TROPICAL SECRETS

TROPICAL SECRETS

HOLOCAUST REFUGEES IN CUBA

MARGARITA ENGLE

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

NEW YORK

Henry Holt and Company, LLC

Publishers since 1866

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, New York 10010

www.HenryHoltKids.com

Henry Holt® is a registered trademark of Henry Holt and Company, LLC.

Copyright © 2009 by Margarita Engle

All rights reserved.

Distributed in Canada by H. B. Fenn and Company Ltd.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Engle, Margarita.

Tropical secrets : Holocaust refugees in Cuba /

Margarita Engle.—1st ed.

p.        cm.

Summary: Escaping from Nazi Germany to Cuba in 1939, a young Jewish refugee dreams of finding his parents again, befriends a local girl with painful secrets of her own, and discovers that the Nazi darkness is never far away.

ISBN-13: 978-0-8050-8936-3 / ISBN-10: 0-8050-8936-5

1. Jews—Cuba—History—20th century—Juvenile fiction.

2. Holocaust, Jewish (1939–1945)—Juvenile fiction. {1. Novels in verse. 2. Jews—Cuba—Fiction. 3. Holocaust, Jewish (1939–1945)—Fiction.

4. Refugees—Fiction. 5. Cuba—History—1933–1959—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.5.E54Tr 2009 [Fic]—dc22          2008036782

First Edition—2009

Book designed by Meredith Pratt

Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper. ∞

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To my parents

Martin and Eloísa Mondrus

No se puede tapar el sol con un dedo.

You can’t cover up the sun with one finger.

CUBAN FOLK SAYING

CONTENTS

June 1939

July 1939

December 1941

April 1942

Historical Note

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

TROPICAL SECRETS

JUNE 1939

DANIEL

Last year in Berlin,

on the Night of Crystal,

my grandfather was killed

while I held his hand.

The shattered glass

of a thousand windows

turned into the salty liquid

of tears.

How can hatred have

such a beautiful name?

Crystal should be clear,

but on that dark night

the glass of broken windows

did not glitter.

Nothing could be seen

through the haze

of pain.

DANIEL

My parents are musicians—

poor people, not rich.

They had only enough money

for one ticket to flee Germany,

where Jewish families like ours

are disappearing

during nights

of crushed glass.

My parents chose to save me

instead of saving themselves,

so now, here I am, alone

on a German ship

stranded in Havana Harbor,

halfway around

the huge world.

Thousands of other Jewish refugees

stand all around me

on the deck of the ship,

waiting for refuge.

DANIEL

First, the ship sailed

to New York,

and then Canada,

but we were turned away

at every harbor.

If Cuba does not

allow us to land,

will we be sent back

to Germany’s

shattered nights?

With blurry eyes

and an aching head,

I force myself to believe

that Cuba will help us

and that someday

I will find my parents

and we will be a family

once again.

PALOMA

One more ship

waits in the harbor,

one ship among so many,

all filled with sad strangers

waiting for permission to land

here in Cuba.

Our island must seem

like such a peaceful resting place

on the way to safety.

I stand in a crowd

on the docks, wondering why

all these ships

have been turned away

from the United States

and Canada.

DANIEL

One of the German sailors

sees me gazing

over the ship’s railing

at the sunny island

with its crowded docks

where strangers stand

gazing back at us.

The sailor calls me

an evil name—

then he spits in my face—

but I am too frightened

to wipe away

the thick, liquid hatred.

So I cling to the railing

in silence,

with spit on my forehead.

I am thirteen, a young man,

but today I feel

like a baby seagull

with a broken beak.

DANIEL

This tropical heat

is a weight in the sky

crushing my breath,

but I will not remove

my winter coat or my fur hat

or the itchy wool scarf

my mother knitted

or the gloves my father gave me

to keep my hands warm

so that we could all

play music together

someday, in the Golden Land

called New York.

If I remove

my warm clothes,

someone might steal them,

along with my fading

stubborn dream

of somehow reaching the city

where my parents promised

to find me

beside a glowing door

at the base of a statue

called Liberty,

in a city

with seasons of snow

just like home.

PALOMA

My father’s secrets

torment me.

Almost every evening

I hear him whispering plans

as he dines and drinks

with other officials,

the ones who decide

what will happen

to all the sad people

on their patient boats.

Last night

I heard my father say

that all these refugees

from faraway places

are making him rich.

