Boy Who Said No : An Escape to Freedom (9781608090815) (15 page)

“Those are my options?”

“Or you can try to figure out a way to leave your family, friends, and country behind.”

“Not great choices.”

“They're terrible choices, Frankie. But you need to think long and hard about them because that's what it's likely to come down to.”

Despite all their drilling, training, films, and propaganda, the army was failing to turn me into a Communist. I felt very alone in my convictions and wondered if anyone in my unit shared my views. I couldn't imagine that everyone else was a Communist, but the problem was to figure out who was—and who wasn't—without drawing attention to oneself.

It was far too dangerous to openly voice anticommunist sentiments. We could face torture or an execution squad if we did. But occasionally, if you paid close attention, a soldier might provide subtle clues regarding his political views.

I had suspected that Manny was religious and might not be sympathetic to the communist cause. When he first came to boot camp, I thought I glimpsed the cord of a brown scapular around his neck. But the next day it was gone, and I began to wonder whether I had even seen it.

While marching with Manny one day, I complimented him on how well he could handle a knife. He lowered his voice and said, “Thanks, but I'm not sure I could slit anyone's throat if it really came down to it.” My eyes widened in surprise. I smiled and nodded, knowing full well what he was saying.

On Good Friday, a day Catholics were forbidden to eat meat under the threat of mortal sin, Brown got us up before dawn and took us on a long march. He worked us very hard that day, harder than ever before. We had missed eating both breakfast and lunch. By late afternoon,
we were all tired and hungry, but poor Manny looked like he was about to faint. To make matters worse, we had not been given a scrap of meat to eat for weeks.

That night we were served a big, juicy steak for dinner. Nothing else. No potatoes, no vegetables, no bread. Just steak. I looked at the tantalizing slab of meat sitting like a solitary diamond on my plate. Pino was watching me intently. I made an instant decision, firmly believing the Good Lord would not punish me for what I was about to do.

I stared back at the lieutenant, picked up my fork, shoveled a big slice of sirloin into my mouth, chewed it thoroughly, and swallowed it with a gulp. I took a few sips of water to wash it down. The lieutenant nodded his approval and looked straight at Manny, who was toying with his meat.

“Mederos, what's going on there?” he barked. “I don't see Cadiz eating his steak.”

Manny looked up with alarm.

“Nothing's going on, sir. Everything's under control.”

Pino nodded. Manny severed his steak from the bone, sliced off the fat, and forked a bite into his mouth. As soon as the lieutenant walked away, he spat the steak into his napkin, placed his napkin on his lap, deftly dropped his plated steak into it, and slipped the bundle neatly into his pocket, all the while chewing a phantom piece of steak for everyone to see.

I watched in amazement at the rapidity and dexterity of his move. Had I not been staring intently, I never would have seen it. There was more to Manny than met the eye.

By now our military training had become both more rote and more sophisticated. We had performed our routine exercises so often they were becoming second nature. We also had the benefit of Russian, Vietnamese, and Czechoslovakian technical experts instructing us on
advanced skills needed to shoot down American helicopters, blast vessels far out at sea, and conduct various nighttime maneuvers that required a complex set of skills.

After dinner we were allowed an hour of socialization with our fellow soldiers. We got to know each other slowly, carefully, reluctant to reveal anything that could be ever held against us. At first we discussed baseball: the batting averages of men playing for the Chicago White Sox, the New York Yankees, the Detroit Tigers. We talked about Joe DiMaggio as if he lived next door. Occasionally, one of the officers allowed us to listen to part of a game on the radio or simply updated us on the score.

It was weeks before we talked about girlfriends, mothers, fathers, siblings. It was weeks more before we opened our wallets to reveal snapshots of those we held dear. I carried a picture of Magda dressed in her Sunday best. Standing next to Estel, she wore a beguiling smile, white cotton gloves, and a straw hat with a grosgrain ribbon cascading like a waterfall down her back.

