by Patti Sheehy
“It seems daunting.”
“You’ll do fine.”
“Thanks.”
“Good luck with Magda and good luck finding a job.”
“Thanks again.”
Frank smiled and walked into the bright glare of freedom.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Wedged between two farmers, Pino sat on the backseat of an old, dilapidated bus, fumes belching out of its tailpipe, its rusted fenders covered with a thick coat of grime. Someone had etched the ubiquitous “¡Cuba, sí, Yanqui, no! ¡Venceremos!” “Cuba, Yes, Yankees, No! We will win!” with their finger on the filthy back window. As the bus lurched along the rutted dirt road running through Matanzas province, Pino closed his eyes, his muscles moving in rhythm with the sway of the vehicle.
It had been a long couple of weeks, full of loss and humiliation. Mederos’s escape and his own trial and conviction had left Pino shaken to the core. The tribunal had not only robbed him of his rank, it had stripped him of his dignity. The thought pained him like a blow to the head.
If he were lucky, Pino might be able to rebuild his career from the bottom up. Who knew what the future might bring? Even so, that would take years, maybe decades to accomplish. The very idea drained blood from his face.
Pino shook his head, trying to come to terms with the fact that he was packed into this wretched bus loaded with lowlifes. He worked to distract himself by silently repeating slogans of the revolution: “Viva el socialismo! Viva Fidel! Socialismo o Muerte!” He scowled as a mosquito buzzed his ear. He waved it away, attempting to recall better days.
Pino was settling into his seat, lost in his thoughts, when the man sitting to his right sneezed, a sloppy, wet eruption that spread a nasty mist that landed squarely on Pino’s cheeks. He was a beefy man with bushy eyebrows, known as Emmanuel. He grunted and lifted a filthy hand to wipe his nose. The former lieutenant eyed him with disgust, retrieved his handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed his face. He exhaled loudly, and leaned away. These people behave like pigs. And to think I’m going to have to live with them.
Emmanuel didn’t take kindly to Pino’s condescension. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he said, revealing a mouth devoid of adjoining teeth. “Ain’t you ever seen a man sneeze before?” Pino grunted, lowered his chin, and cast Emmanuel a venomous glare.
There was something about Emmanuel that reminded Pino of his father. A memory flashed through his mind, an image of his father sitting at the kitchen table, his calloused hands caressing a bottle of rum, his teeth fuzzy with lack of brushing.
Hygiene was never his father’s long suit.
At the time, Pino had just finished reading a book on the history of Spain. He was smart and he knew it. But his father put no value on intellect or education. Being a tough guy was all he cared about. He pointed an accusing finger in his son’s direction.
“Knowing that shit ain’t worth a bag of beans,” he said. “Ya just wastin’ your fuckin’ time. Ya ain’t no better than me. Cut from the same cloth, we are. I ain’t made nothin’ of myself and ya ain’t gonna either.”
At that moment, Pino vowed to get out, to prove his father wrong. He began to spend his free time studying instead of playing, repeating his multiplication tables in his head while doing chores, sitting in the front seat at school, rising to the top of his class. He was well on his way to success when the revolution came. He sensed opportunities and took advantage of them. By his mid-thirties, he was well respected, a member of the Communist Party. And now this.
Pino rearranged his body and looked out the window. Fields of sugarcane drifted past his eyes like clouds in a storm. The former lieutenant was of Spanish descent. He had light skin and gray-green eyes—a color with no real name—and the sun had never been easy on him.
This will be tough. Hard labor is supposed to be. But at least the tribunal took my loyalty and service to the Party into consideration when it came to sentencing. At least I wasn’t executed or sent to jail. It could be worse. A lot worse.
When the bus groaned to a halt, Pino grabbed his small suitcase and descended two stairs to greet the torrid heat. A foreman, a burly, no-nonsense man named Castillo, shouted, “This way, men.” The contingent followed a narrow dirt path to a rough wooden bunker with a corrugated tin roof. Pino scrutinized it. It was beaten and bent, and Pino figured it probably leaked. He was right.