I heard him bickering

with his friends

about the price they will charge

for permission to come ashore

and find refuge

in Cuba.

DANIEL

The only riches I have ever known

are the sounds of pianos, flutes, and violins,

so when the German sailors on this ship

keep telling me that I am rich

and that I should pay them

to stop spitting in my face,

I feel like laughing and crying

at the same time.

I have only a few coins

sewn into a secret place

inside my heavy, itchy coat,

but my parents warned me

that I will need

that little bit of money

no matter where I end up,

so I must let the sailors spit.

I keep telling myself

that if I ever reach New York

or any other safe place

I will look back on this day

of heat and humiliation

and none of it will matter

as long as I am free

to play music

and to believe

that I still have a family

somewhere.

PALOMA

When I overhear my father’s secrets,

I understand—

any ship turned away from Cuba

will have no place to go,

no safe place on earth.

Those ships will return

to Germany,

where all the refugees

will suddenly be homeless

and helpless

in their own homeland.

My father thinks it is funny,

a clever trick

the way he sells visas

to enter our small island nation

and then decides

whether the people

who buy the visas

will actually be allowed

to land.

DANIEL

Land!

Solid ground,

the firmness of earth

beneath my shoes,

even if it is just a filthy street

crowded with beggars

wearing strange costumes

and people

of all different colors

mixed up together,

as if God had poured out

a bunch of leftover paints

after making brown rocks

and beige sand. . . .

PALOMA

Drumming . . .

someone is drumming

on our front door. . . .

It’s the sound of a vendor

knocking at the door

and singing in Spanish

with his raspy Russian accent,

singing about cold, sweet ice cream,

vanilla in a chocolate shell,

like some sort of odd sea creature

from the far north.

Papá would be furious

if he knew that I am a friend

of the old man who sells ice cream

door to door.

Papá would be angry

not only because Davíd

is poor and foreign

but also because he is Jewish,

a refugee who came to Cuba

from the Ukraine

long ago.

I open the door

and greet Davíd.

I buy the cold treat quietly—

whispering is a skill I have learned

by watching my father

make his secret deals.

PALOMA

The next singing vendor

who comes along

is a Chinese man selling herbs

and red ribbons to ward off

the evil eye.

I buy one strand of protection

for each of my long black braids

and a third for the dovecote,

my castlelike tower

in our huge, forested garden—

the tower where I feed my winged friends,

wild doves who come and go as they please,

gentle friends, not captives in cages.

Even bright ribbons and cold ice cream

are not enough to make me feel

like an ordinary twelve-year-old girl.

I feel like a fairy-tale princess

cursed with deadly secrets

that must be kept silent.

DANIEL

Hundreds of refugees

crowd into the central courtyard—

an open patio at the heart

of an oddly shaped Cuban house.

I am not accustomed to buildings

with trees and flowers at the center

and a view of open sky

right in the middle of the house

where one would expect to find

a stone fireplace

and sturdy brick walls.

Brown-skinned Cubans

and a red-haired American Quaker woman

take turns trying to give me

new clothes made of cotton,

but I refuse to take off

my thick winter coat.

I find it almost impossible

to believe that I will ever

see my parents again,

but at the same time

I secretly remember

their dream

of being reunited

in a cold, glowing city.

I don’t see how I can survive

without that tiny sliver of hope,

my imaginary snow.

DANIEL

A friendly old man

gives me one ice-cream bar

after another.

He says he had to flee Russia

long ago, just as I have fled Germany.

He tells me he understands how I feel—

I am certain that no one

could ever understand,

but he speaks Yiddish

so I shower him with questions.

He tells me his name is David

and that over the years

he has grown used to hearing his name

pronounced the Spanish way—Davíd,

with an accent on the second syllable,

like the sound of a musical burst

at the end.

I promise myself that I will never

let anyone change the rhythm

of my name.

DANIEL

Two days later, I am still wearing

my heavy coat.

The old ice-cream man tells me

that I will have to stay here in hot, sweaty

Hotel Cuba,

so I might as well remove

my uncomfortable clothing.

It takes me a while to figure out

that David is joking.

I am not really in a hotel

but in some sort of strange

makeshift shelter for refugees.

The ice cream is charity,

my melting breakfast

and messy dinner.

DANIEL

A girl with olive skin and green eyes

helps David pass out festive plates

of saffron-yellow rice

and soupy black beans.

The girl has wavy red ribbons

woven into her thick black braids.

