Broken Paradise

by Cecilia Samartin

  Papi looked confused, but when he saw Abuelo nod and lift the rope so he could pass underneath, he scrambled under without a word.

  We knew we had to look natural and normal in every way. We couldn’t risk calling any attention to ourselves when we wanted more than anything, to leap out of our skins with joy. The uniformed boys with machine guns strapped to their fronts and backs were everywhere. Anything could lead to an arrest. And this was much more serious than buying meat on the black market.

  Together the four of us walked out the door in single file with our heads down, lest anyone read the apprehension in our eyes as something more than the sadness of leaving our homeland. I realized, as we almost ran across the tarmac to the plane and climbed up the stairs, that in our haste we’d forgotten to give Abuelo a hug and a kiss good-bye.

  I turned around to see if I could catch a glimpse of him at the window and he was there, standing as straight as a royal palm, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his guayabera crisp and white in the sun.

  We had all been dreading this moment, but now we couldn’t wait for the plane to lift off the ground so there could be no doubt that we’d made it. The plane was full of screaming children and sobbing women and walking corpses and nervous bug-eyed young people paralyzed with shock, but we couldn’t relate to their misery or their fears. We had our Papi back. Does anyone have some champagne? How about a cigar?

  There were more passengers than seats, and several people had to sit on the floor during the short flight to freedom. Mami and Papi sat near the back huddled together with their hands intertwined. Mami wept and laughed and then wept some more while Papi held her close to him. Marta and I held each other too, as we heard the faint and mumbled prayers of the other passengers hum all around us.

  “Please Heavenly Father, let us return soon. Blessed Mother, have mercy on us and keep us safe. Dear Jesus, don’t forget our brothers and sisters who stay behind. Let us be together again soon.”

  The roar of the engine silenced the prayers and the sobs and the complaints of the children who weren’t really sure what was happening to them. In the next few minutes over two hundred hearts would be ripped from their homeland. Who might survive the trauma, nobody knew. And who might be lucky enough to return and feel the warmth of the Cuban sun course through their veins once again, even fewer could say.

  The plane charged down the runway, rattling and skipping as it went, and lifting it’s beleaguered cargo up into the Cuban sky. Our swollen eyes peered out of small windows and watched the green of our island home become like a jewel embedded in a glistening sea. It grew smaller and smaller until it was barely a twinkling mist, a memory lost to the harshness of the glaring sun.

  And then it was gone.

  THE UNITED STATES

  11

  Dear Alicia,

  We haven’t landed yet, but already I know…I will never be American.

  Everyone around me on the plane is happy and talking about how much they can’t wait for their first American meal with plenty of American meat, and how they’re going to drink American beer until it comes out of their ears, when the only thing I can think about is my last conversation with Beba.

  She slipped into my room while we were waiting for Abuelo to take us to the airport. As long as I live, I will never forget what she told me. “When my people came to this country from Africa, many lost their souls, but some survived, Norita. They never forgot who they were and where they came from. They were the strongest ones, and I know you’ll be strong like them.”

  I told her I felt as weak as a baby, and I was crying like one too, so she took a white handkerchief from her apron pocket and wiped my eyes. “You aren’t weak, Norita,” she said. “You’re strong and you have a beautiful heart. But people in America will try to steal it from you, and you must resist or you’ll lose yourself.”

  I asked her how I could keep them from stealing my heart and she said, “Just as my ancestors did. Give them your ghost heart, for they’ll insist you give them something, but keep your real heart for yourself…always.”

  If I’d had the time I would’ve asked her a million questions about what a ghost heart was and where it came from and how to tell it from my real heart. And she would’ve explained it to me in her way that helps me understand just about anything. But just then Papi burst through the door, and announced that it was time for us to go. We barely had a chance to say good-bye to Beba, but as I’m writing this letter, I see her face in the clouds, and I’ll be thinking about her and you when I catch my first glimpse of the land that might steal my heart if I’m not careful. It won’t be long now.

