguel’s bravery, and he smiled proudly.

  Picking up the order that two Cuban boats were being sent to arrest us, the American Coast Guard officer called for a second boat and two helicopters to be dispatched to the area in case of a conflict. He radioed the captain to inform him about the situation.

  “Two Cuban coast guard boats are heading straight toward you,” he said. We are sending air cover. Under no circumstances are you to turn the refugees over to anyone. Do you read me?”

  “Sí, claro,” replied the captain.

  I waved to the ship’s captain and got his attention. “We have an old man who wants to come aboard,” I said. “He needs to talk to you.”

  The captain nodded. He turned to order his men to help Miguel up the ladder and onto the boat. Several men shook Miguel’s hand before he disappeared from view. Knowing it would take a few minutes for the situation to resolve itself, I sat down beside one of the soldiers. His name was Eduardo. He told me his two older brothers had died—drowned—trying to leave Cuba, but he was sure we would make it. “We have to,” he said in a determined voice. Eduardo said he’d been learning English. He wanted to become a doctor once he got to America. I wished him luck.

  A young mother stood up for a moment and then inadvertently sat on her daughter’s doll. The child—who looked to be about four—began to whimper, working to retrieve it from beneath her mother’s thigh. The girl had a head full of dark, springy curls that bounced as she pulled on her toy. Her mother lifted her leg, and the child yanked the doll free, ripping out some of its hair in the process.

  “You sat on my dolly. That was stupid. Now she’s ruined.”

  Her father looked at her crossly. “Gina, don’t you ever call your mother stupid.” Gina stretched out her arms and held the doll before her. She looked the doll in its glass brown eyes and said in a small, serious voice, “Don’t worry, dolly, we’re going to MerryCa. And there you can say whatever you want.”

  The passengers laughed, relieving some of the tension suffusing the boat.

  Fifteen minutes elapsed, and Miguel had still not returned. I was becoming anxious. I turned my head toward the soldier and heaved a weary sigh.

  “What do you think is going on?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “Maybe they’re questioning him—or giving him something to eat.”

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps they are Russians, figuring out what to do with us. Maybe we should get out of here while the getting is good.”

  “It’s possible,” I said, trying not to sound as alarmed as I felt. “But I don’t want to leave Miguel—not yet. Let’s give it a few more minutes.”

  Ten more minutes elapsed with still no sign of Miguel. I felt as tense as a father awaiting the birth of his baby. And with every passing minute, I felt more guilty for having sent an old man on such a dangerous mission.

  I looked around. A middle-aged woman was furiously fingering rosary beads, her mouth working silently, her eyes half closed. A father was ta
lking quietly to his son. A nine-year-old girl repeatedly made the sign of the cross, saying “God help us!” under her breath.

  Finally, a murmur ran through the group, and people started elbowing each other. I looked up to see Miguel standing at the back of the ship. He was cloaked in a gray wool blanket and smiling broadly. Two men stood beside him and another stood squarely behind him.

  “It’s okay,” Miguel hollered. He waved for us to approach. Everyone in both boats started screaming and hugging each other, delirious with joy. Husbands were wrapping their arms around their wives and parents were embracing their children, laughing.

  The soldiers scoured my face for confirmation while the captains of our small boats awaited the go-ahead order. I looked again at Miguel. I wasn’t completely certain that it was okay to proceed. I still had a lingering doubt. Maybe my mind just couldn’t take in that my ordeal was finally over—or maybe it was something else. But it was certainly no time for rash decisions.

  I looked more closely at the man standing behind Miguel. He was tall and husky, a burly man who looked like he could wrestle alligators. His eyes were fixed straight ahead as if he were under strict orders. The thought crossed my mind that he might be holding a knife—or a gun—to the old man’s back.

  I hesitated for a moment, thinking. The passengers looked at me, gauging my reaction. Seeing the look on my face, their mood suddenly changed. They looked around, confused. They grew silent and serious, taking their cue from me.

