Before We Were Free (16 page)

To tell the truth, I don’t know how I feel about Oscar or about anything else anymore. I walk around and pretend everything’s okay. Meanwhile, inside, I’m all numb, as if I had been buried in sadness and my body got free, but the rest of me is still in captivity.

In his letter, Oscar had just heard about my father. He said it was so sad. He said to remember that my father and my uncle were heroes who had liberated our country. He sounded just like his father. It made me cry all over again.

He also explained that he had tried to write to me lots of times. But up till a week ago, the dictator’s family was in control and nothing but essential correspondence was being allowed out. Now they’ve fled, and the country is going to hold the first free elections in thirty-one years. Everyone will get a chance to vote for a president.

“All because of your father and your uncle and their friends. You must be so proud!”

Oscar had other news. He had been to Wimpy’s, where he had seen Chucha. When he told her he was writing to me, she said to tell me to remember my wings. Chucha must have long-distance vision that she can see how low and sad I’m feeling. I guess I finally understand what she and Papi meant by wanting me to fly. It was like the metaphors Mrs. Brown was always talking about. To be free inside, like an uncaged bird. Then nothing, not even a dictatorship, can take away your liberty.

Oscar also said that the American School would be opening soon. Meanwhile, he and some of our classmates were back to having lessons in the old nursery room upstairs. The holes in the walls were plugged up and the shelves of books dusted off. Recently, what a surprise! Oscar found the queen of hearts bookmark in
The
Swiss Family Robinson
.

“When we came back from the beach,” he wrote at the end, “I could tell things had changed. Mami and Papi began eating their suppers with us, and Mami stopped putting her leftovers in a plastic bag in her lap. I still stand in the yard, though, and look up at a certain window.”

I read and reread Oscar’s letter alone by myself in the Garcías’ bathroom with the door locked, just like in those old, sad days in hiding, writing in my diary in the Mancinis’ bathroom.

The snow really is as magical as Mami said it would be, and it is falling so thickly and yet so silently that one thing doesn’t seem to match the other. Everything is covered with a fluffy layer of white, like a wedding cake you don’t want to cut into. The cars, the bushes, the bird feeders—even the lids on the garbage cans are wearing white hats! It’s so breathlessly beautiful. This is something I don’t want to forget. A brand-new world no one’s had the chance to ruin yet.

And it makes you feel lighthearted, too. Sandi starts doing ballet leaps that look pretty silly in a winter coat, and Yo staggers around as though she’s drunk to get a laugh out of us. I look up and hundreds of butterfly kisses rain on my face. For the first time since we heard the news, I feel as if I’m waking up from the bad dream I keep having, where I’m being buried alive as a substitute because no one can find Papi’s body.

I close my eyes . . . and instead of Papi and Tío Toni walking on the beach, I see Papi sitting on the edge of my bed on a day not long ago in a place now so far away, saying,
“Promise me, promise
me
.” I shake my head to toss the memory away. Flakes of snow fly off from my hair.

“Oh, don’t shake it away,” Sandi pleads. “It looks so pretty, like little tiny marshmallows. Anita
bonita,
Anita
bonita,
” she starts up a chant. Her sisters join in.

I smile, but I feel like crying, remembering Papi’s marshmallow crown that Mami reminded me about when we were in hiding. Almost anything anyone says these days can spark a memory.

“Let’s make a snowman,” Fifi says, “peas, peas, peas.” It’s hard to resist her cute lisp, but Sandi says she has a better idea. “Let’s make angels instead. They’re so much prettier,” she coaxes because Fifi looks cross.

Sandi explains how we have to lie down on the ground and swing our arms and legs up and down, which sounds kind of messy, but also fun—something to put on a pre-thirteen list of things I’ve done.

We throw ourselves on the snow and swing like mad, and then we’re all so cold, we run shrieking indoors. “You’re going to catch your deathly colds!” Tía Laura scolds as she towels Fifi off. It’s surprising—once you’re listening for it—how often people bring up dying to try to scare you.

