Boy Who Said No : An Escape to Freedom (9781608090815) Page 5

  When I told Gilbert about my life at school—the chocolate desserts, the days playing volleyball on the beach—he accused me of having lost touch with reality.

  “Things are bad in the neighborhood,” he said. “Very bad. You’re living like a king because they’re grooming you to become one of them, while we’re surviving on scraps and crumbs. You’d better wake up. There’s something very wrong with that school. You’re living in a dream world, Frankie.”

  I could hardly argue with that.

  My grandfather’s situation lent credence to Gilbert’s contention. During the course of his lifetime, he had worked to acquire three rental properties that he believed would provide him with retirement income. He kept his houses meticulous, scraping and painting the interiors on a regular basis, pruning the bushes, and sweeping the sidewalks daily.

  One afternoon while we were playing checkers, a police officer arrived and served my grandfather with notice that his properties belonged to the State. Abuelo’s face went ashen.

  “But I have the deeds. My properties are paid in full. They belong to me.”

  “Show me the deeds,” said the policeman.

  Abuelo shuffled to the bedroom to open the metal box where he kept his important effects. He retrieved the papers in question and gave them to the officer. His hands trembled slightly as he turned over the documents.

  The officer wrinkled his nose, took the papers, and glanced at them briefly. I held my breath. Tension filled the air like a morning mist.

  “These papers are worthless.” The officer tossed the papers on the green chair next to the sofa.

  Abuelo’s eyes followed the papers and his back stiffened. He picked up the papers and smoothed them out. Pointing to the bottom of the documents, he said, “They are legal—signed and notarized.”

  The policeman shrugged. “It means nothing under the new law. Private property is now illegal. You should know that by now.”

  I figured Abuelo did know it, but he was not going down without a fight. Angry and red-faced, Abuelo waved his hand in a circle. “And what about this house—my own home? The one I built with my own two hands? Does it belong to the State too?”

  “All property belongs to the State,” returned the officer. “This place is no longer yours. If you want to continue to live here, you must buy the property back from the State, the legal owner. If you would like, we can discuss this matter at a later date.”

  My grandfather nodded, too angry and frustrated to speak. I had never seen him so agitated. He turned his back on the officer, not even opening the door for him to leave. When the man closed the door behind him, Abuelo sank into his chair and shook his head. Then, to my surprise, he leaned back and fell asleep. I watched him until he began to snore. I left the house quietly, not wanting to wake him.

  That night Abuelo and I went fishing together. He was still in a foul mood, morose and distracted. Even I, his favorite grandchild, couldn’t cheer him up.

  As we approached the water, we were descended upon by a group of forty or fifty soldiers. A lieutenant approached us and demanded to know what Abuelo was doing with his torch. My grandfather was not amused.

  “What do you think I’m doing? I’m using the torch to help me fish.”

  The soldiers huddled together and talked; the discussion was very animated.

  Then the lieutenant turned to Abuelo and asked, “Are you sure you aren’t signaling the Americans?”

  “Signaling the Americans?” said Abuelo. “What are you talking about? Why would I do such a thing?”

  “The Americans are sitting in boats offshore waiting to attack Cuba,” one soldier pronounced.

  My grandfather scratched his head. He pointed to the water and said, “Look out there, do you see any ships?”

  The officer squinted at the horizon. “No, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”

  “Well, if they were there, do you think they’d need to see my torch to attack? Use your head. The whole harbor is lit up like a Christmas tree. If the Americans want to attack Havana, they don’t need my little torch to see where it is.”

  The soldiers huddled for discussion. One man agreed that other people in the area used torches to fish—and had done so for years. My grandfather looked at them as if they had lost their minds. They detained us for an hour or so, arguing back and forth, their voices rising like hot air balloons. Just before Abuelo reached his boiling point, they let us go.

  The following week the road from Guanabacoa to Cojimar was blocked. When Abuelo tried to get through, the soldiers told him that everyone had to obtain a permit to fish. Our incident had prompted a host of new regulations.

