Boy Who Said No : An Escape to Freedom (9781608090815) (17 page)

Brown assigned me and the rest of my platoon to rescue two operators and drivers who had been “captured” by the Americans. We'd spent several hours surveying the “enemy's” position when the lieutenant announced he was taking me on a scouting mission—alone.

We marched away from base and circled the “enemy's” position. I was lying on the ground next to the lieutenant when he said in a low, serious voice, “Frankie, I need to talk to you.”

I turned to Brown, stunned that he had addressed me by my first name. This was a breach in military command, a gesture of familiarity that would never be tolerated. I looked at him, astonished.

“We need to talk about what you said to Pino.” I nodded and lowered my binoculars.

“Your comment made sense, but you can't say things like that. Pino doesn't tolerate dissent. You should know that by now.”

“I do,” I said, feeling contrite to have put Brown in a difficult position.

“Whatever possessed you?”

I sighed, not wanting to engage in this conversation. I wasn't sure how honest I could be with Brown, but I was still feeling aggravated and was willing to chance it.

“I am just fed up with not being able to say what I think. After a while, I feel like I'm choking on lies.”

“You can't say what you think, Frankie. You know that.”

I placed the binoculars on the ground and looked the lieutenant in the eyes. “It's sick.”

“What's sick?”

“The whole country—Cuba.”

“Sick?”

“Yeah, it's sick when you can't speak your mind without being thrown in jail.”

Brown sighed. “That's just the way it is, Frankie.”

“But it doesn't make it right.”

“Right or wrong, speaking your mind is a luxury no one can afford. Least of all a member of the force.”

I nodded. “Lazo has already given me hell about it.”

“Good. Because a remark like that could cause a lot of trouble—for you, for me, for everybody. You're not just challenging Pino with your words, you're challenging the government. You're saying no to Fidel.”

“I understand.”

Brown nodded. I could tell he was hoping I really
did
understand.

“We are not playing games here, Frankie. You're playing with fire. It could mean life or death. I'm going out on a limb talking to you about this. I'm doing it because I don't want you to die. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It can't happen again. Are we clear?”

“Perfectly clear.”

Brown looked at me for a long minute, and then patted me on the back as he moved out of position. I lay for a moment, thinking. I could have my own thoughts and opinions but I dare not voice them. I just wondered whether I would be able to do such a thing for any length of time. It was against my nature.

I thought about what Brown would do in my place. Suddenly it struck me: he was no more of a Communist than I. He had joined the army before Fidel had come to power. He had a job to do. And, like me, he was doing what he needed to survive. That's why he hadn't been promoted to captain.

Two weeks later, Pino lined up the entire platoon against the wall. We were standing at attention, anxious to see what would happen. I had no idea what it was all about. I hadn't said a word about my discussion with Pino to anyone, nor had I spoken of any forbidden topics with my fellow soldiers.

Pino marched up and down in front of us and cleared his throat. “It has come to my attention that certain soldiers in this unit are talking about things they shouldn't. I believe you know what I mean.”

I looked at Manny, alarmed. Pino fixed me with a stare that nearly halted my heart.

“What do you have to say about this, men?” The silence was as thick as a baker's waist. You could taste the fear in the air.

“I will ask you again. Can anyone tell me something about this?”

“No, sir,” we answered in unison.

Pino folded his hands behind him. “It is my understanding that some soldiers in this unit are questioning the freedoms we enjoy as Cubans. Is that true?”

“No, sir,” we repeated. Our voices were loud and clear but many throats were dry with angst.

“Some men are asking why their mothers can't shop where they want. Others are questioning why they have to get permission from the CDRs to travel about. Does this sound familiar?”

It was so silent I could hear the breathing of the man standing next to me.

The lieutenant stopped in front of me. I cringed at the thought of another confrontation. He looked at me with contempt while I combed my brain for anything I might have done to anger him. A lattice of fine red lines etched the whites of Pino's eyes. They were bulging slightly.