The picture was dog-eared and wrinkled because I had held it so often. But I never showed it around, thinking it would be disrespectful to Magda. She was no passing fancy, and I was afraid that that's how she'd be viewed. I wanted to keep our relationship private.

As I became friendlier with Lieutenant Brown, however, I revealed the nature of my feelings toward
mi novia
to him. Being older, he seemed to understand. He often inquired after her and occasionally granted me permission to go into town to call her from a public phone.

Every Friday was court day, the day it was decided whether your performance warranted any demerits. Demerits were issued for dirty boots, forgetting to salute, failure to keep your quarters clean, etcetera. A soldier's monthly leave could be cancelled or reduced by days—or hours—depending on the severity of the offense. I was sure to mind
my business so I'd be able to see Magda and my family. And, while Brown might berate me for infractions, he seldom kept me from leave.

One evening Manny, Lazo, and I were talking about him over a game of hearts.

“That guy's a good instructor,” I said, sorting my cards. “He drives us hard, but he seems to care.”

Lazo lead with the deuce of clubs. “Yeah, I've learned to do things I never would've believed possible.”

“Is that good or bad?”

Lazo laughed. “It depends on how tired I am.”

We played out the trick, and Manny took it with the ace of clubs. He breasted his cards and squared the trick. “The good thing is he lets me slide on doing chin-ups.” He hesitated a moment. “Of course, you don't have to be a genius to know I can't do very many.” We all laughed.

“He's no dummy,” I said. “He does it because you're a whiz at firing rockets—better than any of us.” Manny smiled shyly at the compliment.

“Thanks,” he said.

We sat in silence for a moment while Manny lead a low spade. He was trying to flush out the queen, which I held in my hand. I took a sip of coffee and tapped my fingers on the table. There was a moment of silence while I appeared to ponder what card to play. I fingered my cards and followed suit with the ten.

“I can't figure out why he hasn't been promoted to captain,” said Lazo.

“Good question,” said Manny. He lit a cigarette and dropped the match into a metal ashtray. “Pino respects him, that's clear.”

“It's probably just a matter of time,” said Lazo. We all nodded. I glanced at my watch to see that our recreation time was over. I had managed to escape without playing the queen of spades on my own trick. I gathered the cards and slipped the deck back into its cardboard box.

• • •

While my life at the base was evolving nicely, life in Guanabacoa was devolving into chaos. The combined effect of high unemployment, low productivity, and the American blockade were staggering. You just had to walk out your door to see the results.

Every month an estimated seven thousand motor vehicles broke down for lack of spare parts. Streets were littered with abandoned cars that sat on the curbs like roadkill. People waited in vain for inoperable buses and rail cars no longer in service.

The government handed out scarce consumer goods at distribution centers with no thought given to consumer needs. Some months there was no toilet paper or soap. Some months shoes were distributed without shoelaces. Some months there was toothpaste but no toothbrushes. Some months the reverse.

One week the government distributed clothing supplied by the Soviets. Boys between the ages of ten and fourteen were issued one pair of pants, one shirt, and one pair of shoes. The next day the boys all showed up at the park wearing the same thing: red shirts, black pants, and black shoes. We dubbed them the “ladybug brigade.”

Food was also in short supply. My father now had a
libreta
—a ration card—and a number—ninety-four—that he used when he went to the distribution center to pick up our family's two-week allotment of food. One day he took me with him. I was appalled. My father waited for hours in an endless line before his number was called. Everyone was cranky and irritable, just wanting to get their goods and go home.

“Number ninety-four,” the food distributor screamed. This infuriated my father since he had known Roberto for years. He lived down the street and he knew Pipo's name full well. My father was a proud man, and it sawed on his nerves to be reduced to a number.

“You get one pound of rice, one pound of flour, one bag of tea, and a half cup of sugar,” said Roberto. “Do you have twenty-five pesos for payment?”

“What about beef? Or beans?” asked my father. “My family hasn't had protein for months.”

Roberto glared at him. “Stop grousing, number ninety-four, or I'll write you up for counterrevolutionary leanings.”

“I'm no counterrevolutionary, Roberto. I just want some beef.”

