Tropical Secrets Read online

  too thoroughly—

  now, the young people ask

  so many questions

  that the lack of answers

  makes me dizzy.

  I cannot bear to speak

  about my burning village,

  my parents and sisters,

  or my Cuban wife

  who died too young

  or our son

  who moved away

  to who-knows-where

  and never visits,

  never writes.

  I have no wisdom to offer

  when it comes to the art

  of waiting for answers.

  DANIEL

  Waiting for a future

  and an understanding

  of the past

  means waiting for an end

  to a war, far away,

  so instead of tormenting myself

  with impatient questions

  about Europe’s suffering,

  I find my escape

  by playing el sartén,

  a strangely simple

  Cuban musical instrument

  made by clashing

  two frying pans together

  like cymbals in an orchestra,

  the sound of thunder

  or hoofbeats,

  the music

  of running

  and rage.

  DANIEL

  Paloma introduces me

  to Ernesto Lecuona,

  a great Cuban composer

  whose father vanished

  when Ernesto was only five.

  To support his family,

  the boy played piano

  in those old-fashioned theaters

  where silent-movie stars

  danced on white screens.

  Now, watching Lecuona’s hands

  as they dance on the piano,

  I discover the secret

  of his genius—

  both hands are calm,

  his hands are a team,

  and so are his inspirations

  as he blends the wistful melodies

  of Spain

  with hopeful rhythms

  from Africa,

  creating an entirely new

  sort of music,

  the sound of a future

  dancing with the past.

  DANIEL

  The more I hear Lecuona’s piano,

  the more convinced I become

  that improvising

  is the music

  for me.

  Lecuona has captured

  the tropical magic

  of daydreams

  and wishing.

  All over Havana

  shoeshine boys

  and candy vendors

  walk down the street,

  changing old songs

  into new ones.

  Cubans call this skill decimar—

  the art of inventing life

  as it goes along.

  DANIEL

  Instead of answering my questions

  about her mother’s dancing

  and her father’s work,

  Paloma walks with me

  up and down the cobblestone streets

  of Old Havana.

  I understand her reluctance to talk

  about painful memories,

  so I let her be quiet.

  Instead, we listen to the clip-clop

  of a cow’s hooves

  as the lechero delivers fresh milk

  from door to door, milking

  into a clean pitcher

  handed to him by each housewife.

  When we listen to a mockingbird

  singing from the top of a palm tree,

  Paloma says the bird sings

  like a Cuban,

  inventing new melodies

  each time his beak opens.

  I tell her I know how the bird feels,

  unwilling to be satisfied

  with yesterday’s song.

  PALOMA

  I have so much to say

  about my mother’s dancing

  and my father’s work,

  but I do not know how to speak

  of things that really matter,

  so instead, I tell Daniel about my school

  where I study math, reading, writing,

  lacemaking, and saints’ lives.

  My favorite teacher is an old nun

  with a sad smile.

  My favorite saint is Francis

  who spoke to birds and wolves.

  Birds are so much easier

  to understand

  than people,

  but I’m not so sure

  about wolves

  or saints.

  DANIEL

  Suddenly, everything changes

  all over again.

  I had almost grown accustomed

  to living in this unfamiliar land

  when, without warning,

  the safe haven called Cuba

  stopped feeling safe.

  Pearl Harbor has been attacked

  by Japan—Cuba is arresting

  not only Japanese citizens

  but Germans as well.

  The most unsettling part

  of all this turmoil

  is the distrust.

  By now, I should know

  how to live with utter confusion,

  but I feel just as uncertain

  as before.

  I am from Germany.

  Will I be arrested

  too?

  DANIEL

  Thousands of Germans,

  according to rumor,

  will be held in a guarded compound

  on the Isle of Pines,

  a small prison island

  just south of Cuba.

  Suspicious stares.

  Whispered insults.

  The tension of distrust

  just like before . . .

  It takes some time

  for things to become

  clear—

  only Germans

  who are not Jewish

  will be rounded up

  and sent away. . . .

  DANIEL

  The red J on my passport—

  a J stamped by Nazis—

  proves that I am Jewish,

  a refugee,

  not a spy.

  Still, there is the terror

  of being questioned

  by police

  and the fear

  of those Jews

  who happen to be married

  to Christians.

  Suddenly, I understand

  that the Christian spouses

  of Jewish refugees

  are being arrested

  simply because

  they are not

  Jews.

  DANIEL

  Germans who do not have

  passports with a red J

  are so fiercely suspected

  of being Nazi spies

  that the whole world

  seems upside down.

  I cannot understand

  how the J

  that condemned me

  in Germany

  has been transformed

  into a mark of safety

  on this crazy island—

  what a strange

  twist of fate.

  There but for the grace of God.

  DAVID

  Life is so full

  of ugly surprises.

  Arresting Christian Germans

  who have come to Cuba

  with their Jewish wives

  or Jewish husbands—

  all of this makes no sense

  at all—

  but what if there really are

  Nazi spies

  entering Cuba

  from the refugee ships?

  DANIEL

  There is terror

  all around me

  as wives and husbands

  are pulled apart

  in the refugee shelter.


  No good can come of this,

  even if it does end up

  helping a few Christians

  to finally understand

  a bit of the horror

  experienced by Jews

  at home,

  where we were the ones

  rounded up

  for nothing more dangerous

  than our spiritual beliefs.

