have hidden in dark cellars
surrounded by rats
and spiders.
Now they hide
in a tower
with nesting birds.
Miriam told me she wishes
that she and Mark
were the ones
with wings.
DANIEL
A few weeks ago,
if you had told Mark
that he would be the one
in danger of being arrested
because he is Christian,
he would have said no,
that is not possible.
Now I wonder
will people in New York
and Toronto
hear about this reversal
of danger
and will it help them
understand
that those who feel safe today
could be the ones in need of refuge
tomorrow?
Will this strange
experience in Cuba
help people in other places see
how I felt when my ship
was turned away?
PALOMA
Every dove
has its querencia,
a beloved place
where no matter how far
a bird has journeyed
it will always return.
Each flight
away from the nest
is an act of faith.
The nest does not move.
The dove’s faith is rewarded.
I must try to believe
that the effort we are making
to help one old couple
will bring them hope,
not disaster.
DANIEL
I will never understand
the whole world
or even
one country.
All I can do
is try to understand
the truth and lies
in the simple choices
I face
every day.
DAVID
Newspapers now carry stories
about war secrets
from the United States,
secrets smuggled
to Germany
by way of Cuba,
secrets smuggled
by Nazi spies,
secrets smuggled
inside hollow canes
and umbrellas.
No wonder the refugee ships
are now being turned away
from Havana Harbor.
I feel like a ghost
watching the living
sail away
toward death.
PALOMA
Secrets twist and turn
as they grow,
but no matter how often
I consider the dangers,
I feel certain
that we are doing
something good.
Surely, a frail old man
like Marcos
could not be one
of the Nazi spies.
I would be able to tell
if he and Miriam were lying—
wouldn’t I?
DANIEL
German submarines
have been found
in Cuban waters!
Americans are patrolling
the coast. Even Ernest Hemingway—
the famous American writer—
has been authorized
to search for submarines
in his little fishing boat.
What will all of this mean
for the future of refugees?
There are so many rumors
about death camps in Germany,
so many rumors about suffering
and cruelty.
I don’t know which rumors
to believe, but I do know
that I should feel like one
of the fortunate few,
so why do I feel nothing
beyond the endless ache
of loss?
Perhaps I should have stayed
with my parents
in a death camp.
DANIEL
When I visit the dovecote,
I try to listen
to the old folks’ words,
but sometimes all I hear
is the rhythm of voices
that sound like trees
with rustling leaves
or waves on the seashore
answering the wistful cries
of lost birds
blown off course
by storm winds.
I long to hear
all the words, the story—
but I find myself unable
to absorb too much at once.
Truth works its way
into my mind
bit by bit, all the horror
the old folks survived.
Now, all I can do is pray
that somehow I will be able
to transform their pain
and mine
into music.
PALOMA
I will not live
in my father’s house.
He invaded my tower.
He frightened my birds.
The refugees just barely
escaped—
did Papá know
that they were hiding here?
I don’t care. I am so tired
of his secrets
and mine.
I will not stay
in this life
of lies.
PALOMA
Poor trembling Miriam
and frail Marcos
hide in the garden
until I have a chance
to sneak them out.
Daniel helps me walk them
to the station
where we get on the first train
that comes along.
The train is filled with crowds
of peasants and children,
all carrying bundles
or chickens
or goats.
No one seems to notice
that our hands are empty
and we are nervous.
Miriam almost weeps.
Marcos looks grim.
What will we do
if we are questioned
by the conductor
or police?
DANIEL
This isn’t the orderly plan
we had daydreamed.
This is madness,
fleeing in a hurry
without knowing
where we can go.
What if we are caught
helping Mark avoid arrest
for being a Christian
married to a Jew?
Will Paloma’s father
chase us—what will happen
if we are caught?
I must be dreaming
or crazy, to be risking
so much
just to help
an old man and his wife
stay together.
PALOMA
The train is filled with orphan boys
heading to an orphanage
on the Hershey ranch,
where the American
chocolate maker gives them a home
and plenty of chocolate
made with Cuban sugar.
The orphans play games
and sing funny songs
that would make me laugh
if I was not so scared.
The only place I can think of going
is to the home of a distant cousin
on my mother’s side.
Before Mamá danced away,
she used to assure me
that all good people believe
that we are our cousins’ keepers—
I think she just hoped to convince me
that being an only child
was not the same
as being alone.
D
ANIEL
We ride the train to a seaside town
where Paloma’s cousin agrees
to let Miriam and Mark
live together in peace in his home.
This crazy plan
would not have worked
if Paloma’s cousin
did not trust her.
