Boy Who Said No : An Escape to Freedom (9781608090815) (13 page)

The boys' faces turned pale as the officers pushed them toward the front door. When the door slammed behind them, we climbed on the sofa, parted the curtains, and watched them duck into the jeep.

Kids were pushing each other aside in hopes of getting a glimpse of the action. Tomás looked back at us with a pitiful stare. It was as if he were hoping that someone would come to his rescue. Nobody moved.

The car doors shut and the motors jumped to life. We watched the jeeps' red taillights fade into a star-filled night.

Beginning after the Bay of Pigs, Fidel created panic in the country with repeated announcements of a coming American invasion. No one knew whether Fidel truly believed this. Some people thought it was all a sham to gain support for the draft.

The government frequently sounded sirens in Havana, claiming American planes were ready to bomb the city.

Now that Fidel controlled the country's television channels, he broadcasted his speeches twenty-four hours a day, often predicting an imminent attack.

Several times a week Cubans ran to their homes for cover. Many lived in constant fear of annihilation.

That summer I joined other boys for my third stint helping poor farmers in the Sierra Maestra. This time I was accompanied by Antonio. I spent my days harvesting yucca, coffee, and sugarcane and my nights listening to Antonio extol the virtues of communism. Not a day went by when we did not argue.

Once a week, Antonio lectured the locals about the Bolshevik Revolution. Most of them had difficulty understanding what he was saying. Cubans were considered well educated if they had completed sixth grade. Many inhabitants of the Sierra Maestra were still illiterate—despite the efforts of the literacy brigade.

By now Fidel had declared that, with the help of the Soviet Union, Cuba would become a great military power. Cuba would cease to be
a “puppet” of the United States and would command worldwide respect. He needed young men to help him accomplish this mission.

In early October 1964, I received a telegram stating that I was to report for military duty at six a.m. on October 31. I had just begun eleventh grade, and the news took me by surprise.

My family was furious at the government for disrupting my life. Their dream for me to be the first in my family to graduate from college was squashed like gum on a sidewalk. My grades were excellent, and I was well on my way to achieving their dream—until now.

I blamed myself for having to go into the service so soon. With top grades, I should not have had been called into service until I graduated from high school. But Antonio had labeled me a troublemaker in need of redemption. He said the army and I would “do each other good.”

I was devastated. I didn't want to serve in a communist army. I didn't want to be separated from Magda. I didn't want to interrupt my education. And I didn't want to disappoint my parents by not going to college.

Taking these factors into consideration, my skirmishes with Antonio now seemed petty and foolish. I recalled Antonio's parting remarks during our last argument, “Frankie, don't mess with me or I will get you. And believe me, you will be sorry.”

I thought about the price of speaking my mind and the more I did, the more disillusioned I became with Antonio, with Fidel, and with the whole system of government.

When I told Magda I had been drafted, she was beside herself. Neither of us knew where I'd be stationed, or when we'd see each other again. Given the circumstances, Magda's parents eased their rules regarding my visits.

For the next three weeks Magda and I visited late into the evening, kissing, hugging, and planning our future. We discussed when and where we'd get married and who we'd invite to the wedding. We
talked about making a home together, how many children we'd have, and what they might look like.

We even talked about trivial matters regarding running a household—chores, furniture, and paint colors. I told her she'd be the boss regarding anything that had to do with the household. That seemed to please her.

But the joy that usually accompanies such plans was tempered by the knowledge that our days as young lovers were drawing to a close. It was a bittersweet, tender time, filled with hope, promise, and pain.

As the date of my leave-taking grew nearer, Magda became despondent, her feelings of grief exacerbated by the fact that she'd never been separated from anyone she loved. I tried to temper her melancholy with love letters and small presents, but nothing seemed to console her.