“Mederos, have you spread any counterrevolutionary poison lately?”

“No, sir.”

“I think you have, Mederos.”

I didn't respond. Taking this as a possible admission, Pino moved his face closer to mine. “Are you that stupid—that irresponsible?” I looked at the gathering clouds as the lieutenant inched even closer. “Answer me, Mederos. Answer me.
Now.”

“I haven't talked to anyone, sir.”

“No counterrevolutionary ranting?”

My back stiffened. “No, sir.”

Pino regarded me with disdain for a long moment and moved to the next man.

“Gonzales, have you spoken to anyone regarding these matters?”

“No, sir.”

“Lazo?”

“No, sir.”

“Cadiz?”

“No, sir.”

The lieutenant sighed in exasperation. When he got to Alfredo—the last man in line—he said, “Have Mederos, Lazo, or Cadiz been poisoning your mind?”

I broke out in a cold sweat, not knowing what Alfredo would say.
Someone had crossed the line by saying something they shouldn't, and I would serve as a perfect scapegoat. So far, I'd been lucky that no one had pointed a finger at me. I had faith in Alfredo, but one could never be too sure when it came to matters like this.

To my relief, Alfredo responded, “No, sir.”

Pino's questioning took a surprising turn. “I understand you were complaining that under Fidel your brother doesn't have shoes to wear. Who told you to say that? Mederos?”

“No, sir.”

“Cadiz?”

“No, sir.”

“Lazo?”

“No, sir.”

Pino's pupils contracted. They glinted with rage. “If I hear any more counterrevolutionary talk from any of you, there will be hell to pay. Do you understand?”

We all responded, “Yes, sir.”

Pino shot me a sulfurous look, spat on the ground, and walked away in disgust.

That night I spoke with Manny. “I haven't talked to anyone about our incident. Have you?”

“Not a word.”

“What do you think happened?”

“You started a fire, Frankie. And Pino fears he can't put it out. That's why he's afraid of you.”

I blinked, wondering what Manny was talking about. “Afraid of me? He has all the power. Why would he be afraid of me?”

“Because he depends on you as a leader—there aren't many around.”

“So?”

“So he needs you, but he fears you'll lead the men in the wrong direction. You've got him in a bind, and he hates it.”

I grew quiet for a moment. “I never thought of it that way.”

“Well, think about it. The men are following your lead and saying things they shouldn't. Pino is worried. He doesn't want things to get out of control.”

“He doesn't seem worried to me. He seems angry.”

“He's worried—and angry. The last thing he needs is a revolution within a revolution. His neck is on the line. He's angry because the situation is dangerous. You are a threat to his authority.”

I smiled at Manny, thinking how similar he was to Abuelo. Same measured manner, same sound advice. I thought about my dealings with Antonio, disgusted with myself for not learning my lesson back then. I seemed to have a primal need to speak my mind, and I was afraid that someday it would get me in real trouble. My thirst for expression was not easily slaked.

I sighed heavily. “I'll be more careful,” I said, wondering whether I could really live up to this promise.
“Lo siento.”

It was a warm, windy day in June 1965 when we engaged in our first military exercises. All the top brass had gathered for the event, including generals, representatives from the Soviet Union, and Raúl Castro.

Raúl Castro had completed an advance course in military studies taught by Soviet experts and was highly familiar with our Soviet-supplied equipment, its capabilities and performance. Pino was just as knowledgeable, having been trained on the equipment himself.

After preparing for this event for months, my platoon was secure in our ability to handle the situation. We had been drilled and redrilled on every aspect of the ATGMs. The most sophisticated military equipment in Cuba was in our hands, and the knowledge regarding how to operate it was firmly fixed in our minds.