She glances at me, and I glare back,

trying to tell her to leave me alone.

The meal is strange, but after two days

of ice cream, hot food tastes good

even in this sweltering

tropical weather.

My coat is folded up beside me.

I am finally wearing cotton clothing,

cool and comfortable,

a shirt and pants donated

by strangers.

What choice do I have?

I still cling to my dream

of a family reunion

in snowy New York,

but in the meantime, here I am

in the sweaty tropics,

struggling to breathe humid air

that feels as thick as the steam

from a pot of my mother’s

fragrant tea.

DANIEL

The girl asks me questions

in Spanish

while the ice-cream man translates

into Yiddish.

Back and forth we go,

passing words from one language

to another,

and none of them are my own

native tongue, Berlin’s familiar

German.

Still, I am grateful

that Jews in Europe

all share Yiddish,

the language of people

who have had to flee

from one land to another

more than once.

DAVID

I am glad that I have plenty

of ice cream and advice

to give away

because what else can I offer

to all these frightened people

who are just beginning to understand

what it means

to be a refugee

without a home?

DANIEL

David says that removing my coat

was the first step

and accepting strange food

was the second.

Now, he wants me to plunge

into the ocean.

Others are doing it—

all around me, refugees wade

into the island’s warm

turquoise sea.

David insists that I must learn

how to swim, if I want to cool off

on hot days.

He speaks to me with his hands dancing

and his voice musical, just like the islanders

who sound like chattering

wild birds.

I find the old man’s company

comforting in some ways

and troubling in others.

He is still Russian, still Jewish,

but he talks like a completely

new sort of person,

one without memories

to treasure.

DANIEL

The city of Havana is never quiet.

Sleep is impossible—there are always

the drums of passing footsteps

and the horns of traffic

and choirs of dogs barking;

an orchestra of vendors singing

and neighbors laughing

and children fighting. . . .

Today, when I ventured out by myself,

one beggar sang to me

and another handed me a poem

in a language I cannot read,

and there was an old woman

who cursed me because I could not

give her a coin.

Some words can be understood

without knowing

the language.

I lie awake, hour after hour,

remembering the old woman’s anger

along with my own.

DANIEL

Perhaps it is true,

as my father used to say,

that languages

do not matter as much

to musicians

as to other people.

My grandfather was always

able to communicate

with violinists from other countries

by playing the violin,

and when a French pianist

visited our house, my parents spoke

to him with sonatas,

and when an Italian cellist

asked me a question,

I answered him

with my flute.

DANIEL

All I want to do is lose myself

in dreams of home,

but the Cuban girl who brings food

keeps asking me questions

in Spanish.

I try to silence her

by drumming my hands

against the trunks of trees and vines

in the courtyard

of this crazy,

noisy shelter.

My impatient rhythm is answered

by cicadas and crickets.

If I could speak Spanish,

I would remind the girl

that I am not here in Cuba

by choice.

I have nothing to say

to any stranger who treats me

like a normal person

with a family

and a home.

DANIEL

Weeks at sea

introduced me to a new

kind of music,

endless and constant,

sung by a voice of air and water,

a voice of nature so enormous

that it can be ridden by humans

in tiny vessels—

our huge ships as small as toys

from the point of view

of an ocean wave.

There was also the music

of moaning masses—

babies shrieking, mothers weeping,

and sailors howling

wolflike

as they sang

their hideous

Nazi songs.

DANIEL

The girl gives me an orange.

I cannot bring myself to eat it

because, at home, oranges

are precious.

One orange was a treasure

in Germany, in winter.

My mother would place the golden fruit

at the center of our dining-room table,

and we would gather around

to gaze and marvel,

inhaling the fragrance

of warm climates

like that of the Holy Land.

DANIEL

The orange in my hand

looks like a sun

and smells like heaven.

I cannot believe my ears

when David tells me to peel

the radiant fruit

and eat all the juicy sections

by myself.

He says there are so many

oranges in Cuba

that I can eat my fill every day

for the rest of my life.

I glare at David,

hoping he will see

that I am different.

I am not like him.

I have no intention

of giving up hope.

I will not spend my life

here in Cuba

with strangers.

I close my fist

around the orange,

refusing to swallow

anything so sacred.

PALOMA

Germans were in my house last night.

Not refugees, but the other Germans,

the ones who cause all the trouble

that forces refugees to flee.

Papá made me stay in my room.

He sent all the servants home early.