  You now had to register with the authorities to fish. You had to fish with a group and supply the authorities with their names and addresses. You had to state what kind of fish you were after and the type of bait you were using. And you had to tell the authorities the kind and number of fish you had caught.

  That night my grandfather paced the floor of his house, railing against the government so loudly you could hear him down the street. My parents were afraid he would be arrested.

  “Damn Fidelistas are ruining it for everybody. What good is fishing if you have to go through all that rigmarole? They’ve taken all the fun out of it. You can’t even take your grandson out to fish without government intervention.”

  As the dichotomy between what I saw at home and what I learned at school became more pronounced, I knew I must decide what to do.

  CHAPTER 8

  Increasingly confused, I began to challenge the teachers at school, especially Señor Gonzales. The more he insisted on the benefits of the government’s policies, the more I argued with him. I told him that people were suffering under Fidel, and he told me I didn’t know what I was talking about, that things had been much worse under Batista. Batista had murdered and tortured people. He had siphoned off millions from the Razzle Dazzle, a high roller’s casino scam, and he’d made millions more from kickbacks from the construction of luxury hotels.

  Batista had supported the Mob in the heroin and cocaine trade and was involved in gambling, racketeering, sex shows, and prostitution. I was too young to speak with any degree of authority on these matters. But I did know things were bad at home.

  One day Gilbert and Luis told me that communist governments forbade the worship of God. I went home and told my grandfather we had to talk.

  “Okay, then. Get me my cane and we’ll go for a walk.” Strolling down Máximo Gómez Street, he asked me what was on my mind.

  “I don’t know what to think. Señor Gonzales says Fidel is a hero, a great thinker, a great leader. But Gilbert and Luis say he’s an atheist—that he doesn’t believe in God. Is that true?”

  “The boys are right,” said Abuelo. “He doesn’t believe in God, and he doesn’t believe in family.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he can’t believe in family or he wouldn’t be taking young boys like yourself off to God knows where to teach people to read. He wants to separate children from their families so he can drum his beliefs into their heads without interference from their parents. Next thing you know, he’ll forbid boys to visit their grandfathers!”

  I grew quiet while I considered this for a moment. “Are the Communists evil?”

  “Well, they want to destroy the Church and keep people from praying. They’ve seized everyone’s property and they want to control how we think. You can’t even see a good movie anymore. That one they’re showing now—Battleship Potemkin. Old as the hills.”

  “Why would they want to control the movies?”

  “They don’t want us to see American films, Frankie. They don’t want us to know how other people live—it may make people dissatisfied with their plight. The only movies in the theaters right now are from the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe. And the Russians haven’t the foggiest idea how to make films that won’t put people to sleep.”

  We continued walking. Abuelo was on a roll. When h
e got like this, he needed no encouragement to keep talking.

  “That man’s closed all the city newspapers—The Havana Post, El Diario de la Marina, El Cristal—all gone. The editor of El Diario asked the Cuban people to pray to La Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre to save us from the ‘Red Antichrist.’ That’s what he called Fidel. So Fidel closed them down. There are only two newspapers left in Havana: Revolución and El Mundo, and both of them spout the Party line. Phat! Next they’ll have us reading that Russian rag, Pravda. It’s the same thing with the radio stations. All we have to listen to is Radio Rebelde—a big propaganda machine.”

  Abuelo took a deep breath as if he were calming his nerves, so I decided not to ask him any more questions. It sounded like he had been thinking about these issues for a while and was glad to be finally getting them off his chest. I picked at my nails and walked silently beside him. Then he started talking again, as if he were continuing a conversation he’d been carrying on in his head.

  “And God help you if you thwart their plans—they’ll throw you in jail at the drop of a hat. Without even a trial. Torture you. Shoot you in the back. Are they evil? You tell me, Frankie, whether they’re evil or not.”

