Boy Who Said No : An Escape to Freedom (9781608090815) (12 page)

She nodded again.

“This is the very important to me, Magda.”

Magda looked up to me and smiled. “I promise,” she said. Her words reassured me.

“Say the whole thing.”

Her eyes twinkled. “I will never doubt your love, Frankie. No matter where we are, no matter what we do, no matter what happens in the future.”

I saw her shoulders soften, her whole body relax. Her skin was flushed, lovely, radiant. I looked at her, black eyes searching golden brown, in a silent communion that celebrated and fixed our love for each other as surely as the planets were fixed in their orbits. I took
her in my arms and kissed her again. I knew at that moment that someday I would make Magda my wife.

I almost floated home that night, replaying in my mind what had happened. I could still feel the warmth of Magda's body against mine, the curve of her waist, the smell of her cologne. My mind could hardly grasp what my heart knew so well: I loved Magda. And she loved me.

I wanted to stand in the bell tower of the
Catedral de San Cristóbal
in Old Havana, to pull the rough cord and ring out our love to everyone walking the cobblestoned streets. At the same time, I wanted to keep what had transpired between us to myself.

It felt like I was holding a sweet and fragile secret, like a delicate bubble that might dissipate with exposure, leaving nothing behind but a memory of what had been. That night I fell asleep with a happiness and warmth suffusing my heart that I had never known.

The next day word was out. Evidently, Magda had told Miriam what had happened, and Miriam had told Antonio. All the tongues were wagging. Everyone at school knew we were in love.

Speaking to a gathering of young Communists in August 1963, Fidel announced that the country would implement a program of compulsory military service. His brother Raúl, whom
el líder máximo
had named minister of the revolutionary armed forces, cited the need for a disciplined adjunct workforce as the main reason for the draft.

Cuba had the most modern and powerful army in Latin America and had little use for more recruits. But Fidel had signed a trade agreement with the Soviet Union and had failed to meet the sugar quota, a great political embarrassment.

The lackluster harvest was mostly due to the dearth of spare parts for sugar mills as a result of the American blockade. But Fidel blamed it on the poor work ethic of Cuba's young people.

With the need for more hands to harvest the cane, he launched a campaign to “rehabilitate” the “lumpen and lazy” through military service. These included kids who played hooky, frequented bars and billiard halls, and swooned to the songs of Elvis Presley.

Fidel claimed that the army would cure these “economic malefactors, loafers, and parasites” of their “deviant behavior” by providing them with productive work.

All males aged fifteen through twenty-six had to register for three years of compulsory military service. No one subject—or soon to be subject—to the draft was permitted to leave Cuba under any circumstances.

Fidel labeled those wanting to leave the country “scum, worms,
and antisocial elements.” Worm was one his favorite words, and many of his followers had begun to use it.

To make it more difficult to leave Cuba, the government demonetized the nation's bank notes, making Cuban money worthless outside the country. The notes were replaced with ones that boasted pictures of revolutionaries. To me the new currency represented a form of imprisonment—another way to keep us under the thumb of the Party.

The draft was designed to provide young people with a “respectable trade” and to serve as a punishment for incorrigible youths. Soldiers were enlisted to harvest sugarcane and coffee. Raúl estimated the cheap labor would save Cuba hundreds of millions of pesos each year.

As second lieutenant of the Communist Youth Council, Antonio was responsible for turning over the names of all draft-eligible boys in our school to the proper authorities. He prepared the paperwork, processed the transcripts, and recommended the order in which young men would be called up for service. I feared we were in for trouble.

Among the initial groups to be drafted were criminals, school dropouts, and those who had received black marks against them from the CDRs. Because Luis was still in the fourth grade—and now sporting a moustache—Antonio identified him as a “slacker” who should be one of the first to be drafted. But we suspected that Luis was chosen more for taunting Antonio than for being an “incorrigible.”

It was a very sad day. Luis was heartbroken and frightened, and his whole family sobbed at the news. I was losing my cousin and friend. I sensed that it signaled the end of an era. I was angry with Antonio and Fidel for the sorry state of affairs.

