Boy Who Said No : An Escape to Freedom (9781608090815) (16 page)

Whenever I came home on leave and Magda was home alone, I'd tell her I'd have to come back later—when her parents returned. I respected her, and I didn't want to tarnish her reputation—a fact not lost on her father.

On warm summer days, Sergio allowed me to take Magda to the beach. We usually hung out with my cousins and friends—sometimes with Lazo and Manny—swimming, chasing the waves, and playing volleyball in the sand. Afterward, Magda and I would lay on the beach blanket together, my arm draped around her waist, our legs touching, our feet entwined. Sometimes I'd read a novel to her while she closed
her eyes and covered her face with a hat. Occasionally, I'd rub her back with suntan lotion, my fingers lingering longer than necessary on her soft, supple skin.

The first time I saw Magda in a bathing suit, I could hardly breathe. Her skin was a toasty brown and as taut and as smooth as ripe mangoes. The suit was two shades of pink with a V-neck that revealed the top of her breasts. I thought about how she looked in that suit for weeks.

Sometimes I'd playfully chase Magda around the beach. We'd run back and forth, kicking up sand before splashing into the gently cresting waves. I would hold her against me, her body supported by the water, her legs wrapped around my waist and her cheek pillowed snugly into my shoulder. She would lean back and float, her back arched, her long black hair gently moving with the rhythm of the water and her legs firmly gripping my buttocks. Those were the times when I was most tempted not to return to base.

When we got back to Magda's house, we would shower and change into dry clothes before the Hernándezes would serve us dinner. After dinner we'd stay up late talking about the situation in Cuba, the fate of the Church, and the role of the Party.

On Sunday nights, we often went to Havana to dine with Magda's Aunt Sophia and Uncle Rigo. They lived in a large brick home with a wrought iron fence located in a lovely section of Havana. Stone fountains misted the bougainvillea and other tropical plants that bloomed in their garden, and large paddle fans cooled their tiled floors. Ever gracious hosts, they welcomed guests to their home with the fragrance of roses and lemon oil and the promise of coconut shrimp and generous
Cuba libres.

Sophia was a lively, vivacious conversationalist, never reluctant to express her opinions on education, politics, and sports. An elegant woman, she liked to dress in long graceful skirts with blouses trimmed in lace. Her fingernails were always manicured and polished a bright red and her feet were usually cosseted in fine leather sandals.

Her husband, Magda's Uncle Rigo, was a warm, welcoming man. He was less talkative than his wife, and tended to get flustered and nervous. Still, as a successful business owner, he frequently voiced his disdain for Fidel, at least among family members.

Rigo, Jr., was friendly, polite and respectful. He looked up to me like a big brother. We listened to music together, discussed The Beatles, and talked about baseball. Occasionally, I'd take him to the park. He had the open, curious, and engaging manner of a thirteen-year-old boy who was pampered and adored by his parents.

He and his cousin, Sergio, Jr., liked to question me about my life in the army. They were very curious about what I did and how I did it, and I told them what little I could. Sergio was a year younger than Rigo and both sets of parents lived in fear that their sons would be drafted.

On Sunday nights Sergio would drive me back to the army base so Magda and I could spend an extra hour with each other. It was a gracious gesture that Magda and I appreciated.

I looked forward to our rides in the car. It was one of the few occasions during the weekend when Magda and I got some privacy. We would snuggle in the backseat and exchange an occasional kiss when we thought Magda's father wasn't looking. I'm sure Sergio knew what was going on, but he was too polite to notice. It was so wonderful to feel the warmth of Magda's body next to mine, to bury my nose in her hair, and to dream of the day when I could make her my wife.

In early 1965, Pino was sitting in the front of the class next to a portrait of Che Guevara. The Cuban flag hung to his left and Brown was seated to his right. He began to lecture us on how poorly minorities were treated in the United States.

He berated Americans for relegating Negroes to the lower class and for making them attend segregated schools, ride on segregated buses, and drink from segregated water fountains. He had shown us pictures of the “Coloreds Only” signs posted on public restrooms in
America's southern states and used this as an example of the problems inherent in the American way of life.

