Boy Who Said No : An Escape to Freedom (9781608090815) (6 page)

“I don't understand,” said Alcadio.

“There's nothing to understand. It is what it is. And if you give me any guff, I'll report you and your family to the authorities.”

Alcadio looked down at his feet. “I'm sorry, I didn't know,” he said. I watched the scene with a sense of horror, knowing how much his mother relied on his meager income.

The man shook his head and stared at Alcadio. “Where do you live?” he asked. His voice had a coarse edge to it, like he was talking to a delinquent in need of reprimanding.

Alcadio pointed in the direction of his house. The officer followed his finger with his eyes.

“Then run along. And I don't want to ever see you doing this again. Do you hear? Your shoeshining days are over.”

“But—”

“No buts about it,” said the officer, and he walked away carrying the tools of Alcadio's trade.

Stunned, Alcadio walked back to his house empty-handed. On the way he started to sob.

I put my arm around his shoulders. “It'll be okay,” I said.

Alcadio didn't respond. He wiped the tears away with the back of his hand. We walked half a block before he spoke.

“I can't face her,” he said.

“Her?”

“My mother. What's she going to do?”

“It wasn't your fault.”

“But what if she doesn't believe me?”

“I'll go in with you to tell her.”

“Would you?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Sure.”

When we got to Alcadio's house, his mother was washing laundry in the sink. She was a big woman with large upper arms that waved like flags when she wrung out the clothes. She looked up, surprised. Her expression darkened when she saw her son's face. She knew immediately something was wrong.

The woman looked back and forth, scrutinizing the two of us. I didn't know her last name so I didn't know what to call her.

“What's the matter?” she asked. Her eyes were bloodshot and her voice was weary. “Why are you home so early?”

Alcadio emptied his pockets and dropped a few coins on the table. Then he began to sob again, garbling his words so they were incomprehensible. His mother turned and looked at me for an explanation.

“What happened?”

“A policeman came by and took Alcadio's stuff.”

“His shoe polish? His stool?”

“Yes.”

She looked perplexed. “But why?”

“He said that all businesses now belong to the State.”

Alcadio's mother turned back to her son and held him by the shoulders. “Is this true?”

He nodded and took a deep breath. “I didn't do anything wrong. I was just waiting for customers like I always do. I didn't mean to get into trouble. You've got to believe me.”

Alcadio's mother thumped down on a chair and held her thumb and forefinger to the corner of her eyes as if she were fighting a headache. She gulped a breath of air and a tear trickled unchecked down her cheek. She sat in silence for a moment and then heaved a heavy sigh. Her arms fell to her lap in a gesture of resignation.

Alcadio's siblings ran into the room, noisy, curious. I looked at Alcadio and then back at his mother before she nodded for me to leave.

The sky was turning purple as I walked home, heart heavy, head down. The world seemed suddenly dark and foreboding, a place where anything could happen at any time. A feeling of dread spilled into my stomach. I tried not to think about it. I didn't tell my parents about the incident. I'm not sure why.

I never saw Alcadio shine another pair of shoes.

It was obvious that things were not as they had been in Havana. Due to the American embargo on almost all commodities sent to Cuba, the market, once piled high with fresh flowers, fish, and tropical fruits, was now choked with irritable shoppers queued up just to buy a loaf of bread. Unemployment was high, morale was low, and people were struggling to make ends meet.

The local grocery store had been seized, and my mother had to shop at one of two thousand government-run people's stores, with their sparsely stocked shelves. The women in town complained bitterly about this, but only to people they could trust.

But our family heard all about it. “There's no soap, no toothpaste, no toilet paper,” my mother groused. “I can't get chocolate to make dessert. Even sugar is in short supply. Who'd ever think you'd have problems getting sugar in Cuba? If this is what Fidel has to offer, God help us.”

