The Red Umbrella

  “Are you four looking for someone?” he asked us in Spanish.

  Before I could answer, one of the teenage boys spoke up. “¿Usted conoce a George?”

  The man cracked a smile. “Yo soy George. I work with Father Walsh and the Catholic Church.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. We’d found him. Or better said, he’d found us. And he sounded Cuban, so we could all speak Spanish to each other.

  The taller of the two boys shook George’s hand. “Nice to meet you. Now, do you know where we’re supposed to go from here? Is it a boarding school or something?”

  “No, no.” He chuckled at some private joke and knelt down to speak to Frankie. “Would you like some gum?” He held out a green pack of gum.

  Frankie glanced up at me, then slowly nodded. “Gracias,” he said, taking one thin piece.

  George smiled and stood up. “The church is doing its very best to give you all a place to stay, but you have to remember that this isn’t a vacation.” With the cigarette still in his left hand, he motioned for us to follow him. “Let’s get your bags and then I’ll find out where you’re each going.”

  I hesitated.

  He looked back over his shoulder as I stayed holding on to Frankie. “Don’t worry, you’re safe here.”

  Safe? How could we really be safe if we were alone, in a strange country? But there was a kindness in George’s eyes that told me he would do his best for us. He reminded me of Papá. The way he carried himself. How he seemed at ease in the huge airport walking among strangers. There was a certain confidence that inspired our trust.

  After we got our bags, George made a quick call on a nearby pay phone, and then took us outside to his light green station wagon. It was a sunny day in Miami, exactly the same as in Cuba, but there was a difference. In Cuba, the air seemed to taste sweeter, as if there were mangoes growing nearby or your mother had just cooked your favorite dish. Here, although I was only a couple hundred miles away, everything felt more sterile, like I’d just walked into an office building. The rhythm of life was different, too. The pulsing sound of people speaking Spanish around me, or the music that would surprise your ears as you passed by an open window, was missing. In Miami, the sounds of cars filled the air, but I couldn’t get the pulse of the city. I was sure it was there, so maybe I wasn’t listening close enough. Maybe I just didn’t want to hear.

  After we drove a few minutes, much of the landscape seemed to change. The office buildings and shops were replaced with small, flat-roofed houses, and then those houses seemed to fade into flat, empty fields.

  George had been talking about American life and telling stories since we’d left the airport, but I couldn’t concentrate on his words. I was grateful that we all spoke Spanish, so it wasn’t that I couldn’t understand. I just couldn’t listen. My mind was elsewhere.

  “Permiso, George,” I interrupted, “where did you say we were going again?” I was looking at what seemed to be miles and miles of nothing.

  George put out his cigarette in the car ashtray. “Our first stop will be the Kendall facility. It opened up a few months ago.”

  “Facility?” I asked.

  “Don’t worry, it may look like army barracks, but the people there will make you and Frankie as comfortable as possible. For right now, it’s the only place the church has that can accommodate girls.”

  Frankie leaned over the front seat. “Mr. George, you said it was for girls, but I’ll be staying there too, right? I’m her brother.”

  “Yes, yes. Boys under twelve stay across the street, in a different camp, but the older boys will go downtown, to the Cuban Home for Boys.”

  Frankie spun his head toward me and opened his eyes wide.

  “But I’ll get to see Frankie, right? Even if we’re in different buildings?”

  George pulled out another cigarette. “Sometimes. They’ll explain everything to you. It’s all very organized.”

  My head swirled. How was I supposed to take care of Frankie if we weren’t even in the same place? This couldn’t be what Mamá and Papá wanted for us.

  “I’m sorry. Can’t Frankie and I stay together?”

  George looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Once we find you a foster family, then maybe. But you have to remember, your parents sent you here for a reason. Now it’s up to you to make them proud. You have to be strong.”

  Be strong. That’s what Papá had told me before I left. But he also said to take care of Frankie.

