Leaving Glorytown (8 page)

“Wait, Quco,” said Mama. She got a clean kitchen towel and wrapped up a bunch of durofrios for him to take home. “Hurry and get these back to your house before they melt,” she instructed him. “I'm sure all those brothers and sisters of yours will want a little something to nibble on.”

Quco's eyes got big and misty.

“Thank you, Señora Calcines,” he said. “Thank you very much. And God bless you.” He grabbed the towel, said, “See you tomorrow, Calcines,” and scurried out the door.

Mama watched him go. Then she shook her head and went back to her work.

One day I heard my mother and a neighbor whispering.

“Suicide. He committed suicide!” the neighbor said.

“It's the hunger, the propaganda, the executions. We're not even allowed to go to church or play dominoes. What do you expect?”

“He couldn't handle the pressure. Every day, he thought he might be arrested for no reason at all. And why stay alive just to go into the army and get killed? How can we all live like this?”

Surely it was gossip, I thought. But then over the next few months I began to hear Mama, Abuela, and Madrina Magalys whisper more and more names of the dead men.
Hugo, Ernesto, Gerardo.
I knew them all! They were only boys. I could see their faces in my mind, and they began to haunt me. Suicide is a sin, but if God was watching what was going on in Cuba, surely he would understand. I thought of the boys as martyrs to the cause of freedom, and in my daydreams they took on a heroic status. It required guts to kill yourself.

A lot of young men were choosing suicide over being drafted into Castro's brutal army. Suicide was not a coward's way out if one had no other choice. It was the ultimate act of defiance against the government, a reminder that Castro could never really control the people the way he thought he could. His armies and thugs might take away our livelihood, our food, our peace of mind, but they could never touch our souls. I prayed that the boys who killed themselves would find peace in the next life.

Even though I was still a kid, in a few short years I would be fifteen, old enough to be drafted. It could take that long for us to get permission
to leave Cuba. The lesson of the suicides was not lost on my parents. If we were going to get out, we would have to start making plans now. Otherwise, it might be too late.

One night toward the end of August 1966, I was listening to Papa and Mama talk as they lay in bed. I could hear every word through the wall, and I remained still and silent, absorbing everything.

“We have two choices,” Papa said. “We can do it the legal way, or the illegal way.”

The legal way, I knew, meant applying to the government for an exit visa. But what about the illegal way?

“Well, I can tell you right now that I am not putting my children on an inner tube and pushing them off into the ocean!” Mama said, tears in her voice. “You know what the military does to those people they catch trying to leave!”

So that was what she meant. Even I knew all about the people who tried to get to America across the Straits of Florida, clinging to anything that floated. With American soil a tantalizing ninety miles from Havana, it wasn't hard to see why so many people made the attempt to escape the island prison. The Gulf Stream passed Cuba and went right by Miami, and it was tempting to believe that one could get to America in a few short hours. As long as the Cuban navy or the sharks didn't get you, and as long as you didn't get caught up in a storm or somehow end up floating in the wrong direction, you could make it. It had been done.

But nobody knew how many people had died trying. The government wasn't exactly forthcoming about how many escapees they murdered every month, but the stories I heard whispered on the streets
were chilling. When the navy came across boat people, regardless of how many or how old they were, they all got the same treatment—a burst of machine-gun fire. Then the sharks got a free lunch.

“Shh, Concha,” Papa soothed her. “Yes, I know. And I will not put my family in such a position.”

“I would do it if there was no other way.” Mama sobbed. “I would. But as long as we have a chance to get out safely, we have to take it. For the sake of the children.”

“Yes,” Papa agreed. “For the sake of the children.”

“We'll do it, then?”

“Yes. I'll go tomorrow and make the application.”

Mama was quiet for several moments.

“I'm glad.”

“Me, too.”

“But I'm scared.”

“Me, too.”

I thought I knew why Mama was scared. I was scared, too, and as I lay in bed I had to fight to keep the panic from rising in my chest. People who applied for exit visas were subject to a kind of public ridicule that could, and did, break even the strongest wills. I had seen it on the playground. The children of those who had declared their discontent were called
gusanos
—worms—and were beaten and tormented constantly by the other kids. I never participated in this bullying. It was mostly the children of the Communists who did. Rolando and Tito stayed out of it as well. They said it gave them a bad taste in their mouths to see the way those kids were treated.