“In Cuba everyone goes to the same schools, we ride the same buses, we all have the same opportunities. There are no classes in Cuba. We live in a classless society.” He said this as a matter of fact and it irked me. I squirmed a little in my seat.

Pino looked directly at me and said, “Mederos, Fidel says it is the duty of every revolutionary to make revolution. Having lived in a classless society in Cuba, would you become a revolutionary to fight segregation if you lived in America?”

I don't know what possessed me. I just couldn't stifle my views one minute longer. I hesitated only a second before saying, “I agree that the Negroes are not treated fairly in the United States, but I don't agree that there are no class differences in Cuba.”

Lieutenant Brown sucked in his breath and shot me a withering stare, while Pino looked totally baffled. All eyes were suddenly upon me. Alfredo, a fellow ATGM operator, kicked me under the desk in warning.

“Would you care to elaborate on your statement, Mederos?” Pino's eyes were spearing me like swords, making me feel even more belligerent.

“Well,” I said, warming to the subject, “if everyone is treated the same in Cuba and everyone is so happy, why have a million Cubans left the country? And why have two hundred thousand more Cubans been sent to jail for trying to leave?”

The class grew deathly quiet, knowing full well that I had overstepped my bounds.

Pino tightened his lips and glanced around the room, looking for someone to call on. He was silently challenging anyone to come to my defense.

“Lazo, would you like to answer the question posed by your friend here?”

Lazo looked up, startled. He was none too happy about being put
in this position. I watched him carefully. His face froze for a moment while he thought about what to say.

He straightened up and said, “I can't answer your question because what Mederos says is true. A million Cubans have left this country and a whole bunch of nice people are now rotting in jail.”

Pino looked unruffled, like he was chastising unruly boys. But despite his cool exterior, I knew he was rattled by our remarks. It was unheard of for a soldier, especially a member of the force, to publicly disagree with a tenet of the Party. A thin line of perspiration erupted at his hairline.

“You are mistaken, Lazo, in calling these people Cubans. We don't consider those who have left this country to be Cubans. They are worms, subversives, enemies of the revolution.”

Lazo shot the lieutenant a challenging look. Pino turned to Manny.

“What do you have to say about this, Cadiz?”

Manny stood tall, squaring his shoulders. He had grown much less timid since he had joined the force. I think the physical training had given him a newfound confidence. He looked at Pino and said, “I don't understand, sir. If they were Cubans before they left the country, why aren't they Cubans now?”

Pino wrinkled his nose. The class had grown so quiet you could hear the leaves rustle in the trees outside the window. Somewhere nearby a bird trilled a mating call. The lieutenant squinted as if trying to bring the conversation into focus. He shook his head.

“We don't need to go into that subject right now,” he said. He glanced at the class. “What you must understand is that we do not consider anyone who has left the country to be a Cuban citizen. Nor do we consider anyone in jail to be Cuban. These people are our enemies. They are scum, parasites, worms.” His voice rose an octave and he repeated the word worms. “Do you understand?”

Lazo, Manny, and I nodded and sat back in our chairs. When class was finished, Pino demanded to see the three of us in his office. A coil
of fear gripped my throat. We marched in together, saluted, and looked straight ahead. Manny was breathing heavily. I wondered whether his asthma was acting up.

“What is wrong with you men? You seem confused,” said Pino. He walked back and forth in front of us, seething. “You must be talking to worms when you go home on leave because only worms could have filled your heads with such poison. I want you to give me a list of everyone you speak to about politics when you are on leave.” He looked me square in the eyes.

“I don't speak to anyone,” I said. There was no way I was about to give him Abuelo's name—no matter what the consequences.

“Are you telling me you speak to no one? Not to your father? Your uncles? Your friends?”

“I don't talk to anyone,” I insisted. I was afraid I didn't sound too convincing. Lying was not something that came naturally to me. But despite my Catholic upbringing, I knew I'd have to get a lot better at it to survive.

“You must be talking to someone. Where else could you get such radical ideas?”