But now that Papi is dead, it doesn’t seem so scary to die. Sometimes, I think it’s scarier to be alive, especially when you feel that you’ll never be as happy and carefree as when you were a little kid. But I keep remembering Chucha’s dream. She saw us sprouting wings, flying up and away. It has to mean more than our coming to the United States. After all, as Chucha herself would say, what good is it to escape captivity only to be imprisoned in your own misery?

Later that night, the García girls and I sit around the bedroom we all share, talking about how much we all ate and how we’re all going on diets tomorrow. Tío Carlos is back from driving two shifts of relatives to the subway, and now he’s lying in bed, reading some history book that would put even an owl to sleep. Downstairs, Mami and Tía Laura and Lucinda are sitting at the kitchen table, remembering stuff that happened in the past. Mundín is taking out the garbage, and Fifi is fast asleep in the other bedroom down the hall. It amazes me that in this small house, somehow, like a puzzle, everyone actually fits in.

Carla goes up to the window that looks out over the backyard to the other backyards on the block to see if she can see
his
bedroom light. (How she knows it’s Kevin’s bedroom, I don’t know!) Seeing her standing there, I remember all those times when I used to look out the window hoping to see Oscar in the yard. Now I wonder if I was really in love with him or with that little square of freedom—the breeze in my hair and the sun on my skin?

“Hey, you guys.” Carla points. “Come see your snow angels. Look how cute! Fifi’s is so small!”

We join her at the window. Mundín must have forgotten to flick off the outdoor switch because the backyard is flooded with light.

What I see as I look down aren’t angels but butterflies, the arm swings connecting to the leg swings like a pair of wings, our heads poking out in between! I’m sure if Chucha were here, she would say they are a sign. Four butterflies from Papi, reminding me to fly.

I close my eyes, but instead of making a wish, I think about Papi and Tío Toni and their friends who died to make us all free. The emptiness inside starts filling with a strong love and a brave pride.

Okay, Papi, I say, I promise I’ll try.

Author’s Note

I won’t ever forget the day in 1960 when my parents announced that we were leaving our native country of the Dominican Republic for the United States of America. I kept asking my mother why we had to go. All she would say, in a quiet, tense voice, was “Because we’re lucky.”

Soon after our arrival in New York City, my parents explained why we had left our homeland in such a hurry. Many of the questions in my head began to be answered.

For over thirty years, our country had been under the bloody rule of General Trujillo. The secret police (SIM) kept tabs on everybody’s doings. Public gatherings were forbidden. The least breath of resistance could bring arrest, torture, and death to you as well as your family. No one dared to disobey.

An underground movement against the dictatorship began to grow and spread throughout the country. Members met in each other’s houses, trying to figure out the best way to bring down the dictatorship. My father and some of his friends and my uncle next door became involved in this movement.

Early in 1960, the SIM caught some members of the underground. Under extreme torture, they began to reveal names. My father knew that it was just a matter of time before he and his family were hauled away. Through the help of a friend, he managed to secure a fellowship for a surgery specialty in New York City. After much petitioning, the regime granted us visas to leave for the United States.

My mother was right. We were lucky to have escaped. That last year of the dictatorship was one of the bloodiest. After El Jefe was assassinated on May 30, 1961, his oldest son, who became the new dictator, took revenge on the whole country. My next-door uncle was hauled off by the SIM because of his involvement with members of the plot. For months, my cousins lived under house arrest, not knowing if their father was alive, praying and hoping for him to come home.

Even though it has been many years since those sad times, I still have moments when I wonder what life must have been like for them.

And so I decided to write a novel, imagining the life of those who stay behind, fighting for freedom. I chose to base the story on the Trujillo regime in the Dominican Republic because it was the one under which I myself had lived. But this story could have taken place in any of the many dictatorships in Nicaragua, Cuba, Chile, Haiti, Argentina, Guatemala, El Salvador, or Honduras—a sad but not uncommon occurrence in the southern half of our America not too long ago.

