Leaving Glorytown

by Eduardo F. Calcines

  Abuelo nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “They are doing it for fun.”

  “But what kind of people would do such a thing?” I raged. “Who would say these things about Mama? Abuelo, I’ve never been so mad in all my life!”

  “Eduar, one of the hardest lessons in life is that there are evil people in this world who take pleasure in hurting others,” Abuela said. “They have no sense of right and wrong, and they don’t care about your feelings. They are so unhappy and so far from decency that the only time they feel good is when they make others feel as bad as they do.”

  “I can’t do this,” I said. “I just can’t. I felt like I couldn’t even breathe. I’m—I’m—”

  “Angry,” observed Abuelo.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  Their calmness and acceptance helped me to relax, and my shoulders slumped. My fists, which had been clenched all afternoon, became hands again.

  “Abuelo, please help me. What should I do?” I asked.

  Abuelo gave me a kind smile. Then he turned his eyes up to the wall, where the picture hung.

  More Goodbyes

  Right after Papa was taken away, the government finally did what we had been dreading. It closed Tio William’s distribution company and confiscated everything: trucks, tanks, hoses, tools, and building. Tio had employed ten people, and he had hundreds of regular customers who depended on him for the gas to run their cars and the alcohol to fuel their stoves. We’d been allowed to keep the business running in his absence, but now those ten employees and their families, plus Abuelo Julian and Abuela Ana, who had also needed his help in spite of Abuelo’s job, plus anyone who might have depended on Tio’s drivers for black-market food, were out of luck. We realized we were about to join the masses of Cuban poor.

  One day I walked in on my mother sitting alone in the kitchen, crying.

  “Mama, what’s the matter?” I asked.

  Mama hated to be seen like this. She’d always despised the image of women as weaklings, and she never wanted her children to sense the despair that was taking over her heart. But she couldn’t hide her tears, no matter how fast she dried them with her apron.

  “I just feel so bad for poor William,” she said. “He started out with a wagon that he pulled himself, because he couldn’t even afford a horse! Twenty years later, he had a fleet of trucks with his name on them. He was an important man. And now these animals just step in and steal everything. Why?”

  “Tío is tough,” I said. “He’ll figure something out.”

  “Aiee, Eduar, I know he will,” said Mama. “I’m not worried about that. It’s just . . . these are terrible times for Cuba. Terrible times. Everyone is being pushed to the limit, and some people can’t handle it.”

  “You can handle it, can’t you, Mama?” I asked, worried.

  “Of course I can handle it,” she snapped, straightening her back. “As long as I can draw breath into my lungs, I will survive, and so will you. So let’s not have any talk about not handling it. Sometimes I wish things were the way they used to be, Eduar, that’s all. But there’s no use complaining about what you can’t change. Remember that, niño.”

  “Yes, Mama,” I said.

  “But I do have to find a way to make some money,” Mama said, sighing.

  I knew that my many aunts and uncles had offered to do what they could, but Mama was too proud to accept handouts. Besides, everyone else was suffering just as much as we were.

  “I can quit school,” I told Mama. “I can find a way to make money.”

  “Are you crazy? The Communists would never allow it,” she said. “Once they see you’re gone, they’ll come looking for you. And that’s the kind of attention this family does not need.”

  “Well, if we don’t get some money somehow, it won’t matter what the Communists think, because we’ll all be dead!” I said.

  “Niño, you go to school, and let me worry about feeding us. I’m your mother. That’s my job.”

  So I prayed that Mama would find a way to make enough money to keep on feeding us at least one meal a day.

  Time passed slowly. Papa came home from his first month at the work camp on a weekend furlough. He looked sunburned and exhausted, and he was stooped with pain from his hernia. When he walked in the door, Esther and I were so happy that we cried, and once again Mama opened her eyes wide and looked up at the ceiling.

  Mama had cautioned us against asking too many questions, but Esther and I were burning to know what life was like at the work camp.

  “They work us like slaves,” he said. “We spend fourteen or fifteen hours a day out in the fields. We get practically nothing for breakfast and only slightly more than that at lunch. At dinner, we get wormy hard bread and canned meat. Then we sleep like dead men until the sun comes up, when they wake us by screaming in our faces and pushing us out the door again.”

  “Felo, you don’t have to talk about it,” Mama said, her voice trembling.

  “No, I want them to know.”

  “But they’re only children!”

  “The Communists don’t care if they’re only children,” Papa said. “To them, we’re just worms. So I want you to listen, kids. This is how the Communists treat people who dare to disagree with them. We sleep in an old chicken pen, and believe me when I say they didn’t clean it out first. After all day in the fields, they herd us into a stall and hose us down with cold water.”

  Esther and I listened sadly. Our poor papa!

  “And that’s not all,” Papa said. “Some men get beaten up by the guards for no reason. Or they are told cruel lies about what their wives are doing to survive back home. A lot of men can’t take it. They used to be doctors, or lawyers, or businessmen like Tío William. Some have worked in offices all their lives. Their hands are soft, and their spirits are weak. But they had good minds. How do these Communists think they are going to create the perfect workers’ paradise, when they’re killing our best and brightest?” He shook his head.