Gilbert was the next to be called up. Fortunately, he was too flat-footed for military service. We rejoiced at this news, but wondered who would be next.

It was Saturday night and Magda's parents had agreed to allow her to
attend her first teenage party. Her father was to drop her and Miriam off at Gilbert's house, and I was to watch over them until he picked them up.

I got to the party around seven p.m., and the girls arrived shortly thereafter. Magda wore a blue organdy dress and Miriam a yellow seersucker one.

The party was held in Gilbert's parents' living room. His parents were nowhere to be found. Someone said they had gone for a walk in the park. Close to thirty kids were there, including Tato, Pipi, Jabao, and Antonio. Everyone was dancing, laughing, and telling funny stories. Bottles of beer were passed around.

There wasn't enough beer for anyone to have more than a swig or two. When I offered Magda a sip, she made a face. She knew if she went home with alcohol on her breath, it would be a long time before she'd be allowed to attend another party.

Jabao walked over to the record player and turned on “The Twist.” Miriam and Antonio started to dance, swinging their arms and legs back and forth, lost in the music of Chubby Checker.

I sat down next to Magda and took her hand in mine, happy to be with her. I put my arm around her shoulder and pulled her close to me, burying my nose in her hair. It smelled fresh and clean, like Johnson's Baby Shampoo.

Magda and I sat out the first song and then started to dance to the pulsing rhythm of “Duke of Earl.” The party was in full swing. Several couples snuggled on the sofa while others were busy talking. Suddenly, the music stopped and someone turned off the lights. The room went black as ebony, and a scattering of nervous laughter broke out. This had never happened at a party I had gone to before. A sense of adventure was in the air.

I blinked my eyes against the darkness and grabbed Magda's hand. She giggled. I laced my fingers through hers and pushed her gently toward a corner of the room. She pressed her body close to mine, and I felt an immediate rush of heat. I wrapped my arms around her waist
and she laid her head on my shoulder. My heart was pounding wildly, and I tried to quiet my rushing pulse.

I knew some of the boys would take this opportunity to kiss their girlfriends, and I desperately wanted to kiss Magda. I even thought of touching her breasts. But I was on edge, afraid a fight might break out.

The laughter died down and the room grew quiet. I could feel Magda's heart beating against my chest. The top of her head was nestled just beneath my chin. I stroked her hair with my hand.

I felt for the back of her neck and pulled her face toward me. A moment later her warm lips were on mine. I nibbled her lower lip and she sighed, almost imperceptibly. I kissed her again, hoping the lights would stay off forever. She opened her mouth and my tongue sought hers. It was the first time we had French kissed, something I had only heard about recently. My breathing quickened and I pulled Magda even closer. My hands roamed her back, feeling the architecture of her spine and the soft curve where her waist met her hips. I pushed my pelvis into hers, and we moved together, swaying back and forth like a swing.

A moment of sheer bliss elapsed. I wondered what it would be like to make love to Magda. Out of nowhere someone whispered, “Communism sucks!” It was an angry, startling remark and it was impossible to know who said it. In the dark, you couldn't tell.

An electric current ran through the crowd. There was a moment of pregnant silence and then, as if on cue, the entire room erupted in chants: “Communism sucks! Fidel is a pig! Power to the People!”

My heart leapt into my throat. I immediately sensed danger. This was no place for Magda. Anyone could mistake the scene for an anti-communist rally. Magda stepped away from me and started to chant along with the others.

I grabbed her hand, pulled her toward me, and whispered “don't” into her ear. Her body stiffened like a mannequin. I could almost envision the expression on her face as it dawned on her why I had cautioned her to remain silent.

With Antonio present, I knew enough to keep my own mouth shut. Someone close to Antonio hollered, “Socialism stinks!” and Antonio took a swing at him. Whoever it was swung back. I heard the sound of knuckles connecting with bone.

Antonio screamed, “I'm hurt, turn on the goddamn lights.” But no one paid attention. Instead, the cheers grew louder, bolder, more intense. Several kids started yelling in unison, “The hell with Fidel! The hell with Fidel! The hell with Fidel!”

