Flight to Freedom (5 page)

Abuelo Tony told me an interesting thing tonight. After he heard me complaining about school, he took me to my uncle's bedroom and showed me a stack of books on the side of his bed. He said Tío Pablo was studying them all because he wants to be able to be a medical doctor in this country. Though he was a doctor at home, he still has to apply for a license here, which means he has to attend special classes and take an examination. Abuelo Tony said that if he were stronger and healthier, he would be accompanying Tío Pablo. “Your uncle never gives up, and for that I am very proud of him,” Abuelo Tony said. When I told him that Papi thinks we will be home for Nochebuena, and if not Christmas Eve, certainly Three Kings' Day at the latest, Abuelo Tony shrugged.

“It never hurts to study,” he said. “Nobody can take away what is between your ears.”

Of course he told me this so that I can appreciate the privilege of attending school. That's what he called it, a privilege. I do plan to make good marks, so Abuelo Tony has no need to worry. That way I can show all those classmates, who look at me funny when I can't speak English, how smart I really am.

Today at dinner Ileana suddenly burst into tears. This came as a big surprise to us because she always seems so happy. Now we know that all along she has been hiding her sadness. After much sobbing and hiccuping, she finally told us why she was crying. She says she misses Pepito and worries about him, and that the meat and potato stew reminded her of our brother because it was his favorite dish. Of course that made Mami's chin quiver, and Abuela María began to recite a Hail Mary. Then Papi came around the table to hug Ileana. Her shoulders were shaking hard and her nose was running.

Poor Ileana! Poor Pepito! I wonder what my brother is doing. It has been so long since I heard his voice. I wish he would write, but maybe the Cuban government won't let him.

Mami is going to quit her English classes. It was either that or her job. I feel sorry for her because she was very excited about both. But Papi found out about the English classes when he came home early last
night from his meeting with that military group. He blew his top when he couldn't find Mami, but he finally made Abuela María tell him where she was. Tío Pablo calmed him down, so when my mother and aunt returned, he was not too angry. I feel bad for my mother, but I also feel sorry for my father. They do not act as they used to. At home they hardly ever fought, and when they did, it was over soon and they would be kissy-kissy afterward. Now, after an argument, the air feels funny and thick. Even Ileana is afraid to open her mouth to say anything, and Ana Mari just sits in a corner hugging herself and shaking.

I think I have a new friend. Her name is Jane. The
J
in English is pronounced like a hard
G
in Spanish. She is in most of my classes and always talks to me when we are rushing down the halls to beat the bell. Today at lunch, just as I was ready to sit in my usual corner, she waved me over to her table. She is very smart and speaks very fast, so I have to listen very, very carefully to what she is saying. Now I understand a lot more English, but some conversations can be difficult. Srta.
Reed has told me that if I don't understand a word, I should just ask the person to repeat herself more slowly. I do sometimes, but I am embarrassed to do it with Jane. I don't want her to think I'm dumb.

Papi has been out almost every night and all of this weekend now that he has decided to join that military group that plans to invade Cuba. This angers Mami, who mutters about his lack of responsibility. Abuela María tries to calm her down by telling her that it's just a phase, but this only gets Mami angrier. It's so tense in this house, I feel like I must tiptoe around everybody.

My parents can't even have a normal conversation. Whenever Mami says anything aloud about friends who have bought a little home along the Miami River or about her second cousin who has become engaged to a Texan living in Fort Worth, Papi shakes his head to deny it. He keeps saying we are living on borrowed time and on borrowed land.

We got four new Cuban students in our grade. Only one is in my homeroom, a boy named Pedro. He wears thick glasses and is very quiet. I tried to talk to him, but he seems shy. Jane said maybe he was just surprised that someone spoke to him in Spanish.

Two strange men in gray suits showed up at our door this afternoon. Except for Abuela, no adults were in the house. Since she doesn't speak a word of English, Ileana and I had to serve as translators as best we could, which meant we did a lot of finger pointing and head nodding. They wanted to speak to Papi, and left their business cards. Both are from a government agency called the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I'm not sure what that is—maybe a police agency of some sort—but it sure upset my parents. Actually, it upset Mami more than it did Papi. Mami told him, “This is a warning, José Calixto. I think you need to heed it.” She was very flustered. I wonder what it all means.

Abuelo Tony brought home a bottle of
cidra
today. He popped the cork after dinner and ordered Abuela María to pour cider for each of us, even the children, so that we could toast. After she did that, he raised his glass and said in a booming voice, “To a free Cuba!” We drank. We celebrated for two reasons. First, because today marks El Grito de Yara, a national holiday at home because it is when Cubans declared their independence from Spain. More important than that, though, was yesterday's news that Che Guevara, one of Cuba's Communist leaders, was killed in Bolivia where he was trying to start a revolution. Abuela María said it served him right for going to a peaceful country and trying to make trouble.

“Maybe now we will be able to return home,” Papi added.

I don't know how his death will translate into freedom for my country. Bolivia is very far away, in the middle of South America. It seems that sometimes my family wants so much to return home that they believe any little event, including this death in a faraway country, will make a difference. When I confided this to Efraín, he said I was becoming a cynic. I had no
idea what that word meant, so he gave me a dictionary. It means a person who thinks everyone is motivated by selfish interests.

Am I really like that? I don't think so. I believe that people are good, that they try to do what they think is best. Of course, sometimes it seems as if nobody can agree on what is best.

I haven't had time to write much these past days because I have been studying extra long every night. When Efraín comes home from work, he helps Ileana and me with our school assignments. He is very patient.