  I never thought I’d do this, but I made a promise to God like Abuela likes to do. I promise that every day I wake up in this place, the first thing I’m going to do is get on my knees, and ask God to end the revolution so we can go home. I won’t cut off my eyelashes the way Abuela does, but I’ll cut my nails very short and keep them that way until we’re back. If you make a promise too, then maybe soon we’ll be listening to our Elvis albums in my room and walking the beach early before the wind picks up. We’ll go shopping to buy new dresses because there should be many more dances when the revolution is over.

  Once we find a place to live, I’ll write again on proper paper, (these immigration forms were all they had). And, I will keep my heart safe, just like Beba said.

  Nora

  When we stepped off the plane and onto American soil I hoped the ground would quiver and bolt me off like an angry horse, but I wasn’t so lucky. We were immediately directed to form a line against the wall in a large building away from the main airport. For a moment I felt like the poor souls lined up against the wall at La Cabaña waiting to be executed.

  I whispered this to Marta, but Papi overheard and shook my shoulder roughly. “You listen to me,” he said. “This is your country now. It’s gratitude I want to hear from you and nothing else.”

  Poor Papi. There was such fear in his eyes. And it didn’t go away even when we found ourselves in Little Havana in the heart of Miami the next day. We were surrounded by Cuban refugees everywhere, eating Cuban sandwiches and drinking Cuban coffee and listening to Cuban music blaring from speakers onto the street. Mami and Marta and I would’ve been happy to stay in this place as close to Cuba as possible, but Papi’s fear grew worse. He told Mami about his friend at the National Bank who found a good job in California. His friend said that in California it wasn’t like Miami where compassion for refugees was wearing thin and opportunities were getting harder to find. And in California there weren’t any Cuban ghettos.

  A few days later we boarded another plane for California, and the only thing that kept me from complaining along with Marta and Mami was the look in Papi’s eyes. They sparkled like I hadn’t seen them do since before the revolution. It was a comfort to see even though I knew that in this new place there’d be no mini Cuba to welcome us when we arrived.

  Our new home in California was an apartment, even smaller than Tía María’s shed out back. Marta and I slept in the living room on a couch that folded out into a lumpy bed, and Mami and Papi slept in the only bedroom. Every day for a week after we arrived, a lady from the church with an amazing head of blonde hair that looked like a stack of hay piled high on her head, brought us a meal. In broken Spanish she explained that the ladies at the church were taking turns making us special dinners so we wouldn’t feel homesick.

  The first time she made this announcement, we excitedly uncovered the casserole dish and peeked underneath the foil to discover layers of cheese bubbling over brown beans and meat. We’d never seen food like this before, but somehow it was supposed to ward off homesickness.

  “Enchiladas,” the blonde lady said. “Mexican food to help you feel at home.”

  Nobody had the nerve to tell her that we’d never had this strange food in our lives, and that Mexican food was very different from Cuban food, but the enchiladas were pretty good and we ate them around the small kitchen table barely big enough
for two people. Our knees bumped into each other, and we tried to make light of it and focus on how lucky we were to have enough food to fill our stomachs. I tried to feel grateful, but everything seemed odd and disjointed; the food, the weather, even the way the leaves fell from the trees one at a time, as though to remind me that I was dying a little every day.

  Sometimes after dinner, Papi and Marta and I went for walks while Mami did the dishes. She told us she didn’t need our help cleaning up, but I knew she didn’t want us to see her crying. All of a sudden, she’d become private with her tears.

  During one of our walks, I detected a burning smell in the air, similar to the burning of coals before a pig roast. I knew it was impossible, but the mere thought of it warmed my heart with thoughts of home.

  “What’s that smell Papi?” I asked. Marta and Papi sniffed the air, puzzled too.

  “Maybe they’re burning trash?” Marta suggested.