  I whispered a prayer for guidance. This was neither a time for hesitation nor a time for hastiness. I looked up at Miguel. He was standing straight with his shoulders thrown back, happily waving us in. I blinked my eyes, not believing what I was seeing. I closed my eyes and opened them again. Only this time I was sure. My body relaxed and a broad smile crossed my face.

  Standing next to Miguel was a young boy, the blue-eyed boy, the same one who had warned me about the soldiers coming over the wall surrounding my uncle’s backyard. He was standing next to Miguel, clear as day and nodding to me. He smiled and mouthed only one word: “Come.”

  I immediately knew what to do. I looked at the captains of our two small boats and nodded to them. I snapped my fingers. “It’s okay,” I said. “Go!”

  The passengers exuded excitement and relief as they gathered themselves up to board the ship. Several Guatemalans helped them aboard. The taxi driver was beaming from ear to ear, white teeth blazing against jet-black skin.

  Macho and his mate said they would take our boats to Florida, and I bid them goodbye, watching their wake spin the blue water white as they sped away.

  I turned to the young man who had tried before to escape Cuba. As soon as I removed the bandana that gagged him, he hollered to the communists, “I’m free, you bastards, I’m free.” He looked proud and triumphant. I smiled, knowing exactly how he felt.

  Once we came aboard, the captain introduced himself and greeted us with great enthusiasm, treating us like honored guests. Medical assistance was dispensed to those in need. Drinks were eagerly consumed and hot meals were served all around.

  After I had had something to eat, the captain informed me that the American Coast Guard was on its way to take us to Florida. I smiled at the thought. Disturbingly, he added that two patrol boats from the Cuban coast guard were also headed in our direction. I looked out and spotted the Cuban boats in the distance. They looked threatening and ominous. My face blanched pale as milk. The captain looked at me, knowing full well what I was thinking.

  “Can you get us safely out of here?” I asked.

  “This is a Guatemalan ship, and I can’t take you out of international waters or you will be classified as Guatemalan refugees,” the captain informed me. I looked at him in alarm, not quite understanding what he was saying. My mind was too stressed to process this kind of information. To me, there was only one thing for certain: two Cuban boats were moving quickly toward us in one direction, and the Americans were advancing toward us in the other.

  The captain watched as I clenched my jaw and rolled my head to relieve the tension. “Relax,” he urged. “I’m not turning you and your people over to anyone but the Americans.” I breathed a sigh of relief and the corners of my mouth drifted upward. But I still didn’t feel safe.

  We waited for what seemed like an eternity. Suddenly, I heard the howl of helicopters overhead. I looked up to see an American flag painted on the side of one of the choppers. The colors were vibrant, lacquered to a high gloss. A couple of minutes later an American boat appeared and circled the ship. The name Cape Darby was etched on its side. After surveying the situation, the boat pulled alongside the ship and the captain requested permission to board.

  “Permission granted,” shouted the captain of the Gran Lempira. He saluted smartly. I looked out and saw the American flag flapping tautly on the stern of the boat.

  Gerardo intercepted the call that the Americans had left to go pick us up.

  “It’s over,” he told Pino. “The Americans have taken control. We can’t confront them or we’ll have an international incident on our hands.”

  The planes in Pino’s face collapsed and his mouth contorted in anger. His lips drooped, then contracted into a tight, wrinkled circle.

  “The hell we can’t,” he bellowed. “I don’t give a damn about the Americans. I’m not stopping until Mederos is dead. And that includes any other worms he has with him. Kill them all if you have to.”

  Manny and Lazo exchanged worried glances, wondering how Gerardo would react. Pino looked Gerardo straight in the eye and pounded his fist on the table.

  “This is your problem and you’ve got to solve it,” he thundered. “It’s a matter of national security. Mederos is one of our top men. He knows all our military secrets, and he will give them up to the American imperialists. He’s a menace, a traitor. Your head will be on the block if you don’t bring him in.”

