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

by Sheehy, Patti

  “Okay with what?”

  “With everything that’s happened?”

  “I guess,” I said, still unsure of Sergio’s meaning.

  Sensing my confusion, he clarified his question. “Are you willing to give it another try?”

  I took Magda’s hand in mine. She squeezed it hard and smiled at me. I opened my eyes wide, anticipating her response. She nodded.

  “We’ll give it another try. See what Cuni has to say.”

  “Okay,” said Sergio. “Now let’s get you back to the army.”

  Sergio drove me back to Santa Maria, and I practically ran back to base. I asked the guard on duty to radio Lazo, who came to open the gate to let me in. Lazo was stunned. He looked at me quizzically, turned to the guard, and said sternly, “This never happened, do you hear?”

  The guard regarded us with suspicion. He narrowed his eyes and looked at me closely. I held my breath for a long, agonizing moment. A lot depended on this young man’s response. I wondered if this would be the end for me. If he reported my transgression, there would be hell to pay.

  I looked at the soldier pleadingly, and he looked back at me with more understanding than I ever would’ve expected. He hesitated a moment, making up his mind about something that had nothing to do with me.

  Then he looked me straight in the eye and said, “I understand. Okay.”

  CHAPTER 27

  After my foiled escape attempt, Lazo decided to form a basketball team to provide me with cover should I need time to make arrangements for my next “trip.” Highly organized and very persuasive, he told Lieutenant Brown that we needed some extracurricular activities to boost morale and to build a relationship between the army and the civilian population.

  Brown agreed, and Lazo recruited enough men to form a special forces basketball team to compete against local schools. The team came together quickly.

  At first we played Santa Maria High School and the school in Guanabacoa. Many of the men knew each other from their former neighborhoods. The games were greeted with much enthusiasm.

  Lieutenants Brown and Pino attended these events, cheering us on from the sidelines. But when the number of games increased and we had to travel farther to get to them, the lieutenants decided they had better ways to spend their time.

  Lazo benched me for most games. He built a lot of leeway into the schedule, so I could get away to talk to Sergio or meet with Cuni without being missed.

  With the last attempted escape having come to ruin, Cuni was more cautious than ever in making his plans. He was suspicious about who had tipped off the authorities on the last go-round and wary about whom he could trust. He refused to employ any fisherman he didn’t know personally, limiting the number of boats he could use to take people out of Cuba.

  Weather was also a major concern. Hurricane season extended through late September, making it more difficult for anyone who wanted to leave Cuba. Storms were also common in October. We waited and waited, but no opportunities presented themselves for escape. My chances for anything happening in 1965 grew slimmer by the week.

  Magda and I saw each other during my monthly leaves. I continued to strengthen my relationship with Lieutenant Brown and my fellow soldiers. I improved my military skills, played basketball, and bided my time.

  In November, the CDRs took their inventory of the Hernándezes’ home. They questioned the family regarding their lack of possessions and were suspicious that things had been sold. But they had no proof of transgressions. The months dragged on with the Hernándezes getting increasingly nervous about getting out of Cuba before Rigo turned fifteen. They had not yet been granted a visa.

  By now a fresh group of recruits had entered the force, and Manny, Lazo, and I were looked up to as veterans. The new soldiers seemed very green to us, and we were chagrined to think we had once looked and acted the way they did. There were too many new soldiers for me to get to know them all. It would take a while.

  My relationship with Pino continued to be strained, and I knew he was looking for any excuse to nail me for even the slightest infraction. I tried to remain deferential toward him, but I still spoke my mind on occasion, which he found infuriating. What’s more, many of the other soldiers still challenged him politically. He blamed their defiance on me.

  But I had managed to cultivate a good relationship with Mikhail, the Russian commander who had taught us many technical aspects of the ATGMs. As I got to know him, I realized he was more like us than I would have imagined.

  A man about thirty-five, he had been forced to leave his country and family to come to Cuba. His parents were farmers, and he had grown up knowing the shame and pain of deprivation. He was married, had three children, and was eager to get home.