As the door opened, a pack of rats scurried into a nest of shadows. The air was a fog of mildew, rodent droppings, and eye-watering cigarette smoke. Two heavy beams ran the length of the building, providing a place for hammocks to be strung. Upward of one hundred men slept there, barely two feet apart.
Pino looked at the other men, hoping to find someone who seemed to have had military experience, someone to whom he could relate. For a fleeting moment, he wished he had someone to talk to, a woman perhaps, someone sympathetic to his plight. One man was busy picking his nose. Another was scratching his ass. His prospects didn’t look promising.
Pino stood in line with the other men, selected a hammock from a pile on the ground, and strung it neatly between two poles. He plucked a handful of cane leaves from between the web of the hammock and threw them on the dirt floor.
The men lined up to be issued a tin cup and a plate. The handle on the plate was dented and Pino shuddered, imagining the quality of food it would hold.
The next morning Castillo roused the men at dawn. Each was issued a pair of knee-high leather boots. Most of the macheteros already had the straw campesino hats needed to protect them from the sun’s scorching rays, but Pino did not. The foreman cast him a scornful glare and then begrudgingly handed him one. Pino returned his stare.
The former lieutenant glanced at the hat, knowing it was too small for his head, but Castillo seemed to be in no mood to sort it out. The hat sat a couple of inches above Pino’s ears, causing his hair to jut out on both sides. Pino railed inwardly, appalled that the hat made his head look like a winged moon.
Working the sugarcane harvest required backbreaking labor under a relentless sun. As the country’s leading cash crop, Fidel was deeply invested in the harvest’s success. But rumor had it that this year’s quota would fall far short of its target. Although everyone from professors to prisoners had been conscripted to work the fields, there were never enough hands at harvest time.
Pino’s gaze swept the scene. Sugarcane waved in a haze of dust that misted the air a yellowish brown. Nineteen-foot stalks stood proudly beneath a topaz sky, dwarfing even the tallest men. The sky boasted puffs of white cottony clouds that grazed the horizon.
Pino’s eyes were drawn to the black tendrils of smoke rising against the gently rolling hills. The fire spread rapidly across the field, eating the cane like a full-throated dragon. Fires were set to rid the cane of its dense leaves and facilitated the cutting of the unharmed stalks. Also, it was easier to burn the refuse than to cut and transport it to the sugar mills.
The men waited with machetes in hand while flames jumped into the air, sparks flying, leaves crackling like popped corn. A breeze fanned the blaze and carried the smoke downwind, stinging the men’s eyes and lungs. Pino bent in a spasm, lost in a fit of coughing. The man next to him nudged him forward, and the men began marching toward the freshly burnt cane, careful to avoid areas that were still ablaze.
The cane needed to be cut at its base to maximize the harvest. The men worked until the sun dropped below the horizon, stopping occasionally for a long drink of water from a common jug. Ragged guayaberas clung to backs soaked with perspiration. The gleam of men’s teeth and the whites of their eyes provided the only contrast to faces blackened with soot.
At the end of the day, the men repaired to the mess hall for what passed for dinner, assailing their food with grime-encrusted hands. Pino was horrified. The menu usually consisted of overcooked rice, limp beans, and stale yams. The men grumbled through their meals. They were rarely served meat.
Some nights the men bathed. The nights they were too exhaust
ed, they didn’t. The smell in the barracks was horrific, a mixture of sweat and rodent droppings. Pino covered his nose with his arm while he slept.
It didn’t take long for Pino to notice that the method used to harvest the cane was inefficient. Often lazy and unmethodical, many of the men stood idly by or cut the cane stalks haphazardly. Random piles of cane sat rotting in the fields, requiring too much time to be picked up and placed in carts. Pino watched this procedure with growing frustration. What jerks. Harvesting cane isn’t rocket science, yet they’re managing to screw it up. One day, his frustrations became too much for him. He had to speak up.
He gestured to the field of cane and hollered to the men. “Can’t you see what you’re doing? Cut a whole row of cane at one time, goddamnit! Jumping around the way you are is a frigging waste of time.”