  I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck. I didn’t answer Abuelo.

  On my way home I decided to take a stroll into the city. At this time of year Havana was always ablaze with Christmas lights that hung like vibrant gems from public buildings and plazas. Fidel had banned any depiction of Santa for reasons no one could fathom. But I was certain there would still be lights.

  As I rounded the corner, I saw the public buildings shrouded in darkness as black as coal. No wreaths brightened the doors, no trees shimmered with lights, no crèches reminded worshipers of the birth of Christ.

  In their place was a “Revolutionary Nativity,” a scene painted on the marquee of CMQ-TV. The Three Kings—the ones whose feast was celebrated by the people of Cuba—were depicted as Fidel Castro, Ernesto Guevara, and Juan Almeida, all men with blood on their hands. The angel hovering above the crèche was the dead revolutionary hero, Camilo Cienfuegos.

  I sat on a bench, trying to take it all in. I looked up at the stars and wondered whether God had taken offense at what was happening. I felt like someone had stolen my childhood, and I would never get it back. And that made me angry.

  For reasons unknown to me, I started to cry. The tears trailed down my cheeks like silver tinsel off pine needles. I longed for the smell of Christmas trees, the sweetness of candy canes, and the sound of Christmas carols. I wanted to see the baby Jesus in the manger. I wanted the excitement and the joy of Christmas. And I wanted those lights, those gay, beautiful lights. It seemed very childish. But I wanted them anyway.

  I went home to my room and lay on my back on my bed, my hands folded beneath my neck. Fine cracks in the plaster lead to a light fixture that hung from the ceiling. The opaque glass contained the bodies of insects, moths, and flies that had batted themselves against the hot white bulb, pitiful creatures that had been caught, struggled—and died. Their lifeless bodies looked thin and papery. They had morphed into nothing but bits of debris that would disintegrate into a fine brown powder when touched.

  But I didn’t want to consider that now. Right now I had some serious thinking to do. I needed to weigh all the things I’d been taught in the Tarara School against the things my grandfather had said. And I had to measure them both against the things I knew.

  I thought about the great writings of Marx, Lenin, and Engels. I thought about the stern Señor Gonzales and the long-winded Fidel. I thought about the peasant family in the Sierra Maestra. I thought about the soldiers and the guns, so many guns.

  I was trying to make sense of it all. Was Fidel a hero? A friend of the working class? If so, why were so many people out of work? Was he a brilliant lawyer, a great thinker, a renowned leader? Or was he the devil incarnate?

  Should I stay at school and get a good education? Would that make me a better person? Was Fidel better because he was smart? Would staying at that school make me party to something evil? These were complicated questions. The ramifications were great. I needed to use my head.

  I met my cousins at the corner of Maceo and Bertematti Streets to talk it over. It didn’t take Gilbert long to get to the core of the matter.

  “Are you a Communist, Frankie?”

  “No.”

  “Do you believe in God?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then, it’s simple. If you’re not a Communist, and you believe in God, then you shouldn’t go to that school.”

  “But it’s a good school,” I countered, playing the devil’s advocate. “I’m learning a lot.”

  “You’re just learning to be a Communist, Frankie. That’s what that school is all about. And if you stay there, you’ll become a Communist, too. You’ll begin to think like them, to act like them. Think about it.”

  I sighed deeply. “What would you do if you were me?” My stomach was roiling with anxiety.

  “Escape!” said Jabao.

  “Escape? I thought of that, but how?”

  “We’ll have to figure it out,” said Gilbert thoughtfully. I could tell he was quite taken with the idea.

  “I’ll help you,” said Luis. “You can’t do it without help.” Luis was not exactly the genius of the group, but I was glad for his support.

  “I’ll help, too,” echoed Pipi. “I’ll drive the getaway car.”

  “You’ve been watching too many old movies,” I said. “Besides, you don’t have a car, and you’re too young to drive.”

