too thoroughly—
now, the young people ask
so many questions
that the lack of answers
makes me dizzy.
I cannot bear to speak
about my burning village,
my parents and sisters,
or my Cuban wife
who died too young
or our son
who moved away
to who-knows-where
and never visits,
never writes.
I have no wisdom to offer
when it comes to the art
of waiting for answers.
DANIEL
Waiting for a future
and an understanding
of the past
means waiting for an end
to a war, far away,
so instead of tormenting myself
with impatient questions
about Europe’s suffering,
I find my escape
by playing el sartén,
a strangely simple
Cuban musical instrument
made by clashing
two frying pans together
like cymbals in an orchestra,
the sound of thunder
or hoofbeats,
the music
of running
and rage.
DANIEL
Paloma introduces me
to Ernesto Lecuona,
a great Cuban composer
whose father vanished
when Ernesto was only five.
To support his family,
the boy played piano
in those old-fashioned theaters
where silent-movie stars
danced on white screens.
Now, watching Lecuona’s hands
as they dance on the piano,
I discover the secret
of his genius—
both hands are calm,
his hands are a team,
and so are his inspirations
as he blends the wistful melodies
of Spain
with hopeful rhythms
from Africa,
creating an entirely new
sort of music,
the sound of a future
dancing with the past.
DANIEL
The more I hear Lecuona’s piano,
the more convinced I become
that improvising
is the music
for me.
Lecuona has captured
the tropical magic
of daydreams
and wishing.
All over Havana
shoeshine boys
and candy vendors
walk down the street,
changing old songs
into new ones.
Cubans call this skill decimar—
the art of inventing life
as it goes along.
DANIEL
Instead of answering my questions
about her mother’s dancing
and her father’s work,
Paloma walks with me
up and down the cobblestone streets
of Old Havana.
I understand her reluctance to talk
about painful memories,
so I let her be quiet.
Instead, we listen to the clip-clop
of a cow’s hooves
as the lechero delivers fresh milk
from door to door, milking
into a clean pitcher
handed to him by each housewife.
When we listen to a mockingbird
singing from the top of a palm tree,
Paloma says the bird sings
like a Cuban,
inventing new melodies
each time his beak opens.
I tell her I know how the bird feels,
unwilling to be satisfied
with yesterday’s song.
PALOMA
I have so much to say
about my mother’s dancing
and my father’s work,
but I do not know how to speak
of things that really matter,
so instead, I tell Daniel about my school
where I study math, reading, writing,
lacemaking, and saints’ lives.
My favorite teacher is an old nun
with a sad smile.
My favorite saint is Francis
who spoke to birds and wolves.
Birds are so much easier
to understand
than people,
but I’m not so sure
about wolves
or saints.
DANIEL
Suddenly, everything changes
all over again.
I had almost grown accustomed
to living in this unfamiliar land
when, without warning,
the safe haven called Cuba
stopped feeling safe.
Pearl Harbor has been attacked
by Japan—Cuba is arresting
not only Japanese citizens
but Germans as well.
The most unsettling part
of all this turmoil
is the distrust.
By now, I should know
how to live with utter confusion,
but I feel just as uncertain
as before.
I am from Germany.
Will I be arrested
too?
DANIEL
Thousands of Germans,
according to rumor,
will be held in a guarded compound
on the Isle of Pines,
a small prison island
just south of Cuba.
Suspicious stares.
Whispered insults.
The tension of distrust
just like before . . .
It takes some time
for things to become
clear—
only Germans
who are not Jewish
will be rounded up
and sent away. . . .
DANIEL
The red J on my passport—
a J stamped by Nazis—
proves that I am Jewish,
a refugee,
not a spy.
Still, there is the terror
of being questioned
by police
and the fear
of those Jews
who happen to be married
to Christians.
Suddenly, I understand
that the Christian spouses
of Jewish refugees
are being arrested
simply because
they are not
Jews.
DANIEL
Germans who do not have
passports with a red J
are so fiercely suspected
of being Nazi spies
that the whole world
seems upside down.
I cannot understand
how the J
that condemned me
in Germany
has been transformed
into a mark of safety
on this crazy island—
what a strange
twist of fate.
There but for the grace of God.
DAVID
Life is so full
of ugly surprises.
Arresting Christian Germans
who have come to Cuba
with their Jewish wives
or Jewish husbands—
all of this makes no sense
at all—
but what if there really are
Nazi spies
entering Cuba
from the refugee ships?
DANIEL
There is terror
all around me
as wives and husbands
are pulled apart
in the refugee shelter.
No good can come of this,
even if it does end up
helping a few Christians
to finally understand
a bit of the horror
experienced by Jews
at home,
where we were the ones
rounded up
for nothing more dangerous
than our spiritual beliefs.