I wonder how my own life
would have turned out
if we had known someone
in the German countryside
who could have kept us together
hiding on a farm.
DANIEL
The countryside is beautiful,
so green and tangled with life.
Royal palms are the most graceful trees
I have ever seen—
they sway like Berlin’s ballet dancers.
The country people look poor and weary,
getting around any way they can
on skinny mules and old horses
or in battered cars that run on fuel
made from sugarcane.
I feel like I have traveled back
in time, to a century when wars
did not swallow the whole world.
If only the peace I feel right now
could be stored up and released later
when cruelty surrounds me
in the dark
during nightmares.
APRIL 1942
PALOMA
Miriam and Marcos are still safe.
My cousin keeps me quietly informed.
Last year, after the train journey,
Davíd convinced me
that I should return
to my father’s house,
at least until I finish school.
So I am home now
in my garden, in the dovecote,
but I have changed—
I have decided to study science
instead of dancing.
I will be a student of nature,
taught by birds.
PALOMA
I thought I understood
my father’s nature,
but he actually seemed happy
to have me back
after that train ride,
and he believes—
or pretends to believe—
the lies I invented
about where I had gone.
I told him that I went
on a journey of discovery
to find out where
my peace doves go
when they disappear.
I brought back a peace dove
from a bird market
and pretended that it was one
I had lost.
I said that I had found it again
wandering around
out in the countryside,
waiting to be rescued.
That is how I think of peace
and peace of mind—as timid birds
that we have to search for,
not bold ones that come
looking for us.
DANIEL
The doors to Cuba are closing.
The last two ships are anchored
in the harbor,
waiting for permission to bring
two hundred and fifty-seven refugees
ashore—
who will determine
the price of their survival?
Who makes these decisions
about life and death?
When the ship I arrived on
came to this island,
the line between safety
and danger
was narrow,
but now there is no
line at all—
ships turned away
will be ships
of death.
DANIEL
For these last two ships,
there is hardly any chance
of landing.
Public opinion
has turned
against Jews.
Paloma tries to tell me
that her father is the one
who decides
about entry visas
for refugees,
but I try
not to listen—
that is a truth
I refuse to hear.
My mind creates noisy music
to block the sound of such
impossible words.
PALOMA
Daniel admits
that he secretly wonders
if his parents could be waiting
on one of these last
sad ships.
I tell him it could happen—
yes, they might be two
of the two hundred and fifty-seven
weary passengers
awaiting refuge—
but we both know
that everyone says
Jews can no longer
escape from Germany.
The refugees
on these last two ships
are from other, quieter
parts of Europe.
PALOMA
A mother bird pecks at her egg
from the outside, while her baby pecks
at the same spot from within.
Working together, they will meet
in the middle of the eggshell.
That is their shared moment of freedom.
Some jobs just cannot be completed alone.
I am starting to share
my father’s ugly secrets
with Daniel and Davíd.
They seem so disappointed
that I did not tell them sooner.
I think their disappointment
is harder for me to endure
than their anger.
All I know is that the burden of lies
is being lifted.
I already feel like a newly hatched chick,
experimenting with wings
and a voice.
DANIEL
Paloma’s confessions
enrage me.
How could she have kept
such terrible secrets
for so long?
We were friends.
Maybe more.
Now I wonder
if she will ever
understand anything
about trust.
DAVID
I was taught that truth
stands the test of time
while lies
have a way
of being exposed.
One hundred years from now,
who will remember
the truths
we are living now?
Will anyone know
that we tried to save
these last few refugees?
Two hundred and fifty-seven
is not a large number
compared with the ships
a few years ago—
but two hundred and fifty-seven
living people
will either survive here in Cuba
or be sent back to Europe,
to the Nazis
and the war. . . .
PALOMA
Asking my father
to help the people
on those ships
is painful,
but I have
no choice.
I promise
to raise money
for the visas.
He laughs
and asks,
“How much?”
DANIEL
Forty-seven passengers
have already been allowed
to land.
Two hundred and ten
remain on the ships.
I walk to the harbor.
I stare at the sea.
I listen.
The waves play their music
of arrival
and then loss.
My parents were not
two of those first
forty-seven.
How could I ha
ve
allowed myself
to hope?
PALOMA
Four hundred and eighty thousand
American dollars—
that is the price
my father has chosen
for survival of the remaining
two hundred and ten
human lives.
Payment cannot be made
in Cuban pesos.
Dependable currency
is required.
Papá drives a hard bargain.
I suppose he is good at his work.
If only he longed
to devote himself
to charity,
instead of bribes.
I would be so proud
to be his daughter
if he were working to raise
a mercy fund for the refugees
instead of working
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