Boy Who Said No : An Escape to Freedom (9781608090815) (3 page)

“What?”

Gilbert hesitated a moment for dramatic effect. “We don't have to go to school anymore.” A smile lit his face, but a trace of concern filled his eyes.

At age thirteen, I was old enough to know that what he was saying was nonsense.

Still, there was something convincing in his tone of voice. I smiled and shook my head.

“Are you crazy, Gilbert? Of course we have to go to school. Where'd you get that idea?”

“Around,” he pronounced mysteriously. “Fidel's got a new plan to eliminate illiteracy, so he's going to close the schools. Not just ours—all of them.”

Gilbert was always coming up with strange and ridiculous stories, and I figured his imagination had run amok again.

“That's totally backward, Gilbert. If you want to stamp out illiteracy, you
open
schools, you don't
close
them.”

Gilbert smiled smugly. “I know. But they say Fidel's going to use
us
to do it. We'll be working for him.”

“To do what?”

“To wipe out illiteracy.”

“How do you figure?”

Gilbert studied the ground for a minute. “They just passed a law closing all the schools.”

“Why haven't I heard about it?”

“Probably because you weren't in school on Friday.”

I looked up at the sky for a moment. A brown bird with a red breast settled lightly on a narrow branch and began pecking furiously at his feathers. He looked at us momentarily and then returned to his grooming.

“Well, I don't believe it.”

Gilbert made a face. “It's true.”

“What's the point?”

“They're going to get every kid to teach
una familia pobre
to read and write.”

“What poor families?”

Gilbert shrugged. “How would I know?”

I laughed, dismissing the idea as sheer lunacy. “We're going to be the teachers? Us? You are loco, Gilbert.”

“No, listen. Fidel is forming a literacy brigade. He says a million illiterates in Cuba need to learn to read and write.”

“Literacy brigade? You mean like an army? What will we do? Shoot people with letters of the alphabet?”

“Have it your way. But you'll see when they send you off to some awful place to teach people to read.”

When I got home from our swim, my mother met me at the door. “I just heard that they're closing the schools,” she said.

“Gilbert told me. He says we're going to teach poor people how to read.”

Mima placed her hands on her hips and tightened her lips. “I hear it's voluntary. Tell me you didn't volunteer for anything.”

“No,” I said.

She looked at me sternly. “Good, because you are to have no part of this, do you hear?”

“I said I didn't volunteer for anything.”

Mima gave me a long, searching look and then waved her hand. “All right, go get washed up for supper.”

The following week, soldiers showed up at our school demanding the names and addresses of all sixth and seventh graders. The school was in an uproar, and the teachers kept leaving the classrooms to confer with each other behind closed doors. Their voices were strained and their faces were starched with concern. I still couldn't believe the government would send us away.

Just after the bell rang, four soldiers marched into the classroom, telling us about the difficult lives of the peasants—how they never had a chance to learn how to read and write. They described their squalid living conditions and how they couldn't even decipher a food label. They told us to close our eyes and imagine how awful it would be to be illiterate. A wave of pity washed over me.

Two well-dressed university professors joined the soldiers to announce that all the boys were “volunteering” to join the brigade. Girls could also join if they obtained their parents' permission.

Our teacher stood at the back of the classroom looking skeptical. She held her lips together the way she did when she was displeased with our behavior. She questioned the officials about where we would go, when we would return, what we would eat, and where we would
sleep. Neither the soldiers nor the professors provided her with satisfactory answers.

Within a week, signs started sprouting around Havana that read:
“¡No creer, leer!”
“Don't just believe, read!” The slogan signaled not only a new Cuban government, but a new Cuban society. Rumors filled the air about how Fidel planned to wipe out illiteracy in the whole country. People were lauding his plan as a noble gesture, the first step in making Cuba a world power. Newspapers proclaimed the elimination of illiteracy as Fidel's top priority.

