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

  “What matters is that you go to college. No matter what, you must go to college.”

  I nodded. We sat staring at the bags of fertilizer for a couple of minutes.

  “Things are getting crazy, Frankie.”

  “How so?”

  “People are disappearing. Like Carlos. You remember Carlos?” I nodded. “I used to see him every day at the coffee shop. For years he was there. Now, gone.”

  “Where do you think he went?”

  “Who knows? Maybe to America. Maybe one of the CDRs got him. Maybe he’s in jail—or dead. You have to be smart to survive today—and educated. Do you know what I’m saying?”

  “I know. Mima says the same thing. So does Abuelo.”

  “It’s important. I can’t stress it enough.” Pipo sat silent for a moment before adding, “It’s okay to be in love, but you still need to get an education. Promise me you’ll go to college.”

  “I will. Don’t worry about it.”

  “It’s a father’s job to worry, Frankie. That’s just how it is. Now about this girl …”

  “What about her?”

  “There are limits as to what you can do with a girl. You know about limits, don’t you, Frankie?”

  “I know.”

  “Do we need to talk some more?”

  “No, I think we’re good.”

  “Okay, Frankie. Just don’t let anything you do with this girl keep you from going to college.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I get it.”

  The next evening, before the sun went down, I went to Magda’s house and rang the bell, requesting to speak with her father. As if on cue, Señor Hernández appeared at the door and led me up the stairs to his study. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and a Persian rug cushioned our feet. A silver vase held a profusion of flowers, and a portrait of Magda’s mother stared down at us from a gilded frame.

  Men of Señor Hernández’s status were larger than life in Cuba. They rode about in chrome-laden cars, cutting dashing figures in white linen suits. They frequented bars, casinos, and nightclubs and oversaw their sugar, coffee, and real estate holdings with great authority and panache. But it was all theater. In real life—in the home—women held all the power. This was no less the case in the villa.

  When we entered señor’s study, he left the door slightly ajar. It crossed my mind that he might have done this so Magda’s mother could eavesdrop on our conversation.

  I straightened up as Magda’s father struck a match to light his cigar. He bit off the end, then slowly turned the cigar in his mouth as he inhaled. I mustered the courage to speak.

  “I was wondering, señor.” I cleared my throat and started again. “I was wondering if—”

  “If what?” he said, eyeing me with curiosity. He smiled slightly as if he found me amusing.

  “If I could have permission to see Magda here—to study, señor.”

  Magda’s father looked me up and down. “To study,” he repeated in a gravelly voice.

  He blew out his match and dropped it into an ashtray as he settled himself in a mahogany chair behind his desk. “What are your intentions, then?”

  I looked around, confused. I didn’t know what he meant by “intentions.” I felt like he had sprung a trap.

  “Señor?”

  “Your intentions, young man,” he said in a louder voice.

  “My intentions, señor, are to study with your daughter—if I have your permission, that is.”

  He thought for a moment. “I suppose that would be all right.” His eyes twinkled briefly. For some reason, it crossed my mind that he was playing with me, and I wondered why he might do that.

  He interrupted my thoughts. “But there are rules: You can only come one night a week for one hour—to study. And you can’t overstay your time. You can’t meet my daughter on the street. And you can’t touch her—ever. Do you understand?”

  “I understand, señor. Thank you, señor.”

  I backed out of the room giddy with delight. I met Magda on the staircase and whispered the good news to her. I was beaming, hardly believing my good luck. She seemed happy, but not too surprised.

  I showed myself at the window and gave a thumbs-up to my cousins who were waiting below. When I left the house, they descended on me like a pack of hyenas, laughing and jumping around. Pipi wanted to know what Magda’s father had said, and Luis wanted to know what kind of cigar he smoked.

  Gilbert had only one question, “Did they give you anything good to eat?”

  The next night I showed up at the villa, and Magda and I went off to study together. Whenever I visited, Magda’s mother, Estel, would bring us cheeses and meats on a silver tray. After placing the food on the table, she’d spend some time chatting with us before retiring to a corner of the room to sew.

