Boy Who Said No : An Escape to Freedom (9781608090815) (9 page)

“I'm very glad to meet you, Magda,” I said, extending my hand in greeting.

“Glad to meet you, too,” said Magda. She spoke in a softly modulated voice that reminded me of lemon chiffon. Silly, but it did.

After we shook hands, I coughed, mustered my courage, and said, “Any friend of Miriam's is a friend of mine.”

I immediately second-guessed my words. They sounded simple and hollow to my ears, and I hoped I wasn't being too forward. I wanted to appear nonchalant, although that's not how I felt. But Magda shot me a megawatt smile that sent a thrill down my spine. I had never felt that way around a girl before. I stared at her in relief and my whole body relaxed.

We smiled at each other and made small talk for a while. She told me she was new at school, and I promised to introduce her to my friends. Then I asked, “Do you have a boyfriend, Magda?” She laughed, displaying a mouthful of perfect, white teeth.

“No. Do you?” She giggled. “Do you have a girlfriend, I mean.”

“No,” I said. She nodded and smiled.

“Would you like to have a boyfriend?” I asked hopefully. I moved a little closer to her and smelled a light touch of Jean Naté.

She looked embarrassed and confused, and I was afraid I had spoken too soon. I didn't want to scare her away. A crimson rush crept up her neck. She didn't answer my question.

When the bell rang, Magda and I walked down the path to our class together. I felt happier than I had felt for a very long time. I had great hopes that something would come of this meeting. I looked up at the sun filtering through the trees and imagined what it would be like to hold this sweet girl's hand.

Magda's parents
were
well off. She had attended Lancha, a private school owned and run by her Aunt Sophia. A brilliant woman with a doctorate in education, Sophia was horrified when Fidel closed all private and parochial schools in Cuba, forcing Magda's parents to send their daughter to the public school.

I was now entering the second half of eighth grade, and I felt like I'd been away from my friends for a very long time. I was trying to figure out the lay of the land socially, while attempting to ingratiate myself with Magda.

I soon realized that the government-run school had been far superior academically to my old public school. I was almost a year ahead in my class work. Although I did not excel in English, I was at the top of my class in all other subjects. I was especially good at math, and my classmates were amazed at how quickly I could solve difficult problems.

Three weeks after I got to school, I was nominated for a seat on Student Council. I was elated, mostly because I thought it would impress Magda. Shortly thereafter, I was elected council president. Gilbert, Jabao, and I went out after school to celebrate. We walked around the park, eating tamales from one of the street vendors, and talking about the upcoming year.

The next day I met with the council to come up with plans for the students—dances, sporting events, and outings of various kinds. We drafted a school calendar, making sure nothing conflicted with fiestas and holidays.

The school had limited space for sporting events and social gatherings, and things had to be carefully orchestrated to meet conflicting demands. I worked very hard on the schedule and was pleased with the work of the council.

But Fidel had his own plans for the school. Shortly after my election, he announced the establishment of a Communist Youth Council to oversee what was called “government-related student business.” The Student Council would oversee student activities, and the Youth Council would oversee the promotion of communism. There would be two separate student governing bodies—with two different agendas and two different leaders.

Our experiences with the CDRs had taught us that whoever occupied this position would wield much power, and there was great speculation as to whom it would be. Student support for Fidel was split pretty much down the middle.

I was very sure where I stood. My stay in the mountains, my stint at Tarara, and my talks with Abuelo had dispelled my former confusion. These experiences had sharpened my views regarding the Party into stark-white clarity: as bad and corrupt as Batista had been for Cuba, Fidel was worse. Under Fidel, freedom was quickly becoming a casualty and, despite his claims to the contrary, he was well on his way to usurping all our liberties. The writing was on the wall for anyone who chose to read it.

Magda and Miriam shared my views. So did my cousins.

It was a bright, sunny Tuesday when a general assembly was called into session at the school. There was more than the usual commotion with students conferring and whispering about whom they thought would be president of the Communist Youth Council.

The principal stood in front of the auditorium looking very serious. He was a short, stout man who worked hard to maintain control of his students. He ran his fingers through his hair, straightened the
microphone, and tapped it with his finger, sending a piercing shriek around the room.

After conducting some minor administrative business, he announced that the position of president of the Communist Youth Council had been awarded to Antonio. An excited murmur ran through the gathering as students began nudging and whispering to each other. There was scattered applause. Antonio stood, looking quite pleased. He walked to the center of the stage to receive an armband that proclaimed his position. The principal asked him if he wanted to say a few words, but he declined.

My cousins and I looked at each other with unease. Since we'd been so open in discussing our anticommunist views with Antonio, I didn't have a good feeling about his appointment. I feared we were in for big trouble.

It didn't take long before Antonio and I began to disagree. Much to my chagrin, Antonio had started picking on Magda, mocking her behind her back because her parents were wealthy. To him, anyone who had any money was suspected of being a counterrevolutionary. I told him that Magda's parents were good people, but my arguments bounced off him like a ball off a wall.

Conflicts also arose over student activities. Antonio cancelled dances and sporting events so students could attend Fidel's speeches and rallies. He tried to get Miriam to accompany him on these outings—but she seldom complied. When she did attend, she returned looking depressed.

One day after school she confronted Antonio. “Are you out of your mind, Antonio? We don't know Communists. We don't know Fidel. We grew up together. That's where our loyalty should lie—with each other, not with some wild-eyed radical whom none of us ever met.”

“You don't understand,” said Antonio. “Communism is not a fad,
it's not an idea dreamt up by Fidel. It's an international movement to shift power to the People. It will help save the world.”

“I don't want to save the world. I just want to have some fun with our friends.”

