Boy Who Said No : An Escape to Freedom (9781608090815) Read online

  I laughed. “That’s something you’d do, Gilbert.”

  The music died down and a voice again rang out over the crowd. A man sporting a 26 of July Movement armband was singing the praises of the nearly two hundred and seventy thousand people who had formed the literacy brigade. He said forty-two “Martyrs of the Revolution” had died in the campaign. I nodded slightly, understanding how that could happen.

  We fell silent for a moment, remembering.

  “It was an experience,” said Gilbert, shaking his head.

  I turned the toe of my shoe into the ground. “I really missed Abuelo,” I confessed. “And my mother and father.” I upended the soda bottle and took a long drink. The soda tasted funny, flat, not like Coke at all. I wanted the buzz, the fizz. For a moment I missed tracing the white Coca-Cola letters with my fingertip on the green soda bottles. “I never thought I’d miss my family that much, but I did.” I gazed at the ground. Nothing seemed the same any more. Not even myself. I looked Gilbert in the eyes and said, “I even missed you.”

  Gilbert stood up, stretched, and started walking away. “Yeah, I know,” he mumbled. “Let’s go home.”

  I stood up thinking about how different I was now. Fending for myself in the mountains had made me stronger in so many ways. I had learned a lot of things. But I had the nagging fear that I had not learned enough.

  Then a thought struck me: When I left for the mountains, I was a thirteen-year-old boy; now I was a man. A young man, but still a man.

  CHAPTER 6

  The very next morning two soldiers arrived at my house. After the celebration last night, I couldn’t imagine what they wanted. My father led them to the living room sofa and extended his hand for them to be seated.

  One of the soldiers opened a leather satchel containing official-looking papers. My name appeared on several pages. He spread the materials on the table, cleared his throat, and looked at my father.

  “Our records indicate that your son conducted himself well in the literacy program. The government would like to honor him by sending him as a becado, a student scholar, to one of the government-run scholarship schools.”

  My parents and I looked at each other in astonishment. Cuba’s scholarship schools had a reputation for providing an excellent education. But they were expensive—well beyond the means of my parents.

  As if reading our thoughts, the soldier said, “This is a special honor, a gift from the government to recognize a select group of citizens who provided literacy services to the poor. Frank will be able to attend this school—all expenses paid.”

  Suddenly my skin felt warm, the way it did when something bad was about to happen. I was trying to figure out how I felt about this. I was looking forward to spending some time with my family and friends. The thought of having anything to do with the government left me cold.

  The soldier turned toward me and asked, “Any questions, Frankie?”

  “Where is this school?”

  “In east Havana—Tarara—not far from here.”

  I knew the exact location of the school. The buildings and grounds were beautiful, but I couldn’t imagine myself there. I wouldn’t know anyone, and I wanted to be with my friends.

  “When would I start?”

  “Tomorrow. Fidel doesn’t want to waste any time.”

  “But I just got home.” I felt like someone had sucked the oxygen from my lungs. I looked to my parents for some kind of direction and support. I was hoping they would back me.

  A moment of silence elapsed. My mother glanced at me before she stepped forward and said, “The government took my boy from us for almost a year. We had no idea where he was or what had happened to him. We didn’t know whether he was dead or alive. Now you want to take him from us again? It’s not fair—to him or to us. He needs to stay here.”

  The soldier looked at Mima with disdain. When he spoke, his voice was deep, resonant, and brusque. “With all due respect, señora, your son is no longer a boy. He’s a young man, and his government is offering him a chance of a lifetime. I strongly suggest he take advantage of it.”

  My mother’s face flushed. She was taken aback by the soldier’s sharp rebuke. Still she pressed on. “But he will be away from home again.”

  “Señora, señora, the education Frank will receive will more than make up for his absence from home. Surely you understand that.”

  My mother bristled and crossed her arms in defiance. “If he attends this school of yours, how often can he come home?”

