Boy Who Said No : An Escape to Freedom (9781608090815) (7 page)

Abuelo took a deep breath as if he were calming his nerves, so I decided not to ask him any more questions. It sounded like he had been thinking about these issues for a while and was glad to be finally
getting them off his chest. I picked at my nails and walked silently beside him. Then he started talking again, as if he were continuing a conversation he'd been carrying on in his head.

“And God help you if you thwart their plans—they'll throw you in jail at the drop of a hat. Without even a trial. Torture you. Shoot you in the back. Are they evil? You tell me, Frankie, whether they're evil or not.”

I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck. I didn't answer Abuelo.

On my way home I decided to take a stroll into the city. At this time of year Havana was always ablaze with Christmas lights that hung like vibrant gems from public buildings and plazas. Fidel had banned any depiction of Santa for reasons no one could fathom. But I was certain there would still be lights.

As I rounded the corner, I saw the public buildings shrouded in darkness as black as coal. No wreaths brightened the doors, no trees shimmered with lights, no crèches reminded worshipers of the birth of Christ.

In their place was a “Revolutionary Nativity,” a scene painted on the marquee of CMQ-TV. The Three Kings—the ones whose feast was celebrated by the people of Cuba—were depicted as Fidel Castro, Ernesto Guevara, and Juan Almeida, all men with blood on their hands. The angel hovering above the crèche was the dead revolutionary hero, Camilo Cienfuegos.

I sat on a bench, trying to take it all in. I looked up at the stars and wondered whether God had taken offense at what was happening. I felt like someone had stolen my childhood, and I would never get it back. And that made me angry.

For reasons unknown to me, I started to cry. The tears trailed down my cheeks like silver tinsel off pine needles. I longed for the smell of Christmas trees, the sweetness of candy canes, and the sound of Christmas carols. I wanted to see the baby Jesus in the manger. I wanted the excitement and the joy of Christmas. And I wanted those
lights, those gay, beautiful lights. It seemed very childish. But I wanted them anyway.

I went home to my room and lay on my back on my bed, my hands folded beneath my neck. Fine cracks in the plaster lead to a light fixture that hung from the ceiling. The opaque glass contained the bodies of insects, moths, and flies that had batted themselves against the hot white bulb, pitiful creatures that had been caught, struggled—and died. Their lifeless bodies looked thin and papery. They had morphed into nothing but bits of debris that would disintegrate into a fine brown powder when touched.

But I didn't want to consider that now. Right now I had some serious thinking to do. I needed to weigh all the things I'd been taught in the Tarara School against the things my grandfather had said. And I had to measure them both against the things I knew.

I thought about the great writings of Marx, Lenin, and Engels. I thought about the stern Señor Gonzales and the long-winded Fidel. I thought about the peasant family in the Sierra Maestra. I thought about the soldiers and the guns, so many guns.

I was trying to make sense of it all. Was Fidel a hero? A friend of the working class? If so, why were so many people out of work? Was he a brilliant lawyer, a great thinker, a renowned leader? Or was he the devil incarnate?

Should I stay at school and get a good education? Would that make me a better person? Was Fidel better because he was smart? Would staying at that school make me party to something evil? These were complicated questions. The ramifications were great. I needed to use my head.

I met my cousins at the corner of Maceo and Bertematti Streets to talk it over. It didn't take Gilbert long to get to the core of the matter.

“Are you a Communist, Frankie?”

“No.”

“Do you believe in God?”

“Of course.”

“Then, it's simple. If you're not a Communist, and you believe in God, then you shouldn't go to that school.”

“But it's a good school,” I countered, playing the devil's advocate. “I'm learning a lot.”

“You're just learning to be a Communist, Frankie. That's what that school is all about. And if you stay there, you'll become a Communist, too. You'll begin to think like them, to act like them. Think about it.”

I sighed deeply. “What would you do if you were me?” My stomach was roiling with anxiety.

“Escape!” said Jabao.

“Escape? I thought of that, but how?”

“We'll have to figure it out,” said Gilbert thoughtfully. I could tell he was quite taken with the idea.