More than just demonstrating our individual skills, our performance would prove to the world that Cuba was the new center of Soviet-backed military power in all of Latin America. Cuba, the Soviet Union, and the entire communist bloc was invested in the outcome of these exercises. Lieutenants Pino and Brown had done all they could to prepare us for the event. So had Mikhail, the Russian commander. The reputation and future of these men rested squarely on our shoulders. It was now up to us.

A fine mist fingered the treetops as we made our way to Playa Bacuranao, about twenty-three kilometers east of Havana. I was so excited about the event, I had only gotten a couple hours of sleep the night before. There had been a lot of speculation among the ATGM operators
regarding the exercises. We had no idea what our target would be or where it would be located. We hoped it would be a land target. A sea target would be more difficult to hit due to the motion of the waves, especially on a windy day such as this.

When we got to the beach, the infantry was lined up, all polished, starched, and ready for inspection. A band dressed in white gloves and military uniforms played a spirited march, while Cuban and Soviet flags flapped briskly in the wind. Members of the press were on hand to cover the occasion. It was difficult for me to imagine myself as part of such a high-profile event.

Raúl Castro marched back and forth, inspecting the troops and stopping occasionally to make a remark or to question a soldier. The expression on his face was sober and stern. The band completed its piece with a flourish, the last note dying softly in the breeze. Everyone clapped.

The 57-millimeter cannons arrived with much fanfare. People were waving and cheering wildly. When the applause died down, Pino walked to the bandstand and adjusted the microphone to accommodate his height.

“I want to thank our honored guests, especially our Minister of the Revolutionary Armed Forces, General Raúl Castro, for joining us here today.” A loud roar rose from the crowd. The lieutenant reached for his hat to keep it from blowing off in the wind. “We are deeply honored by his presence and that of the other officers of our great military establishment.”

The lieutenant turned toward his right, away from the buffeting wind. “What you see before you are the finest soldiers of the Revolutionary Armed Services: The Elite Counterattack Force.” The audience cheered again and waved small, plastic Cuban flags that made sharp clicking noises in the wind.

“You are about to witness a demonstration of the most technologically advanced Soviet-made military equipment ever to be seen. This is the finest military equipment in the world, and it will keep
our great country safe in the face of an attack from the imperialists. When the Americans come, they will be no match for our Elite Counterattack Force and the equipment supplied to us by our great comrades in the Union of the Soviet Socialist Republics.” The crowd gave its full-throated approval.

“I direct your attention to the barge on the horizon.” Everyone turned toward the sea, squinting against the wind and pointing at the barge that was bobbing in the distance. “The barge is two miles out at sea. Make no mistake about it—this is a very difficult assignment. Three of our highly trained ATGM operators will demonstrate the effectiveness of our military training, the depth of their skills, and the power of our rockets by destroying this target. Please join me in congratulating them in advance on this successful demonstration.”

When the applause died down, the audience turned their attention in our direction. I was sitting with my driver in the last of three tanks. I was trying to process what I had just heard. I had been trained for months for this moment. Still, I had to tell myself:
focus, focus, focus.

“Do you see the target?” I asked my driver Milton. He scanned the horizon for what seemed like a long time, while I tried to locate the barge through the small, rectangular lookout inside the tank.

“There it is. I can see it.”

I wiped some condensation from the lookout glass and followed his pointer finger to a gray barge in the distance. It appeared and disappeared from view as the waves rose and fell. I blinked my eyes to gain a clearer view.

“It won't stay still,” groaned Milton. “It's too windy out there. I think you'll have a tough time hitting it.”

I took a deep breath and steadied my hands. I waved him away. I didn't need someone telling me what I could and couldn't do. “Just let me do the calculations,” I said.

Manny's driver pulled his tank into position. I didn't envy him having to go first. I bowed my head slightly and said a silent prayer for my
friend. A short time elapsed before I heard the roar of the rocket. The ground trembled beneath us. The rocket quickly rose into the air, arched, and splashed into the ocean without leaving a trace. The crowd moaned as a dull ache settled in my forehead.