Boy Who Said No : An Escape to Freedom (9781608090815) (33 page)

“What are you thinking?”

“I was wondering if you'd like me to bring your parents to see you before you leave. Maybe even your brother George.”

I was flabbergasted. This was an unnecessary risk and completely out of character for Cuni. “Why would you do that? Do you think it will help me from going mad?”

Cuni laughed, but I knew that's what he was thinking. “Of course, I'd love to see them.” I said. “But what about the risk? They might be followed. I don't want to take any chances with my family.”

“There are ways to do it,” Cuni reassured me. He patted me on the back. “Don't worry. Just give me some time to arrange it.”

The more I thought about it, the more excited I became about seeing my family. I knew Cuni had two motives for arranging our meeting. He didn't want me to go crazy, and he knew it might be the last time I'd ever see my family—whether I made it out safely or not. With the future so uncertain, the only thing any of us really had was
now.

A couple of days later, around eight thirty p.m., Cuni walked in the door with my father. Without saying a word, my father reached for me. We stood hugging each other for a long time.

Finally, he pulled away and held me at arm's length. “It's so good to see you again.” His face was cut with lines of fatigue and worry.

“It's good to see you, too.”

My father gave me a long, careful look. “I'm so proud of you, Frankie,” he said in a voice choked with emotion. “You are following your dream.”

“I'm doing what must be done.”

“You are doing more than that. You're the first one to go. You'll be the first Mederos to make it to freedom.”

“I hope so,” I said. My father nodded as if my escape were a fait accompli. We walked to the sofa and sat down while Cuni walked toward the door, saying he'd be back in half an hour.

“After you make it, your brothers will follow,” said my father. His voice cracked slightly. “My one wish in life is that the whole family gets to America.”

I reached for my father's hand. “Don't worry. I'm going to make it.”

“I think you will, Frankie. I have great faith in you. But if for any
reason you don't, eventually your brother, George, will try. And if he doesn't make it, Raúl and Carlos will try. I know if one of you makes it, we will all be free some day.”

“Freedom.” I rolled the word around in my mouth feeling profound apprehension about what it would take to achieve it. For a brief moment my vision grayed out.

My father shook his head. “I don't want my children to grow up in this country. It's too hard—it's no way to live.”

“And I don't want my children to grow up here either,” I said. We sat quietly for a moment, considering how different life would be in America.

“What's going on at home?”

“It's been tough,” my father said wearily. “Your mother is worried sick about you. Soldiers with machine guns roam the streets day and night looking for you. They've been to the house three times.”

“Have they said anything? Given you any clue as to what they might do?”

“They're too cagey for that.” My father thought for a moment. “The first time a couple of officers came by and questioned your mother and me about your whereabouts. That was a while ago now.”

“That would be Lieutenants Pino and Brown.” My father nodded.

“The second time a bunch of soldiers ransacked the house, looking everywhere for you. They were very rough, hollering and breaking up the furniture. They even threatened your mother.”

“I'm so sorry.” My father waved my comment away as if it didn't matter.

“The last time one of the soldiers told me you shouldn't bother to turn yourself in because if you did, they wouldn't hold a trial. They'd just shoot you on sight.”

I shrugged. “It doesn't matter. I'm not about to turn myself in. It's all or nothing now. There's no going back.”

“I wasn't suggesting you do. I was just telling you what they said.”

“I understand.”

Suddenly, I thought of Jabao. I don't know why, nothing had prompted it. Like many of my boyhood friends, Jabao had never gone beyond fifth grade. I wondered how he was making a living. I was just about to ask my father about him when he interrupted my thoughts.

“Your brother George would like to come to see you. Would that be okay?”

“Of course. As long as I'm still here and Cuni can arrange it, I'd love to see him.”

My father rubbed his forehead. “I've talked to George about leaving the country. And I'm sure he'd like your advice.”

“I'll do anything to help.”

“Have you thought about what you'll do when you get to the States?”

I smiled slightly. “Whoa! One problem at a time. Right now I have my hands full just trying to stay a step ahead of the authorities. I'll figure out what to do when I get to America.”