There is a tradition in Latin American countries known as
testimonio.
It is the responsibility of those who survive the struggle for freedom to give testimony. To tell the story in order to keep alive the memory of those who died.

Many of the most moving testimonies of the Dominican dictatorship have not been written down. I want to thank all those who offered me their stories of those painful times. I especially want to thank my cousins, Ique and Lyn and Julia María, and my Tía Rosa, for sharing their memories with me. My uncle, Tío Memé, who survived his prison experiences, often asked me if someday we couldn’t write a book together. This is not the memoir he envisioned, but it is a fictional way to keep my promise. To give testimony.

In the Dominican Republic, there is also the tradition of saying thanks,
gracias,
to our patron saint,
La Virgencita de la Altagracia.
Gracias
to
Altagracia
for helping me write down this story. And thanks for the helpers she put in my path: my editors, Andrea Cascardi and Erin Clarke; my agent, Susan Bergholz; my
compañero,
Bill Eichner.

Finally, I want to thank my next-door neighbor and friend here in Vermont, Liza Spears, who read an early version of this manuscript and offered helpful suggestions and encouragement.
Gracias,
Liza!

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

Throughout the book, Anita watches her mother to judge the situation in the compound. Without any direct source of information, this is the only way she can try to figure out what is going on. Has there ever been a time when you’ve needed to watch someone else’s reaction, or interpret their behavior, to understand a situation?

Alvarez writes in the first person, sometimes in the form of entries in Anita’s diary. Why do you think she chooses this perspective? How does it affect your reading of the book?

Anita’s mother often changes her approach to Anita— sometimes treating her as an adult, sometimes as a child. Why do you think she does that? Is Anita old enough to hear the truth? How much would you tell a small child in a situation like this, and why?

Early in the story, Anita is sheltered in her family compound and doesn’t seem to realize the severity of the political situation in her country. When she learns the truth, she’s surprised. Do you think children are often oblivious to the larger reality around them? As you’ve aged, how have your perceptions and feelings about your government, society, and the world changed? Do you wish you’d known more—or less—as a young child?

Anita is at a stage in life when questioning authority becomes common. In this book, several authority figures— the government, the opposition army, her family—force her to behave in certain ways. What are the different ways in which she deals with these authorities? How does she get around some of the rules? Think about the different authorities in your life—which of them matter the most? Do you have different ways of handling each?

Anita befriends an American boy, Sam. At the age of twelve, she feels divided between a more innocent view of the world and her increasingly adult perspective. How does her ever-changing view of life affect her relationship with Sam and with her friend Oscar, who comes from her country? Look back on some romances or problems in your own life—how do they seem to you now? Do you still think about them? If your attitudes have altered, what caused the change?

What role does American culture play in this novel? Why do you think Anita and her family recognize American holidays, such as Thanksgiving? How does the Dominican
quinceañera
compare to the American “Sweet Sixteen” tradition? In what ways have traditions from different places or cultures mixed in your life?

Is this the first time you have read about the political history of the Dominican Republic? Have you learned much about South America or Central America in school or from the media? Why do you think certain histories and regions get more or less attention in schools and the media? Who makes those decisions, and what problems do they present? What can you do about this?

Anita’s family takes great risks and plans serious action in their fight against the dictatorship. What do you think of their actions, especially the assassination of the dictator? How do we decide what is ethical or moral under circumstances like these? Think about a political act or an international conflict in your own time. What questions were asked—or should have been asked—before it was undertaken? Have there ever been ethical questions or feelings that made you think twice about how to handle a conflict in your own life?

At the end of the novel, Anita has lost some of her family to the violence in her native country. How does she feel about the sacrifice her family has had to make? Do you think she truly understands the impact her family has had on her country’s history? Has your own life or have the lives of those you love been affected by violence (terrorism, war, crime, domestic violence)?