The men looked up, startled. For a moment no one spoke. Then a muscular man named Pablo stepped forward. He had a grizzled beard and obsidian eyes that glinted with rage. “Who the hell do you think you are you to tell us what to do?” he barked.
“That’s right, give him hell, Pablo,” shouted his fellow cane cutters.
Pino turned toward Pablo as a small group of men formed behind him, itching for a fight. His stomach lurched, and he felt a stab of fear. But he wasn’t going to back down.
“I thought there might be one decent machetero among you,” spat Pino. “But obviously not. This place is a goddamn mess.”
Pablo stepped forward, raising his fists menacingly. “Shut the hell up, you bastard!”
Pino faced Pablo head on, hatred rising in his chest like steam. He was sick and tired of having to deal with the likes of these people. Why should I, a former lieutenant in the Revolutionary Armed Forces, have to put up with this nonsense?
Pino’s eyes grew flinty. Adrenaline coursed through his bloodstream like flour through a sieve. It had been a long time since he’d been in a fistfight. But he was ready. In fact, he welcomed it. It would provide a much-needed release of the tension that had riddled his body for the past several months.
Ever since Mederos had escaped, Pino had felt tightness in his chest, his shoulders, his cheeks, tension that even exercise did not relieve. He sized up his opponent. He looked strong but none too bright. Pino wasn’t worried. He would prove to be faster, smarter. After all, he was a man who got things done. This bastard has no idea who he is dealing with. I’ll flatten him with one punch.
Pino planted his feet firmly in the soil and raised his fists. He was confident, resolute. As he did, the sun crept over the hills, striking Pino on the chin. It wouldn’t be a minute before the rays cleared the tree-tops and burned into his retinas. Pino raised his head, preparing for the sun’s intrusion into the altercation.
Suddenly, the man who had sneezed on the bus appeared out of nowhere, waving his arms in the air. “What the hell is going on here?” he shouted. The crowd parted like the Red Sea to let him through.
Stepping forward, Pablo replied, “This bastard thinks he’s a hot shit. Thinks he knows it all. He’s trying to tell us what to do.”
Emmanuel turned to Pino. A look of satisfaction netted his face. “Oh yeah? Well, this little prince has had a chip on his shoulder since day one—too fancy to even watch a man sneeze.”
Emmanuel grabbed Pino by the front of his shirt. “So you think you’re better than everyone else? You think you’re an expert at cutting cane? Well, maybe it’s time we all teach you a goddamn lesson. One you won’t forget.”
The men mumbled in agreement. Emmanuel moved toward Pino and shoved him backward, throwing him off balance. As he did, Pino’s heel hit a depression in the dirt. His ankle twisted and he turned his body to his right, falling into the cane’s flaming residue. Licks of fire jumped at the disturbance. Pino issued a brief croak of surprise and extended his hands to break his fall. He was struggling to protect his face. But he failed.
The first thing Pino noticed was searing pain around his jaw. Then he felt the stinging in his hands. He felt like a thousand bees had attacked them. He let out a yelp and waved his hands at the wrists. The flames whispered up his calves. Then his knees met the burning leaves, then his arms and thighs.
Frantic, Pino levered himself to his feet and limped off the field. The ground pitched beneath him, and he concentrated on retaining his balance. He could feel the heat on his legs. The fire was devouring his pants. The smell of his burning flesh made him want to retch.
Pino fell to the ground and rolled his body in an effort to extinguish the flames. The pain spread from his ankles to his waist like oil on the open seas. He slapped his thighs with his hands to put out the fire, only to find that he was causing himself even more agony. The men watched in amazement, unsympathetic to his predicament. Smiles bloomed on their faces and snuffles of laugher drifted over their heads. One by one they turned and walked away, muttering “Good!” and “Serves the bum right!”
Pino curled his body into a fetal position. He wanted to pound his fists into the sunbaked ground, but he knew he shouldn’t. It would just exacerbate the pain. He wanted to teach the bastards a lesson. He wanted a shower and a decent bed. He wanted a scotch. But most of all he wanted his ribbons, his medals, his rank. He wanted his life back. Pino raised his fists to the sky as if to curse the gods. But he knew there were no gods. Instead, he let out a bloodcurdling scream. He cursed the smoke, the sweat, and the smoldering cane. He cursed the stupid cane cutters. He cursed the searing sun.