When Cuni came back, my father stood and embraced me. He held me tightly and his eyes grew red with tears. He closed them for a moment while he wiped away the moisture. With a hitch in his voice he said, “Good luck, my son. Be careful! And be brave!”

“I will,” I said. “Thanks.”

My father took a couple of steps toward the door and then turned around. He walked back, slipped some folded bills into my hand, and hugged me once more.

“I love you,” he said. His voice was dry, almost a whisper. He pushed my hair back from my face with a trembling hand. He looked at me with insufferable sorrow and hope in his eyes.

“I love you, too,” I said.

My father cleared his throat, patted me on the back, and walked out the door without looking back. Our visit was far too short.

I never saw my father again.

My interaction with the blue-eyed boy was turning into a kind of dance, with him advancing and me retreating. I had seen him every night for a couple of weeks and every time he saw me he waved. He became a shadow figure, mimicking me when I did my exercises, doing push-ups and jumping jacks in sync with me. But he always kept his distance. My uncle never laid eyes on him, despite several more attempts to do so.

On February 28—my mother's birthday—Cuni brought her to see me. When I looked at her, my heart almost broke. How much she had missed me was written in the wrinkles etching her face. Her eyes were puffy and gray threaded her hair. I could hardly imagine what she was going through. Now I had this precious slice of time to be with her, and I wanted to make the most of it.

My eyes searched her face. I wanted to imprint her features in my memory so I would never forget them. In the future, I would need to be able to picture her eyes, her hands, her hair. I remembered her reading stories to me as a child. Suddenly my ears were hungry for the sweetness, the cadence, the rhythm of her voice.

“Talk to me, Mima.”

My mother looked at me, confused. “What should I say, Frankie?”

“It doesn't matter. I just want to hear your voice. Say what you used to say when you called me for dinner when I was a boy. Do you remember?”

Of course,” she said. “Come for dinner, my little chickadee.”

“Why did you call me ‘chickadee'?”

“I don't know. I started to call you that as a baby.”

I sighed and tears welled in my eyes. “Thanks for saying that.”

I took my mother in my arms and held her tightly. “Oh, Frankie,” she said. “I just can't believe that you're a fugitive and all those men are after you. They're out to kill you. I never would have thought that people would be trying to kill my son. What will happen if—?”

“Shush,” I said. “Everything will be okay. I've made it so far, haven't I?”

“Yes, but—”

I looked into her sad eyes and said, “I know it must be terrible for you. But you must believe in me. I've been trained by the best. I can do this. I'll make it.” It suddenly occurred to me that I was saying this more to convince myself than to convince her.

“I remember when you were a little boy. I had such hopes, such dreams for you, for college—”

“Hush, Mima. Your dreams will come true. And so will mine. It's just a matter of time. When I get to the States, I'll find a way to let you know I'm safe.”

“I hope it all works,” said my mother fretfully. “I pray for you every day. Everyone I know is saying rosaries and novenas for you. Everyone. And we will all keep on praying.”

“I know you will, Mima. And I will pray for you, too. Don't worry. We'll see each other again someday.”

Mima and I exchanged rueful smiles before I gently kissed her goodbye.

My visit with George was no less sentimental. We talked about the family and my life in the army. We had never really had much time to bond in our lives, and I told him how sorry I was for not being able to be a real big brother to him. I think we both felt robbed because of that. I know I did.

But soon our talk turned to more practical matters. He asked me for names of people who could possibly help him and ideas on how
to get out of Cuba. I gave him Cuni's name but made him promise never to disclose it—to anyone.

I told him about my experiences so far in trying to escape, and I warned him about the dangers and difficulties involved. I impressed upon him the perils in approaching international waters and how frequently the patrol boats went by.

He was listening intently, taking mental notes. He was a very bright young man and as passionate as I was about not living his life under Fidel.

I hoped someday we would be reunited in America.