Parents were put on notice that their sons had been selected to participate in the government's National Literacy Campaign and that any resistance from them—or their children—would result in severe repercussions. Peasant families were told that they would be given ten dollars to take boys into their homes to teach them to read—whether they wanted to learn or not.

On Saturday morning, my mother got up early to bake
pastelitos de guayaba
. She had just lined up the crescent-shaped dough on a cookie sheet and popped the pastries into the oven when Luis ran in the back door, red in the face and panting.

“What's gotten into you?” asked Mima.

Luis was so excited he could hardly form the words. “It's time to go,” he said. “Everybody's getting ready—it's really happening. Gilbert says they'll take you so far away you can't escape—you can't get home. They're coming right now
¡Cuidado!
” Then he ran out of the house, the screen door banging behind him.

My mother looked at me in alarm and turned off the stove. She removed her oven mitts and slapped them down on the counter in an expression of rage. Neither of us could believe this was happening.

My hand flew to my mouth as I considered what to do. The knot that had been growing in the pit of my stomach after I saw the soldiers
at school exploded into a stream of bile that burned the back of my throat. I looked around, not knowing whether to run or to hide.

Our neighbors were standing in front of their houses, stretching their necks to see what was going on. Some people were whispering and mumbling to each other. A few women were crying.

A child being taken from their parents was something Cubans had never experienced before. We had lived under President Carlos Prío Socorrás, a man who hosted lavish parties where guests snorted cocaine and relieved themselves in bathrooms outfitted with faucets of gold.

We had lived under Batista, a dictator who hung dead revolutionaries from the limbs of trees and subverted the interests of his nation to those of the Mob. But the idea that children could be sent to some unknown place for the sake of the revolution was totally foreign.

The “volunteers” were ordered to go to the baseball stadium for processing before being taken to the train station in Havana. I looked out over the crowd and spotted my sisters and brothers. Theresa was holding my father's hand and sobbing uncontrollably. My brother, George, stood with his arms crossed, looking angry and rebellious. My mother was holding my baby brother Raúl.

Anguish filled her eyes. I was her oldest child and the fear of losing me haunted her expression. My throat constricted in grief as I read the sorrow creasing her face. She squeezed my hand tightly and kissed me before I left.

The railroad station was mass confusion. Trucks were lined up like sentries to drop off more than five hundred boys and adult teachers from all over the city. Some of the younger boys were sobbing for their mothers. The older boys looked just plain angry.

A few scuffles broke out but, for the most part, everyone was too scared not to toe the line. We were herded into cattle cars for our three-day trip to the Sierra Maestra, the wildest, most remote part of the country. The mountains were six hundred miles away, the same mountains where Fidel's Rebel Army had made their headquarters and launched their guerrilla attacks. Most of us had never even heard of the place.

The train ride was long and tedious with the cars screeching and lurching along the tracks. There were no bathrooms that I could see, and kids were peeing and defecating on the floor. Many of the boys got sick. The stench was horrific.

Boys were pushing and punching each other. I was lucky to find a place to sit. I closed my eyes and thought about the long grasses fluttering in the slipstream of the train. I wished I were fishing with Abuelo.

When we got to Bayamo, heavily armed soldiers handed everyone a literacy ID card, a uniform, a blanket, and a canvas hammock. They issued each of us two books—
¡Venceremos!
and
¡Alfabetizemos!

I tried thumbing through the books, which contained pictures of happy families proudly standing next to their animals and produce. One book contained phrases such as “The Revolution Wins All
Battles,” “Friends and Enemies,” and “International Unity” as a teaching aid. I scanned the glossary, but there was too much commotion to read. Soldiers distributed blue lanterns donated by China to be used during lessons.

None of us knew where we were going or how long we'd have to stay. Frightened and bewildered, I hoped I would end up somewhere near my cousins and friends. Luckily, Gilbert, Tato, Luis, and Antonio were still with me. We stayed in a small town in the mountains for two days, sleeping outdoors, drinking coconut milk, and wondering where we were headed. During the day it seemed like a big adventure, but at night I cried a lot.