Still, I cannot help seeing
the suffering
and hearing the whispers
of fear
and feeling so angry
all over
again.
DANIEL
The oldest couple
in the shelter where I live
must now face this new crisis
of origins.
The woman, Miriam, is Jewish,
and her husband, Mark—called Marcos
by the Cubans—he is Christian.
If I could help them hide
from this turmoil,
I would.
Don’t they deserve
an old age
lived together
in peace?
My parents taught me
to respect all faiths.
It just isn’t right to arrest a man
simply because he is not
the same religion as his wife
of sixty years.
PALOMA
Miriam and Marcos
stayed together throughout
their ordeal, fleeing all the way
across Europe.
To keep her safe, he hid
with her, in haylofts and cellars,
surviving with the help
of Dutch farmers
and Basque fishermen
until finally
they were able to find
safe passage on a ship
from Portugal to Cuba.
They said that ship
seemed like an angel
with huge, floating wings.
Now they refuse to separate.
They have fled from the shelter
and are hiding in my dovecote.
I did not give them permission,
but I cannot send them away. . . .
What will I do if my father
discovers the secret visitors
who are depending
on me?
DAVID
The young people bring me
a baffling new question,
one that lies far beyond
my own powers of thought.
This question belongs
to the mind of God:
How can people stay sane
in a world that makes
no sense?
DANIEL
Rumors fly
like the dark vultures
that circle Cuba’s clouds
after each summer storm,
hungry vultures searching
for dead things left behind
by the floodwaters.
People whisper that soon
no more refugees will be allowed
to land in Cuba.
Is there any chance,
any chance at all,
that my parents
might have found a way
to reach a ship
just as Miriam and Mark did?
Could my parents actually
be sailing toward me
right now
on one of the doomed ships
that will soon
be turned away?
DANIEL
Cuban officials are afraid
that each shipload of refugees
could also be delivering
a few Nazi spies.
How can I choose
between wanting to help
all the refugees
and longing to defeat
the madness in Europe,
a madness that destroys
both victims
and victors—
turning our neighbors in Berlin
into monstrous nightmares,
glassy-eyed madmen
who break windows
just to cut
through human flesh
with knives
of crystal?
DANIEL
I feel like that other Daniel,
the one who survived in the lions’ den,
the one who interpreted dreams.
I feel the heaviness of nightmares
even though I am awake.
How weary I am, how sleepless
and hopeless—there is no escape
from the torment
of wishes.
If I could help someone,
anyone—
maybe even Miriam
and Mark—
if I could help them,
at least I would feel
that I had fulfilled
my parents’ wishes—
they said all they wanted
was courage for me,
hope for the future,
and peace for themselves—
the kind of peace
that hides in the heart
even when war
seems to swallow
the world.
PALOMA
I was taught that the sun
cannot be hidden
with one finger,
but sometimes I feel
like I am surrounded
by so many secrets
that the truth would need light
from a whole galaxy of suns
in order to shine
past the shade
I make with both hands
each time I watch a bird
leave my dovecote
to explore
the dangerous sky.
PALOMA
Secrets are a burden.
I share mine with Daniel
and Davíd.
Now, all three of us know
that Miriam and Marcos
are here with me,
hiding. . . .
How dangerous it is!
Someone could find them
and accuse me of treason.
Papá has already warned me
that I am no longer allowed
to keep homing pigeons
because they might be
suspected of carrying messages
written by spies. . . .
PALOMA
All I have left now
are a few of my faithful
wild birds,
natives of Cuba,
the blue-headed quail doves
and sturdy rock doves . . .
and imported birds,
the tame peace doves,
poor souls . . .
the peace doves
are far too trusting
to survive in the wild
where hungry cats
pursue them.
Each time I think
of the risk I am taking
by letting strangers hide
in my dovecote,
I feel like a peace dove—
so vulnerable,
a fool. . . .
PALOMA
My plan is dreamlike,
but Daniel says that is why
it will work.
I am the only one
who cares for my doves.
Papá and the servants
never climb
the spiral staircase
up into my world
of bird life.
Now, while my father
is inside the house
with his secrets,
I will be in the tower
in the garden
with secrets
of my own.
I will be dreaming
a plan
of trust
and peace.
DANIEL
Hollow bones are the magic
that helps a bird fly.
Hope is the mystery
&nb
sp; that keeps me alive.
Kindness is the surprise
that makes me hopeful.
Love is the kindness
that keeps Miriam and Mark
together.
We will help them.
We will try.
PALOMA
Secrets grow
like tropical vines.
The dovecote is messy
like my mind.
I visit quietly,
sneaking in,
creeping up,
carrying food
for the terrified old folks
who suddenly seem
like family.
DAVID
The young people
seem crazy,
but their plan
just might work.
It’s worth a try.
Miriam and her husband
Tropical Secrets Page 4