  We walked a bit further and Papi pointed toward the window of a big two-story house standing in the middle of a green yard with a white fence all around. There we saw the source of the smell; a fire burning inside the house, right in the middle of the living room. I’d heard and read about this in books, but to see it in real life was strange. How can a country this big and modern still use wood fires to keep houses warm? It seemed illogical when everybody knew that the United States was the richest and most powerful country in the world.

  Not that the heater in our own little apartment made me feel any better. For a whole week Mami refused to let Papi light it because she thought it would blow up in the middle of the night. We didn’t have enough blankets to ward off the cold, and when she finally allowed him to turn it on, she sat vigil next to it all night, watching the blue flame flicker behind the grate.

  I could tell Papi liked the house with the fire inside because every time we walked by, he slowed down a little and gazed at it. “How would you girls like a big house like that some day?” he asked us. I wanted to remind him that we already had an apartment in Cuba overlooking the sea that was just as big, and that Tía María’s house was twice as big, but I stayed silent.

  “I don’t want a big house,” Marta said on the verge of tears. “I just want to go home.”

  Papi gave me a knowing look. Now it was just he and I left to be strong. I swallowed my own tears as best I could. “That big house would be nice Papi. I’m sure Mami would like it too.”

  Dear Alicia,

  I dreamed of you for the first time since we left. You were walking along the rim of the island, dragging your feet on the sand, and wondering why I hadn’t come home yet. You didn’t realize I was sitting at the top of the tallest palm tree watching you. I tried to yell down to you, but my throat was stuck and I couldn’t make a sound. My only chance was to throw myself down. I was getting ready to jump, but I wasn’t afraid. Even in my dream I could feel the warmth that rescued me from the nightmare of this cold country.

  When I woke up and realized where I was, I shut my eyes, hoping that if I didn’t move a muscle and went back to sleep, I’d be able to talk with you before the dream ended. But I couldn’t do it.

  I hadn’t cried since the day I left home. I’ve been trying to be strong for Papi and Mami and Marta, but on that morning before anyone was awake I buried my head in the pillow and sobbed so hard, it was difficult to breath and my lungs strained with the hurt I’d kept inside since we arrived. Beba would be disappointed to know that in so little time I’ve allowed my heart to become as brittle as the crunching leaves beneath my feet.

  Marta and I started school last week. Here, boys and girls go to school together. The girls streak their eyes in thick, black liner and paint bright frost on their lips, making them look like voodoo dolls, and the boys wear their hair longer. Even the teacher’s assistant, Jeremy McLaughlin, wears his hair long and he has a beard as well. All the girls think he’s handsome. I suppose he is, if you don’t mind that he’s probably never once put a comb through his hair because it’s so curly. But I shouldn’t criticize him. He’s been very nice and takes extra time to explain things to me without making a big fuss and drawing attention to the fact that my English is not so good. Everyone here is American, and we are the only Cubans in the entire school.

  I try to say as little as possible while in class. But one day my teacher decided to begin the day’s lesson with a discussion on current events. She showed the class the front page of the newspaper and the headline that read, “Trade Embargo: The US responds to Castro.” Then she asked me to tell the class what I thought about it.

  I couldn’t think of what to say right away. For me this is more than a current event, it’s my home, my heart, and my life. Finally, I stood up to speak even though my teacher said it wasn’t necessary. To practice, I will write what I said in English.

  “The Trade Embargo with Cuba…it is not enough to make change. Castro does not have hunger even though the people have hunger and much fear. They go to jail if they are against the communism. I miss my country and I pray every day I can go back home. There are some things worse than hunger.” Nobody said a word and when I looked over at Jeremy, his eyes were red.

  It’s so strange to hear myself say to strangers what I can’t say at home. I miss being home, and I miss you.