  I could see a strong family resemblance between Magda and her mother. Estel was quite a beauty, slim and raven-haired with a dazzling smile.

  After a short time, my once-a-week visits turned into two, and two turned into three. Before I knew it, I was visiting Magda almost every night. I was in heaven. Magda and I studied and talked, talked and studied. I still had not touched her hand, but it was a thrill just to look at her, to be with her.

  Señora Hernández busied herself with her needlework while chaperoning us, but I sensed that she was taking in our every word. I complimented her on her appearance and took an interest in her sewing. She told me about her job at city hall in Havana, and I told her about sports and political issues at school. Little by little, she was starting to warm to me. Little by little, I was becoming part of the family.

  Señora Hernández also told me things about the family I never could’ve guessed—about Magda’s grandfather’s involvement in politics under the Batista regime, about the family’s stakes in luxury hotels, about family businesses being seized by Fidel.

  Slowly I was becoming privy to the trials and tribulations Magda’s family had endured under this regime. I was beginning to understand that, despite the vast differences in our social standing, our political beliefs and philosophy were perfectly aligned.

  And this was cementing our relationship in a way that transcended everything else.

  CHAPTER 13

  The summer between my eighth and ninth grades, Castro made it a graduation requirement for all boys to spend their summer vacations helping poor farmers harvest their crops. The idea was to help us to identify with the revolution by giving us firsthand experience of the peasants’ lives and pain.

  Gilbert, Jabao, Pipi, Luis, and I traveled with many other students to the hills of Oriente Province in the Sierra Maestra to do our part. We helped various families harvest coffee, tobacco, and other crops during the day, and we slept in their barns at night. We were required to do a good day’s work, and the farmers were required to feed us.

  I was assigned to a farmer named Manuel, a friendly man in his mid-thirties. His wife and six children all worked the fields. It was a two-month stint of tedious, backbreaking labor, but it was work I was used to, work I had done.

  Oriente Province was rugged and beautiful, filled with towering royal palms that provided palm oil, lumber, and roofing material. The Cauto River offered water for drinking, bathing, and laundry. My cousins and friends met there every Sunday to swim. We even managed to catch some fish for Manuel during the height of a hurricane.

  Although working the fields was not the way I wanted to spend my summer, my biggest concern was that I was unable to see Magda.

  Before I left, I told my favorite aunt about how much I cared for Magda. She went to her old, wooden jewelry box and retrieved a ring—a trinket really—inset with small fake diamonds. I looked at it and pictured putting it on Magda’s finger one day. The thought took my breath away.

  “Take it,” urged my aunt. “Someday you might want to give it to Magda. Regardless of its worth, a ring is a symbol of love. A circle has no beginning and no end—just like love. Keep it in your pocket, Frankie. You’ll know when the
time is right to take it out.”

  I took her advice. While working, I would sink my hand into my pocket and finger the ring as if it were a magic charm that would allow me to touch Magda’s cheek, to run my hands through her hair, and to eventually win her heart.

  When I went to sleep at night, I would place the ring safely under my pillow and picture Magda’s body lying next to mine in bed. When I awoke, the first thing I did was slip my hand under the pillow to retrieve the ring. If my fingers didn’t find it immediately I’d panic, afraid it had been lost or stolen.

  I thought about things that might make Magda happy. She was always thrilled with the smallest tokens of affection. I thought about being able to do things for her every day of the week.

  During the summer of 1963, I did not see Magda, but I held her gently in my heart. And, for the time being, that was enough.

  CHAPTER 14

  When I saw Magda on the first day of school, she looked more beautiful than ever. Over the summer her features had become more defined, her legs longer, her body more curvaceous. She seemed more poised, more elegant, more self-assured. When she spoke, her voice was warm, soft, and refined.

