Leaving Glorytown (4 page)

“Give me some water,” he said to Mama, collapsing in a chair.

But she wouldn't let him rest until he got into the bathtub. She left the door open, and he told her what had happened to them at the Terry Theater as he scrubbed himself.

“They packed us in there like chickens in a crate,” he said. “They nailed the doors and windows shut, and there wasn't a breath of air. If you had to—well, you know—you had to do it right where you stood, in your pants. No food. Hardly any water. A lot of men collapsed. I wouldn't be surprised if some of them died. Concha, I could eat a whole pig right now and it would barely fill the hole in me!”

“They didn't take Rolando and Tito Caballero's father!” I said.

“That's because Caballero is a Communist!” Papa said. “They rounded us up because they didn't want us to fight back! They don't want us being unfaithful, so they treat us like animals. There is no more certain way to turn men against you than to take them away from their families. Concha, we are going to find a way to America, do you hear me?”

“I do, and so does the C.D.R. lady,” said Mama. “So keep your voice down.”

I was old enough now to understand what C.D.R. meant—the Committee for the Defense of the Revolution. The C.D.R. was kind of a cross between the Gestapo and a Neighbor Watch program. Every residential block in Cuba had a C.D.R. agent living on it—a regular neighbor who had been selected for his or her revolutionary zeal and willingness to inform on neighbors. The agent was often a woman, because in those days women stayed home all day, and they saw everything that happened on the street. It was the C.D.R. agent's job to report any antirevolutionary talk or behavior. Agents marched into people's homes unannounced whenever the Voice was talking, just to make sure they were listening to the radio. These people also kept an eye out for signs of illegal capitalist activity—that is, buying and selling of anything, even food or clothing, on the black market—and listened in on private conversations from doorways and windowsills, hoping to overhear someone making a comment that could get him or her thrown into prison. People who were judged antirevolutionary needed to be reeducated. Re-education was achieved in one of three ways: forced labor, imprisonment, or firing squad.

Sadly, even some of our family members were getting caught up in the madness, including my cousin Peruchito, the son of Abuela Ana's oldest daughter, Idalia. Peruchito actually joined the military.

Mama would tell us the story of the time Peruchito came to visit Abuela Ana and Abuelo Julian in full military dress. As he walked through the front door, he noticed that the framed photograph of Fidel he'd sent was nowhere to be found. “Abuela!” he said. “Where is the photo of El Comandante? You should take down this picture of Jesus and replace it with Fidel. He is the only one who can save us, not some long-haired Jew!”

Abuela threw her apron over her shoulder—always a sign that she was preparing for action—and jabbed Peruchito in the chest with one iron-strong finger.

“Look, young man,” she said. “The photo of your so-called leader is in the back room, facedown, with a glass of water over it. And our Jesus will remain on the wall as long as I live.”

Placing a photograph facedown meant “rest in peace,” in this case expressing a wish that Fidel would die. It was about as antirevolutionary a statement as one could make. And the glass of water with no flowers in it meant that no one would miss Fidel if he died. Peruchito turned and walked out of the house, never to return. We wondered if he would report his own grandmother, but nothing ever came of the incident.

Peruchito died in an automobile accident in which all four passengers were burned beyond recognition. This was a common way for Fidel to do in his enemies—kill them, then make it look as if they'd died in a traffic accident. Peruchito must have fallen afoul of El Comandante somehow.

“Funny how cars have suddenly developed a tendency to burst into flame all the time,” Mama said wryly. “I don't remember that happening before the Revolution.”

“And it just goes to show you,” added Papa, “that you're no better off supporting Castro. Whether you're with him or against him, chances are you're going to end up dead. Better to get as far away from him as possible—as soon as possible!”

O
n December 24, 1961, our entire extended family—nearly two hundred people—and our neighbors gathered on San Carlos Street to celebrate Noche Buena, or Holy Night. This was an annual event, and the highlight of the year. I was happiest when surrounded by my family, and Noche Buena was the one night when we all came together, to celebrate our connection to each other and to rejoice in the birth of Baby Jesus.

The Noche Buena gathering was also a time to tell stories of previous celebrations that had gone hilariously awry. I listened as Papa told the tale of a pig that Tío William had bought, which had escaped before it could be slaughtered. Every fleet-footed man and boy in Glorytown chased that pig for two hours, until it finally died of a heart attack. Tío William later joked that he almost couldn't bring himself to eat it—almost.

We children were also told the ancient story of Mary and Joseph's journey to Bethlehem, where Mary gave birth to Baby Jesus and was visited by the Wise Men. Abuela Ana told us this tale, relating it with
such simple faith that I believed she'd probably been there and seen the whole thing.

“Remember, kids,” she said, “it's all very well to have fun at Christmastime, to eat and drink and play, but let's never forget the real reason we celebrate at this time of year—to honor the birth of Our Lord and Savior.”

But 1961 would be the last year that we would celebrate Noche Buena publicly, because of what happened that night.

Even if we'd known that this was the last one, there was not a thing we would have done differently. The men put up barricades to block the street to traffic. The women set up tables in front of every house and loaded them with food until the legs threatened to buckle. Papa and Tío Cholu had brought back plenty of fresh food from their Tuesday delivery trips to the countryside, and all the women had been saving things so they could outdo themselves with the cooking. I couldn't pass a table without someone grabbing my elbow and sticking some delicious morsel in my mouth. There were no complaints from me. I could usually eat enough for two boys, and that night I ate for three.