  “Once a month. And, of course, on holidays.”

  The other soldier—the silent one—gathered up the papers. He turned and spoke to my father. “We are offering your son an opportunity to receive the finest education Cuba has to offer,” he said. “Frank will learn things in this school that the public school does not have the resources to teach. It would be a great disservice to him—and to Cuba—for him not to go.”

  My mother turned to me, confused. She was as undecided as I about what to do. “Frankie, what do you think?” Her voice was softer, more resigned.

  I didn’t want to go. On the other hand, I thought about what Abuelo had told me about the importance of learning. He had always taught me to study hard and had stressed the value of education.

  I was afraid that by not going to this school I would disappoint him—and I didn’t want to let Abuelo down. I needed more time to think. But I had to make a decision now. I looked at the men standing before me, men who seemed to have my best interests at heart. I took a deep breath and reluctantly said, “Okay, I’ll go.”

  To my surprise, life at the school in Tarara was like living at a resort. It was totally fenced and an armed guard stood at the gate, providing little chance for escape or interaction with the outside world. We checked with the guard when we went home and when we returned. We made our beds every morning, shined our shoes, and kept our quarters spotless. But other than that, the school offered me everything I could possibly want.

  I was housed in a former mansion surrounded by towering royal palms. Our rooms were more luxurious than anything I had ever seen. I bunked with only one other boy, a boy I really liked. The food was great and we had time to swim at the beach. We even had our own baseball field and basketball court. In many ways it was a young man’s dream.

  Our educational program was rigorous. The first hour of the day was devoted to political science. Señor Gonzales taught us about the benefits our government had bestowed on our people. We learned that health care and literacy had improved, that the peasants were better off, and that more doctors were graduating from Cuban universities.

  We were lectured on the rampant corruption that fueled capitalist societies. We were told that the Cuban government promoted love and brotherhood. We learned that Fidel was a friend of the people, of the peasants, of the working class.

  Sometimes we listened to Fidel’s radio broadcasts, events that lasted four or five hours. His speeches seemed like gobbledygook to me, wild meanderings braided with production statistics, condemnation of the “lumpen”—whoever they were—and crazed calls to action against the “American imperialists.”

  We were supposed to pay close attention to these speeches, but many of the students had trouble staying awake. Señor Gonzales rapped his ruler on the desk of any boy who started nodding off, and those who actually snored were severely reprimanded for “counterrevolutionary” leanings. But on more than one occasion even Señor Gonzales had to stifle a yawn.

  Much time was devoted to the corruption and abuses under the Batista regime: how the former president had cozied up to the United Fruit Company; how the American gangsters had drained millions of dollars from the Cuban economy; and how the American-controlled Havana Mob had used Cuba as a base for drug trafficking and money laundering. We learned that the United States had sucked hundreds of millions of dollars from the Cuban economy and had plundered the wealth and resources of Latin America.

  When we were not discussing the writings of Vladimir Lenin and F
riedrich Engels, we were absorbing the teachings of José Martí and Karl Marx. José Martí was the only Spanish hero Abuelo had taught me about whom Señor Gonzales mentioned. I thought the government was using the writings of this great poet to serve their own needs. There was no mention of Jesus, the Virgin Mary, or the saints.

  Our other classes consisted of history, geography, science, and math, but always presented through the lens of the Party. I listened carefully, attentively. I attended all the classes, read the books, and studied the texts. But instead of becoming more convinced of the merits of these ideas, I was becoming anxious, rebellious, and angry.

  When I returned home every month, I saw things more clearly, like you do when you meet people you haven’t seen for a while. You notice that their hair is grayer, their waistlines thicker, their wrinkles deeper.

  Conditions were not as rosy under this regime as the teachers at Tarara were telling us. Since Fidel had passed the Agrarian Reform Law in 1959, the government had seized all the farms, land, businesses, and companies owned by middle- and upper-class Cubans—millions upon millions of dollars in private property.