  The station wagon pulled into a parking space between two looming gray buildings separated by a narrow road. A woman wearing horn-rimmed glasses stood outside the smaller building’s porch entrance.

  “Okay, Lucía. This is where you’re staying.” George pointed to where the lady stood. “Frankie, you’ll be across the road over there. I’ll walk you over as soon as Lucía gets situated. Just wait for me here.”

  George stepped out and opened the car door for me.

  Frankie pulled my arm. “Don’t leave me.”

  “I’ll be right here, Frankie. I’ll figure something out so we can be together. Promise.” I tried to slide out of the car, but Frankie held on to me.

  “But I don’t know anyone there. Lucy, please,” he whispered.

  “C’mon, Frankie. You’re a big boy. Let Lucía go,” George said.

  The woman with the glasses was checking her watch.

  I reached out to touch Frankie. “I have to go, but I’ll try—”

  “Fine!” He pushed my hand away and slumped back into the seat.

  “He’ll be all right. Give him some time,” George said.

  Frankie turned his back on me as George closed the door.

  “Come, let me introduce you.” George carried my suitcase to the building’s entrance. “Martha, this is Lucía Álvarez. Lucía, this is Mrs. Eckhart. She’ll help get you settled in.”

  I smiled politely.

  “Nice to meet you, Lucía. Now,” she said in heavily accented Spanish, “let’s find you a bed.”

  As George strode to the car, I glanced back to see Frankie watching me.

  I gave him a small wave. Frankie just kept staring.

  I bent down, picked up my bag, and walked into the building with Mrs. Eckhart. For such a large building, it was strangely quiet, as if even sounds got lost inside. The hallway seemed to stretch on for miles. The heavy double doors creaked as they closed behind me. I quickly turned back and looked through the doors’ narrow windows. My heart shattered. I could see Frankie’s hands splayed against the station wagon’s side window as I heard his muffled yell. “Luuuciiiaaa!”

  Chapter 17

  CASTRO ADOPTS BRAINWASHING

  —NEVADA STATE JOURNAL, JUNE 4, 1961

  Rain splattered against the windowpane. In the glow of lightning flashes, I could see the girls sleeping in the bunk beds around me. I felt drained, like I’d shed all the tears my body could produce. But I hadn’t been the only one crying. For about an hour after the lights were turned off, all I could hear were the echoes of my sobs from the girls in the other beds. We were all alone … together.

  It was well past midnight and, on my first night away from Frankie, I wondered how he was doing. He’d always hated thunderstorms. Was he scared? Crying? Maybe the rain had woken him up, too. Did the boys cry as much as the girls?

  The sound of a bell ringing startled me. At some point, I’d obviously managed to drift off to sleep.

  I opened my eyes and sat up. I’d been lucky enough to have been assigned a bed on the far side of the room, next to the wall. From my top bunk, I had a view of the entire place. I watched as a flurry of girls quickly picked up their things and headed out the door in their pajamas.

  Angela, the eleven-year-old girl who slept in the bottom bunk, sprang up and tapped my mattress. “Apúrate,” she said.

  We’d met the day before, and she’d told me her story of coming from Cienfuegos, Cuba, about two months ago. She insisted that once you knew your way around, things at the camp weren’t
too bad. I stretched and watched as more girls left the room.

  “If you don’t hurry, there won’t be any hot water.” She looked over her shoulder at several empty, unmade bunks. “Ay caramba, it’s too late!” She threw her clothes back on the bed.

  “Sorry, I didn’t know.” I climbed down and pulled my suitcase from under the bed. It was the only place to store my things.

  “Yeah,” she muttered, “price we pay for having the last bunk. Guess we’ll have to shower tomorrow.”

  “I don’t mind taking a cold ducha.” I figured a cold one was better than none at all.

  “Sure, if you want to miss breakfast, too.”

  “¿Qué?” I asked.