The chanting became so loud I was afraid we'd be overheard, but there was no stopping it. Anger and frustration raced through the room like a renegade train. I wasn't surprised. If Magda and Antonio weren't there, I would be chanting too.

A few minutes later, I heard the wail of sirens in the distance. My heart leapt into my throat, and I squeezed Magda's hand. The chanting slowly died down as the sirens grew closer.

“One of the CDRs must've called the police,” Magda whispered. I knew she was right.

“Get the lights back on. Quick!” someone hollered.

The lights flashed on, and we all squinted against the brightness. Jabao coughed and a couple of girls rubbed their eyes.

Six green jeeps filled with police screeched to a halt in front of the house. We looked at each other in terror. I grabbed Magda and put her in back of me. Ten policemen broke open the door, stomped into the house, guns drawn as if they were looking for any excuse to shoot.

A burly police officer, his arms knotted with muscles, stepped forward. His face was beet red and his green uniform was stained black with perspiration.

“We got a report about counterrevolutionary activity,” he said. “What's going on here?”

We stood in silence as thick as a jungle. No one dared utter a word. The officer looked at us one by one, studying our faces for signs of subversion. He waited a minute and then barked, “Somebody better tell me what the hell happened here or you are all going to jail.”

A murmur ran through the group. Miriam started to whimper as Antonio stepped forward to take charge. Blood was running from his nose like rain down a gutter. He shook his head and wiped his face with his shirtsleeve, tilting his head back for a moment to stanch the flow of blood. The veins in his neck stood out like vines on a tree. Someone handed him a handkerchief, and he blotted the blood. I took a deep breath.

The room remained silent as a tomb. Gilbert shifted back and forth on his feet, his face pinched with fear.

The policeman regarded Gilbert suspiciously. “Is this your house?”

“Yes,” admitted Gilbert.

“Where are your parents?”

“They aren't here.”

The policeman turned to Antonio. “What's going on here?”

“We were partying and—”

“And what?” snapped the officer.

“Someone turned off the lights.” Antonio gathered his courage and thrust out his chest, playing the dual role of leader and victim.

“Go on,” said the officer, fingering his sidearm.

He looked at all of us. “Someone hit me in the nose. I hit him back, but he hit me first.” He hesitated and looked around the room accusingly. “People were screaming and cursing, saying things against the Party. Against Fidel.”

Everyone looked at each other in terror.

“Who?” demanded the officer. “Name them.”

Antonio narrowed his eyes. There was no way he could positively identify anyone, but it didn't matter. As long as he pointed the finger at someone—anyone—his standing would rise in the eyes of the Party.

Antonio scanned the room. A feeling of foreboding cramped my throat. The last thing I wanted was to have Magda involved in something like this. I had worked very hard to gain the trust of her parents. I couldn't imagine their reaction if we were taken to jail.

Antonio's eyes darted around the room. He held my stare for a moment and looked away.

“Him, him, and him.” He pointed to Martino, Tomás, and Roberto, three boys I didn't know very well.

“They walked into the party, uninvited. They were cursing Fidel.”

“Anyone else?”

“Oh, there are plenty of worms here, that's for sure. I'm not certain who they are right now. But I'll figure it out soon enough.”

“Well, keep us informed. This kinda thing is going on all over Havana and it won't be tolerated.” The officer shook his head and mumbled, “You'd think people would know better by now.”

Antonio nodded triumphantly. “I will,” he said. He scowled at us in warning. Magda closed her eyes and shook her head, almost imperceptibly.

The policemen grabbed the three boys, put their hands on their heads, and pushed them to their knees. The boys' faces were ashen. A couple of girls began to cry. Tomás struggled, blushed, and wet his pants. His urine puddled like spilled milk on the linoleum floor.

The heavyset officer stepped forward, looking bored and disgusted. He pulled the boys' arms behind their backs. Tomás and Roberto struggled to no avail before we heard the sickening snap of handcuffs.