  Nora

  I wasn’t ready to admit, even to Alicia, that I looked forward to school for one reason and one reason only. Jeremy would be there sprawled behind his desk wearing his blue jeans with a shirt and tie, diligently grading papers and answering questions asked by mostly female students who found any excuse to be near him. I could hardly blame them. His quiet gaze and unpretentious good looks were irresistible, and I too found my eyes wandering toward him from my front row desk several times an hour. More than once I caught him watching me, but he didn’t look away, embarrassed to be caught as I was. He smiled sadly, probably pitying me in my starched clothes and knee high socks, studying me as though I were an odd creature from another world. It was painful to see my awkwardness reflected in his eyes.

  I was leaving campus that first week when I heard him call my name the way he did, forcing himself to use proper Spanish pronunciation. As I watched him approach, my stomach tensed and I’m sure he noticed the redness gathering about the borders of my face and spreading like a storm of infatuation all over me. He was used to it of course, used to being adored by every girl who saw him. And so he had many opportunities to practice how to pretend not to notice. He was doing a very good job of pretending with me.

  Slightly out of breath, he said my name again. “Nora. I hope you don’t mind if I ask you something.”

  “I don’t think so,” I replied, rather stunned to be talking to him at all. I couldn’t help but notice Cindy, the pretty blonde girl in my homeroom class, staring at us from her locker:

  “What’s worse than hunger?” he asked, and then expelled a sigh he seemed to have been saving for a week.

  Nothing came to mind right away, and I became distracted by the intense expression in his eyes, as though he was trying to read my thoughts as they formed.

  “I’m sorry to catch you off guard like this. It’s just…I’ve been thinking about what you said and I was just wondering…” His words trailed off.

  “It is easy to find food,” I said cautiously. “Maybe you don’t like it, but you eat it and the hunger goes. When you lose hope,” I looked into the soft palette of his hazel eyes once again…“You wait and hope finds you, but sometimes it doesn’t find you.”

  Jeremy thought about my answer and slowly nodded his understanding. “You know something?” he said. “I’d like to improve my Spanish a bit. If I tutor you in English, will you tutor me in Spanish?”

  “You want to learn Spanish?” I asked, smiling now.

  “Oh yes,” he said seriously. “I’m planning to join the Peace Corps and live in South America some day.”

  It was impossible to get to my classes without passing Cindy’s locker. I wondered if she requested a centrally l
ocated one, so it was necessary for every member of the student body to notice her at least once during the day. And she took full advantage of her exposure too. She kept herself surrounded by friends who laughed incessantly as they looked out of the corners of their lavishly painted eyes to see if they were creating enough of a spectacle, sharing conversation and gossip without concern for who should hear them. I never paid attention myself; it would’ve been difficult to capture their words and phrases and put them together in a way that made any sense. The only reason I took half an interest was because more than once I’d seen Cindy strolling with Jeremy as he headed for the teacher’s lunchroom. She chattered away while walking absent-mindedly so that she bumped into his shoulder as though by accident, but I could see by the sparkle in her eye it was not.

  “Greasers!” I heard her scream from her locker to the semicircle of friends gathered around. “He likes greasers!” and she convulsed with a series of high-pitched giggles that infected the rest of the group.

  I had almost slipped by, invisible and silent as always, when she addressed me for the first time. “Hey, your name’s Nora, isn’t it?”

  “My name is Nora García.”

  More giggles from the rest of the group.

  “Now, why do you suppose a fox like Jeremy likes greasers?” She cocked her head to one side and studied me from head to toe, as I tried my best to understand the unusual context in which she used the familiar words “fox” and “grease.”

  I shook my head, confused and red-faced.

  “I thought you’d know, since you’re a greaser.” She smiled prettily while her eyes glared.

  This sparked another burst of hysterical giggles and incoherent commentary from the others. I remembered Beba and her cold stare that could silence the worst of storms. I felt it surging up from the center of me and filling my eyes, hot and clear. It captured Cindy’s watery gray eyes and she blinked curiously once and then twice, flustered to see I hadn’t blinked at all.