  “Didn’t Mrs. Eckhart explain things to you?” Angela rolled her eyes and sighed. “Breakfast is served in the cafeteria at exactly seven-thirty. If you don’t get there on time, you won’t be able to eat because we have English class right after. Mrs. Eckhart’s the teacher. They say she used to teach English at some private school in Havana before the revolution kicked her out.”

  “Right, she mentioned that yesterday. But after class we get free time, so I can go see my brother at the boys’ camp, right?”

  Angela shook her head. “Nah, free time means we can go outside, play games, read books. Some girls write to their families. That kinda stuff. They’ll bring over the boys for a little while at some point during the day, but that’s it.”

  My shoulders slumped.

  “Oye, it could be worse. They could’ve sent your brother to a different camp and you’d only see him on Saturdays.”

  “Sí,” I sighed, “it could always be worse.”

  * * * * *

  I stood behind Angela, waiting in line to get my breakfast tray. The “cafeteria” was really just a huge room with about twenty small, square tables. An old woman wearing a hairnet and a light blue maid’s uniform brought in several trays at a time. The girls in front of me referred to her as Nena.

  Angela turned around. “Keep Nena on your good side. If you clean your own tray and you’re nice to her, she’ll get you a little extra of your favorites.”

  “Like what?” I asked, eyeing the box of cereal and container of milk sitting on the tray.

  “Breakfast is always the same. Don’t even dream of café con leche or pan cubano. They don’t have that kinda stuff. But sometimes for dinner she’ll give you an extra piece of chicken instead of the vegetables they always want us to eat.”

  “Oh.” I watched as about fifty Cuban girls, of all ages, sat around eating their cereal, laughing and talking about the upcoming day. With everyone speaking Spanish, it almost felt like we were in a boarding school back home.

  Yet this wasn’t Cuba, and no matter how much I wished that everything was okay, it wasn’t. I knew it and all the girls in the room knew it, too.

  “Next week you can have my bottom bunk.” Angela poured the milk into her bowl.

  “¿Por qué?” I took a bite of the sweet, crunchy flakes. It wasn’t bad, but it tasted like I was having a dessert for breakfast.

  “I’m going to live with a family in Oregon. They say the family’s got a daughter just about my age. Anyway, it’s not like I have a choice.”

  “Why can’t you just stay here?” I asked.

  “This place is only temporary.” She leaned closer to me. “We’re like puppies at the pound. If we don’t get picked up by friends or some extended-family member, then they ship us off to make room for the new arrivals.”

  “But don’t parents sometimes come to get their kids?”

  Angela took a big sip from the orange juice carton on her tray. “Sure. I heard that happened a couple of months ago to someone, but that was before I got here.”

  “So, they’re sending you to Oregon. Is that far from here?”

  “Mmm-hmm. Other side of the country. Above California. But at least I’ll be going with Claudia.” She pointed to a little girl about eight years old sitting at a table with kids her own age. “And I’ll only have to share a room with her, instead of fifty other people. It won’t be too bad.”

  I nodded, but I wasn’t sure if she was saying this to convince me or to convince herself.

  She slowly exhaled and looked at me. “Your time will come, too.”

  * * * * *

  Classes at the camp reminded me of school in Cuba, except here there was a sense of urgency in learning English. The idea of having to speak a foreign language all the time was overwhelming, even for girls like me who’d studied English for years. Back home, I used to feel worldly being able to understand the American movies and songs, but now I just felt silly speaking in English. Thankfully, everyone else around me sounded just like me or a little worse.

  “All right, ladies … class is dismissed. Please remember to practice speaking to each other in English. It will help you outside of camp.” Mrs. Eckhart stood at the door and handed each of us a list with vocabulary words. “Read over these new terms and we will discuss them all tomorrow. Enjoy the rest of your day, girls.”

  I walked back to the central yard and glanced down at the purple-inked paper. It still had the smell of the mimeograph machine that it had been printed on.

  “Lucy!”

  I looked over at the picnic table and saw Frankie sitting with a few other boys. He quickly swung his legs over the bench and ran toward me.

  “Lucy, we’ve got to figure out a way to go back home,” he said, hugging me tightly.