Roberto smirked. “Are you unhappy with the revolution, number ninety-four? Are you unwilling to sacrifice for a better life for everyone?” My father's back stiffened.

“Right now, I'd just like a better life for my family.” Pipo fixed him with a baleful gaze. Roberto extracted a cigarette from his pack of Populares, lit it, and dropped the match on the grungy floor. He inhaled deeply and blew the smoke in my father's face.

My father's lips flattened into a thin angry line while Roberto called several other food distributors to his side to confer. They huddled and whispered among themselves. When they emerged, Roberto scribbled something on my father's chart. My stomach turned to gelatin. Roberto looked at my father with eyes of a zealot.

“No beef and no beans,” he grunted. Roberto handed my father his groceries before saying, “You'd better watch yourself, number ninety-four or I'll have you tracked as a troublemaker. Then you can tell your problems to the warden in jail.”

My father crossed his arms and worked to steady his emotions. A line of perspiration dewed his forehead. He mumbled something under his breath. He was struggling to contain his frustrations until he got home. But I knew he would. He had seen less circumspect men handcuffed and tossed like sacks of flour into the backs of trucks by Fidel's secret police. And he was too much of a survivor to allow that to happen to him.

But the experience helped me understand why the black market was thriving. Even the threat of five years of hard labor could not deter some people from avoiding the distribution centers to buy what they needed.

• • •

The economy was now so bad that Fidel was sending young girls to the mountains to pick coffee. With no one to protect them, they were often molested, raped, and abused. When they left their homes, they were innocent señoritas. When they returned, they were hardened, coarse women, wearing torn, dirty clothes, and using language fit for the gutter. Scorned by society and often rejected by their families, some turned to prostitution to eke out a living.

I watched all these developments every month when I was on leave. While peddling my bike through the neighborhoods of Havana, I'd endure hateful stares from lines of people waiting for bread, for soup, for fuel. People I'd known for my entire life regarded me with disdain. I was a soldier. I wore a uniform. I was one of
them.

Whenever I went home, I'd go for a walk with Abuelo. We were routinely stopped by the CDRs whenever we stepped out the door. I asked my grandfather how often that happened. “Every day, every day,” he said, biting back his bitterness.

We discussed Marxist philosophy, the Bolshevik and Cultural Revolutions, and the economic problems in the Soviet Union. One day the idea of a classless society came up in the course of discussion. Abuelo scoffed at the notion.

“The Communists talk a good game,” he said, “but I don't see them living it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I see Party officials driving fancy cars and living in beautiful homes, while the rest of us try to scrape up enough to eat. That doesn't sound like a classless society to me.”

I shook my head. “But that's what they're teaching us in the army.”

“Make no mistake about it, Frankie, communism equals wealth if you are selling it and poverty if you're buying it.”

“So you think the idea of a classless society is—?”

“Pure poppycock. It's against human nature.” As if to add emphasis, Abuelo kicked an empty tin can down the street. It rattled, echoing its hollowness.

“So you don't think Cuba is a classless society?”

“Not only that, I don't think such a thing is possible. We'll always have different classes. That's how people are wired. Humans are social creatures, and we rank ourselves according to who's smarter, richer, more talented, more beautiful. Even the animals have a pecking order.”

I thought about this for a while.

My relationship with Magda and her family was growing closer every time I came home. I had always enjoyed her mother's company, her keen sense of humor, and her ability to put me at ease. Now I was enjoying the company of her father.

Since the night I asked permission to visit Magda at home, Señor Hernández and I had developed a relationship as close as father and son. He had even asked me to call him Sergio. A warm, generous man who was eager to please his daughter, he readily gave me permission to take Magda to social events, dances, and parties.

One weekend I fixed Manny up with Magda's cousin, Carmen. Manny was thrilled, even if Carmen wasn't. Carmen tolerated Manny's company on several occasions, and Manny was grateful that I had arranged for him to see her. After every date, Manny would ask me what Carmen had said about him. I hated to hurt his feelings by telling him the truth.