  “What happens to them?” I asked.

  “Sometimes they go mad, and sometimes they just lie down and die,” Papa said.

  “Felo! That’s too much!” Mama said. “You’re going to terrify them!”

  “And why shouldn’t they be terrified?” Papa said. “It’s not like we can hide from them what’s happening. They may be only children, but they have eyes and ears, Concha. Don’t you think I wish we lived in a world where little ones didn’t have to deal with such things? Of course I do! But we don’t, and there is nothing to be gained from pretending otherwise!”

  Esther began to cry. “I don’t want you to die, Papa!” she said.

  “Papa’s not going to die,” I told her. “He’s too tough. Right, Papa?”

  “They’re never going to get me down,” he said. His voice was full of a bitter strength that I admired. “They’ll try, but they won’t break me. I can take anything they dish out.”

  Then I noticed a burlap bag that Papa had brought with him.

  “What’s in there?” I asked.

  He opened it and removed a chunk of hard bread and some cans of meat.

  “My rations,” he said. “I tried to save as much as I could to share with my family. The guards didn’t want to let me, but I told them it was my food and I could do with it what I wanted. I thought they were going to shoot me right then and there. But I didn’t care. It’s in God’s hands when I die. I just couldn’t stand the thought of my two little ones going hungry.”

  When Mama heard this, she put her hands over her mouth and opened her eyes wide yet again. “Give it to me, Felo. I’ll make us something to eat,” she said when she’d recovered her composure. “Are you hungry?”

  “I just want to sleep,” Papa said. “But first I want to hold my kids. Come here and sit on my lap, you two. Do you know how much I’ve missed you?”

  Esther and I climbed carefully onto his lap.

  “We pray for you every night,” I told Papa.

  “I pray for you, too,” Pa
pa said. “Which reminds me. Conchita, I hope you still aren’t taking the kids to church.”

  “Church? No,” Mama said. “Not after what happened to Aida.”

  “Good,” he said quietly.

  Tía Aida, the mother of my cousins Luis and Ernesto, had been served with papers that accused her of “false indoctrination” and “corrupting the morals of children”—her own children. Her crime was sending her boys to weekly religious education classes. If Tía Aida had been convicted, under the law she could have been sent to prison for ten years. The Jesuit superintendent in Cienfuegos had made a special plea to the authorities, and the charges had been dropped. But this incident scared Tía so badly that not only did she stop sending her boys to religious education, she never went to church again. And neither did we.

  Christians were persecuted all over Cuba. Abuelo had told us a horrible story that he’d heard from a friend at the sugar mill. His friend had been on the street when he heard a strange chanting. Somewhere, people were yelling, “Long live Christ the King!” Daring to ask a passerby what was going on, he was told that the chanting was coming from a nearby prison. The people making all the noise had been arrested for saying that God was greater than Fidel.

  “But what is going to happen to them?” he had asked.

  “They’re going to be shot in the morning,” came the reply.

  Abuelo’s friend got away from there in a hurry.

  Papa’s visit was all too short. It was his responsibility to get back to the work camp on time, but the only method of travel was the bus, which was so unreliable that he had to leave well in advance.

  “Why don’t you just run away, Papa?” I suggested. “You can go hide in the country! They’ll never find you!”

  “Believe me, niño, not only would they find me, but they would take it out on Mama and you kids,” he said. “You don’t want to give them any reason at all to come down hard on us, or we’ll never get out of here.”

  “You’re right,” I admitted. “We’d better not attract any attention to ourselves.”

  “That’s my boy. Now you’re learning how to think ahead, instead of just acting impulsively. Don’t forget, it’s only a matter of time before that telegram comes,” Papa said.

  I hadn’t wanted to ask about the telegram, but now that he brought it up, I said, “Papa, how much longer do you think we’ll have to wait?”

  “That’s in God’s hands, too. I have no idea. But it’s going to come in a jeep, delivered by an officer. He’s going to be rude, but who cares? Because when it comes, exactly one week to the day later, we will be on an airplane to the United States of America. And then, my little ones . . .”

  Papa grew speechless and misty-eyed.

  Then he kissed each of us goodbye and got on the bus.

  Señora Felicia had been serious when she told me she didn’t ever want to hear another word from me. A few days after Papa left, I was sitting at my desk, trying not to get into trouble, when I realized I had to have a bowel movement. I raised my hand, but she ignored me. My waving became frantic, and I knew she had to know why, but this sadistic woman continued to ignore me until the inevitable happened: I lost control of my bowels, right there in my seat.

  The smell permeated the air instantly. All my classmates began to gag and retch. Then they looked around to see who had done it. Their laughter rang throughout the room.

  “Calcines!” screamed Señora Felicia. “Get out of my class!”

  I got up and ran out of the room, holding my pants up until I got to the toilet. There I cleaned myself up as best I could, too humiliated even to cry. Instead of toilet paper, we had only pieces of scrap paper and pages from old magazines. But these were so harsh and thick that they just made the mess worse.

  When I was done, I thought for sure I’d be allowed to go home, but there was a kid waiting for me in the hallway. He was pinching his nose shut with his fingers.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “Señora Felicia says you have to stay and line up for dismissal,” he told me.