  “Frankie, you know we can’t.”

  “Then can’t you make them let me stay here with you?”

  “They won’t let you, but we’ll see each other every afternoon.”

  “That’s not good enough. I don’t know how things are over here, but it’s horrible over there.” He pointed across the road.

  I pushed him back a little and looked at him from head to toe. “Did something happen?”

  “Nah, a couple of bullies tried to mess with me, but I’m tough and it’s no big deal. But the food is really bad, Lucy.” He gave me a pained look.

  I started laughing.

  “No, really. I’m not kidding. I’m starving.”

  I shook my head. Leave it to Frankie to view everything through his stomach.

  “Can’t you do something to get us home? Maybe we can call and Papá can send money to fly back?”

  “No.”

  “What if we sneak out and stow away on a plane back to Cuba?”

  “No.”

  “Well, if we do something really bad and they kick us out of the camp, then they’d have to—”

  “Don’t even think about it, Frankie,” I warned. “We will make Mamá and Papá proud. Mrs. Eckhart already sent a telegram to them saying that we were staying here. We’ll probably get letters from Mamá and Papá soon.”

  “Not soon enough,” Frankie muttered.

  “Look, this isn’t fun for anyone, but I’ll figure something out. We still have each other, and some kids get sent to foster homes. Maybe we’ll end up with a really nice family somewhere in Miami Beach.”

  Frankie crossed his arms and looked away. “Yeah, or we’ll end up in a place where they’ll turn us into slaves, make us sleep on the floor, and feed us dog food.”

  “Frankie, you know that won’t happen.”

  “Fine, but they could separate us. Send us to different homes. That really does happen. Did you think about that?”

  I opened my mouth to answer but realized that there was nothing to say. He was right. It could happen.

  “See, we have to do something before it’s too late.”

  “I’ll figure something out, Frankie. I promise.” I looked around. Some girls had started to play badminton, and a few others were reading under the shadow cast by one of the buildings. “C’mon, I’ll show you around. I think they even have some board games in the main hall.”

  Frankie shrugged.

  I gave him a little nudge. “Challenge you to a game of checkers.”

  “Ha, challenge?” He smirked
. “You’ve never beaten me.”

  “We’ll see. Things are different now.”

  Chapter 18

  SCHOOL LAW APPROVED; CUBA TAKES OVER SCHOOL FACILITIES

  —THE NEW YORK TIMES, JUNE 8, 1961

  It was my fifth day at Kendall. I felt like a prisoner, counting the days of a sentence, waiting for my release. The only good moments were when I got to see Frankie, but other than that, I just couldn’t get used to life at the camp. There was never any real privacy, and we weren’t allowed to leave the area surrounding the girls’ camp. Not that there would be anywhere to go. We were in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a scattering of trees that housed millions of mosquitoes, and they seemed to be the only visitors we got.

  “Good night, Lucía.” A couple of voices called out in the dwindling light. The sun had gone down about fifteen minutes earlier, and since the lights were always turned off at exactly eight o’clock, most girls were already in their assigned beds, chatting until total darkness set in.

  “Hasta mañana,” I answered as I walked past the rows and rows of bunk beds. I had chosen to change in the bathroom so I could have a little bit of privacy, and now I was one of the last ones getting into the room.

  I thought about Mamá and Papá. Back home, we’d usually be finishing dinner at around this time. Were they eating right now? Would they spend the rest of the evening outside on the porch, trying to keep up appearances? When would I get a letter from them? I knew that all the mail was checked and read by the Cuban censors, but how much longer would it take?

  As I approached my bunk, Angela rolled over to face me. In the dim room, I could see she was waiting for me to get closer.

  “Psst, Lucía,” she said. “I have something for you.”

  “¿Qué?”

  “I took an extra one. You really need to be here on time.” She handed me a large sugar cookie and a carton of milk.

  “Thanks.” I tossed the carton and cookie up onto my bunk and took two steps up the ladder.