“I'll help you,” said Luis. “You can't do it without help.” Luis was not exactly the genius of the group, but I was glad for his support.

“I'll help, too,” echoed Pipi. “I'll drive the getaway car.”

“You've been watching too many old movies,” I said. “Besides, you don't have a car, and you're too young to drive.”

While I was inspired by their loyalty and audacity, I was also afraid. Very afraid. Who knew what could happen to them—and to me—if we got caught? My grandfather's words about being thrown in jail still rang in my ears.

I knew that people who opposed the Party had a way of disappearing, never to be heard from again. There was talk of torture. I didn't want to end up as one of Fidel's casualties. We'd have to make a plan—think it through.

“Seriously,” said Gilbert, “we'll need a car.”

“I guess,” I said, wondering how that could possibly happen. None of us had access to a car or even had a sibling who did.

“We need someone who knows how to drive,” offered Luis. “Someone older.”

I nodded, starting to lose my nerve. “Maybe this is impossible. Maybe—maybe I should just stay at school and forget about the whole thing.”

“No,” insisted Jabao. “You've got to get out now. Otherwise, you'll become a Communist, and we won't be friends anymore.”

“Okay,” I said. “But I don't want to get killed trying. We really need a plan.”

“Don't worry,” said Gilbert. He patted me reassuringly on the back. “One way or another, we'll get you out.”

A week later, while I was outside playing basketball at school, a small pebble dropped on the pavement in front of me. Then another one hit me on the back of my head. The wind was blowing, and I thought it might be a falling twig. I turned around to see Gilbert lying flat on his stomach on the other side of the six-foot fence. My stomach did a somersault.

I bounced the ball to a teammate and signaled that I was leaving the game. I walked to the fence, my heart skipping a beat.

“Hey, where are you going?” called a classmate, a short, smart-alecky kid who never failed to get on my nerves.

“Just
shut up
and leave me alone,” I said. The boy shrugged and started to saunter away.

I got to the edge of the fence and peered through it. “What in God's name are you doing here?” I asked. Gilbert smiled at me mischievously.

“We're here to rescue you. Just like we promised. Hurry! I'll help you over the fence.”

I looked around and leveraged my foot against the metal support. My classmate turned and yelled, “Hey, you'd better be careful. You know you're not allowed outta here.”

I was scared enough without this kid mouthing off. “Will you be
quiet,
” I said. My classmate smirked while Gilbert pulled me over the fence. I landed on the ground with a thud.

I looked around. “Where's the car?” I whispered.

“We didn't bring a car,” said Gilbert, acting as if this were no big deal. My heart dropped like an anchor to the floor of the sea.

“No car? How will we escape?” My face froze in apprehension. This was feeling far too dangerous to me.

Gilbert nodded in the direction of the bushes, as if the answer lay therein. Suddenly Luis and Jabao popped up from behind the shrubbery, waving red baseball caps and pushing their own bikes—as well as Gilbert's—in our direction.

“What the—”

“Shush!” said Gilbert. “Quick, get on my handlebars.”

“This isn't going to work,” I said. “We can't escape this way. They're gonna catch us.”

“Just
shut up
and get on,” ordered Gilbert.

I hopped onto Gilbert's handlebars, and we started wobbling through the high grass. The ground beneath us was rutted, and it was difficult to stay upright. The tires on his bike were almost flat.

“What's the matter with you, Gilbert, couldn't you even put air in the tires?”

“Stop worrying about the tires, would ya? I got here, didn't I?”

“Yeah, but God knows if we'll ever get home.”

“Oh, shut yourself up, Frankie. You have any better ideas?”

Luis and Jabao raced ahead of us, spewing a cloud of dust and pebbles into the air. The fender on Jabao's bike was so rusty it was about to fall off, and Luis's dirty shoelace was dangling dangerously close to the chain of his bike. I crossed my fingers that it wouldn't get caught. I could just picture them going head over heels into the dirt.

Meanwhile, I was hanging on for dear life as my cousin tried to steady his bike to keep it from keeling over. By now I was sure the guard at school had notified the authorities. They would be out looking for us, perhaps with dogs. I envisioned vicious canines chasing us and biting our legs.