  While I was inspired by their loyalty and audacity, I was also afraid. Very afraid. Who knew what could happen to them—and to me—if we got caught? My grandfather’s words about being thrown in jail still rang in my ears.

  I knew that people who opposed the Party had a way of disappearing, never to be heard from again. There was talk of torture. I didn’t want to end up as one of Fidel’s casualties. We’d have to make a plan—think it through.

  “Seriously,” said Gilbert, “we’ll need a car.”

  “I guess,” I said, wondering how that could possibly happen. None of us had access to a car or even had a sibling who did.

  “We need someone who knows how to drive,” offered Luis. “Someone older.”

  I nodded, starting to lose my nerve. “Maybe this is impossible. Maybe—maybe I should just stay at school and forget about the whole thing.”

  “No,” insisted Jabao. “You’ve got to get out now. Otherwise, you’ll become a Communist, and we won’t be friends anymore.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But I don’t want to get killed trying. We really need a plan.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Gilbert. He patted me reassuringly on the back. “One way or another, we’ll get you out.”

  A week later, while I was outside playing basketball at school, a small pebble dropped on the pavement in front of me. Then another one hit me on the back of my head. The wind was blowing, and I thought it might be a falling twig. I turned around to see Gilbert lying flat on his stomach on the other side of the six-foot fence. My stomach did a somersault.

  I bounced the ball to a teammate and signaled that I was leaving the game. I walked to the fence, my heart skipping a beat.

  “Hey, where are you going?” called a classmate, a short, smart-alecky kid who never failed to get on my nerves.

  “Just shut up and leave me alone,” I said. The boy shrugged and started to saunter away.

  I got to the edge of the fence and peered through it. “What in God’s name are you doing here?” I asked. Gilbert smiled at me mischievously.

  “We’re here to rescue you. Just like we promised. Hurry! I’ll help you over the fence.”

  I looked around and leveraged my foot against the metal support. My classmate turned and yelled, “Hey, you’d better be careful. You know you’re not allowed outta here.”

  I was scared enough without this kid mouthing off. “Will you be quiet,” I said.
My classmate smirked while Gilbert pulled me over the fence. I landed on the ground with a thud.

  I looked around. “Where’s the car?” I whispered.

  “We didn’t bring a car,” said Gilbert, acting as if this were no big deal. My heart dropped like an anchor to the floor of the sea.

  “No car? How will we escape?” My face froze in apprehension. This was feeling far too dangerous to me.

  Gilbert nodded in the direction of the bushes, as if the answer lay therein. Suddenly Luis and Jabao popped up from behind the shrubbery, waving red baseball caps and pushing their own bikes—as well as Gilbert’s—in our direction.

  “What the—”

  “Shush!” said Gilbert. “Quick, get on my handlebars.”

  “This isn’t going to work,” I said. “We can’t escape this way. They’re gonna catch us.”

  “Just shut up and get on,” ordered Gilbert.

  I hopped onto Gilbert’s handlebars, and we started wobbling through the high grass. The ground beneath us was rutted, and it was difficult to stay upright. The tires on his bike were almost flat.

  “What’s the matter with you, Gilbert, couldn’t you even put air in the tires?”

  “Stop worrying about the tires, would ya? I got here, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, but God knows if we’ll ever get home.”

  “Oh, shut yourself up, Frankie. You have any better ideas?”

  Luis and Jabao raced ahead of us, spewing a cloud of dust and pebbles into the air. The fender on Jabao’s bike was so rusty it was about to fall off, and Luis’s dirty shoelace was dangling dangerously close to the chain of his bike. I crossed my fingers that it wouldn’t get caught. I could just picture them going head over heels into the dirt.

  Meanwhile, I was hanging on for dear life as my cousin tried to steady his bike to keep it from keeling over. By now I was sure the guard at school had notified the authorities. They would be out looking for us, perhaps with dogs. I envisioned vicious canines chasing us and biting our legs.