  Still, I cannot help seeing

  the suffering

  and hearing the whispers

  of fear

  and feeling so angry

  all over

  again.

  DANIEL

  The oldest couple

  in the shelter where I live

  must now face this new crisis

  of origins.

  The woman, Miriam, is Jewish,

  and her husband, Mark—called Marcos

  by the Cubans—he is Christian.

  If I could help them hide

  from this turmoil,

  I would.

  Don’t they deserve

  an old age

  lived together

  in peace?

  My parents taught me

  to respect all faiths.

  It just isn’t right to arrest a man

  simply because he is not

  the same religion as his wife

  of sixty years.

  PALOMA

  Miriam and Marcos

  stayed together throughout

  their ordeal, fleeing all the way

  across Europe.

  To keep her safe, he hid

  with her, in haylofts and cellars,

  surviving with the help

  of Dutch farmers

  and Basque fishermen

  until finally

  they were able to find

  safe passage on a ship

  from Portugal to Cuba.

  They said that ship

  seemed like an angel

  with huge, floating wings.

  Now they refuse to separate.

  They have fled from the shelter

  and are hiding in my dovecote.

  I did not give them permission,

  but I cannot send them away. . . .

  What will I do if my father

  discovers the secret visitors

  who are depending

  on me?

  DAVID

  The young people bring me

  a baffling new question,

  one that lies far beyond

  my own powers of thought.

  This question belongs

  to the mind of God:

  How can people stay sane

  in a world that makes

  no sense?

  DANIEL

  Rumors fly

  like the dark vultures

  that circle Cuba’s clouds

  after each summer storm,

  hungry vultures searching

  for dead things left behind

  by the floodwaters.

  People whisper that soon

  no more refugees will be allowed

  to land in Cuba.

  Is there any chance,

  any chance at all,

  that my parents

  might have found a way

  to reach a ship

  just as Miriam and Mark did?

  Could my parents actually

  be sailing toward me

  right now

  on one of the doomed ships

  that will soon

  be turned away?

  DANIEL

  Cuban officials are afraid

  that each shipload of refugees

  could also be delivering

  a few Nazi spies.

  How can I choose

  between wanting to help

  all the refugees

  and longing to defeat

  the madness in Europe,

  a madness that destroys

  both victims

  and victors—

  turning our neighbors in Berlin

  into monstrous nightmares,

  glassy-eyed madmen

  who break windows

  just to cut

  through human flesh

  with knives

  of crystal?

  DANIEL

  I feel like that other Daniel,

  the one who survived in the lions’ den,

  the one who interpreted dreams.

  I feel the heaviness of nightmares

  even though I am awake.

  How weary I am, how sleepless

  and hopeless—there is no escape

  from the torment

  of wishes.

  If I could help someone,

  anyone—

  maybe even Miriam

  and Mark—

  if I could help them,

  at least I would feel

  that I had fulfilled

  my parents’ wishes—

  they said all they wanted

  was courage for me,

  hope for the future,

  and peace for themselves—

  the kind of peace

  that hides in the heart

  even when war

  seems to swallow

  the world.

  PALOMA

  I was taught that the sun

  cannot be hidden

  with one finger,

  but sometimes I feel

  like I am surrounded

  by so many secrets

  that the truth would need light

  from a whole galaxy of suns

  in order to shine

  past the shade

  I make with both hands

  each time I watch a bird

  leave my dovecote

  to explore

  the dangerous sky.

  PALOMA

  Secrets are a burden.

  I share mine with Daniel

  and Davíd.

  Now, all three of us know

  that Miriam and Marcos

  are here with me,

  hiding. . . .

  How dangerous it is!

  Someone could find them

  and accuse me of treason.

  Papá has already warned me

  that I am no longer allowed

  to keep homing pigeons

  because they might be

  suspected of carrying messages

  written by spies. . . .

  PALOMA

  All I have left now

  are a few of my faithful

  wild birds,

  natives of Cuba,

  the blue-headed quail doves

  and sturdy rock doves . . .

  and imported birds,

  the tame peace doves,

  poor souls . . .

  the peace doves

  are far too trusting

  to survive in the wild

  where hungry cats

  pursue them.

  Each time I think

  of the risk I am taking

  by letting strangers hide

  in my dovecote,

  I feel like a peace dove—

  so vulnerable,

  a fool. . . .

  PALOMA

  My plan is dreamlike,

  but Daniel says that is why

  it will work.

  I am the only one

  who cares for my doves.

  Papá and the servants

  never climb

  the spiral staircase

  up into my world

  of bird life.

  Now, while my father

  is inside the house

  with his secrets,

  I will be in the tower

  in the garden

  with secrets

  of my own.

  I will be dreaming

  a plan

  of trust

  and peace.

  DANIEL

  Hollow bones are the magic

  that helps a bird fly.

  Hope is the mystery

&nb
sp; that keeps me alive.

  Kindness is the surprise

  that makes me hopeful.

  Love is the kindness

  that keeps Miriam and Mark

  together.

  We will help them.

  We will try.

  PALOMA

  Secrets grow

  like tropical vines.

  The dovecote is messy

  like my mind.

  I visit quietly,

  sneaking in,

  creeping up,

  carrying food

  for the terrified old folks

  who suddenly seem

  like family.

  DAVID

  The young people

  seem crazy,

  but their plan

  just might work.

  It’s worth a try.

  Miriam and her husband