Sometimes when Miriam and Antonio argued, he would just turn his back on her. He pretended not to care what she thought. But whenever she scolded him, a muscle danced on the side of his jaw.

The Communist Youth Council quickly gained an alarming amount of power. They helped with the collection and destruction of textbooks and the distribution of ones espousing the communist cause. Books about politics were pulled from stores and library shelves. Even books that had nothing to do with these topics disappeared from view. In short order, history was rewritten. Falsified. Censored.

The list of forbidden books changed frequently, and you were never quite sure whether what you were reading was banned by the Party. Many books were considered subversive—a corrupting influence—especially on the youth. But the definition of “subversive” was strange, subjective, and ever-changing.

Culture—as well as freedom—was being decimated, disbanded, discarded. You could feel it in the air. It was so palpable you could almost taste it.

At least once a week Antonio arranged for buses to transport students to hear speeches by Fidel and other
Fidelistas
. Behind the school, trucks lined up like crows on a wire to take students to see movies about Lenin and the Russian Revolution.

One day Antonio announced that the Youth Council would issue communist report cards that would coincide with the distribution of academic ones. Students would receive a “citizenship score” that reflected their attendance at political events and rallies. We would also be graded on our knowledge and views about Fidel, communism, and the revolution.

Antonio and I went head-to-head on this issue, while the teachers remained neutral, seemingly reluctant to speak up. I eventually lost this battle, and the report cards were issued. Since everyone was afraid of not getting a good citizenship score, it drastically increased the number of communist events students attended. The political complexion of the student body was changing—and, to my mind, not for the better.

Magda put herself at risk by agreeing with my position on the report cards. Although two years my junior, she was mature for her age. Having received an excellent education at Lancha, she was very knowledgeable, had strong opinions, and served as an excellent sounding board for my ideas.

During lunch break, Magda and I would walk in the park together. Sometimes I was so taken with her beauty that I failed to concentrate on what she was saying. I would look at her hands, her long slender fingers, and her pretty, polished nails and would wonder what it would be like to hold them in mine. I was often tempted to reach for her hand but I was too afraid. What if someone saw us? What if she didn't like it? What if she pulled her hand away?

I longed to touch her, but I decided to let it be for a while.

Although Magda and I saw much of each other during the day, there were few opportunities to be together at night. We waved to each other during our
paseo,
but our strolls around the park were hardly enough—for either of us. Some evenings she would sit on the second-story balcony of her parents' beautiful Spanish villa, her hair back-lit with an amber light and her body framed in a classic Spanish arch, while I walked up and down her street.

When her parents weren't looking, I'd wave to her. Then I'd saunter to the bottom of the street and walk back again, hoping to see her once more. To me, she was like a princess in a fairy tale. Her home was the castle and the golden light that spilled from her window was a glittering promise of things to come.

My cousins would tag along, laughing, joking, and making snide remarks. After a few months, Magda and I tired of this charade.

Unbeknownst to me, Magda had decided to ask her parents for permission for me to visit her at home. While I assumed her father was the power broker in the household, I later learned that her mother ruled the roost. Magda had lobbied her mother for months to see me, regaling her with stories about how nice I was, how smart I was, and how much she cared for me.

After much discussion, she persuaded her mother to receive me in their home. Magda took me by surprise one day by asking me to approach her father for permission to call on her.

“Really?” I said, not believing my good luck.

She nodded, knowingly. “Don't worry. It'll be okay.”

Now I had to talk to my parents about Magda. The next day after school I walked into the kitchen where Mima was peeling potatoes. The heat in the room was oppressive, rising from the linoleum floor like a morning fog. Mima looked up and smiled while I pushed past her to get a glass of water.

I glanced back and said casually, “I'm going to ask Magda's father for permission to see her.” Mima narrowed her eyes and shook her head slightly. She rinsed the potatoes and dried her hands on a dish towel.

“Then we have to talk,” she said. She nodded toward the living room, waving her hand for my siblings to go outside to play. They scattered like starlings at the look on her face. She closed the door behind them, lowered herself onto the sofa, and gestured for me to sit.

Concern filled her eyes. “What?” I asked. I was afraid she would object to me seeing Magda.

“Before you go calling on a girl, there are things a boy your age should know,” she said.

I squirmed in my seat. I had a suspicion where this conversation was going, and I wanted no part of it. Mima studied me briefly.

“To ask a young woman's father for permission to see her is the first step toward marriage,” she said. “I want you to think long and hard about what you are about to do, Frankie.”

I sucked in a breath. “I'm not doing anything yet. I just want to spend time with Magda—do homework and stuff. I'm not about to marry her.”

Mima pursed her lips. “Maybe not yet. But at your age one thing leads to another and the next thing you know—”

I stood up abruptly. “This is loco, Mima. I'm only a teenager!”

“Precisely. Now, sit down, young man.”

I sat back down and looked at the floor. She began again, “The teen years are a very dangerous time for a boy.”

“What do you mean,
dangerous
?”

Mima waited for me to regain my composure. She started to speak again in a softer voice.

“You are very smart, Frankie, and your father and I want you to go to college—to the University of Havana. You would be the first Mederos to go. You know how much this means to us. It's been our dream since you were born.” She stared at me with eyes full of alarm and conviction.

I sighed in relief, hoping that this was her only concern.

“Don't worry, Mima. I'm going to college. My grades are good, I'm doing fine.”

“That's not what I'm talking about.”

“Then, what?” I said a little too loudly. I gulped down my anger.

“What? What?” mocked Mima. The pitch of her voice matched my own. “You act like this is a trivial matter. You have no idea how easy it is to ruin a dream.”

“How would I ruin it?” I said, my voice wavering. I felt wounded at being accused of ruining her dream when I hadn't done anything wrong.