My mother wasn't the only one chaffing under the policies of the new regime. All of Havana looked older, wearier, shabbier. Well-tended parks were now strewn with litter and gardens once bright with flowers now bloomed with weeds. Many storefronts were closed, and peeling paint and crumbling buildings pointed to layers of malaise and decay. Lacking the incentive that came with owning their own property, people let things fall into disrepair.

Meanwhile, the government had seized many Havana hotels. The blue neon sign on the Riviera no longer defeated the darkness, and the name of the Hilton had been changed to
Hotel Habana Libre
since
Fidel had proclaimed it belonged to the workers. Glittering casinos still attracted the rich and famous, but their patrons now seemed too gay, their laughter too loud, their stylish clothes out of step with the mood of the city.

The faces of waitresses, taxi drivers, and street vendors told the real story. They were marred by a sullen defiance, like a heavy downpour on an old tin roof. They were the first to feel the life force being sucked from this habitually exuberant city. They knew something vital was missing—like poker minus the betting, showgirls minus the feathers, Coke minus the rum.

When I told Gilbert about my life at school—the chocolate desserts, the days playing volleyball on the beach—he accused me of having lost touch with reality.

“Things are bad in the neighborhood,” he said. “Very bad. You're living like a king because they're grooming you to become one of them, while we're surviving on scraps and crumbs. You'd better wake up. There's something very wrong with that school. You're living in a dream world, Frankie.”

I could hardly argue with that.

My grandfather's situation lent credence to Gilbert's contention. During the course of his lifetime, he had worked to acquire three rental properties that he believed would provide him with retirement income. He kept his houses meticulous, scraping and painting the interiors on a regular basis, pruning the bushes, and sweeping the sidewalks daily.

One afternoon while we were playing checkers, a police officer arrived and served my grandfather with notice that his properties belonged to the State. Abuelo's face went ashen.

“But I have the deeds. My properties are paid in full. They belong to me.”

“Show me the deeds,” said the policeman.

Abuelo shuffled to the bedroom to open the metal box where he
kept his important effects. He retrieved the papers in question and gave them to the officer. His hands trembled slightly as he turned over the documents.

The officer wrinkled his nose, took the papers, and glanced at them briefly. I held my breath. Tension filled the air like a morning mist.

“These papers are worthless.” The officer tossed the papers on the green chair next to the sofa.

Abuelo's eyes followed the papers and his back stiffened. He picked up the papers and smoothed them out. Pointing to the bottom of the documents, he said, “They are legal—signed and notarized.”

The policeman shrugged. “It means nothing under the new law. Private property is now illegal. You should know that by now.”

I figured Abuelo did know it, but he was not going down without a fight. Angry and red-faced, Abuelo waved his hand in a circle. “And what about this house—my own home? The one I built with my own two hands? Does it belong to the State too?”

“All property belongs to the State,” returned the officer. “This place is no longer yours. If you want to continue to live here, you must buy the property back from the State, the legal owner. If you would like, we can discuss this matter at a later date.”

My grandfather nodded, too angry and frustrated to speak. I had never seen him so agitated. He turned his back on the officer, not even opening the door for him to leave. When the man closed the door behind him, Abuelo sank into his chair and shook his head. Then, to my surprise, he leaned back and fell asleep. I watched him until he began to snore. I left the house quietly, not wanting to wake him.

That night Abuelo and I went fishing together. He was still in a foul mood, morose and distracted. Even I, his favorite grandchild, couldn't cheer him up.

As we approached the water, we were descended upon by a group of forty or fifty soldiers. A lieutenant approached us and demanded to
know what Abuelo was doing with his torch. My grandfather was not amused.

“What do you think I'm doing? I'm using the torch to help me fish.”

The soldiers huddled together and talked; the discussion was very animated.

Then the lieutenant turned to Abuelo and asked, “Are you sure you aren't signaling the Americans?”

“Signaling the Americans?” said Abuelo. “What are you talking about? Why would I do such a thing?”

“The Americans are sitting in boats offshore waiting to attack Cuba,” one soldier pronounced.

My grandfather scratched his head. He pointed to the water and said, “Look out there, do you see any ships?”