He did not whisper

but spoke in his loud, laughing voice,

the one he uses when he knows

that he is getting rich.

I sneaked onto the stairway

and heard a few fragments

of the German visitors’ plan,

something about showing the world

that even a small tropical island like Cuba

wants nothing to do

with helping Jews.

EL GORDO

Business is business.

Why should I care

about Nazis or Jews?

I find money for my fat wallet

any way I can.

Business is busyness.

A busy life wards off the evil eye

of sadness.

My daughter knows nothing

about business or evil eyes.

She’s just a child

who hides in a tower

with wild doves.

DAVID

The radio and magazines

are filled with hateful lies.

Cuba’s newspaper pages are covered

with ugly cartoons about Jews.

Where do the lies come from—

who dreams up the insults

that make ordinary people

sound like beasts

and feel like sheep

in a forest

of wolves?

DANIEL

Today, a ship

left Havana Harbor.

Desperate relatives

of the people on the ship

rowed out in small boats,

calling up to the decks

where their loved ones

leaned over the railings,

reaching. . . .

One man hurled himself

overboard.

Was he trying

to drown himself,

or was he hoping

that he could somehow

swim to shore?

I picture the German sailors

laughing, and spitting in faces

while they point to the posters of Hitler

in the dining room.

I feel the terror

of the refugees

as they realize

that they are being sent back

to Europe.

DANIEL

Where will the ship go?

What will happen to refugees

who find no refuge?

I cannot bring myself

to imagine the fate

of all those people,

all the children

who traveled alone

just as I did.

Each time I try to picture

my own future,

I feel just as helpless

as the children

on the ship.

Will those children

ever find

a home?

DANIEL

I stand in a crowd

on the docks,

watching the ship

as it grows smaller

and vanishes

over the horizon.

There is nothing to do now,

nothing but drumming

on the earth

with my feet

and pounding out a rhythm

in the air

with my fingers.

I feel so powerless.

All I can do

is talk to the sky

with my hands

and wonder how

any country

can turn a ship away,

knowing that it is filled

with human beings

searching for something

as simple

as hope.

PALOMA

What would my father do

if he knew that I am one

of many young Cuban volunteers

who help los Cuáqueros, the Quakers

from North America

who come here to Cuba

to care for the refugees,

offering food

and shelter?

Which would bother my father more—

knowing that I am helping Jews

or seeing me in the company

of Protestants?

DANIEL

The green-eyed girl

turns her face away

when she serves our meals

of yellow rice

and black beans.

I cannot tell

whether she is sad

or ashamed.

David explains that Paloma

is not her true name.

She is really María Dolores,

“Mary of Sorrows,”

but everyone calls her Paloma, “the Dove”

because she often hides

in a tower

in her garden,

a tower built

as a home

for wild birds.

No one seems to know

why she feels

the need

to hide.

PALOMA

I sneak out

of my room

at night.

I creep through

the garden, and up

into the dovecote.

I sleep

surrounded

by wings.

EL GORDO

Paloma is not my daughter.

My child is María Dolores.

Paloma is just a fantasy name

the girl dreamed up

to help herself forget

her mother’s treachery.

Until my wife ran away

with a foreigner, our daughter

was content to live in a house

instead of a dovecote.

DANIEL

I rest in the open patio,

a crazy place shared

with so many

other refugees.

I am getting used to sleeping

in a house filled with strangers

and trees.

I am not the only young person

unlucky enough to end up alone

in this crowd.

The nights are as hot as the days.

Glowing insects flash like flames,

and a pale green moth

the size of my hand

floats above my head

like a ghost.

Sometimes I feel

like a ghost

myself.

DANIEL

Tonight, I cannot sleep.

I listen to the chirping

of tree frogs

and the clacking beaks

of wild parrots

and music, always music,

the rhythms of rattling maracas

and goatskin drums

even here, in the city,

where one would expect

to hear only sirens, buses,

and the radios of neighbors

broadcasting news

about Germany.

Sometimes I wish

I was not learning Spanish

so easily—then I would not

understand all the lies

about Jews.

PALOMA

In the morning

I walk past the brightly

painted houses of Havana—

lime green, canary yellow,

and sapphire blue.

The houses

look like songbirds.

I picture them rising

up into the sky

and fluttering away.

With each step

I ask myself questions.

What would Papá be like

if my mother had not

sailed away

with a dancing man

from Paris?

Is she still there?

Did she marry the dancer?

Do they have children?