On the morning of the third day, soldiers arrived to escort us to our assigned families. Fifty or sixty of us walked in single file up Turquino—the highest mountain in Cuba. We marched up a narrow path thick with cacti and then wended our way through hanging vines and dense guaguasi trees. Lizards slithered through the underbrush and colorful birds pierced the air with cries of alarm. We were told to beware of large mud holes that could suck you in so quickly you would drown in mud before you could escape.

When I stumbled on broken rocks, soldiers nudged me along with the barrels of their rifles. One of the soldiers allowed me to sip water from his canteen. A howler monkey narrated the scene.

Boys were dropped off at different towns along the way. When they departed, the soldiers smiled. It was obvious we were a burden they were eager to unload.

Below us, waving in the wind, were rows and rows of King Cane, harvested by the darkest of people, people who were considered too ignorant to make their own decisions and run their own lives.

Giant sugar complexes, mostly American, had either bought out or driven out all the small farmers and now ran their consolidated holdings with an iron hand. The families of those who oversaw the operations lived in nearby gated communities where they swam in crystal-blue pools, dined alfresco, and sent their huge profits home.

We passed under manchineel trees whose poisonous sap caused angry sores on our skin. I used my hands to slap mosquitoes from my sweat-drenched limbs.

Soon the blue lantern felt too heavy, and I threw it down the mountainside. It tumbled over itself and landed next to a fallen branch. Other boys had already discarded their lanterns, so the soldiers barely gave it a glance.

We walked the rest of the way in silence.

When we got to our destination, I was delivered to a Haitian family that eyed me with suspicion. Two boys about my age sat on a dirt floor, while a barefoot girl glared at me from behind a banana tree. A fine layer of clay lightened their ebony skin.

A matronly woman with straggly hair and missing teeth clung to her husband, José, while three dirty-faced toddlers hung on her legs. The father stood tall, an onyx giant, with well-defined muscles etching his shoulders and back. His arms were stronger than his legs and his shoulders showed the results of years of hard labor.

Wiry black hair covered his chest and back. A “lazy eye” wandered around in his eye socket, making it difficult to tell whether he was looking at you or not. A rope hung around his neck and a machete yoked his waist. The carcass of an animal—I didn't know what kind—hung from a pole to dry. Its skin had been removed and its body was marbled with blood.

I looked at the children, feeling sorry that they had to live in such squalor. I figured the parents were former slaves brought to Cuba from Haiti to work the plantations, but I didn't ask any questions. That wasn't my job.

One of the soldiers, the taller of the two, stepped forward and said, “Frank is here to teach you to read.” He spoke loudly and slowly as if that would help the peasants comprehend what he was saying. He butted me with his rifle.

“Show 'em the books so they understand.”

I scrambled to hold up the books for them to see.

José shot me a look of disdain. He fingered the handle of his machete and grunted.

“Ain't no use for readin' here,” he said. “Might as well send 'im back where he belong!” The boys nodded in agreement. Then the man spat on the ground and walked away. I wondered how long I would have to stay with these people.

The soldiers shrugged their shoulders and took their leave.

After the soldiers departed, José and I squatted on the ground opposite each other while the children busied themselves winding and unwinding a ball of twine. Neither of us knew what to say. He seemed content to just sit and look at me. He struck me as a man filled with subterranean emotions, one I would have to tiptoe around.

Not knowing what to do, I unlaced my boots and rubbed my feet, which were red and sore from the long hike up the mountain. My boots were heavy and stiff as cardboard, and I knew they would be difficult to walk in for any length of time. I fingered a plump blister, rolling the liquid beneath the skin. I was tempted to lance it, but I looked at my dirty hands and thought better of it. I felt a pang of longing for Mima. She was the one who tended to my scrapes and cuts.