Something was terribly wrong. The blue-eyed boy was out back while I was doing my exercises, but he was not behaving in his usual manner. He was not his shy, elusive self. Rather, he was gesticulating wildly, marching back and forth at the perimeter of the property and beating his pail with a stick.

I was dressed in my workout clothes: sneakers, shorts, and a short-sleeve shirt. Having just completed one hundred push-ups, I looked at the moon for a minute before doing my sit-ups. Large clouds scudded across it, occasionally hiding it from view. I turned my focus again on the boy. He was trying to draw attention to himself, but I couldn't figure out why. His behavior was filling me with a deep sense of dread.

Suddenly, a group of twenty-some soldiers climbed over both sides of the walls surrounding Luis's property. They advanced quickly, crouched low to avoid detection. They were carrying machine guns pointed downward. I looked at them in alarm, grateful that the boy had given me a moment of warning. I drew in my breath, frantically trying to figure out what to do.

The boy pounded on his pail louder and faster, doing everything possible to distract the soldiers. I ran into the house to warn Rosa and Luis. When I entered the kitchen, I heard blunt pounding on the front door.
“Get out of here!
” said Luis. His eyes were filled with fear and his voice was urgent and intentionally low, too low for the soldiers to overhear. Rosa held the back door open for me.

• • •

“Open up in there,” called a soldier. “Do it
now,
or I'll break down the door.”
Christ,
I thought,
what should I do?

I ran out the back door and mounted the wall near the rear of house. From there I scrambled up to the brown-tiled roof. I looked back to see some of the soldiers following the boy. I was concerned and puzzled. I had no idea what to make of this.

Why would the boy try to warn me? And why would he risk his own life by trying to draw attention away from me? His behavior could be considered aiding a fugitive. He could be arrested. Maybe he didn't know that—or maybe he didn't care. The boy had been a mystery to me from the first time I saw him. But I had no time to think about him now.

From my perch atop the roof, I could see the tops of the soldiers' heads. I recognized some of them. They had divided themselves into small groups and had occupied the entire street. Several military trucks were parked at the end of the road. Soldiers were conducting a house-to-house search. From their behavior I knew they had not specifically targeted my uncle's house, but were executing a general reconnaissance of the neighborhood.

I tiptoed across the roof, careful not to dislodge any tiles. I didn't need tiles crashing to the ground and alerting the soldiers to my whereabouts. I leapt the five-foot distance to the roof of the neighbor's house, bent low so as not to be seen. I could hear the rumble of military vehicles close by.

I crept over the roofs of four more houses and, having run out of structures, slipped quietly down a telephone pole and onto the sidewalk. Sweat galloped down my back and my heart beat wildly, partly from exertion and partly from fear.

I knew if I ran, I would attract attention to myself, so I calmly walked down the street as if I were just a neighborhood guy out for a stroll. A stray dog hobbled along the road, limping and yelping intermittently as if he were hurt. He was a small dog—some kind of a mutt—and, under different circumstances, I would have stopped to pet him.

Behind me I could hear the trucks revving up. Then Pino screamed, “Over there! That's him! That's our man! Get him!”

I looked back and saw three trucks following me. They were loaded with armed soldiers. My mind was working furiously, thinking of ways to outsmart them. Everything Brown had ever taught me flashed through my mind.

To my chagrin, two more trucks appeared on the other side of the street, trapping me right in the middle. Fear gained a foothold in the pit of my stomach, and my wits sharpened. I ran like the wind for three or four blocks with the trucks quickly gaining on me. I zigzagged to make it more difficult for the soldiers to shoot me.

Suddenly, I was faced with a six-foot wall of sisal—a tropical plant used to make rope. Sisal three rows deep sat atop a berm used to fence a farm. The plant erupted in spiky, sharp spears that fanned out in various directions. Fierce thorns populated both sides of the blades. Sisal grew wild in Cuba and, when the plants grew back-to-back, they formed an almost impenetrable barrier. I was familiar with how much damage the thorns could inflict on skin. My legs had made the acquaintance of sisal when I was a boy, and they had oozed icky, yellow pus for days.