“With all due respect, sir,” I said, “José Martí said it's the first duty of each man to think for himself. That's what I do—I think for myself.” The lieutenant closed his eyes for a moment. He was aggravated at my response and quite unconvinced. He turned to Lazo.

“What about you, soldier? Has your friend here been filling your head with poison? Or has it been someone else?”

“No sir. I also think for myself.”

Pino crossed his arms in front of his chest, signaling his contempt.

“What have you to say, Perez?”

“The same thing, sir. My ideas are my own—nobody else's.”

“Mederos, you know that Cuba is the finest country in the world, do you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know you owe total allegiance to the Revolutionary Armed Forces, do you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you know you must defend Cuba with your last ounce of energy, do you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

Pino sat down in his chair and leaned back, tapping his fingers. His eyes shone with anger and impatience. Lines of frustration bracketed his mouth. He sat quietly observing us for a moment while we stared straight ahead.

After what seemed like an eternity, he leaned forward and said, “I can see I'm not going to get anything out of you men right now. But I'm telling you for your own good that this kind of thinking—this kind of behavior—will not be tolerated from any member of the special forces. You have sworn allegiance to the revolution. You have signed a statement to that effect. This is a very serious matter. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Pino looked at me and saluted. “
Patria o Muerte!
”—Fatherland or Death!”

I saluted and repeated, “
Patria o Muerte!”

Pino dismissed us, saying, “Consider this a warning, men. I never want to hear this kind of talk from any of you again. You are not to discuss these topics with each other, not with the other troops, not with anyone. Am I making myself perfectly clear?”

Lazo, Manny, and I said, “Yes, sir” in unison. I caught the look on Manny's face out of the corner of my eye. He was resolute, not sorry. Lazo looked perturbed. I wasn't sure whether he was angry at me, at Pino, or at the whole situation.

We saluted and marched out the door. The lieutenant sighed heavily as we walked away. I wondered whether he thought he had made a mistake in selecting us to join the force.

When we got back to the barracks, my fellow ATGM operators berated me for my behavior. And even though Lazo took part in our little fiasco, he was mad as a hatter. He knew the stakes involved, and he thought I was taking unnecessary risks.

“What's wrong with you, Mederos? Have you lost your mind? Why did you have to antagonize him?”

“I just couldn't take it anymore,” I said. “Whatever happened to freedom? I'm sick and tired of swallowing my beliefs. Sometimes you just have to speak up.”

Lazo glared at me. “Well, speak up to me if you have to, but don't speak up to him. I thought I was going to fall off my seat when you said what you did. Just watch your mouth from now on, will you?”

“All right,” I said, peeved at his reprimand. “But I could've gone it alone. You didn't have to defend me.”

“I wasn't going to leave you hanging like clothes on a line. Of course, I was going to defend you. But it doesn't mean I liked it.”

Lazo thought for a moment. It was obvious from his expression that the thought didn't agree with him. “Christ, they throw people in jail for twenty years for doing nothing. We could get forty for what we just did. Pino could have us in front of a military tribunal tomorrow.”

I considered for a moment, weighing the merits of his argument. He was right. It was a rash move, one that could've landed us in a heap of trouble. “I know,” I said.

Lazo sat down on his bunk and began removing his shoes. He
lined them up together on the floor. The bed creaked beneath him. “I backed you up this time,” he said, “but there's no way I want to be put in that position again. Do you hear?”

“I understand,” I said, duly chastened. “And, by the way, thanks for your help.”

At three a.m. the following day we were awakened by a piercing siren, warning us of an enemy attack. It was a reconnaissance exercise. We were told that half of the troops had been captured and needed to be “rescued” from the marines. For the first time ever, we got to practice on real equipment.

The infantry was sent on a fifteen-mile march away from the base, while our Russian commander had us work loading and arming the rockets. We were informed of multiple strategic supply bases that had been established in case of an attack, and we were given their names and locations. This was top-secret information, never to be disclosed under any circumstances. We were to guard it with our lives. It made me nervous just knowing about it.