Tropical Secrets Read online

  have hidden in dark cellars

  surrounded by rats

  and spiders.

  Now they hide

  in a tower

  with nesting birds.

  Miriam told me she wishes

  that she and Mark

  were the ones

  with wings.

  DANIEL

  A few weeks ago,

  if you had told Mark

  that he would be the one

  in danger of being arrested

  because he is Christian,

  he would have said no,

  that is not possible.

  Now I wonder

  will people in New York

  and Toronto

  hear about this reversal

  of danger

  and will it help them

  understand

  that those who feel safe today

  could be the ones in need of refuge

  tomorrow?

  Will this strange

  experience in Cuba

  help people in other places see

  how I felt when my ship

  was turned away?

  PALOMA

  Every dove

  has its querencia,

  a beloved place

  where no matter how far

  a bird has journeyed

  it will always return.

  Each flight

  away from the nest

  is an act of faith.

  The nest does not move.

  The dove’s faith is rewarded.

  I must try to believe

  that the effort we are making

  to help one old couple

  will bring them hope,

  not disaster.

  DANIEL

  I will never understand

  the whole world

  or even

  one country.

  All I can do

  is try to understand

  the truth and lies

  in the simple choices

  I face

  every day.

  DAVID

  Newspapers now carry stories

  about war secrets

  from the United States,

  secrets smuggled

  to Germany

  by way of Cuba,

  secrets smuggled

  by Nazi spies,

  secrets smuggled

  inside hollow canes

  and umbrellas.

  No wonder the refugee ships

  are now being turned away

  from Havana Harbor.

  I feel like a ghost

  watching the living

  sail away

  toward death.

  PALOMA

  Secrets twist and turn

  as they grow,

  but no matter how often

  I consider the dangers,

  I feel certain

  that we are doing

  something good.

  Surely, a frail old man

  like Marcos

  could not be one

  of the Nazi spies.

  I would be able to tell

  if he and Miriam were lying—

  wouldn’t I?

  DANIEL

  German submarines

  have been found

  in Cuban waters!

  Americans are patrolling

  the coast. Even Ernest Hemingway—

  the famous American writer—

  has been authorized

  to search for submarines

  in his little fishing boat.

  What will all of this mean

  for the future of refugees?

  There are so many rumors

  about death camps in Germany,

  so many rumors about suffering

  and cruelty.

  I don’t know which rumors

  to believe, but I do know

  that I should feel like one

  of the fortunate few,

  so why do I feel nothing

  beyond the endless ache

  of loss?

  Perhaps I should have stayed

  with my parents

  in a death camp.

  DANIEL

  When I visit the dovecote,

  I try to listen

  to the old folks’ words,

  but sometimes all I hear

  is the rhythm of voices

  that sound like trees

  with rustling leaves

  or waves on the seashore

  answering the wistful cries

  of lost birds

  blown off course

  by storm winds.

  I long to hear

  all the words, the story—

  but I find myself unable

  to absorb too much at once.

  Truth works its way

  into my mind

  bit by bit, all the horror

  the old folks survived.

  Now, all I can do is pray

  that somehow I will be able

  to transform their pain

  and mine

  into music.

  PALOMA

  I will not live

  in my father’s house.

  He invaded my tower.

  He frightened my birds.

  The refugees just barely

  escaped—

  did Papá know

  that they were hiding here?

  I don’t care. I am so tired

  of his secrets

  and mine.

  I will not stay

  in this life

  of lies.

  PALOMA

  Poor trembling Miriam

  and frail Marcos

  hide in the garden

  until I have a chance

  to sneak them out.

  Daniel helps me walk them

  to the station

  where we get on the first train

  that comes along.

  The train is filled with crowds

  of peasants and children,

  all carrying bundles

  or chickens

  or goats.

  No one seems to notice

  that our hands are empty

  and we are nervous.

  Miriam almost weeps.

  Marcos looks grim.

  What will we do

  if we are questioned

  by the conductor

  or police?

  DANIEL

  This isn’t the orderly plan

  we had daydreamed.

  This is madness,

  fleeing in a hurry

  without knowing

  where we can go.

  What if we are caught

  helping Mark avoid arrest

  for being a Christian

  married to a Jew?

  Will Paloma’s father

  chase us—what will happen

  if we are caught?

  I must be dreaming

  or crazy, to be risking

  so much

  just to help

  an old man and his wife

  stay together.

  PALOMA

  The train is filled with orphan boys

  heading to an orphanage

  on the Hershey ranch,

  where the American

  chocolate maker gives them a home

  and plenty of chocolate

  made with Cuban sugar.

  The orphans play games

  and sing funny songs

  that would make me laugh

  if I was not so scared.