The officer squinted at the horizon. “No, but that doesn't mean they aren't there.”

“Well, if they were there, do you think they'd need to see my torch to attack? Use your head. The whole harbor is lit up like a Christmas tree. If the Americans want to attack Havana, they don't need my little torch to see where it is.”

The soldiers huddled for discussion. One man agreed that other people in the area used torches to fish—and had done so for years. My grandfather looked at them as if they had lost their minds. They detained us for an hour or so, arguing back and forth, their voices rising like hot air balloons. Just before Abuelo reached his boiling point, they let us go.

The following week the road from Guanabacoa to Cojimar was blocked. When Abuelo tried to get through, the soldiers told him that everyone had to obtain a permit to fish. Our incident had prompted a host of new regulations.

You now had to register with the authorities to fish. You had to fish with a group and supply the authorities with their names and addresses.
You had to state what kind of fish you were after and the type of bait you were using. And you had to tell the authorities the kind and number of fish you had caught.

That night my grandfather paced the floor of his house, railing against the government so loudly you could hear him down the street. My parents were afraid he would be arrested.

“Damn
Fidelistas
are ruining it for everybody. What good is fishing if you have to go through all that rigmarole? They've taken all the fun out of it. You can't even take your grandson out to fish without government intervention.”

As the dichotomy between what I saw at home and what I learned at school became more pronounced, I knew I must decide what to do.

Increasingly confused, I began to challenge the teachers at school, especially Señor Gonzales. The more he insisted on the benefits of the government's policies, the more I argued with him. I told him that people were suffering under Fidel, and he told me I didn't know what I was talking about, that things had been much worse under Batista. Batista had murdered and tortured people. He had siphoned off millions from the Razzle Dazzle, a high roller's casino scam, and he'd made millions more from kickbacks from the construction of luxury hotels.

Batista had supported the Mob in the heroin and cocaine trade and was involved in gambling, racketeering, sex shows, and prostitution. I was too young to speak with any degree of authority on these matters. But I did know things were bad at home.

One day Gilbert and Luis told me that communist governments forbade the worship of God. I went home and told my grandfather we had to talk.

“Okay, then. Get me my cane and we'll go for a walk.” Strolling down Máximo Gómez Street, he asked me what was on my mind.

“I don't know what to think. Señor Gonzales says Fidel is a hero, a great thinker, a great leader. But Gilbert and Luis say he's an atheist—that he doesn't believe in God. Is that true?”

“The boys are right,” said Abuelo. “He doesn't believe in God, and he doesn't believe in family.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he can't believe in family or he wouldn't be taking young boys like yourself off to God knows where to teach people to read. He wants to separate children from their families so he can drum his beliefs into their heads without interference from their parents. Next thing you know, he'll forbid boys to visit their grandfathers!”

I grew quiet while I considered this for a moment. “Are the Communists evil?”

“Well, they want to destroy the Church and keep people from praying. They've seized everyone's property and they want to control how we think. You can't even see a good movie anymore. That one they're showing now—
Battleship Potemkin.
Old as the hills.”

“Why would they want to control the movies?”

“They don't want us to see American films, Frankie. They don't want us to know how other people live—it may make people dissatisfied with their plight. The only movies in the theaters right now are from the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe. And the Russians haven't the foggiest idea how to make films that won't put people to sleep.”

We continued walking. Abuelo was on a roll. When he got like this, he needed no encouragement to keep talking.

“That man's closed all the city newspapers—
The Havana Post
,
El Diario de la Marina, El Cristal—
all gone. The editor of
El Diario
asked the Cuban people to pray to
La Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre
to save us from the ‘Red Antichrist.' That's what he called Fidel. So Fidel closed them down. There are only two newspapers left in Havana:
Revolución
and
El Mundo,
and both of them spout the Party line. Phat! Next they'll have us reading that Russian rag,
Pravda.
It's the same thing with the radio stations. All we have to listen to is
Radio Rebelde
—a big propaganda machine.”