  Magda drew people to her. She charmed them with her infectious laugh, the kind that made others join the fun. When I was near her, my spirits were lighter. I felt smarter, happier, like a cat luxuriating in the afternoon sun.

  Magda employed her quick wit to soften the edges of angry remarks students sometimes hurled at each other. She soothed their fears about rumors that the Fidelistas were beating, torturing, and kidnapping people who disagreed with their views, fears that filled even the most level-headed students with angst. Magda was not only my darling, she was becoming the darling of my entire school.

  In some ways, the lives of Cuban teenagers in the early ’60s mimicked the lives of our peers in America. We partied, danced, and had an occasional beer. We learned new dances—the Frug, the Monkey, the Twist. We talked about famous singers and movie stars, and we assuaged our fears with the rhythms of rock ’n’ roll.

  My cousins and friends visited Magda’s home, and her parents often drove her to my house. We double-dated with Miriam and Antonio, spinning our 45 rpm records and dancing the jitterbug in Magda’s living room. We listened to the melancholy lyrics of “Silhouettes on the Shade” and danced to the romantic strains of “Put Your Head on My Shoulder.” Posters of the Everly Brothers, Bobby Darin, and Paul Anka were taped to our bedroom walls.

  While Magda, Miriam, and I disagreed with Antonio’s political views, we thought it was just a phase he was going through. Besides, we had a lot of history together. But when school started in the fall, the political tensions emergent last year now blossomed profusely.

  Although Antonio and I still remained friends, the feelings between us regarding politics were reaching a boiling point. Having known everyone in school for most of my life, I felt confident to freely express my thoughts and views. Perhaps, too freely. I gave short shrift to the fact that I was bucking a powerful force, one more dangerous than I could’ve imagined.

  I was not the only one expressing anticommunist views. Arguments between pro- and anti-Castro factions were frequent, boisterous, and rancorous, partly because we were so young and partly because we knew the stakes were so high. Due to my leadership position at school, I often found myself smack in the middle of these disputes.

  Meanwhile, Antonio was spending most of his spare time in an office the Party had opened in Guanabacoa. He attended lectures on socialist history and philosophy, becoming more entrenched in his views by the day. Occasionally, senior officials would visit our school and applaud Antonio’s efforts on the Party’s behalf, praising his success in recruiting new members to the Cause. His role as an ardent Party supporter was providing him with a new sense of power.

  Our disagreements regarding student policies were now becoming weekly events, with Antonio and me arguing our points on opposite sides of the table in the principal’s office. Some battles I won. Some battles I lost.

  Antonio wanted our sports teams named after heroes of the revolution, a fight I won. He wanted to carve out half an hour from every school day to lecture students about communism so he could recruit them into the Party, a fight I lost. He wanted to replace the school flag with flag of the Party, another fight I lost.

  But when Antonio announced that the students should sing “The Internationale,” the international song of communism, instead of the national anthem at school events, I hit the ceiling. I had too many fond memories of singing “El Himno de Bayamo” with Abuelo to allow that to happen.

  “Do you have some problem with the revolution?” taunted Antonio. “Do you have some problem with China, with Russia? Aren’t they big enough countries for you, Frankie?”

  “What are you talking about, Antonio? We don’t live in Russia. We’ve always sung the Cuban national anthem, you know that.”

  Antonio’s style of arguing was to bob, weave, and parry my attack. I never knew where an argument would take us.

  “Are you forgetting what Batista did?”

  “What does Batista have to do with it?”

  “Batista was an enemy of the People.”

  “But, Antonio, that’s irrelevant. Nobody wants to sing this song. We don’t even know the words.”

  “It’s not what the students want that counts, it’s what the Party wants that counts.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s not something I want.”

  “Well, times have changed, Frankie. The Party doesn’t care what you want. If you know what’s good for you, you’d better get on board.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment to steady my emotions. This argument was headed in a dangerous direction. I didn’t want to blow up at Antonio. On the other hand, I didn’t want him to walk all over me either.