The only thing that provided either of us with any comfort was holding each other. We touched each other in tortured pleasure, our caresses a blend of bliss, hunger, and a stabbing ache. I dreaded our last day together, not knowing how I'd manage life without her. I hadn't even left and I was already missing her. Not knowing what lay ahead, I felt like we were dancing to the first strains of “Boléro” and the final strains of the “Moonlight Sonata.”

While I was feeling sad, I was also feeling guilty about leaving Magda. I knew she shouldn't be sitting home waiting for me, although if the truth be known, the last thing I wanted was for her to date someone else. The very thought of it filled me with jealousy and dread. I wrestled with the idea for days. I knew I'd be taking a chance of losing Magda if she dated other boys. Still, I wanted to be fair to her.

One evening, while walking in the shadows of the ornate mansions lining
El Malecón
, I took her hand in mine, playing with her long, slender fingers and tracing her polished nails with the tip of my thumb. We sat on the seawall and listened to the waves lap the riprap
for a minute before I turned to her and said, “What would you say if I suggested you date other boys while I'm gone?”

Magda looked at me askance and shrugged her shoulders. “I'm sorry, Frankie, but I can't do that.” Her voice was calm and serene as if she had already given this issue some thought.

“But I have no idea when we'll be able to see each other again—it might be months, even years. I could be stationed anywhere, and who knows how often I'll get home.”

I took Magda in my arms, thinking she might cry. But she didn't. She was determined and feisty—and she wasn't about to let this get her down. She pulled away from me and gazed out at the water.

“It won't be that long,” she said. “Fidel will eventually be toppled. Cubans are too smart to keep him around. Sooner or later people will see through him. This can't go on forever.”

“I'm not so sure about that. He's gaining a lot of power. You may be engaging in wishful thinking.”

A moment of silence elapsed before Magda said, “I don't think so.”

“What would you want to do if he's not overthrown?” I asked. I needed to test the waters—just in case.

“If he's not overthrown, and you have to spend three years in the service, so be it. I'll gladly wait for you.” From the tone of her voice I knew she was serious.

“But this is the time in your life when you should be having fun, meeting new people—”

“So what exactly do you suggest I do, Frankie?” She sounded a little annoyed that we were even discussing the matter. “Go to parties without you? Dance with other boys? Kiss them? Think about it—is that what you really want?”

I gazed into her eyes. Her irises were a lovely brown flecked with gold and surrounded by a darker brown circle. They reminded me of the color of mink. I wished I could look at her face forever. I dragged
my eyes away from hers and looked at the water slapping the rocks. I shook my head.

“No,” I admitted.

“Then what?”

“I just thought—”

“Well, think again, Frankie. Because I have no interest in any of that. I will wait for you as long as it takes.”

My spirits lifted with her words, despite myself.

“Are you sure?”

“I've never been more certain of anything in my life.” Magda searched my eyes and laughed mischievously. “Besides, I know what you're up to, Frank Mederos. And you aren't getting away with it.”

“What might that be?” I asked, amused at her enthusiasm.

“You're trying to do what's best for me.”

I took her hand in mine. Her palms were warm, almost sweaty.

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“No, it's not a bad thing. But I'm not a child, Frankie. I know perfectly well what's best for me.”

“And what's that, Magda?”

Magda poked me playfully in the stomach. “In case you haven't figured that out yet, what's best for me is you.”

I laughed. “But Magda—”

“Shush, Frankie. You once made me promise that I would never doubt your love.”

She held up the ring on her finger for me to see. I nodded, knowing exactly what she meant. “Now it's time for you to promise that you will never doubt
my
love.” I chuckled and slapped my leg, delighted at this pronouncement.

“Okay.”

“Say it.”

“I will never doubt your love.”

“C'mon, say the rest of it. No matter—”

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

“Promise?”

“Of course, I promise,” I said, laughing.

We stood and embraced tenderly before I kissed Magda long and hard on the lips. She parted her lips and my tongue met hers. My arms encircled her waist, and I felt her breasts pressed against my chest. The instant I felt them I became aroused. I longed to reach up and feel them, to cup them in my hands.