  Gerardo glared back at the lieutenant with cold, black eyes. He had never been a man to be toyed with, and he was not about to be toyed with now. To Pino’s dismay, Gerardo said, “No, Lieutenant, it’s not my head that will be on the block—it’s yours. We are not confronting the Americans. And we are not killing any Cubans. My brother and his family are on one of those boats. There will be no bloodshed in international waters. Not on my watch.”

  Gerardo picked up the radio and countermanded Pino’s order, telling the Cuban coast guard to return to port immediately.

  An American Coast Guard officer of Spanish descent boarded the ship and walked briskly toward us, accompanied by three guards. He was a handsome man, trim, fit, and broad shouldered. He stood tall and saluted me and all the other soldiers. We returned the salute. He looked around at the passengers.

  “Is everybody okay?” he asked in fluent Spanish. I was surprised he wasn’t speaking English. Then it occurred to me that the Americans would give Spanish-speaking officers these kinds of assignments.

  “We’re all fine now,” I said.

  “We will escort you to Key West,” he said surveying the crowd. “Is this everyone?”

  “Yes,” I said. I looked over at my fellow passengers. They were all huddled at the back of the boat, smiling. One of the children offered me a small wave. I nodded and waved back.

  The officer turned to one of the guards who handed him a scroll wrapped around a stick about the thickness of your thumb. It looked very official, complete with gold finials and fringe. He nodded to the guards to run the American flag up the pole. It undulated in the wind alongside the Guatemalan flag. I looked at the striped flag with its patch of stars. I felt like we were all stars, each in our own way. I sat and stared at the flag in wonder—we all did.

  The officer cleared his throat and plucked his eyeglasses from his shirt pocket. He worked the arms of his glasses around his ears until they settled in place and then he adjusted them on his nose with his forefinger.

  He unrolled the scroll, and asked us to please stand. Words written in black calligraphy were inked
on yellowed parchment. They looked elegant and very official. A gold seal was affixed to the bottom of the document with a ribbon adding a colorful flourish.

  We scrambled to our feet, helping each other up. People were rearranging their blankets around their bodies. Miguel stood proudly beside me. The officer hesitated a moment, surveying the crowd. Tears sprang to my eyes as I looked at the other passengers nestled together. Some were beaming, some were crying, and some were still shivering, whether from cold or emotional trauma I could not determine.

  I knew everyone had a story. I knew mine, but I didn’t know theirs. But I did know that the genesis of everyone’s journey was a thirst for freedom. I thought about all the people who, in one way or another, had helped me escape.

  I pictured Sophia’s face the night she visited the base. I thought about my relatives and Magda’s relatives, about Manny and Lazo and Lieutenant Brown, about Ralph, Jabao, and Cuni. I thought about poor, fearful Rosa feeding me sandwiches under the bed, and my little cousins slipping me something to eat at Christmastime. I thought about Pedro, Señor Lopez, and Joey. And then I turned my head and looked into the eyes of Miguel. Brave, brave Miguel.

  Suddenly, the words of the Cuban poet José Martí sprung to mind:

  We are an army of light

  And nothing shall prevail against us

  And in those places where the sun is darkened

  It will overcome.

  The officer cleared his throat and began, “In the name of the president of the United States of America, I welcome you to freedom.” His words took my breath away. I looked up at the American flag with tears dripping down my face. I wiped them away with my fingertips, unashamed of my feelings.

  The officer continued, “In the name of the Congress of the United States of America, I welcome you to freedom.” A breeze kicked up, and the American flag proudly unfurled, flapping noisily over the ocean.

  I looked toward Cuba, thinking of all my loved ones whom I had left behind. For a moment an image of Abuelo standing in his boat flashed through my mind. I wondered whether I would ever see him again, or whether I would ever again put foot in the country Columbus had dubbed “the most beautiful land that human eyes have ever seen.”