But the worst of it was that even the teachers got in on the act. The previous spring, I'd witnessed a terrible thing. A boy whose parents
had recently applied for an exit visa was getting beaten up on the playground by three or four bigger kids. A teacher, a young man I didn't know, walked over to where the beating was taking place. Those of us who were watching expected him to stop it and punish the bullies. But instead, to my astonishment, he said, “That's right, boys! That's what happens to those who doubt the power of the Revolution! If you don't like this treatment, you little worm, then maybe you should go home and tell your father to reconsider!” And with that, he walked away.

If Papa appied for a visa, this was going to be my fate when school started. I knew that their decision was not easy for Mama and Papa, especially because the consequences of it would be felt by all of us.

Well, almost all of us. Lying in the darkness, I gritted my teeth and made a silent vow: anyone who laid a hand on my sister was going to get the living daylights knocked out of him, whether teacher or student. No one was going to hurt Esther as long as I was alive.

The next day, true to his word, Papa went to see an immigration representative and told him the Calcines family of San Carlos Street wanted to leave the country. When he came back, he was a changed man.

“Did you do it?” Mama asked, anxious.

“Yes, I did it,” he said. He showed us a piece of paper with a number on it: 149901.

“What's that?” I asked.

“It's our visa number,” said Papa.

“What do we do with it?”

“The immigration people take all the numbers and put them in a big bowl,” Papa explained. “Then, every day, they draw a few numbers, and they send those people a telegram.”

“What will the telegram say?” “It will say that we have been granted permission to leave the country, and we have one week to get our affairs in order. Then we have to be at the airport at such and such a time, and we'll . . . we'll get on an airplane, and we'll . . .” Papa's voice began to falter as the import of what he was saying sank in. The significance was so huge, it was diffi-cult to utter. “We'll fly to Florida,” he said. “It takes no time at all. We'll be there in forty-five minutes. And then we'll be free.”

“Well, how long until they draw our number?” I demanded.

“Eduar, we don't know, and there's no point in asking,” Mama said. “Don't pester us about this. They call it when they call it. It's up to them.”

“But will it be next week?”

“It might be next week or next year. Or two years.”

“Oh, there's no way it will take that long,” Papa said with confidence. “A year, at most.”

“Still, it's better just to forget about it and go on with business as usual. That way, when it happens, it will come as a surprise.” She glanced at Papa and gave him an uncertain smile. “It will be like the best birthday present you've ever gotten,” she said. “Times ten.”

“Times a hundred,” said Papa.

“But how do we know it's not rigged?” I said. “How do we know they're really drawing them fairly? Maybe they only pick the numbers they want! We could be waiting forever!”

“Eduar,” Papa said, “I'm telling you, just do your best to forget about it.”

Forget about it? Were my parents crazy? How on earth was I supposed to forget about something like this? It was impossible.

“What about Abuela and Abuelo?” Esther wanted to know. “Are they coming, too?”

I already knew the answer, but I didn't say anything. Papa and Mama exchanged another long look. Mama clamped her lips together and opened her eyes wide, staring up at the ceiling. I knew why she did this—to keep from crying.

“No,” Papa said. “Abuela and Abuelo will stay here, along with those members of our family who have chosen to remain in Cuba.”

“But won't they miss us?”

“Of course they'll miss us,” Mama said.

“Can we come and visit them whenever we want?” Esther pressed.

She was still only five, and the complexities of what we were facing were beyond her. At my advanced age of ten, I felt I understood all about it. “No, we can't,” I said. “We won't ever see them again for the rest of our lives. Or anybody else from Glorytown! We have to leave here and never come back, all because of that stupid monkey Fidel!”

“Eduar! Your mouth!” Papa said. “Concha, close the door!”

Mama got up and shut the front door.

“How many times do I have to tell you to keep your voice down when we are speaking of these things?” Papa said. “If anyone had been listening, we would all be in big trouble!”

“I'm sorry, Papa,” I said.

“Listen, children. This is a very hard burden for kids as young as you to bear, but we have no choice. For now, I'm going to give you some strict rules to follow until the day we get that telegram, no matter when it comes. Especially you, Eduar. Listen carefully. If anyone tries to start a fight, get away from him. Don't hit back, whatever you do. Niño, from now on, you are to stay close to home, do you hear me? And, Esther, I
don't want you leaving the house except to go to school, when it starts. You stay safe with Mama. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Papa,” we said.

“Good,” Papa said.

He'd finally taken the step he had dreamed of for so long, but instead of looking happy, he now looked worried.

The government followed up right away and sent an officer to our house to take inventory of all our possessions. They did this because when it came time to leave we were only allowed to take a few things, so most of what was considered ours was by law now considered property of the state. The government wanted to make sure nothing disappeared between now and when we left.