Are there brothers and sisters

who ask questions about me?

I do not ask myself anything

about the start of a war

in Europe—I do not want to know

if my mother

is dead.

PALOMA

I come from a family of secrets.

No one else knows about my mother.

They think she is dead.

Even her own aunts and cousins

were told that she was killed in a train crash

during a vacation in Paris.

I found out the truth

by sneaking glimpses

of my father’s mail.

There was only one letter from Mamá,

a brief one, where she claimed

that she left Cuba because the island

is too small and too quiet

for her taste.

Now, whenever I think of her,

I picture her surrounded

by huge waves, like mountains

of angry noise.

PALOMA

Davíd assures me that my help is appreciated,

even by the boy who keeps to himself

and looks so unfriendly.

The ice-cream man says

that Daniel is just lonely

and frightened,

so I give Daniel one of the white

guayabera shirts

that my mother embroidered

so long ago,

and I give him one of my father’s

many fine Panama hats,

an expensive jipijapa hat,

cool and comfortable

like a splendid circle of shade

from a portable tree.

Both the hat and the shirt are so big

that the boy’s eyes and hands are hidden,

but his smile is out in the open

and his laughter

sounds like cool rain.

DANIEL

Many Cuban words still sound foreign to me,

but David is a name I can really understand—

David, the boy with the slingshot,

the one who killed a giant.

Now the old man called David tells me I will have

to fight three giants

if I want to get along here in Cuba.

The first giant is heat,

the second is language,

and the biggest is loneliness.

Accept friendship wherever it is offered,

David advises—you never know

when things will change,

and you might find yourself

trying to decide

how to help

the same strangers

who now work so hard

to help you.

DANIEL

At least my family was still together

for my Bar Mitzvah, when I turned thirteen.

Times were hard, but we were all

so overjoyed, following the long

solemn ceremony

with feasting, and laughter.

Paloma speaks of her First Communion

with pride—a white dress, white shoes,

and long prayers.

Catholic rituals seem so mysterious,

but Paloma insists that in Cuba

Protestants are considered

the most exotic people,

with churches as plain as houses

and no gold or silver decorations

and no chanted songs

in an ancient language like Latin

or Hebrew. . . .

So when Quakers come to the shelter,

we ask them if it is true

that they worship without a leader,

and they answer yes,

because they believe that no one

is closer to God than anyone else—

in their meetings

all are equal.

PALOMA

Together

Daniel and I visit

a Quaker meeting

to see if it’s true

that Protestants

really are exotic.

We join a circle of people

sitting quietly, praying.

Sometimes they sing

without the music

of an organ

or even a piano

or guitar.

The human voice

sounds so wistful

all by itself.

After the quiet,

eerie service,

we run down to the beach

where the music of waves

sounds so joyful

and wild.

DAVID

When the young people ask me

to tell the tale of my youth,

I try to describe Russia

with her vast forests and wheat fields.

I speak of frozen lakes, ice skates,

long winters, and wars.

Soldiers galloped into my village

with torches, setting fire to the houses,

killing the women, and capturing

the boys, forcing us to kill others,

so I ran away to the seashore,

where I found an old ship

splintered and creaking.

When I asked the captain

if he was sailing to America,

he said yes, and it was true—

here I am, decades later.

I did not arrive in New York

as I had expected

but in this other part

of las Américas.

All of that was long ago,

and the past is the past.

I must think of the future—

next month, Cuba will celebrate

the summer carnival,

a delightful madness

of dancing and music.

JULY 1939

PALOMA

I gather feathers and beads

for decorating masks, capes,

wings, and horns. . . .

I show Daniel how to dance

on stilts.

Together, we craft

crowns, robes, turbans,

and cardboard horses

for make-believe knights.

We practice spinning long poles

topped with lanterns—

our towering castles of candles,

our explosions of light.

Daniel helps me invent

musical instruments,

using things that wash up

on the beach—

cowbells, conch shells,

brake drums, railroad spikes. . . .

We remind ourselves

how to be happy

at least for a few hot

midsummer days.

DAVID

Dancing on stilts has always been

my favorite delight of carnival season.

I feel like I am sitting on God’s shoulders,

looking down at a beautiful world.

Two years ago, carnival was cancelled

when a Cuban official decided

the dances were too African,

too tribal . . .

but outlawing dance in Cuba

is like trying to hide the sun

with one finger.

Joy and truth both have a way

of peeking through any dark curtain.