  “Is that some kind of a threat, Antonio?”

  Antonio shrugged. “Take it any way you like.”

  I studied my friend’s face. In the past few months the light had fled his eyes. His remark made me feel sad, disconcerted. I felt like I had lost something I could never recover. I inched closer.

  “Look at me, ’Tonio; it’s me, Frankie. What are you trying to do? I’m your buddy, your lifelong friend.” I lowered my voice. “Let’s not do this to each other.”

  Antonio’s gaze narrowed. He shot me a look I’d never seen. “I don’t need you, Frankie. I don’t need friends. I don’t even need family. I have the Party; that’s all I’ll ever need.”

  When my cousins heard what Antonio had said, they could hardly believe their ears. They didn’t want to think that one of us had turned into a Communist. It was almost unimaginable.

  While I felt sad, hurt, and confused, Gilbert, Luis, Jabao, and Pipi teased Antonio about his views. Luis was the worst.

  “Antonio, come here. Is it true you’re a Communist?” asked Luis.

  Antonio threw back his shoulders and expanded his chest. “Of course, I’m a Communist. Communism is the future. And you better watch out what you say—or else.”

  “What are you going to do, report us as ‘Enemies of the People’?”

  “Maybe,” said Antonio. “Or maybe I’ll do something that will make your life truly miserable.”

  I urged my friends not to cause trouble. I told them Antonio could call the police and accuse us of anything, including counterrevolutionary activity.

  But they had known Antonio too long to fear him. To them he was still the shy, reclusive kid who showed up at baseball games with black-and-blue marks. They just wouldn’t lay off.

  Believing he was following the advice in billboard proclamations that read, “The Working Day Is Sacred!” and “To Be Communist Means to Sacrifice!” Antonio began recruiting students to work for the Party on weekends.

  He wanted students to volunteer to clean the streets and sidewalks.

  He also arranged for buses to transport students to an abandoned drug company to collect old prescription bottles so they could be recycled by the
Party.

  Most students had no interest in these activities. When they didn’t show up at his events, Antonio blamed me for sabotaging his efforts.

  Fired with enthusiasm, Antonio distributed communist pamphlets at sporting events and gave out tickets for communist parties and rallies. He told the students they served free food and drinks at the rallies. People were hungry. He was gaining support.

  Meanwhile, Miriam was becoming more and more disgusted with Antonio’s behavior. Rather than support him, she took my side in all our disputes. So did Magda. Which did nothing to endear any of us to Antonio.

  The good news was that my relationship with Magda was developing nicely. One day during one of our walks, I reached for her hand. I had thought about how I would do this for days, and when I finally slipped my hand in hers, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Sometimes we would entwine our fingers. At other times, we would hold each other’s hands as if they were enveloped in an old woolen mitten. When I removed my sweaty hand to wipe it on my pants, it felt naked and cold, like a child abandoned on the side of a road. I thought about how it felt to hold Magda’s hand every night before I went to sleep.

  The only problem I had with Magda concerned an occasional bout of jealousy. Being on Student Council meant I had meetings to attend and problems to solve.

  Because I was two years her senior, Magda feared I would tire of her and find a girl my own age, someone who was more sophisticated. We had several long talks about this, and she voiced her concern about the attention being paid to me by other girls. She clung to the fear that I would make of fool of her by dating someone else. I thought this was something she would eventually outgrow.

  One day, some students were discussing politics in the back of a classroom. In the heat of the argument, a beautiful young woman grabbed my arm. A look of anguish crossed Magda’s face. Her hand flew to her mouth as tears gathered in the wells of her eyes. She looked like she was about to be sick.

  Magda stumbled out of the classroom with me close behind. She wandered around the hallway for a minute as if she had no idea what to do. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she opened the heavy metal door to the stairwell and began stumbling down the concrete steps. I followed her. The door clicked behind us as the metal bar fell into place. A window was open and sun poured in, casting a parallelogram on the wall.