by Patti Sheehy
The girl swallowed hard and pushed her bangs from her forehead. “You don’t know me because I was born after you left. But I’ve heard a lot about you—everybody has.”
Frank looked closely at the girl. She was the spitting image of his deceased sister Teresa. Her father was in prison for political reasons, and Frank wondered whether he was one of the inmates who had been released. She interrupted his thoughts.
“I’m your niece, Mari—Maribel.”
Delighted at this turn of events, Frank threw back his head and laughed. Then he gathered his niece in his arms and kissed her. She seemed a little uncomfortable at his gesture.
“Where’s your grandmother?” he asked. “She was supposed to be here. So was your father, your Uncle José—”
Mari interrupted him. “I don’t know what happened.” She looked around nervously. “They told Grandma that you put in a claim for her. She was so excited about seeing you. That’s all she’s been talking about. She gave away all her stuff, but she was never issued a visa.”
Frank blanched and his throat tightened. “What do you mean she wasn’t issued a visa?”
“Just that—I don’t know why.” Mari hesitated. “But Uncle Carlos and Uncle José made it.” She looked around. “They were with me for a while. Uncle Carlos was holding my hand, but we got separated. I think he’s on another boat.”
“And the rest of the family? Cousin Sonia?”
“I don’t know. She was here but—” Mari began to tremble. “There was so much confusion. I don’t know what happened to everyone.” Tears welled in her eyes. “Will you take care of me?” Her voice was small and plaintive.
“Of course!” said Frank, taking her hand. “Here, sit between Rolando and me, and don’t talk to anyone but us. This could be a long trip, and I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Mari settled herself on the cushion next to Frank. He tried to appear positive, but he was bereft that he couldn’t get his mother out of Cuba. He wondered whether he’d ever see her again. He shook his head, thinking this is what happens when you get involved with Fidel.
Once Frank fastened his niece’s life jacket, Rolando started the engine and pointed the boat toward the officials standing at the departure dock.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
As they waited in the forty-boat queue for the Cuban authorities to finalize their paperwork, Frank announced the rules for the journey. The area where Frank, Rolando, and Mari sat was off limits, not to be breached by anyone, for anything.
No fighting or swearing was allowed. No one was permitted to speak to Mari. Women and children had first dibs on water and blankets, and the women were to be respected at all times. Coast Guard boats were everywhere, and Frank threatened to turn troublemakers over to the authorities for the slightest infraction of the rules.
“Try any funny business and you’re going back to Cuba,” Frank warned. A man smirked, and Frank stared him down. A stony silence blanketed the group.
With the wind against them, the trip back to Florida was longer and more difficult than the one going to Cuba. The sun beat down relentlessly and the sea rolled beneath the boat. Frank rubbed sunscreen on his niece and distributed his remaining Dramamine to the passengers. Still, some people became sick enough to vomit.
The passengers watched with apprehension as shark fins broke the surface of the water. Everyone realized the danger. Mari held on to Frank for dear life, occasionally shooting him a bewildered glance. To keep her calm, Frank talked to her about school and questioned her about her family and her life in Cuba. He reassured her that everything would be all right, and that she’d love living in the United States. But fear never left her eyes.
The Haitians were surprisingly well behaved, and Frank had to reprimand them only twice. The weather held for the entire trip—no rain, no storms—and the passengers thanked their lucky stars. The boat rose and fell with the swell of waves, occasionally struggling to stay afloat. Many disabled boats punctuated the way. Frank was grateful that his boat was not among them.
With a strong headwind against them, the trip took close to twenty hours. The last two hours were the most difficult. People were tired, sunburned, and eager to stand on solid ground. Frank and Rolando yearned for a home-cooked meal.
With so many people on edge, Frank feared a fight would break out. He watched everyone carefully, ready to act should things get out of hand. When everyone’s patience was on the verge of exhaustion, Frank spotted the harbor in Key West. A V of geese heralded the boat’s arrival, and the passengers let out a rousing cheer.
Rolando motored ahead. Hundreds of boats choked the harbor with thousands of people in need of food, water, and medical assistance. The number of people who had participated in Operation Boatlift greatly exceeded the American government’s expectations. The system for processing immigrants into the country was overwhelmed. President Carter was under heavy pressure to deal with a situation that was spinning out of control.
As My Way inched into port, the Coast Guard approached. Two officers stepped aboard to examine the boat. They had a checklist and were looking for safety violations.
“Who owns this vessel?” asked the officer.
“I do.”
“Name?”
“Frank Mederos.”
The man raised his CB radio to his ear and talked to someone for several minutes while the other officer inspected the boat. After ten minutes, he handed Frank a list of citations, stating his boat lacked a horn, a sufficient number of flotation devices, and proper lights.
The officer directed Frank to report to the court in Key West. He handed him a ticket with a list of citations before placing a red “impounded” sticker on the windshield of his boat.
The passengers disembarked, trying to regain their land legs after their voyage at sea. They were beaming. The Haitians faced Cuba and flipped their middle fingers in a gesture of contempt, saying “No mas Fidel!”