PALOMA

The names of the carnival teams

are Pretty Bird, Hawk, Toad,

Scorpion, and Serpent.

My father used to dress up

as the heroic magician

who kills scorpions and snakes.

Now, he won’t even watch

the dancing

or listen to music

of any sort.

The part of his soul

that loved melodies and rhythms

vanished when Mamá

danced away.

DANIEL

I never stop dreaming

of my parents.

I see my grandfather

on the Night of Crystal

while I fasten pieces

of a broken mirror

onto the magician’s cape

of silky blue cloth,

creating a sky

filled with stars.

I hear my father’s voice

over the clang of farm tools

used by Cubans

for making music—

shovels, hoes, and rakes

accompanied by drums

and dreams. . . .

My grandfather

would have been horrified.

He loved the soft music

of flutes and violins.

DANIEL

I think of my family

so often

that my grandfather seems

to be alive

and my parents’ voices

sound real,

as if shadows

and memories

could play

their own

sad music.

DANIEL

Paloma and I have decided

to sell flowers and fruit from her garden

to raise money for new refugees

who arrive every day.

Each time a ship lands,

many people need food, clothing,

and a place to sleep.

Knowing that our labor has a purpose,

it is almost easy for me to smile

while I work

decorating a fruit cart

with cheerful green palm fronds

and startling red tassels

to ward off the evil eye,

even though I don’t believe

in superstitions.

Sometimes I’m not sure

if I can ever believe again

in all the miracles

from my grandfather’s

stories about angels

and rescues.

DANIEL

Music helps me forget

my loneliness.

Melodies feel like paths

I can follow

to find my way past

all the terror.

I learn how to play

a big conga drum

and a set of two small

bongo drums

and the square rumba drums

made from codfish boxes—

hollow drums played

by the dockworkers

who unload cargo

from the ships

while they sing.

DANIEL

When I realize that Summer Carnival

is a religious festival,

I almost change my mind

about dancing.

My parents would not approve

of celebrating a Catholic saint’s birthday,

but David explains that Carnival

also marks the end of a year’s

long, exhausting sugar harvest,

and seasons, he assures me,

are a miracle even city people

can understand

all over the world.

DANIEL

Once I decide to dance,

I put my heart into the movements

and the sounds. . . .

I study the rhythms

of polished sticks called claves

and rattles of all sorts

and the güiro,

a gourd carved with grooves

that are scraped

with a stiff wire,

and I study la quijada,

the sun-bleached jawbone

of a long-dead mule

with loose teeth that chatter

each time I shake

the musical skull.

I feel like a troubled ghost

from one of my grandfather’s

funny stories.

PALOMA

The rumba

is a wild dance,

the conga

is a festive dance,

and the son

has a more wistful style

the sort of music I think of

as a danceable sorrow.

DANIEL

Today, all the singing vendors

seem to be saying,

“Hurry! hurry! Taste this moment

before the sunlight

slips away.”

“Hurry! hurry! Taste these wonders

before I go on my way,

far away.”

So I taste the sweetness of a guava

that smells like a forest,

and a coconut

with its scent of beach

and the sugarcane juice

called guarapo, a syrup pressed

from towering green shoots

deeply rooted

in muddy

red soil.

DANIEL

Acrobats leap

twirling long machetes.

I think of my mother

chopping onions.

Men dance in capes,

pretending to fight cardboard bulls.

I remember my father

dressed up for his job as a pianist.

Women dance with lanterns

balanced on their heads.

I see our flickering fireplace

on a shivery winter night.

Paloma dances on her stilts.

I think of Black Forest trees

swayed by wind.

Each time I picture my parents

dancing a waltz, or my grandfather

hopping, clowning around,

I feel like two people—

the young man who makes music

out of odds and ends

of wood and bone

and this other person,

the boy lost somewhere

between the torment of memory

and a few fragile shards

of hope.

PALOMA

The streets are decorated

with strands of colored paper

cut into the shapes

of lightbulbs and flags.

I dance on stilts,

smiling down at my feet

far below—

like Alicita in Wonderland

when she was tall.

I feel like many people—

the little girl who had a mother

and the one who hides with doves

and the one who obeys her father

and this once-a-year

young woman

who knows how to dance

in midair.

PALOMA

Carnival only lasts

for a few days and nights,

and then I will need

to dream up new ways

to make money for helping

the sad people

who still come

on more and more ships,

even though that one ship

was sent away

by my father,

El Gordo, “the Fat Man.”