  “You’re kidding,” I said. “What does she want from me?”

  “How should I know? Just don’t stand next to me!” he said.

  I lined up with everyone else, trying to ignore the taunts and jibes of the children within smelling range. When the bell rang, I ran faster than I ever had before. At home, I washed my clothes before Mama could find them. I didn’t want any more people than necessary to know.

  But the damage had been done. Word got around, and soon it was open season on Eduardo Calcines. In addition to being a worm, I was a poopypants. Even Rolando, Tito, and Luis took their jibes at me for a few days.

  “It’s that damn Señora Felicia!” I told them. “She knew I had to crap and she just ignored me!”

  They knew it was true, but they laughed nonetheless.

  One day soon after, Abuela came charging into our house, her eyes bright with excitement.

  “What is it?” Mama asked.

  “It’s Arturo and Dinorah,” Abuela replied. “They’ve gotten their telegram!”

  “What!” I shouted. “When?”

  “Just today! An hour ago!”

  I ran to the door and looked up and down the street. We had applied for our visas around the same time, and this news gave me hope that our telegram would be coming, too. But San Carlos Street was empty, except for a dog sitting in the middle of the road, licking himself. I went back inside, discouraged.

  “It’s not fair!” I groused. “We’ve been waiting just as long as they have!”

  “Eduardo Francisco Calcines!” said Mama sharply. “We should be happy, not resentful. Your aunt and uncle and little cousin are going to be together with Arturito again, and they’re going to be free. When you see them, I want you to offer them your congratulations. And if I hear one word of jealousy from you, your bottom will feel my hairbrush. M’entiendes?”

  “Yes, Mama,” I said.

  “Don’t forget, niño, it’s a lottery,” Abuela said. “You never know who is going to get picked. It could just as easily have been you. Your time is coming.”

  Tío Arturo and Tía Dinorah’s son, Arturito, had gone to America in 1962, through the Peter Pan Program. There had been rumors that Cuban children would be taken away from their families and put in indoctrination camps run by the Cuban government. The Catholic Church, working with the United States government, was able to find temporary homes for some boys and girls with Catholic families in America. It had been hard for all of us to see Arturito go, but especially Tío Arturo and Tía Dinorah. It was wonderful news that they would all be together again.

  My aunt and uncle had just a week to get ready. They couldn’t pack much because of the law that said almost everything in their house was considered the property of the state. On the day they were leaving, the army sent an officer with a list of their possessions, so he could make sure they weren’t going to “steal” anything. Never mind that all those things had been paid for with their own money before the Revolution—if so much as one square foot of carpet or one piece of silverware was missing, the officer threatened, their visas would be revoked.

  The entire extended family had come to say goodbye, and we all held our breath as this self-important little martinet went through the house, checking off item after item and asking questions in a shrill tone. But finally he left, satisfied, and we breathed a sigh of relief.

  Then the sad part came.

  Abuela was suffering more than anyone. First she hugged her granddaughter Cary goodbye. Then she turned to Dinorah. Abuela had been uncharacteristically quiet all week. I could feel the sadness coming off her in waves. I’d hugged her as often as possible, just so she wouldn’t feel so bad. But it hadn’t helped. It made me realize that no matter how old a woman is, the bond with her children is the strongest bond there is, and nothing makes the breaking of it easier.

  Abuela and Tía Dinorah stepped off to the side now, clasping each other close, not speaking a w
ord. Only then did Abuela give in to her feelings and cry. We all remained silent. Tío Arturo finally had to remind his wife gently that they absolutely could not afford to be late for the plane, because they wouldn’t get a second chance.

  “Goodbye, Mama,” said Dinorah. “I—I can’t—I don’t know what to—”

  Abuela nodded, letting her know that she didn’t need to go on. Even I could see that it wasn’t possible to put such feelings into words.

  “I love you, Dinorah,” Abuela said.

  Abuelo couldn’t speak at all. He hugged his daughter and Cary, and shook Tío Arturo’s hand.

  “Hasta luego, Papa,” said Dinorah. See you later. Abuelo nodded in agreement. Dinorah was refusing to say goodbye. Instead she held out hope that they would meet again, soon.

  Then we all crowded around as they got into the taxi, reaching out to touch them one last time. Most of the people there that day knew they probably would never see Arturo, Dinorah, and Cary again. If I did see them again, I realized, it would be in America, in a future that I couldn’t even imagine.

  As we watched the taxi go down the street and turn the corner, Abuelo put his arm around Abuela and held her as she sobbed. Then he led her into the house, where she stayed for the rest of the day, allowing no visitors at all—not even me.

  It seemed that everyone else was getting their telegrams before we did. Two other families in our extended clan—the Acostas and the Garcías—had also applied for visas. The Garcías’ telegram came, and this farewell scene was repeated. Other families of dissenters I knew from school had gotten their telegrams, too. It was maddening.

  “The government is doing it on purpose,” I told my mother. “They hate us more than anyone else.”

  “Nonsense,” Mama said. “That’s not true. They hate us all equally.”

  “Well then why is it taking so long?”