With Mari and Rolando at his side, Frank made his way to a crowded courtroom, a short distance from the dock. Petrified, Mari clung to her uncle’s side like a barnacle to a pylon.
They sat in court for three hours before the judge got to their case. He was a balding, middle-aged man with age spots dotting his head. He rifled through some papers and adjusted his robes. The judge pounded his gavel and looked at Frank over a pair of black reading glasses.
“Mr. Mederos, correct?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“I see that the boat you took to Cuba was cited for several safety violations.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“What have you to say regarding this matter?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I bought the boat in Miami and was unaware of the violations. I was in a hurry to get to Cuba to rescue my relatives.”
“My notes indicate that you returned today—May eighteenth. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“So you were in the port of Mariel on May fourteenth?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And when you were in the port were you aware that on May fourteenth the President of the United States, Jimmy Carter, temporarily suspended acceptance of Cuban refugees into America?”
Frank looked at him, confused. “No, sir. I had no knowledge of that.”
“Did you not see empty boats leaving the harbor?”
Frank considered for a moment. “I did, but I thought they left because the Cuban government asked them to.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Hundreds of boats were in the harbor, causing delays in processing paperwork.”
“Were you aware that the president’s order had been broadcast on the radio?”
“I heard nothing to that effect, Your Honor. By the time in question, I had already given the names and addresses of my relatives to the Cuban authorities.”
“I understand. But you still must abide by the laws of the United States. As a result of your actions, the passengers you brought to the States are illegal. According to the
law, you should have returned to Florida without them.”
Stunned, Frank looked at the judge. He was unsure of what to say. It occurred to him that he might be required to take his passengers back to Cuba, a sobering prospect.
Frank thought for a moment and said, “I hadn’t seen my family in thirteen years. If you were in my position, Your Honor, would you turn back?”
The question took the judge by surprise. He thought for a moment and said, “No, under the circumstances, I don’t think I would.” He hesitated. “How many people did you take out of Cuba?”
“Eighteen.”
“How many of your relatives were in your boat?”
“One,” said Frank, turning to Mari. “My niece.”
The judge looked at Mari and surrendered a small smile. “All right, then. You can go, but I want you to respect the laws of the United States from here on out.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
The judge pounded his gavel, and said, “Case dismissed.”
Frank and Mari waited for several hours to get her papers processed before looking for the rest of the family. They finally located Frank’s cousin, Sonia, her husband, and children. Frank’s brother Carlos and his Uncle José were nowhere to be found. Mari was inconsolable.
Frank and Rolando got the family settled in a local motel, and Frank called Chris for assistance. She volunteered to fly to Florida and help Frank get everyone back to New Jersey.
Once Chris and Frank got Mari and Sonia’s family to Frank’s home in Lincoln Park, they had a small family celebration. Magda’s parents brought Darlene back to Frank’s house, and he introduced her to long-lost relatives. Darlene showed Mari her room, and the two girls began to bond.
Frank’s relatives spent the first few days sleeping on his living room sofa and floor, and catching up on family news. They were curious about the American lifestyle. Frank and Chris took them shopping to buy clothes, shoes, and toiletries, and they were amazed at the quality and quantity of consumer goods in the stores.
Around noon on May thirtieth, the phone rang. Frank had just gotten home from grocery shopping and was unpacking fruit and vegetables at the kitchen table. Chris picked up the receiver and quickly handed it to Frank. He beamed when he heard the person on the other end of the line say, “Frank?”
Although it had been thirteen years, Frank recognized the tone and timbre of his brother’s voice. For a moment Frank’s mind flashed back to games of hide-and-seek, to times when Carlos would holler, “One, two, three. Ready or not, here I come.”
Tears sprung to Frank’s eyes as he said, “Jesus, Carlos. Where the hell are you? We’ve been worried sick about you.”
“You won’t believe it,” replied Carlos. Thinking his brother had arrived in the States, Frank expected him to sound happy, but he didn’t.
“Try me.”
“I’m in a place called Fort Chaffee.”
“Fort Chaffee? Where in God’s name is that?”
“Wait a minute. I have the information here somewhere.” Frank heard Carlos struggle to retrieve what sounded like a piece of paper. “It’s a place called Arkansas. Is that a state?”
Frank laughed. “Yeah, it’s a state, but it’s hundreds of miles from New Jersey. How in God’s name did you get there?”
“There were too many refugees for the authorities to process in Florida, so they sent us here. We came by plane.”
“Is Uncle José with you?”
“Yeah, as well as about twenty thousand other people.”
“That many?”
“I wouldn’t kid you.”
“What’s happening there?”
“It’s bedlam. The place is a hellhole. It’s hot as Hades and people are going crazy. A bunch of people are high on marijuana and God knows what else. They’re stealing raisins and sugar from the barracks’ kitchens to make rum alcohol. Fights are breaking out all over the place. The authorities have confiscated all kinds of weapons—knives, clubs—the works. At the rate it’s going, somebody’s going to get killed.”
“What are they doing about it?”
“The governor is trying to deal with the situation.”
“Who’s the governor?”
“Some guy named Clinton. Bill Clinton. Ever hear of him?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Well, things are really bad. You’ve got to get us outta here, Frank.”
