Boy Who Said No : An Escape to Freedom (9781608090815) (8 page)

“There's nothing to be discussed,” said my father. “Since he doesn't want to go to your school, I must ask that you leave my house
. Now
.”

“That may be so,” said Señor Gonzales, “but I still need to speak with Frankie.”

The soldiers mumbled something to each other that I couldn't understand. I peered through the kitchen door to see my father's shoulders stiffen with determination. Knowing my future was at stake, I squirmed away from my mother's hold and marched into the room. Mima followed, alarmed.

My father glanced at me and said, “These men want to take you back to school, Frankie.” His gaze held mine knowingly, and I got the impression that what he was saying was more for the benefit of the soldiers than for me.

“Do you want to go back?”

I glanced warily at the soldiers, then back at my father. I knew this was no time for hesitation or cowardice. I pursed my lips, shook my head and said, “No. I hate that school and I don't want to go back.”

Señor Gonzales stepped forward, looking somber and all puffed up. He had a job to do and he was determined to do it.

“Frank, you are making a big mistake. You are a very talented young man. You were doing very well at school. There is a future for you in the Party if you return to school. But if you don't—” He shrugged. “Who knows?” I took this as a thinly veiled threat. I didn't like being threatened.

I mustered my courage and said, “I've been to your school. I gave it my best shot, and it's not for me. I'm staying here with my family.”

Señor Gonzales looked appalled. If we were alone, he would've handled the situation more forcefully. But with my parents present, he took a more conciliatory approach.

“The teachers hold you in high regard, Frankie. You are doing well in sports—everybody likes you. Think about your future. You will regret it for the rest of your life if you don't go back to school.”

I wrinkled my nose and shook my head, wondering whether I was old enough to have any rights. I sensed that something was going on that was more ominous, more threatening than just disobeying a teacher. But I couldn't define it.

Fear lifted the hairs on the back of my neck. I glanced at my mother and realized that some cultural factors were at play that might work in my favor. Mima looked at me and stepped forward, wiping her hands on her apron. Lips tightened and eyes blazing, she looked like a woman possessed.

Like many Cuban women, my mother was sweet and good natured, but when it came to her children, she was a force to be reckoned with. She had her own mind and she didn't shrink from telling anyone what was on it. I had a pretty good idea what she was going to say, but I had no idea how it would be received. Mima placed her hand on her hip and pointed a finger at the men. Beads of perspiration erupted on my forehead.

“Didn't you hear my son?” chided Mima as if she were scolding a group of small children. “He doesn't want to go back to your school. He wants to stay right here. And what's more,
I
want him to stay right here. Do you hear me?”

My father turned to the soldiers. He set his jaw the way he did when a discussion was over. I started to say something, but my father raised his hand—palm out—to stop me. I knew enough not to disregard his gesture.

I glanced at my mother and held my breath, awaiting the men's response. They looked at once angry and confused. It was clear they wanted me back, but it was also clear that tradition dictated that they respect the wishes of parents in their own home. Parental control of their children was well honored in Cuba, and although under Fidel the concept was quickly disappearing, it still had a firm hold.

The crowd outside began shouting and chanting, “Leave the boy alone. He doesn't want to go. Didn't you hear his mother? Why are you bothering him?”

The muscles bunched in the back of my neck. I held my breath, not knowing whether the support of my friends and neighbors would make things better or worse.

I looked out the front door and saw Jabao pointing at Luis and Gilbert who were hiding behind the bushes, afraid they'd be identified as the culprits who helped me escape. They repeatedly shouted, “Let him go,” and then quickly ducked down so they couldn't be seen. I had to smile, despite myself.

Finally, one of the soldiers signaled to the other that it was time to leave. They turned and stomped out the door. I heaved a sigh of relief.

Señor Gonzales was the last one out. He left with this parting remark, “You are not living up to your duty, Frankie. Don't think you are getting away with this. We'll be back.”

But I sensed that he was all bluster. My mother had prevailed in the discussion, and I figured I'd never see him again. At least that's what I hoped.

I talked to Abuelo the next day about whether what I had done was right. I wanted his approval and was afraid he might scold me for giving up the chance for such a good education.

“Did you do your best at that school?”

“I did more than my best.”

“How so?”

“I didn't want to go to that school, but I went anyway. I completed all the homework. I studied and studied, but I never felt like they were telling me the truth.” I hesitated a moment. “I didn't want to become a Communist, so I left.”

“When did you come to that conclusion?”

“A while ago.”

“But you stayed anyway?”

I sighed. “Yes. It took me a long time to sort it out. And I didn't want to let anyone down.”

“Who were you afraid of letting down?”

“You, mostly.”

“I see. Not yourself?”

“No.”

“So you were doing more than your best for me?”

“Yes,” I said. I got the feeling that there was something more to Abuelo's questions, but I wasn't sure what.

“Maybe you shouldn't have done more than your best,” said my grandfather softly. I looked at him, startled and confused. I thought Abuelo always wanted me to do more than my best. I couldn't believe he was saying this.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Frankie, there are three things you can do in life: less than your best, your best, or more than your best. Doing your best is usually the right thing to do. Doing less than your best is always wrong because you cheat yourself—and others—by failing to live up to your potential.”

“I understand,” I said. “But what about doing more than your best?”

“Ah, that's the tricky one, Frankie. Say you go fishing. You've caught six fish and you're very tired. You've met your goal for the day, but you press on to do more. Your wife is home waiting for your help with the baby. She's counting on you. When you get home she's angry. She doesn't even care that you caught more fish.”

“So you're saying it's bad to do more than your best?”

“I'm saying that doing more than your best always comes with a price.”

“And the price is sometimes too high?”

“Most of the time.”

“Are there any times when it isn't?”