But most of all, he cursed the day he ever laid eyes on Frankie Mederos.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A scattering of crystal stars winked overhead as Frank boarded the red-eye flight for Newark. It was three a.m. The people at Freedom House had been more than accommodating: they’d been terrific, handling paperwork and escorting the refugees through the airport.
Besides supplying Frank with a Social Security card and working papers, they had paid for his and his uncle’s plane tickets and had given them each five dollars to get started in America. The red-eye was a cost-saving measure.
Telling Frank it might be cold in New Jersey, they issued him a gray wool coat with a black satin lining. He laughed out loud when he tried it on. It was so long it nearly brushed the ground, making it difficult to walk. Frank had never worn such a heavy coat. The weight of it felt strange on his shoulders. But he accepted it in good humor.
He was about to take his first flight. He had no idea what to expect, and he was unabashedly excited. He made his way down the narrow aisle, glancing at the stewardess. She wore a neat blue uniform boasting gold buttons as shiny and bright as her smile. Frank nodded to her, tucked his scant belongings in the overhead compartment, and exhaled as he settled himself in his seat.
Uncle Luis sat down next to him, and they looked at each other in amazement.
“Can you believe this?” said Luis. “A week ago we were fighting the waves in the goddamn ocean, and now we’re sitting here like a couple of kings.”
Frank smiled in agreement and glanced at his watch. “Just a few more hours,” he said.
“What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get there?” asked Luis.
“Kiss Magda. And you?”
“Have a beer.”
“At the crack of dawn?”
Luis shrugged. “Why not? Celebrate!”
Frank laughed. “Yeah, why not?”
Frank looked out the window for a moment to see a man remove a ladder from the side of the plane. He turned to Luis and asked, “Did you talk with Rosa after dinner last night?”
“Yeah, she and my girls were going to your parents’ house for breakfast.”
“Good. It’ll help keep their minds off you being gone.”
Luis nodded. “Do you miss her?” Frank asked.
“Not yet,” said Luis. “Been too busy with everything else.” Frank stretched his legs and pushed the button on the side of his seat, realizing it made the back of the chair recline. He shook his head in wonder.
He had wa
tched enough American TV to form a clear impression of the States as a place full of modern buildings, flashy cars, and fashionable shops. He was aware that the Vietnam War was taking its toll on American lives and threatening the presidency of Lyndon Baines Johnson. Besides that, he knew little of American history and politics. He had much to learn.
The sudden roar of the airplane engine startled him. He fastened his seatbelt and listened as the stewardess provided safety information. Although Frank couldn’t understand her, he followed what she said by looking at the images on a cardboard card located in the pocket in front of his seat. There were pictures of floatation devices to be used in case of emergency. Frank considered the possibility and then banished the thought.
The plane shuddered and began to taxi down the runway. The power of its forward thrust was startling, like nothing Frank had ever felt before. His heart beat a staccato rhythm as he watched the wings tilt and the plane lift off the tarmac. His spine hugged the back of the seat as the plane gained altitude.
Once the aircraft leveled off, he rearranged his body, thrilled to have a window seat, even if they were flying in the middle of the night. He watched as the line of lights grew smaller on the runway. As the plane ascended, he could make out the outline of the Florida coast, ragged in the bright moonlight.
Frank felt it strange to be so far above everything. He thought about his family in Cuba and wondered whether his mother was sleeping. He figured she was more likely up saying her rosary and worrying about him.
He looked around. Some passengers were reading and some were dozing. Light snoring and occasional murmurs filled the plane, but Frank was far too excited about seeing Magda to even consider napping. Besides, flying was so mind boggling, he couldn’t imagine missing a minute of it.
He was amazed at the size of America. The plane had been in the air for almost two hours, and it was still flying. Frank had no idea New Jersey was so far from Miami.