Frank looked at Chris and signaled that something was wrong.
She raised her eyebrows in curiosity. “All right. We’ve got a houseful of people here, but Chris and I will get there as soon as possible.”
Frank explained the situation to Chris and asked Darlene whether she wanted to stay with her grandparents. She said yes. Once they made necessary provisions for the other relatives, Frank and Chris jumped into Frank’s car and drove to Arkansas, wondering what in the world they’d face when they arrived. The experience was more than they anticipated.
The fort was enormous, having served as a relocation center for Vietnamese refugees in the 1970s. Shabby wooden barracks were located on approximately seventy-six thousand acres of earth so barren and parched it looked like the moon. Federal troops had been called in to maintain order. Dust and fear hung in the air.
Frank and Chris arrived just in time for a riot. Tired of being fenced in and waiting to be processed, the refugees began attacking authorities with pieces of broken sidewalk and live snakes.
Having heard that Fidel had released inmates of the prisons and mental institutions, the residents of the bordering town of Barling feared for their lives. They had armed themselves to the teeth and wanted the refugees gone.
Hooded Ku Klux Klan members demonstrated outside the front gate, proclaiming white supremacy and demanding action. Locals wielding rifles and clubs egged them on. Two guards escorted Frank and Chris into the fort. Chris’s face had turned white with fear. They hurried toward shelter. Never in his life had Frank been more aware of his light-brown skin.
Frank and Chris made their way through the angry crowd and gave the authorities the names of Carlos and José. Shortly thereafter, they were escorted to a crowded waiting area. It contained several couches and a dozen battered chairs. The room was filled to capacity.
Frank wrinkled his nose and looked at Chris. “I smell something burning,” he said. He looked out the window to see a gray plume of smoke rise to the sky. Screams suddenly filled the air. The refugees had set several buildings on fire, and hundreds of people were running from the conflagration. Flames devoured doors and window frames.
The National Guard had its work cut out, attempting to extinguish the fire and to keep the refugees from leaving the fort. Soldiers worked to protect Cubans from being shot by angry locals wishing them dead. State troopers used billy clubs and tear gas to quell the riot.
When Frank finally saw Carlos, he had several days worth of beard on his face and dark bags under his eyes. Frank hugged him for a long time and then pulled back to take a good look at him. While he had changed a lot, he was still the brother Frank remembered. Frank hugged him again before introducing him to Chris.
“Where’s Uncle José?” asked Frank.
Carlos shook his head. “He’s around here somewhere. I saw him this morning.”
“What’s the next step?” asked Frank.
“The authorities won’t release us unless we have a sponsor willing to provide for us. You have to sign forms to that effect. Once that’s settled, we have to undergo a medical examination and an interview. Things go much faster if your sponsor is an American citizen.” He exhaled. “I hope you’re a citizen, Frank.”
“I am. I became one in 1974.”
“Good.”
Frank patted Carlos on the back. “Don’t worry, we’ll get it all straightened out.”
“I was hoping that would be the case,” said Carlos.
Chris chimed in. “We have some good news. Frank has rented the house next door to him. You can use it until you get on your feet. You are
more than welcome to stay there.”
Tears sprung to Carlos’s eyes. “I couldn’t be more grateful,” he said.
“Don’t worry. Everything will be fine,” said Frank.
Carlos smiled. “I sure am glad to see you, brother.”
“I’m glad to see you too,” said Frank. “And by the way, Carlos, welcome to America!”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
With his stint in Russia completed, Pino desired to be stationed at the large Santa Maria base on the outskirts of Havana, the base where he had served before. But his hopes were dashed. Since the powers that be wanted to keep close tabs on him—at least for a while—they stationed him at military headquarters in Managua.
Having acquired the virtue of patience in the cane fields, Pino bided his time, devoting his energies to impressing his superiors. Although he was now a captain, it was still necessary for him to rebuild the military’s confidence in his ability to comply with official practices and procedures.
The knowledge he had acquired in Russia came in handy. His job was to train Cuban captains and commanders on Soviet weaponry— the capabilities and optimum placement of land-to-sea and air-to-air missiles, as well as technical aspects of other weapons. Slowly but surely he was regaining the trust he had squandered with his inglorious past.
Since he returned to Cuba, Pino had suffered one grave disappointment. When he heard about the Mariel boatlift, it occurred to him that Mederos might come to Cuba to claim his relatives. This would provide Pino with a convenient opportunity to exact revenge.
Having developed close connections with members of the Cuban intelligence over the years, Pino approached the officers several times to see whether they had any information regarding Frank’s arrival. But with the number of people needing to be processed in the tens of thousands, the operation was slow, cumbersome, and chaotic. Pino was relentless in his inquiries. But days passed with no word regarding Mederos.
Finally, Pino learned of his nemesis’s presence in the harbor. Records showed the names and addresses of the relatives Frank had requested to claim and the name of his boat. Pino hoped to apprehend Frank if he ever came on land for supplies. But Pino learned of Frank’s presence in the harbor several hours too late. By the time he had been given the paperwork, Frank was in the middle of the Florida Straits.