  Political issues between the Cuban and American governments were making things worse. Fidel had defied the Eisenhower administration by nationalizing all kinds of businesses and industries, both foreign and national: department stores, distilleries, breweries, construction companies, paint manufacturers, and bottling companies.

  They shut down flour mills, rice mills, even sugar mills. The list was endless. One weekend when I was home, I stopped to talk to a black boy who shined shoes on the corner of a well-traveled street in Guanabacoa.

  Alcadio was polite, somber, and earnest. He was shy and pretty much kept to himself. None of us knew his last name, so we referred to him as Alcadio Negrito.

  He would bring a small chair from home along with an old wooden stool and set up his “shoeshine shop” not far from his house. He owned two brushes that he cleaned carefully after each use. He had several tins of black, brown, and cordovan polish, and a couple of rags that he folded neatly beside his stool.

  Alcadio was meticulous about his work and politely shined the shoes of anyone willing to pay five pesos. Alcadio’s father had died in a fishing accident shortly after he was born, and his mother struggled to support a family of five. Alcadio was very proud that the proceeds of his business helped to put food on the table.

  One afternoon when business was slow, I sat on the sidewalk to shoot the breeze with him. We started to play gin rummy while he waited for customers. I had a pack of candy cigarettes in my pocket and I offered him one. I had just sucked the cigarette to a point when a policeman approached, looking somber and stern.

  “What’s going on here?” His tone of voice was so sharp it could have sliced potatoes.

  Alcadio and I scrambled to our feet, afraid that the policeman thought we were smoking real cigarettes.

  I removed the candy cigarette from my mouth and extended my hand to show it to the officer. “It’s just candy.”

  The man glanced at the cigarette and then knocked it from my hand. It landed on my trousers, sticking briefly to the cotton material before breaking on the sidewalk. I looked down, chagrined to have lost my sweet.

  “I can see that,” said the officer. “I don’t give a damn about your cigarettes.”

  Alcadio and I looked at each other, dumbfounded.

  “Did we do something wrong?” I asked.

  “Whose operation is this?” demanded the officer, pointing to the shoeshine stool.

  Alcadio looked alarmed. It took him a moment to gather his wits before he could answer.

  “I’m the one who shines people’s shoes.”

  The man looked at Alcadio and made an ugly hissing sound under his breath.

  He pointed to me. “And him?”

  “He’s just a friend,” said Alcadio, waving his hand dismissively. “He doesn’t work with me.”

  The officer returned his gaze to Alcadio. “How long have you been doing this?”

  Alcadio looked confused. “About three years. I give the money to my mother for food.”

  “Well, this little game is over.” The officer dropped to his haunches and grabbed Alcadio’s work items, tucking them snugly under his arm.

  Alcadio looked panic-stricken. “What are you doing?” he said. Tears welled in his eyes. I was afraid he was going to start to cry in front of the officer.

  “Private enterprise is no longer allowed. This business is closed. If anybody asks, tell them that your business belongs to the People.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Alcadio.

  “There’s nothing to understand. It is what it is. And if you give me any guff, I’ll report you and your family to the authorities.”

  Alcadio looked down at his feet. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” he said. I watched the scene with a sense of horror, knowing how much his mother relied on his meager income.

  The man shook his head and stared at Alcadio. “Where do you live?” he asked. His voice had a coarse edge to it, like he was talking to a delinquent in need of reprimanding.

  Alcadio pointed in the direction of his house. The officer followed his finger with his eyes.

  “Then run along. And I don’t want to ever see you doing this again. Do you hear? Your shoeshining days are over.”

  “But—”

  “No buts about it,” said the officer, and he walked away carrying the tools of Alcadio’s trade.

  Stunned, Alcadio walked back to his house empty-handed. On the way he started to sob.

  I put my arm around his shoulders. “It’ll be okay,” I said.