The World Series is finally over, and now our evenings will return to normal, without the men taking over the living room to watch and cheer during the games. Papi and Tío Pablo are big baseball fans. So is my grandfather.
Béisbol,
as we call it, is the most popular sport at home. I like it, too, both watching and playing. I guess that in a way that makes me a little more
americana
than I thought I was.

It was funny to watch the men, even Efraín, argue
about the strategy between the Saint Louis Cardinals and the Boston Red Sox. They were so serious! But they were having fun, too, and that made me happy because I hardly ever see my Papi enjoying himself.

Efraín showed me his Doc Savage books again, and I can read and understand almost everything. “Way to go, Cousin!” Efraín said, and patted me on the back.

Through the walls I can hear my parents arguing. Again. So I cannot sleep. Sometimes I can make out the words, sometimes not. Mami is very upset because Papi left Friday after work, and we did not hear from him until he arrived home an hour ago. He returned dressed in camouflage, and as muddy as an alligator. He stank like swamp water, too. It's supposed to be a big secret that he is training with militia groups, but you would have to be blind and deaf to not realize what is happening.

Papi believes it is his duty as a Cuban to fight for
the liberation of his country. Mami screams that three little nobodies playing at soldiers in a swamp will do nothing against the might of the evil Soviet Union. She also thinks it is dangerous. Someone might get hurt or arrested. She insists that there is an American law prohibiting men from organizing their own armies to attack another country.

“Besides,” Mami shouted, “if you do end up with your militia in Cuba, what are you going to do when you confront Pepito's regiment?”

I couldn't hear what Papi replied. If only
los americanos
would get involved. I wish they would send their soldiers and their helicopters and tanks and boats to my island, instead of far away across the globe in Asia. It makes a lot more sense to fight a war nearby. Plus, I think it would be easier to win on our little island. But nobody ever asks my opinion.

I have to go. The lamplight woke Ileana, who screamed at me. I hope she breaks out with a million pimples. That would serve her right.

Abuelo Tony has not been feeling well. Twice this week Abuela has taken him to a doctor. If the grownups know what is making him sick, they certainly aren't telling me. I asked Ileana and Efraín, and they don't know, either.

The two men in gray suits came back. They took Papi with them and he was gone all day. Mami was hysterical. So was Abuela María. Both of them screamed at us over every little thing. They wouldn't even let us watch television or go outside to play.

We asked Tío Pablo what was going on, but he was too busy phoning everybody he knew to figure out how he could help Papi. When Efraín returned from work, he explained that the men in the suits were a kind of police, and they were probably questioning Papi about his involvement with the militia group he joined last month. Of course, that information only led us to more questions. Were they going to put him in jail? Would he be accused of a crime? Why had the national police taken my father? Papi finally showed
up after dinner. Though he was pale, he assured the family that he had not been arrested or charged with anything, and that several men, also from his group, had been with him at an office downtown. He seemed to be trying too hard to calm us down, and that made me nervous. Mami refused to talk to him. Her face was red and her mouth remained pursed all evening.

Jane asked me to go to the movies with her this Saturday, but Mami said no, absolutely not. She said Jane is a stranger and we do not know anything about her family or her background. “We are not those kinds of people who let their daughters associate with just anybody,” she said. What is that supposed to mean? Jane is not a stranger. She is my friend, and she helps me in school. She gets very good marks. I found out that her mother is a teacher in Ana Mari's school. She doesn't ever talk about her father, and I have never asked.

I think Mami was just in a bad mood because she found out that Ileana has been meeting a boy after school. He is a year older than she is, and he has a car and drives her home. She is supposed to take the bus
and not accept rides from anybody, certainly not boys, but Ileana is Ileana. If you tell her to do something, she will try to do the opposite. My mother wanted her to promise she would not talk to the boy anymore, but Ileana refused. She told Mami that she is lucky the boy is her friend. He is very popular in school and plays football, that game with the pointy ball. She also said that they have done nothing but talk. He is very respectful and patient with her English. But Mami said that talk always leads to something else, and she wasn't going to have any daughter of hers tramping about without a chaperone. This got Ileana very mad and she shouted that we are living in the United States of America, not Cuba. So Mami screamed that Papi better never hear her say that. Then suddenly Mami looked around and spotted Ana Mari and me listening with our mouths open. She ordered us outside, and we missed the rest of the fight.

Later I asked Ileana what she was going to do. Her eyes were red from crying. She shrugged her shoulders. When I asked her the boy's name, she snapped at me and said it was none of my business. Then she cried some more.

I feel sorry for Ileana. I think she just wants to have
friends. She wants to be like everyone else in her school. I know the feeling. I don't think Mami or Papi understand what it is like to be new to a school, with funny clothes and a funny accent. They are not trying to be cruel to us. They may even think they are doing what is right. But it's hard to live like Papi wants us to live, suspended in the middle between two countries. We have to be either here or there. We have to make up our minds. We must choose.

Pedro, the Cuban boy in my homeroom, is leaving for Los Angeles on Saturday. His father is a chemical engineer, whatever that is, and he got a job there. We looked on the globe in the classroom and were surprised it was almost halfway around the world. As soon as he saw this, poor Pedro turned white.

“I didn't know the United States was so big,” he groaned.

“But look how close you are to Mexico!” I tried to console him.

He wouldn't answer, just hung his head. He wants to go back to Cuba.

Abuelo Tony turned seventy-four today. We had chocolate cake from a bakery and Coca-Cola. He was very tired, though, and he did not even bother to blow out his candles. I asked him what was wrong, and he put both his hands on his chest. “A man's heart can break in so many ways,” he said. I gave him a big, big hug, and I think that made him feel better.