  He often shared meals with Manny, Lazo, and me, and we spent a lot of time together talking about sports and the differences in our respective cultures. He was no more enamored with communism than were we.

  In early March of 1966, Cuni informed Sergio that he was planning another “trip,” and Sergio and I needed to meet with him—soon. Lazo scheduled a basketball game on the day in question so I could leave to see Cuni without raising suspicions. We met at the park in Guanabacoa.

  “I have a fisherman who can take you and two others,” Cuni informed me.

  I started to ask a question and Cuni held up a hand for me to stop. “I know and trust the man.”

  “Good. When?”

  “March twentieth. There’s a small bar at the far end of El Malecón, a short way from the coast guard station in Cojimar. Meet me there at eight p.m.”

  I nodded, shook his hand, and made my way quickly back to the basketball game.

  Built in 1646, the coast guard station was located in a beautiful Spanish fort called El Torreón de Cojimar that once was the pride of Cuba. A gray stone, turreted building overlooking the harbor, it was a lively tourist attraction before the days of Fidel. It now served as a checkpoint for boats leaving and entering the harbor. It was heavily guarded and impossible to avoid. Every boat going in and out of the harbor had to stop there for inspection.

  My escape was to take place the Sunday night of my regularly scheduled leave. I savored the weekend, thinking it might be the last one I’d spend with Magda and my family for a very long time. Possibly ever. I spent Friday night with my family and the remainder of the weekend with Magda.

  I kissed her every chance I could, and I told her how much I loved her. I was bereft at the thought of leaving her. Once again, we talked about our promise not to doubt each other’s love—no matter what. On Sunday night, I bid Magda and her family a tender goodbye, and Sergio drove me to my meeting place with Cuni.

  The night was dark with gathering storm clouds. I studied the sky for a moment, a little concerned with what I saw. I got out of the car and shut the door quietly. As soon as I saw Cuni, he lifted his eyebrows and turned his back on me. I wasn’t alarmed. I knew what he was doing. He whistled softly as a signal for me to follow him. I walked behind him, sure to keep a safe distance.

  We walked about a block and a half to an old, run-down bar. A small wooden sign declaring its name dangled from a rusted pipe. It rattled against the brisk wind. Rawness seeped into the air, and a chill whipped my shoulders. There were very few patrons, only three old men smoking cigarettes and sipping beers and a young man drinking jiggers of rum. Cuni nodded for me to follow him through a side door that led to the basement.

  We walked down a narrow staircase with cracked plaster walls and holes in the ceiling. Mouse droppings covered an uneven mud floor, and a bare lightbulb cast an eerie glow on two boys. Cuni introduced them to me as Joey and Pedro Lopez. Joey was thirteen and Pedro was fifteen, although Joey was bigger and looked slightly older than his brother.

  We shook hands, and Cuni made a small joke about us “all being in the same boat.” I wondered what they were doing there before I realized that these frightened boys were to be my traveling companions.

  Cuni told me their father had owned the candy
factory in Cojimar that Fidel had seized several years before. I remembered Abuelo buying me candy from there when I was a child. It was always a special treat. Once a large and successful business, the building that housed it lay abandoned, its equipment stolen, its windows shattered. Pigeons perched on its windowsills, its sole inhabitants.

  After talking for a few minutes, Cuni took us outside to the edge of the water. There was no beach, only sharp ragged rocks that jutted at dangerous angles like giant slabs of Arctic ice, rocks that could slice your feet or cause you to break a leg or to sprain an ankle. It would have been difficult enough to navigate them during the day, but at night it would be an exercise in balance and agility. I hoped the boys were careful enough to make it safely over this rough terrain.

  I assumed this was our place of departure, that a boat would be along soon to pick us up. Cuni pointed to a light bobbing on the horizon. It looked like a beacon or lantern of some kind, but I wasn’t sure. Although I didn’t have any equipment with me to measure distance, I reckoned it to be about a mile out.

  “Do you see the light in that fishing boat?”

  “Yes,” I said, glad that Cuni had told me what it was.

  “That boat will take you to a larger one, which will take you into international waters.”

  I nodded my understanding. “How long before it comes to pick us up?” I was hoping it would arrive shortly. I was cold and apprehensive and wanted to get started as soon as possible.

  “The boat can’t come in here. It’s too rocky,” explained Cuni. “The fisherman doesn’t want to chance wrecking his boat.”

  “How do we get to it then?”

  “You’ll have to swim.”

  “All of us?”

  “All of you. I remember you said you were a strong swimmer.”

  “I am,” I said, feeling suddenly apprehensive. “But what about the kids?”

  “Their father says they can swim. I take him at his word.”

  My eyes widened. I looked at the boys in alarm, unsure of what to do. They didn’t look very strong. I doubted they could make it.

  I leaned down to talk to them. “Do you think you can swim that far?” They both nodded yes. The younger boy seemed more certain than his brother. I just shook my head. “You can back out if you want. There’s no shame in it.”

  “No, we want to go,” insisted Pedro. He hesitated a moment. “We promised our father.”

  “And you, Joey?”

  “I go wherever Pedro goes,” he said matter-of-factly. The boys looked at me expectantly. I was surprised at myself for feeling so paternal. They were very charming kids. I was thinking of my own brothers and how they would react in such a situation.

  “Okay. You’ll need to swim quietly. No talking or splashing around. You hear?”

  The boys nodded. I took off my shoes and instructed the boys to do likewise. They looked very somber. We walked carefully over the rocks and lowered ourselves slowly into the water. It was bracingly cold, and a shiver ran through my body. I looked back to see how the boys were faring. Pedro was up to his waist in the coal-black water. Joey was close behind him.

  I started doing the breaststroke as quietly as I could, and the boys followed suit. We had not removed our clothes, and they weighed heavily upon our bodies. I heard the steady strokes of the boys and was heartened that they seemed to be good swimmers. Still, the boat was a long way out to sea. About halfway there, the wind picked up and the waves started splashing our faces. I kept a close watch on the boys. None of us said a word. We needed to conserve our energy.

  Every so often I heard one of the boys cough. It was a sharp, rasping sound that quickly disappeared into the night air. The sea was choppy and the boys were having difficulty keeping their heads above water. I was trying not to think what would happen if one of them got into trouble.

  The boat was getting closer, and I hoped Joey and Pedro would make it. Pedro was struggling. I called to him to keep going. He looked like he could use some encouragement. The fisherman held up a lantern to help us see.

  Suddenly, a large wave caught us off guard and smacked us all square in the face. Joey and I were able to handle it, but Pedro swallowed a mouthful of water. He cried out in fear. He was losing control, flailing his arms, and splashing helplessly against the white-capped waves.

  “Hold on, Pedro. I’m coming,” I screamed.

  I swam as fast as I could toward Pedro, fighting the turbulent sea. I grabbed him by the hair and wrapped my arm around his chest, doing the sidestroke while I pulled him along. He was choking and sputtering, but luckily he didn’t fight me, a common reaction of a person who’s drowning.

  I could barely see Joey in the darkness. He looked afraid. I wiped water from my eyes. “Tread water for as long as you can,” I hollered. “I’ll come back for you soon.”

  “I’m okay,” he said. He appeared stronger than I would’ve expected. “Just take care of Pedro.” His voice was thin and tinny and was soon swallowed by the wind.

  I swam away slowly, dragging Pedro along with me. I was fighting the waves every stroke of the way. The water was getting rougher, slapping my face and forcing its way up my nose. I worked to blow the water out of my nostrils without using my hands. My calf suddenly cramped, and I fought hard against the pain.

  When we got to the boat the fisherman helped pull Pedro out of the water. Pedro moaned, and his legs thumped against the bottom of the boat. He scrambled to right his body. A moment later I heard the pitiful sound of retching. The fisherman held his hand on Pedro’s back to comfort him, while I hung on to the side of the boat for a minute, kneading the muscles in my right leg, and catching my breath before swimming back for Joey. I just hoped the wind hadn’t made the water too choppy for me to save him.

  I pushed off from the boat with my feet and swam toward the boy who was struggling to stay afloat. “Hurry,” screamed Joey. His voice was ragged. He looked like he had not an ounce of energy left.

  “I’m coming,” I said. “Just don’t fight me when I get to you.”

  I grabbed Joey around his chest—the way I had his brother. White foam capped the black water. I inched Joey toward the boat. The fisherman had started his small outboard motor and was heading our way. Within a few minutes he was alongside us.

  He took the motor out of gear and idled it before lifting Joey out of the water. Pedro helped pull his brother aboard and I waited, holding onto the rail, exhausted. I lifted my one leg over the side of the boat and pulled myself in. My clothes clung to my body and water ran in rivulets down my hands and feet. My arms and legs ached and my head was pounding. I worked to catch my breath.

  The fisherman blew out the lantern, and we sat in silence for a minute, trying to regain our composure. The boys had wrapped their arms around themselves. Their bodies were shaking and their teeth were chattering from cold and fright. The wind whistled and blew a cold drizzle around us. Pedro and Joey huddled close together for warmth. They looked to me for solace, but I had little energy left to give them.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I said. “You were both very brave.”

  Joey and Pedro glanced up at me and nodded. Joey was blinking, his eyes wide with fright. There was no reason to smile.

  The boat was only thirteen feet long, and it took water over its sides with every crashing wave. I looked around, found a pail, and started to bail. Joey stood shakily, grabbed an old rusted coffee can and began bailing beside me. I was very glad for his help.

  Without saying a word, the fisherman steered the boat away from land. It slapped against the waves and pitched against the wind, its motor lurching and struggling. We fought the wind for more than two hours, bailing, battling the waves, and inching our way toward the Straits of Florida.

  The boat we met was not much bigger than the one we were on—only twenty-feet long. We made the transfer successfully, and the smaller boat headed back to Cuba. We listened to the hum of its motor as it disappeared into the distance. The wind finally consumed its drone. Th
e evaporation of the sound into the night was eerie.

  The boys and I were freezing, and I was afraid we were all suffering from hypothermia. We sat shivering and looking up at lightning, which zigzagged across the sky, revealing fast-moving clouds. The wind picked up. Thunder boomed its arrival like a large kettledrum. Rain would soon follow.

  Our clothes were sopping wet, and I wasn’t sure whether we’d be better off with or without them. Pedro’s lips were turning blue. Joey looked terrified. Suddenly, the captain, a big man nicknamed Macho, cut off the motor. We sat in silence, listening to the waves whipping the sides of the boat. We were all only one large wave away from death.

  “Why are you stopping?” I asked.

  “I’m waiting for the patrol boats to cross.”

  At least Macho sounded like he knew what he was doing.

  I looked to the horizon and saw the patrol boats in the distance. I remembered Ralph cautioning me that this would be the most dangerous part of the journey. I sucked in my breath in apprehension. I could see a large ship much farther out, my ticket to Magda, and I longed for its safety and shelter.

  Suddenly, the skies opened up and pelted our faces with a stinging rain. It came sideways like crystal needles, pounding our shoulders and rocking the boat. I was afraid we were about to turn over. Joey began to cry and Pedro admonished him to be quiet. Joey bit his lip and stopped sobbing. I was amazed at his bravery.

  Macho struggled with the steering wheel, trying to turn the boat around. The motor was straining. Pedro and Joey clung to each other like Siamese twins, looking forlorn and helpless.

  The waves knocked us from side to side and, for a moment, the motor sputtered. Another wave hit us, and Joey was thrown to the side of the boat. He had lost his balance and was about to go over. I lunged for him, grabbed him by the back of his shirt and steadied him until he regained his footing. I turned around and looked at Macho.

  “What are you doing?” I screamed.

  Macho hollered back against the howling wind. “We’ll never make it. The storm is too bad. I’m taking us back.”