Papá is actually not fat at all.

He is a tall, lean man

who keeps dreaming up ways

to make his fat wallet

even fatter.

PALOMA

Lottery vendors sing about tickets,

so I buy them, based on my dreams—

a Cuban custom.

If I’ve dreamed about tigers,

I buy number fourteen.

Horse dreams are one,

and death is either eight,

if the person who died in the dream

is a commoner,

or sixty-four,

if the dead man in the dream

is a king.

Dreams of a woman

who is kind and gentle

are number twelve,

so I buy a few of those tickets

even though I have not seen Mamá

in my dreams

for a long time,

and now, when I do see her,

we usually meet

in a nightmare.

DANIEL

Today, Paloma and I

traded secrets.

She told me she longs

to be a dancer like her mother.

I admitted that I find it hard to believe

I will ever have the chance

to grow old, playing the piano

like my father.

His life as a musician

made him happy.

I always imagined that I

would be happy too,

but now, each night

I dream that German soldiers find me.

I hear the crash of windows falling

and people screaming

and the boots, so many pounding,

drumming boots. . . .

In the morning, I have to struggle

to convince myself that the Nazis

are not here.

Will I ever feel

truly safe?

DANIEL

I sit on the beach.

I play drums

for the sea.

Waves are my audience.

The shorebirds do not listen.

They are too busy

making a music

all their own,

a dance of wings

and stiltlike legs,

each feather

an instrument played

by wind.

DANIEL

Islands belong to the sea,

not the earth.

All around me

the world is blue.

Above, more blue,

like a hot, melting star.

Music is the only part

of Cuba’s heated air

that feels like something

I can breathe.

DANIEL

I feel like a King Midas of living things

instead of gold.

Everything I touch

turns into something that grows.

This morning, I heard

a trapped insect chirping

inside the wood of a table—

it must have hatched after

the tree was chopped down.

Last night, I tried to read Spanish stories

in a book marked by worm-eaten pages

and parallel grooves left by rats’ teeth.

In the tropics

everything is eaten

by something else.

Trees lift the sidewalk,

vines swallow buildings,

and fence posts sprout leaves,

turning themselves into hedges.

Like King Midas, I am left with nothing

but this unreasonable hope

that, somehow, my strange life

and my lost family

will return

to normal.

DANIEL

Cubans eat pigs and shellfish.

Paloma buys crab fritters

and fried pork rinds

from vendors who sing

about the beauty

of beaches and farms.

She might as well offer me

spiders and mice.

She does not understand

our customs.

She expects us to dance

on the Sabbath,

on Friday night

and all day Saturday.

She keeps teaching me Spanish,

but what use do I have

for this island’s singsong language?

I should be learning English.

Even if my parents

are no longer alive,

I must plan on somehow

reaching New York

in honor

of their memory,

their dream.

DAVID

I was taught that there are four

kinds of people in the world—

wise, wicked, simple,

and those who do not yet know

how to ask questions.

I was taught that questions

are just as important as answers.

I was a child when I learned these things.

Now I am old, but I still know

that life’s questions

outnumber life’s answers.

Carnival joy is one of my questions—

where does it come from,

this season of musical contentment,

even though I have lived so long

and lost so much?

DECEMBER 1941

DAVID

Perhaps I have taught

the art of wondering

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

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

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.

DANIEL

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 have

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

to spend it.

DANIEL

How will we

ever manage

to raise

so much money?

What if

everyone on earth

is weary

of helping

helpless refugees?

DAVID

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.

DANIEL

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. . . .

PALOMA

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.

DANIEL

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?

DANIEL

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.

EL GORDO

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.

PALOMA

When I was little,

my mother and I drank

from Río Agabama,

a river deep in Cuba’s

jungled interior.

According to legend,

anyone who drinks

those forgetful waters

will fall in love

with this island

and will never

want to leave.

I remember that the river

was streaked with sun and shade.

I drank from a pool of sunlight.

My mother must have swallowed

deep shadows.

Daniel has agreed

to go there someday.

Davíd does not need to.

He already belongs

to his memories of Cuba.

DAVID

I was taught that any story sounds true

until an eyewitness comes forward

to set the record straight.

This is why I encourage the young people

to write their tale of these years in Cuba,

even if they write it in verse, in song. . . .

The time of secrecy is over.

Truth is ready

to sing. . . .

DANIEL

On the ship, German sailors

sang songs about killing Jews.