Traditionally, the main dishes of the Noche Buena feast were pork, plantains, and
congris
, or black beans and rice. Abuela Ana was a con-gris specialist. She also made a fabulous pumpernickel bread that I can still taste now if I close my eyes. Mama made white rice, seafood empanadas, and croquettes. Tía Carmen, Tío William's wife, loved to cook yuca, and also to make Cuba libres: Coke with rum and a dash of lime juice. The neighbors brought dessert, such as
panetelas
, a type of
cake;
capuchinos
, anisette rolls;
casquitos de guayaba con queso
, or guava shells with cheese; and
churros
, fried bread dough coated with sugar.

Two people were missing that year: Tío William and Carmensita. We felt their absence keenly. In years past, Tío William had hosted many Noche Buena feasts in his massive yard, which could easily accommodate up to thirty tables and still leave room for dancing in the middle. Tío William's nickname was Big Daddy. He wore big rings, drove big cars, and smoked big cigars, and he loved to be generous. When he was running the show, Noche Buena started late in the morning, with people stopping by to socialize and have a bite. This casual visiting went on all day, until at last, when night fell, things got serious. Then a band started up, and people ate, drank, and danced until they were on the verge of collapse. Often, they would fall asleep wherever they could find floor space. It was common for total strangers to show up at this party and be given such a warm welcome that they stayed all night. Politicians and policemen were frequent guests, too—all personal friends of Tío William, one of the most successful businessmen in Cienfuegos.

This was the first year in some time that Tío William hadn't hosted Noche Buena, and it was definitely the first time anyone could remember that Tío had stayed away altogether. He lay in bed with the curtains drawn, suffering in silence over the loss of his little girl. I cast a sad glance at his front door every once in a while. It still felt strange to me that Carmensita was gone forever. My child's mind reeled at the concept of eternity.
When you die, you're dead forever
. But what was forever? A very long time, Papa had told me. Longer than I could hold my breath? Far longer than that. Longer than a year? Way longer.

I couldn't imagine a time longer than a year. In a year, I would be seven, which was very old indeed—too old for me to imagine. Meanwhile, Carmensita, in heaven with the angels, would stay eleven forever. I wondered if she was watching our Noche Buena get-together, wishing she could join us. Was she lonely in heaven, or was she happy because she was with God? God loved children, I knew, but . . . did Carmensita miss me?

Well into the night, the street stayed packed with families, the grownups dancing and drinking and the kids running wild. Rolando, Tito, Luis, and I tore around as if we owned the place—in and out of people's houses, through their yards, eating a little here and a little there, laughing, screaming, reverting to a state of anarchy. No one cared. The adults let us do whatever we wanted. For once, we were free.

Suddenly everyone got very quiet. That was when I realized we had been invaded.

They'd appeared silently, out of nowhere, maybe a half dozen of them: a gang of rough-looking men, strangers to our neighborhood. We could tell by the expressions on their unshaven faces that they had not come for the food. Everything about them was mean-looking, right down to the pointy-tipped shoes on their feet. One minute everyone was having a good time, and the next you could hear the cry of a distant parakeet.

We kids backed away. The bad men began to walk down the street, eyeing everyone with the same contemptuous glare. Then one of them winked at Mama.

“Hey, baby!” he greeted her.

That was all our menfolk needed. Instantly, the gang was surrounded
by a lot of very angry Cuban gentlemen, Papa in the middle of them.

“Who do you think you are?” “What are you doing here?” “How dare you behave like that?” Everyone shouted at once.

“Pigs!” shouted the leader of the gang, a man with bad skin and missing teeth. “Worms! Traitors! Back off, or there will be trouble!”

“Trouble!” said Abuelo Julian. He pushed his way to the front of the crowd until he was nose-to-nose with the ringleader. “You say there will be trouble? You got that right! But we didn't start it! We're peaceful people, and we don't want any problems. But if you don't turn around right now and get out of here, trouble is exactly what you'll get!”

No doubt Abuelo believed that no one in his right mind would dare harm an old man. But Abuelo was wrong. The leader planted both his hands on Abuelo's chest and pushed him. Abuelo flew through the air, landing on the pavement. He winced in pain, then rolled over onto his side.

“Abuelo!” I yelled.

“Julian!” shouted Abuela Ana, watching from the sidelines.

“Let's get them!” shouted Tío Sergio, the husband of my
madrina
, or godmother, Magalys. He hauled back and landed a right hook on the man's mouth.

And that was the beginning of the end of Noche Buena.

We smaller kids were pushed behind a table by the women, who then formed a protective wall in front of us. Meanwhile, the men attacked with howls of rage and fury, using fists, feet, elbows, knees, even foreheads. I couldn't believe my eyes. Papa himself was right there in the middle of it, fighting like a warrior from ancient times. My heart
swelled with pride as I watched him and I wished I were old enough to fight like that.

Then a new sound erupted, one I couldn't identify. I looked around. It was Tío William, screaming with anger. My godmother had gone to get him. He was in such a hurry to join the fighting men that he was still pulling his pants on over the biggest pair of underwear I'd ever seen. Someone had dared to push his venerable father, and that someone was about to get his due.

I'd heard stories of Tío William's wrath before, mostly from Papa, who had occasionally witnessed it in the workplace—though always in response to a broken tool or carelessly misplaced invoice, never to anything serious. Mama's stories were more dramatic. Tío was the eldest of all her siblings, and once or twice, when he was a young man and she still a little girl, she'd seen him explode in fury. She explained that Tío was slow to anger, but once the feeling peaked, he was like thunder in a summer storm.

Now, hurt to the core by Carmensita's death—for which he blamed the Communists—and filled with a murderous rage at these hoodlums—who were obviously on the Communist payroll, hired to cause trouble—he was living up to all the stories I'd ever heard. Despite my panic and fear, I remember feeling pleased that I was finally getting to see Tío William in action.