Gilbert kept peddling, his face getting redder and redder as he huffed and puffed down the road. He kept mumbling things under his breath and wiping the sweat trickling down his forehead with the back of his hand. After we'd gone about a quarter of a mile, I began to laugh, a rip-roaring belly laugh.

“Don't get too happy up there,” hollered Gilbert. “In a little while we're going to switch places, and you're going to have to peddle. Then we'll see how funny this is.”

But I couldn't help it. The whole thing was classic Gilbert. We were miles from home, running from the authorities on a wing and a prayer. No adult knew where we were or what we were up to. And God knows what would happen to us if we ever got caught.

All I could think of was: This is it? My great escape? My stance against the Party? A bunch of crazy kids with worn-out sneakers and rusty bikes teetering down the road like crippled penguins on slippery ice?

It was too rich. Too reckless. Too much fun.
The Communists be damned!
I thought. I let out a whoop and a yell.

We peddled like wild men all the way home.

I tossed and turned all night, trying to get some sleep. My sense of euphoria about having escaped the school was giving way to a feeling of dread about what would happen when the school officials came to get me—and I knew they would. Señor Gonzalez could not let my escape go unchallenged lest other boys in the school follow my lead and try to run away. I had no idea what my punishment would be, but I knew it would be stiff. I was going to have to face the music.

The next morning my mother prepared breakfast, and we talked about “my great escape.” Mima laughed with me when I told her about riding on Gilbert's handlebars. Still, I could tell her nerves were on edge. A hint of fear colored my voice as I talked about my adventure. I was hoping she wasn't sensing my apprehension.

Since my experience with the literacy brigade, I no longer felt like I had control over my life. I had frequent nightmares about someone forcing me to do something I didn't want to do. I would awake in a cold sweat, and it would take me a couple of hours to get back to sleep.

On my last visit home I told my mother about my dreams, and she confessed that she'd been having nightmares, too. Not knowing where I was—or what had happened to me—when I was away in the Sierra Maestra had been very painful for her.

Before she cleared the table, she stood up, pulled me to her bosom, and kissed me on the forehead. She stroked my hair and held my head to her chest for a little while as my body began to relax. Her mouth quivered, and I knew she was happy to have me home.

My brother, Raúl, began to cry, and my mother went to tend to him. I turned and looked at my father, who was sipping his coffee and eyeing me curiously. He lifted his spoon and stirred his coffee to release sugar sitting at the bottom of his cup. He studied my face for a moment, knowing full well that something was weighing heavily on my mind.

A man of few words, my father cleared his throat and said, “Tell me what's bothering you, son.”

I took a deep breath. I didn't want to burden my father with my fears, but I had to talk to someone. “What if they come to get me?”

“Who do you mean by
they
?”

“You know who I mean,” I said, almost afraid to speak the words out loud. The expression on my father's face turned dark with a disturbing thought. He shook his head and pushed his chair away from the table with enough force to rattle the dishes. He stood abruptly, threw down his napkin, and said, “You're not going anywhere.” His face wrinkled into an accordion of rage. He was in no mood for discussion.

Later that morning there was a loud knock on the door. My father opened it to find Señor Gonzales and two soldiers standing on the front steps.

I was in the kitchen helping my mother prepare lunch. An old checkered apron hung around her neck and was tied at the small of her back. We could overhear what was going on, but Mima held me back from entering the living room. I felt her warm arms encircle me and watched a red flush creep up her neck. I took a deep breath as a ribbon of fear danced up my spine.

“Can I help you?” I overheard my father say.

“We're here to take your son back to school,” said Señor Gonzales. “He left without permission, which could be construed as counterrevolutionary activity—a very serious offense.”

My siblings wandered into the living room looking wide-eyed and
fearful, and a crowd of neighbors started to gather outside my house. In my neighborhood, like in many others in Cuba, whenever soldiers showed up on anyone's doorstep, it was cause for alarm. The front door remained open, leaving little to the imagination.