When we finally came ashore,

they gave all the passengers

postcards of the vessel

to remind us of our journey

and our fears.

I tossed my postcard

into the sea,

a paper ship

made of memory,

floating away

so that I could feel free,

but, until now, that freedom

did not seem real.

DANIEL

I have nothing to give

my namesake,

nothing but time

and hope—

the same simple gifts

I have received

from those who helped me—

so I take him swimming

at the beach, in the evening

when flying fish soar

and the water glows

with red algae.

Together, we watch fish

cross the sky, surrounded

by stars . . .

and we listen to the rhythm

of waves and wind,

this narrow island’s

musical breath.

PALOMA

Daniel and I are still friends,

maybe more.

The secrets have been exposed

and forgiven.

Now we are all free

to tell what we know.

Daniel is putting our tale

into a long ballad, a story-song.

I bring him a flamenco guitar

to help him find the right words.

On the beach

guitar music sounds like a part

of the natural world.

DANIEL

The strings

of the Spanish guitar

help my fingers dance

through our story.

Singing in a world

where my parents have disappeared

is not a betrayal.

I am singing

their story too.

DANIEL

I talk to the younger Daniel

about Carnival

and Cuba’s magical

abundance of oranges.

I discover that this other Daniel

loves music, so I show him

how to make a flute

from a piece of wild bamboo,

and a turtle-shell rattle

filled with beach sand

and decorated with seashells.

Together, we make up songs

in the Cuban style,

improvised décimas

that change as they go along

with words added or altered

each time we remember

sorrows and joys,

bitter losses,

and sweet survival—

any part of life

that seems worthy

of music.

Historical Note

The situations and major events in this book are factual.

The characters are entirely imaginary.

In 1939, Germany’s minister of propaganda, Joseph Goebbels, sent fourteen Nazi agents to Cuba to stir up anti-Semitism. A massive newspaper and radio campaign resulted. The goal of this secret plan was to show the world that even a small, impoverished, racially mixed tropical island wanted nothing to do with Jews. Any ship turned away from Havana Harbor had already been rejected by the United States and Canada. Passengers rejected by Cuba were returned to Europe, where many were transported to concentration camps. The Nazi propaganda campaign had met its goal.

In December 1941, non-Jewish Germans were arrested and held at the prison in Isla de Pinos, a remote island off the southern coast of Cuba. Christians married to Jewish refugees dreaded being forced to share cells with Nazi spies, in a prison where inmates were known to make their own rules.

Throughout the war years, corrupt Cuban officials demanded huge bribes for landing permits and entry visas. Despite tragedies and scandals, Cuba accepted 65,000 Jewish refugees from 1938 to 1939, the same number that was taken in by the much larger United States during the same period. Overall, Cuba accepted more Jewish refugees than any other Latin American nation.

Author’s Note

A few years before World War I, my father’s Ukrainian Jewish parents fled the anti-Semitic violence that destroyed their villages near Kiev. When they found safe passage on ships to “the Americas,” they arrived in the United States, learned English, and became Americans. Some of their relatives who took other ships to the Americas ended up in South America, where they learned Spanish and became Chileans.

My father was born and raised in Los Angeles, California. After World War II, he traveled to Cuba, where he met my Cuban Catholic mother. My parents were not raised in the same culture or the same faith. They did not speak the same language. As artists, they communicated with drawings instead of words. More than sixty years later, they are still married.

I was raised agnostic, but I chose to become a nondenominational Protestant. Even though I did not follow the faiths of either of my parents, I hope I have taught my children to be the kind of people who will help refugees of any faith in times of need.

Acknowledgments

I am grateful to God for safe harbors and the kindness of strangers.

Many thanks to my parents, who taught me tolerance, and to my husband, Curtis; our son, Victor; and our daughter, Nicole, for tolerating my long solitary hours of scribbling.

Special thanks to Reka Simonsen for editorial wonders, and to Robin Tordini, Timothy Jones, Laura Godwin, Meredith Pratt, my copy editor, Deirdre Hare Jacobson, and all the other dedicated book angels at Henry Holt and Company.

For historical facts, I am deeply indebted to Robert M. Levine’s remarkable study, Tropical Diaspora: The Jewish Experience in Cuba (University of Florida Press, 1993).

Table of Contents

Cover

Title

Copyright

Dedication

Contents

June 1939

July 1939

December 1941

April 1942

Historical Note

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments