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

by Sheehy, Patti

  “Talk to me, Mima.”

  My mother looked at me, confused. “What should I say, Frankie?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I just want to hear your voice. Say what you used to say when you called me for dinner when I was a boy. Do you remember?”

  Of course,” she said. “Come for dinner, my little chickadee.”

  “Why did you call me ‘chickadee’?”

  “I don’t know. I started to call you that as a baby.”

  I sighed and tears welled in my eyes. “Thanks for saying that.”

  I took my mother in my arms and held her tightly. “Oh, Frankie,” she said. “I just can’t believe that you’re a fugitive and all those men are after you. They’re out to kill you. I never would have thought that people would be trying to kill my son. What will happen if—?”

  “Shush,” I said. “Everything will be okay. I’ve made it so far, haven’t I?”

  “Yes, but—”

  I looked into her sad eyes and said, “I know it must be terrible for you. But you must believe in me. I’ve been trained by the best. I can do this. I’ll make it.” It suddenly occurred to me that I was saying this more to convince myself than to convince her.

  “I remember when you were a little boy. I had such hopes, such dreams for you, for college—”

  “Hush, Mima. Your dreams will come true. And so will mine. It’s just a matter of time. When I get to the States, I’ll find a way to let you know I’m safe.”

  “I hope it all works,” said my mother fretfully. “I pray for you every day. Everyone I know is saying rosaries and novenas for you. Everyone. And we will all keep on praying.”

  “I know you will, Mima. And I will pray for you, too. Don’t worry. We’ll see each other again someday.”

  Mima and I exchanged rueful smiles before I gently kissed her goodbye.

  My visit with George was no less sentimental. We talked about the family and my life in the army. We had never really had much time to bond in our lives, and I told him how sorry I was for not being able to be a real big brother to him. I think we both felt robbed because of that. I know I did.

  But soon our talk turned to more practical matters. He asked me for names of people who could possibly help him and ideas on how to get out of Cuba. I gave him Cuni’s name but made him promise never to disclose it—to anyone.

  I told him about my experiences so far in trying to escape, and I warned him about the dangers and difficulties involved. I impressed upon him the perils in approaching international waters and how frequently the patrol boats went by.

  He was listening intently, taking mental notes. He was a very bright young man and as passionate as I was about not living his life under Fidel.

  I hoped someday we would be reunited in America.

  CHAPTER 38

  Something was terribly wrong. The blue-eyed boy was out back while I was doing my exercises, but he was not behaving in his usual manner. He was not his shy, elusive self. Rather, he was gesticulating wildly, marching back and forth at the perimeter of the property and beating his pail with a stick.

  I was dressed in my workout clothes: sneakers, shorts, and a short-sleeve shirt. Having just completed one hundred push-ups, I looked at the moon for a minute before doing my sit-ups. Large clouds scudded across it, occasionally hiding it from view. I turned my focus again on the boy. He was trying to draw attention to himself, but I couldn’t figure out why. His behavior was filling me with a deep sense of dread.

  Suddenly, a group of twenty-some soldiers climbed over both sides of the walls surrounding Luis’s property. They advanced quickly, crouched low to avoid detection. They were carrying machine guns pointed downward. I looked at them in alarm, grateful that the boy had given me a moment of warning. I drew in my breath, frantically trying to figure out what to do.

  The boy pounded on his pail louder and faster, doing everything possible to distract the soldiers. I ran into the house to warn Rosa and Luis. When I entered the kitchen, I heard blunt pounding on the front door. “Get out of here!” said Luis. His eyes were filled with fear and his voice was urgent and intentionally low, too low for the soldiers to overhear. Rosa held the back door open for me.

  • • •

  “Open up in there,” called a soldier. “Do it now, or I’ll break down the door.” Christ, I thought, what should I do?

  I ran out the back door and mounted the wall near the rear of house. From there I scrambled up to the brown-tiled roof. I looked back to see some of the soldiers following the boy. I was concerned and puzzled. I had no idea what to make of this.

  Why would the boy try to warn me? And why would he risk his own life by trying to draw attention away from me? His behavior could be considered aiding a fugitive. He could be arrested. Maybe he didn’t know that—or maybe he didn’t care. The boy had been a mystery to me from the first time I saw him. But I had no time to think about him now.

  From my perch atop the roof, I could see the tops of the soldiers’ heads. I recognized some of them. They had divided themselves into small groups and had occupied the entire street. Several military trucks were parked at the end of the road. Soldiers were conducting a house-to-house search. From their behavior I knew they had not specifically targeted my uncle’s house, but were executing a general reconnaissance of the neighborhood.

  I tiptoed across the roof, careful not to dislodge any tiles. I didn’t need tiles crashing to the ground and alerting the soldiers to my whereabouts. I leapt the five-foot distance to the roof of the neighbor’s house, bent low so as not to be seen. I could hear the rumble of military vehicles close by.

  I crept over the roofs of four more houses and, having run out of structures, slipped quietly down a telephone pole and onto the sidewalk. Sweat galloped down my back and my heart beat wildly, partly from exertion and partly from fear.

  I knew if I ran, I would attract attention to myself, so I calmly walked down the street as if I were just a neighborhood guy out for a stroll. A stray dog hobbled along the road, limping and yelping intermittently as if he were hurt. He was a small dog—some kind of a mutt—and, under different circumstances, I would have stopped to pet him.

  Behind me I could hear the trucks revving up. Then Pino screamed, “Over there! That’s him! That’s our man! Get him!”

  I looked back and saw three trucks following me. They were loaded with armed soldiers. My mind was working furiously, thinking of ways to outsmart them. Everything Brown had ever taught me flashed through my mind.

  To my chagrin, two more trucks appeared on the other side of the street, trapping me right in the middle. Fear gained a foothold in the pit of my stomach, and my wits sharpened. I ran like the wind for three or four blocks with the trucks quickly gaining on me. I zigzagged to make it more difficult for the soldiers to shoot me.

  Suddenly, I was faced with a six-foot wall of sisal—a tropical plant used to make rope. Sisal three rows deep sat atop a berm used to fence a farm. The plant erupted in spiky, sharp spears that fanned out in various directions. Fierce thorns populated both sides of the blades. Sisal grew wild in Cuba and, when the plants grew back-to-back, they formed an almost impenetrable barrier. I was familiar with how much damage the thorns could inflict on skin. My legs had made the acquaintance of sisal when I was a boy, and they had oozed icky, yellow pus for days.

  The trucks stopped about a half block from the berm, and Pino jumped out with a spring in his step. He started walking toward me with a chilling, satisfied grin, delighted to have finally cornered his quarry. Brown followed, looking less than pleased at the whole situation. Behind them Manny, Lazo, and my entire platoon looked on in horror.

  Pino took out his pistol and pointed it at me. He grinned like a Cheshire cat.

  “Put your hands up, Mederos.”

  I raised my hands in the air in a deliberate motion, palms out. My mind was racing, searching for my next move. “Now walk toward me slowly.”

  I kept my hands in the air and started walking in Pino’
s direction. As I did, he began taunting me. After having waited for such a long time to catch me, he was enjoying every minute of this drama. My mind was laser focused.

  “Here he is, men. Here’s the worm that ran away. This is the guy who thinks he’s smarter than all of us. Take a good look at him because this may be the last time you’ll ever see him alive.”

  I continued walking in the lieutenant’s direction. Pino looked right at me, savoring my predicament. He appeared to be simultaneously giddy and filled with staunch resolve—an odd combination.

  “Hey, Mederos, how does it feel to be trapped like a dog?” he hollered. “What are you going to do now?”

  I just stared at him and continued walking. My adrenalin was flowing. I felt like a racehorse at the starting gate.

  Pino turned to Brown and said with relish, “So, here’s your wonder boy, Lieutenant. Let’s see him escape. Let’s see how your training gets him out of this one.”

  Brown was eyeing me closely, curious to see how I’d respond. He was not as convinced as Pino that this game was over. While Pino was talking, I sauntered toward him slowly and calmly. Brown had taught me self-control. I was a model of obsequiousness and compliance.

  I knew Pino might shoot me right then and there, but I thought it would be too quick for him—too easy. I figured he’d rather have the satisfaction of taking me in. After he made an example of me, he could do with me as he wished. What’s more, he might think that killing me in front of the troops would damage morale, but I couldn’t be sure. His anger made him unpredictable.

  I kept walking until I got where I wanted to be. I had judged the distance I needed carefully. Without any warning, I turned on a dime and ran like a jackrabbit straight for the berm. The distance gave me the momentum I needed to scale it. The move startled Pino, and it took him a second to recover.

  I was prepared—every muscle in my body was working in unison. I jumped as high as I could and hurled my body at an angle that would roll the sisal aside so it would do the least amount of damage to my skin. I screamed in pain as sharp thorns pierced my body, dragging ragged bits of flesh along with them. I felt like a thousand bees had stung me, but I kept going.

  I landed on the other side of the berm, bruised and bleeding. I rolled as soon as I hit the ground. Pino began shooting. He couldn’t see me through the thicket, so he was shooting blindly. He let loose with several rounds of ammunition. I heard him order the other soldiers to follow suit. He sounded almost frantic in his desire to have them obey his command. As soon as he did, Brown countermanded his order, screaming, “No, shooting, damn it. No shooting.”

  Despite Brown’s order, several shots rang out, probably from Pino’s own gun. But I managed to avoid them. I crawled on my hands and knees for a distance to move out of the range of fire. Pino ordered the soldiers to push forward, but I knew it would be impossible for the trucks to penetrate the trees and thicket. The soldiers would have to circle the berm—about eight blocks around—to try to find me. I calculated it would take them nine or ten minutes.

  Along with the thorns, several sisal tips had embedded themselves in my arms and legs, and I winced when I removed them. Adrenalin was still pumping through my veins, somewhat masking the pain. Blood streamed down my limbs, and I knew I’d have to find a way to stanch its flow so I couldn’t be followed. If they used dogs to find me, I would be easy prey.

  I clawed through the weeds, brambles, and vines until I hit soil and then rubbed dirt on my arms, legs, and face to stop the bleeding. The dirt was dry and pebbled with small stones. It was counterintuitive to throw dirt on a wound, but it absorbed my blood.

  The good thing was that I had explored this area as a kid. I knew where I was. I had hunted here with a bow and arrow with my childhood playmates. I took a minute to get my bearings. I inspected the star-rich sky with an eye for direction. The Big Dipper informed me which way was north. My legs and hips were bruised and smarting so I couldn’t run at top speed.

  I limped along as well as I could in the direction of a cave I used to hide in with Jabao. I wiped my forehead with my shirtsleeve. I just hoped I could stay one step ahead of my stalkers. Blue-gray clouds covered the moon, and the hoot of an owl heralded my arrival.

  Ceiba and jacaranda trees I remembered as a boy were still standing. I recalled cooling myself beneath their branches and regarded them as old friends. They served as landmarks for the location of caves.

  I scrambled around in the brush for a while before locating the cave I sought. It was not a large cave, only big enough for two or three people. When we played in this vicinity as children, we all had our own cave. This one was Jabao’s. Gilbert’s was not far away, in the direction of the Rio Lajas. So was mine.

  I stooped, gathered some sticks and broke them into small twigs. They snapped cleanly, sharply, piercing the air with a crackle. I also gathered some jaundiced weeds to obscure the mouth of the cave.

  I knew how to arrange the twig and weed cover so the entrance of the cave would blend with the terrain. I wriggled myself into the cave and affixed the twig cover from the inside out. Once it was in place, the cave was pitch-dark.

  It was difficult for me to be there without thinking of my youth which, at the moment, seemed like eons ago. The caves that had once served as a fond childhood memory would now be forever associated in my mind with running for my life.

  Damn Fidel! He was not only making me fight for a future, he was robbing me of my past. Still, I was happy for the shelter. I sat with my knees pulled up to my chin for a very long time, catching my breath and waiting for my heart to regain its normal rhythm.

  It was so dark in the cave, it didn’t matter whether my eyes were open or shut. I kept them open just because it felt more natural. My right leg cramped for a minute, and I shook out the pain. I could hear the sounds of trucks and voices in the distance. At one point, they came closer and then faded away.

  Every part of my body grew quiet, as if I were in hibernation. As I thought about what the next day might bring, fear descended upon me like a leaden cloak. Bile rose from my stomach and burned the back of my throat, but I worked to suppress the desire to cough, fearing it might reveal my location to the soldiers.

  The cave was damp and moist, filled with the acrid smell of guano. Flies buzzed my ears, and I waved them away. I was very thirsty, and I licked my lips to moisten them. The mud on my arms and legs was beginning to dry and crack. It was starting to itch, but I resisted the urge to scratch. I distracted myself with the whistling sound made by the wings of mourning doves as they landed nearby.

  A spider marched across my hand, its delicate legs tickling my skin. I impatiently slapped it away. It didn’t feel like a tarantula, but it could’ve been. They were common enough in these parts. I wondered what other creatures might be in the cave with me. For a moment I thought I saw the bright, eerie eyes of a wild cat, but when I looked again it had vanished.

  With each passing hour I felt a little safer. After a while, I let my muscles relax almost to the point of drifting off to sleep. I yawned deeply. I was bone tired, but I caught myself each time my eyelids began drooping and my chin started resting on my chest. I needed to remain alert for any indication that the soldiers were approaching.

  I stayed up all night, listening for threatening sounds and hoping they wouldn’t put dogs on my trail in the morning. Although I was well trained in escape tactics, being in the cave had triggered memories of a childhood trick that might serve me well. Under the circumstances, it was better than anything Lieutenant Brown had drilled into me—it could even save my life.

  I soothed myself with that thought and with memories of kissing Magda. My recollection of the last time our lips had met remained as fresh in my mind as white linen.

  Despite my fatigue, I left the cave well before daybreak to head for the river.

  CHAPTER 39

  Not finding me in the darkness, Pino suspended the search until morning. The soldiers set up a tent so the officers could sleep on
the bridge overlooking the Rio Lajas, while they made camp on the river banks. Pino had cordoned off all the roads leading out of the area and had ordered the trucks to take positions on both sides of the river. He was taking no chances that I would elude him.

  Early the following morning, the soldiers fanned out across the area, a jungle-like terrain thick with vines and branches jutting every which way. They systematically plowed the fields, poking walls of brush and bushes with their machine guns. Some soldiers stood atop one another and peered through binoculars. They faced a tedious, time-consuming task, but they were determined to find me.

  An hour before most of the soldiers arose I exited the cave and made my way through the area, stopping briefly at Gilbert’s cave to rest. I inched toward the riverbank on my belly, across the briars, the wild blackberry, and the root-rich ground, hardly feeling the toll it was taking on my body. I moved quietly and slowly through the brush, fearing any quick movement—any snap of a twig—could give me away.

  As I approached the river, someone called to Lieutenant Pino. I could hear them talking, arguing. As soon as they turned their backs on me, I slithered into the water like a crocodile off a steep riverbank. The river had a very swift current, and I knew which way it ran. Flowers and reeds lined the sides of the river and floated atop the surface of the water, forming a tangle of cover. These were the same hollow reeds my cousins and I used to play hide-and-seek with when we were kids.

  I plucked a long reed and placed my lips around it, sinking quietly, stealthily beneath the surface of the water. The reed enabled me to breathe without being detected, and I made my way quickly, cautiously, downstream. I swam right under the bridge where the soldiers were positioned. I could hear the strum of their voices through the water. I swam a little faster. This was not a place I cared to linger.

  Although the Rio Lajas was not very wide, it was deep, deep enough to enable me to swim quite a distance without being detected. I swam about a mile downstream before I saw the sun begin to filter through the water. I listened carefully for the voices of soldiers. They were intermittent and growing less distinct. After a while, they faded into silence. Thinking it safe, I raised my head above the water and looked around. I judged the coast to be clear and let out a sigh of relief.