My need for Magda was almost overwhelming, but I knew we had to wait for marriage to consummate our relationship. Our culture, our religion, and our families would never allow otherwise. Still, it did nothing to stifle desire.

I pulled back and looked at Magda. I felt the length of her body against mine, thinking about the days when all I wanted to do was to touch her hand.

On the morning of my departure for the army, just before dawn purpled and pinked the horizon, Magda's parents arrived at my house. They had promised to drive me to Havana, and I was looking forward to holding Magda's hand while we rode in the commodious back seat of her father's black Buick.

I embraced my mother for a long time before leaving, knowing how difficult it was for her to let me go. She looked very vulnerable in her pink slippers and her white cotton bathrobe with the big plastic buttons.

Her eyes were red and puffy and her hair was tangled from sleep. A bobby pin clipped a tightly wound curl on the side of her face. I assured her that I would take care of myself and would come home as soon as I could. She nodded, sniffled, and put on a brave face. Mima didn't deserve any of this and my heart went out to her. My father put his arm around her shoulder as she waved goodbye.

Hundreds of boys were milling around Havana's sports arena when we arrived. This modern, round building had been the talk of the town when it was first erected. For years it had been the center for Cuban sporting events, concerts, and celebrations.

After Fidel came to power, it was used as the site for the series of public “purge trials” that resulted in hundreds of executions of
Batistiano
“henchmen.”

It was here that bloodthirsty crowds shouted “to the execution wall” and where foreign journalists began writing about “a blood
bath” in Cuba. It was not lost on us that it was now being used as a place to press young men into military service.

I waited for hours for my paperwork to be processed. Around noon, I was trucked to Rancho Boyeros, a boot camp located not far from the airport. It was a sea of army tents with thirty to forty boys assigned to each one.

Loudspeakers were positioned in front of each tent and hung on poles situated every few feet around the camp's perimeter. The speakers blasted a speech by Raúl Castro about the importance of military service. His voice sounded almost effeminate.

His speech alternated with a deafening rendition of “The Internationale,” complete with orchestra. The tape was set on a continuous loop that played day and night. I tried plugging my ears with cotton and placing a pillow over my head to drown out the sound, but without success. There was no way to escape it.

We lined up to swear an oath to the flag of Cuba and to sign a formal declaration never to disclose any information regarding Cuba's military operations or intelligence. The consequence of doing so was certain death.

We stripped to our underwear for a medical exam. The doctors checked our height and weight, our eyes and feet, our blood pressure and teeth. The sergeants shaved our heads, leaving hunks of black hair on the rough cement floor. Then we lined up at various stations to receive our clothes, gear, and tent assignments.

Boot camp was brutal, a steady stream of physical, verbal, and emotional assaults. The training was designed to break our spirits—and for many it did. The first day we ran for two straight hours and then did calisthenics. Then we ran again. And again. And again.

We jumped fences, scaled walls, and climbed ladders. We did hundreds of push-ups, sit-ups, and chin-ups. We broiled in the sun, jogged in the rain, and crawled in the mud. Many boys sobbed and vomited—or dropped from exhaustion. The sergeants punched and kicked
us, called us names, spat in our faces. We received no time off and were forbidden to communicate with family and friends—no mail, no visits, no phone calls. The outside world ceased to exist.

At night, when I climbed into my bunk, I was almost too exhausted to think of Magda. Almost.

Thirty days later, an unfamiliar man appeared at camp. He was tall and lean with shrewd eyes and finely wrought features. He exuded an air of confidence born of competence. He looked like a man who would brook no nonsense, a man who was used to getting his way. I wondered what lay beneath his calm exterior.

Unlike the unit commanders, he was smartly dressed. His clothes were clean and well tailored, his shirt ironed, his shoes shined, his pants well pressed. There was something about the way he spoke, the way he moved, that I thought suggested years of study, perhaps abroad.