Tropical Secrets (6 page)

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

 

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?

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

 

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. . . .

 

 

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?”

 

 

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 have
allowed myself
to hope?

 

 

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
to spend it.

 

 

How will we
ever manage
to raise
so much money?

 

What if
everyone on earth
is weary

 

of helping
helpless refugees?

 

 

So many good hearts
have swiftly
given so much!

 

Money comes
from other countries
and from people
all over the island—

 

the Archbishop of Havana
has even made an appeal
to the Cuban government
for mercy.

 

 

While those last two
desperate ships
drift in the harbor,
a spirit of charity spreads
like a fever
or a new dance step,
a carnival of sympathy
with money flowing
into mysterious channels,
flowing generously,
buying liberty . . .

 

although freedom
seems like a gift
that should
be given freely,
without bribes,
in some other way. . . .

 

 

Two hundred and ten
exhausted souls
came ashore today.

 

Jew or Christian,
it does not matter.
The refugees are people
who migrate like birds
seeking a safe place
to rest.

 

 

Those two ships
were my last
hopeless
hope,

 

so I busy myself
handing out Cuban food
and cotton clothes
to the new arrivals.

 

I teach them
a bit of Spanish.

 

I move through
the cheerful
island sunlight,
pretending
that I am happy
to be alone.

 

Will I ever know
exactly where
my parents' last songs
were sung?

 

 

Paloma tells me that old folks
speak of a custom
called
el tocayo
, “the namesake.”

 

She says there was a time
when an orphan
could find a home
with any adult
who happened to share
the same name.

 

I cannot help all the orphans
who arrived on the last two ships,
so I find one whose name is Daniel
and that is where I start—

 

one lonely child,
one smile,

 

one small
musical voice.

 

 

If I had known
that my own daughter
would betray me to the Archbishop,
I would have been
more careful.

 

I would have sent her away
to one of those convents
where girls are taught
how to remain silent and hidden,
practically invisible.

 

No matter, my wallet is fat.
I convinced the government
that the payments are needed
to buy enough food
to keep all those refugees
alive.

 

 

When I was little,
my mother and I drank
from Río Agabama,
a river deep in Cuba's
jungled interior.