“Yes, but only under three circumstances: when it is a matter of life and death, when it is a matter of principle, and when it is a matter of love.” Abuelo looked me straight in the eye. “Always do more than your best, Frankie, when it comes to matters of love.”

That summer rumors circulated that Fidel was buying oil from the Kremlin, that he was on the side of the Soviets, that he had thrown hundreds of people in jail.

Some people believed these rumors while others did not. Many of the neighbors had been listening to Fidel's frequent radio broadcasts, and some were praising
El Comandante
as if he were a savior.

Antonio's brother had swallowed the bait. To the horror of his mother and father, he had left for the Sierra Maestra to join the Rebel Army. This didn't surprise me. Like many others, he had read—and believed—too many articles that appeared in
Granma
, the Communist national newspaper.

He worshiped Fidel as a brave strongman who was righting the practices of the corrupt Batista. He wore an armband of the 26 of July Movement to prove it. It gave me the creeps. But Antonio was still on our side, and my cousins and I openly discussed our hatred of Fidel with him.

At the same time, Fidel was working on ways to suppress any dissent and to limit Cubans' freedom of expression. The days of speaking our minds regarding the country's leader were quickly drawing to a close.

Afraid that the people would rise up against him—or join the thousands of people who had already fled the country—Fidel instituted Committees for the Defense of the Revolution or CDRs. Their motto, “
En Cada Barrio, Revolución
, In Every Neighborhood, Revolution,” struck fear in the hearts of Cubans.

These groups were responsible for reporting and squelching any suspicious or counterrevolutionary activity. CDR members reported people suspected of being CIA agents, homosexuals, and readers and writers of antirevolutionary materials.

Each block had a warden charged with keeping tabs on everyone in the neighborhood—their friends, their contact with foreigners, their work habits, their travels.

The CDRs were also authorized to find and detain anyone trying to flee the country illegally. Pictures of “fugitives from justice” were posted on telephone poles and in other prominent public places. All citizens had to report suspicious behavior to a member of the CDR. Fear of reprisal for not reporting such activity assured compliance.

Everyone had to show their ID card to the block warden to get permission to go from one town to another. Given Fidel's efforts to improve education, the whole thing seemed counterproductive to me. I wondered how people could learn if they were forbidden firsthand experience of the world.

The position of block warden rotated from week to week, and from house to house. Because we lived in such a closely knit community, the warden was always someone we knew. The warden for the
week had to stay up all night to watch and report anyone who ventured from home.

When the task fell to my father, he passed the time smoking and shooting the breeze with a neighbor. He believed that the CDRs were violating a basic human right—privacy—and he had no interest in turning anyone over to the authorities. The CDRs were powerful snoops who made everyone edgy and wary.

Our sense of community was being systematically eroded. Fewer people were willing to share what was happening in their lives or to openly air their political views. People no longer sat on their stoops or gathered on the street corners to pass the time of day. Those who did dispersed quickly when approached.

Meanwhile, I was spending as much time as possible with my cousins and friends. With it getting so complicated to get around, we whiled away the hours talking about girls—who we thought they liked and how we could get their attention.

Gilbert had taken up weight lifting to build his muscles. By now he was the “leader of the pack,” a good sportsman, and a self-proclaimed ladies' man. My cousins and I followed Gilbert's lead to work out. We measured our biceps weekly. Jabao and I tied for best biceps. Pipi came in second.

Jabao was girl shy, while Gilbert was always “in love” with this girl or that. He was forever trying to impress us with stories of how he had touched some girl's hand. Gilbert's ulterior motive was he liked to eat and drink. With a bunch of siblings at home, there was never enough food to satisfy his needs.

Hospitality dictated that a young man calling on a girl be served refreshments. So he would go to a girl's house, introduce himself to her parents, and gain permission to visit.

Gilbert was handsome and charming. All the girls liked him, as did their parents. But as soon as he had finished eating, he'd abruptly
excuse himself to hang out with his buddies, leaving the girl and her parents befuddled. He broke many hearts with his boorish behavior.

My cousins, Antonio, and I would loiter outside the windows of the homes of these trusting, young girls, waving our arms in the air, jumping around and making a general nuisance of ourselves. As soon as Gilbert came out, we'd collapse in gales of laughter. But, much to our chagrin, Gilbert always insisted that he had managed to touch the girl's hand. Touching a girl's hand was something the rest of us could only dream about. We never knew whether he was telling the truth, but his stories were enticing, and we all wanted to believe him.

By the time I got back to my old school—the one I attended before I became a
becado
—I was the talk of the town. Many of my friends hadn't seen me for a very long time. They greeted me warmly and peppered me with questions. The girls wanted to know what it was like in the mountains, and the boys wanted to know if I had a girlfriend. I felt like I was finally home.

On the morning of my first day of class, I saw Miriam and Antonio standing on the school steps talking with the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Miriam was now dating Antonio. My old friend softened Antonio's hard edges, and they seemed to be very fond of each other.

The two girls were engaged in an animated discussion. A surge of excitement coursed through me as I studied this girl. She had a regal carriage, a fall of lustrous black hair, large dark eyes, and a smile that could light up a city. Not wanting to appear too interested, I brushed my hair back from my forehead and casually approached.

Since our puppy love days, Miriam and I had nurtured a very close friendship. She was so excited to see me she squealed with delight and kissed me on the cheek. After inquiring about my parents, she introduced me to her girlfriend, Magda.

It didn't take a genius to know that Magda was special. Her refined mannerisms. Her full red lips. Her perfectly proportioned face. Her
brilliant smile. I was transfixed. Magda was clearly a different breed from the rest of us. I could tell from the way she dressed—her fine leather shoes, her strand of cultured pearls, her silk scarf—that she enjoyed a very privileged life. I stepped forward, enchanted.