  Alcadio didn’t respond. He wiped the tears away with the back of his hand. We walked half a block before he spoke.

  “I can’t face her,” he said.

  “Her?”

  “My mother. What’s she going to do?”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “But what if she doesn’t believe me?”

  “I’ll go in with you to tell her.”

  “Would you?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Sure.”

  When we got to Alcadio’s house, his mother was washing laundry in the sink. She was a big woman with large upper arms that waved like flags when she wrung out the clothes. She looked up, surprised. Her expression darkened when she saw her son’s face. She knew immediately something was wrong.

  The woman looked back and forth, scrutinizing the two of us. I didn’t know her last name so I didn’t know what to call her.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked. Her eyes were bloodshot and her voice was weary. “Why are you home so early?”

  Alcadio emptied his pockets and dropped a few coins on the table. Then he began to sob again, garbling his words so they were incomprehensible. His mother turned and looked at me for an explanation.

  “What happened?”

  “A policeman came by and took Alcadio’s stuff.”

  “His shoe polish? His stool?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked perplexed. “But why?”

  “He said that all businesses now belong to the State.”

  Alcadio’s mother turned back to her son and held him by the shoulders. “Is this true?”

  He nodded and took a deep breath. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I was just waiting for customers like I always do. I didn’t mean to get into trouble. You’ve got to believe me.”

  Alcadio’s mother thumped down on a chair and held her thumb and forefinger to the corner of her eyes as if she were fighting a headache. She gulped a breath of air and a tear trickled unchecked down her cheek. She sat in silence for a moment and then heaved a heavy sigh. Her arms fell to her lap in a gesture of resignation.

  Alcadio’s siblings ran into the room, noisy, curious. I looked at Alcadio and then back at his mother before she nodded for me to leave.

  The sky was turning purple as I walked home, heart heavy, head down. The world seemed suddenly dark and foreboding, a p
lace where anything could happen at any time. A feeling of dread spilled into my stomach. I tried not to think about it. I didn’t tell my parents about the incident. I’m not sure why.

  I never saw Alcadio shine another pair of shoes.

  CHAPTER 7

  It was obvious that things were not as they had been in Havana. Due to the American embargo on almost all commodities sent to Cuba, the market, once piled high with fresh flowers, fish, and tropical fruits, was now choked with irritable shoppers queued up just to buy a loaf of bread. Unemployment was high, morale was low, and people were struggling to make ends meet.

  The local grocery store had been seized, and my mother had to shop at one of two thousand government-run people’s stores, with their sparsely stocked shelves. The women in town complained bitterly about this, but only to people they could trust.

  But our family heard all about it. “There’s no soap, no toothpaste, no toilet paper,” my mother groused. “I can’t get chocolate to make dessert. Even sugar is in short supply. Who’d ever think you’d have problems getting sugar in Cuba? If this is what Fidel has to offer, God help us.”

  My mother wasn’t the only one chaffing under the policies of the new regime. All of Havana looked older, wearier, shabbier. Well-tended parks were now strewn with litter and gardens once bright with flowers now bloomed with weeds. Many storefronts were closed, and peeling paint and crumbling buildings pointed to layers of malaise and decay. Lacking the incentive that came with owning their own property, people let things fall into disrepair.

  Meanwhile, the government had seized many Havana hotels. The blue neon sign on the Riviera no longer defeated the darkness, and the name of the Hilton had been changed to Hotel Habana Libre since Fidel had proclaimed it belonged to the workers. Glittering casinos still attracted the rich and famous, but their patrons now seemed too gay, their laughter too loud, their stylish clothes out of step with the mood of the city.

  The faces of waitresses, taxi drivers, and street vendors told the real story. They were marred by a sullen defiance, like a heavy downpour on an old tin roof. They were the first to feel the life force being sucked from this habitually exuberant city. They knew something vital was missing—like poker minus the betting, showgirls minus the feathers, Coke minus the rum.