  The only place I can think of going

  is to the home of a distant cousin

  on my mother’s side.

  Before Mamá danced away,

  she used to assure me

  that all good people believe

  that we are our cousins’ keepers—

  I think she just hoped to convince me

  that being an only child

  was not the same

  as being alone.

  D
ANIEL

  We ride the train to a seaside town

  where Paloma’s cousin agrees

  to let Miriam and Mark

  live together in peace in his home.

  This crazy plan

  would not have worked

  if Paloma’s cousin

  did not trust her.

  I wonder how my own life

  would have turned out

  if we had known someone

  in the German countryside

  who could have kept us together

  hiding on a farm.

  DANIEL

  The countryside is beautiful,

  so green and tangled with life.

  Royal palms are the most graceful trees

  I have ever seen—

  they sway like Berlin’s ballet dancers.

  The country people look poor and weary,

  getting around any way they can

  on skinny mules and old horses

  or in battered cars that run on fuel

  made from sugarcane.

  I feel like I have traveled back

  in time, to a century when wars

  did not swallow the whole world.

  If only the peace I feel right now

  could be stored up and released later

  when cruelty surrounds me

  in the dark

  during nightmares.

  APRIL 1942

  PALOMA

  Miriam and Marcos are still safe.

  My cousin keeps me quietly informed.

  Last year, after the train journey,

  Davíd convinced me

  that I should return

  to my father’s house,

  at least until I finish school.

  So I am home now

  in my garden, in the dovecote,

  but I have changed—

  I have decided to study science

  instead of dancing.

  I will be a student of nature,

  taught by birds.

  PALOMA

  I thought I understood

  my father’s nature,

  but he actually seemed happy

  to have me back

  after that train ride,

  and he believes—

  or pretends to believe—

  the lies I invented

  about where I had gone.

  I told him that I went

  on a journey of discovery

  to find out where

  my peace doves go

  when they disappear.

  I brought back a peace dove

  from a bird market

  and pretended that it was one

  I had lost.

  I said that I had found it again

  wandering around

  out in the countryside,

  waiting to be rescued.

  That is how I think of peace

  and peace of mind—as timid birds

  that we have to search for,

  not bold ones that come

  looking for us.

  DANIEL

  The doors to Cuba are closing.

  The last two ships are anchored

  in the harbor,

  waiting for permission to bring

  two hundred and fifty-seven refugees

  ashore—

  who will determine

  the price of their survival?

  Who makes these decisions

  about life and death?

  When the ship I arrived on

  came to this island,

  the line between safety

  and danger

  was narrow,

  but now there is no

  line at all—

  ships turned away

  will be ships

  of death.

  DANIEL

  For these last two ships,

  there is hardly any chance

  of landing.

  Public opinion

  has turned

  against Jews.

  Paloma tries to tell me

  that her father is the one

  who decides

  about entry visas

  for refugees,

  but I try

  not to listen—

  that is a truth

  I refuse to hear.

  My mind creates noisy music

  to block the sound of such

  impossible words.

  PALOMA

  Daniel admits

  that he secretly wonders

  if his parents could be waiting

  on one of these last

  sad ships.

  I tell him it could happen—

  yes, they might be two

  of the two hundred and fifty-seven

  weary passengers

  awaiting refuge—

  but we both know

  that everyone says

  Jews can no longer

  escape from Germany.

  The refugees

  on these last two ships

  are from other, quieter

  parts of Europe.

  PALOMA

  A mother bird pecks at her egg

  from the outside, while her baby pecks

  at the same spot from within.

  Working together, they will meet

  in the middle of the eggshell.

  That is their shared moment of freedom.

  Some jobs just cannot be completed alone.

  I am starting to share

  my father’s ugly secrets

  with Daniel and Davíd.

  They seem so disappointed

  that I did not tell them sooner.

  I think their disappointment

  is harder for me to endure

  than their anger.

  All I know is that the burden of lies

  is being lifted.

  I already feel like a newly hatched chick,

  experimenting with wings

  and a voice.

  DANIEL

  Paloma’s confessions

  enrage me.

  How could she have kept

  such terrible secrets

  for so long?

  We were friends.

  Maybe more.

  Now I wonder

  if she will ever

  understand anything

  about trust.

  DAVID

  I was taught that truth

  stands the test of time

  while lies

  have a way

  of being exposed.

  One hundred years from now,

  who will remember

  the truths

  we are living now?

  Will anyone know

  that we tried to save

  these last few refugees?

  Two hundred and fifty-seven

  is not a large number

  compared with the ships

  a few years ago—

  but two hundred and fifty-seven

  living people

  will either survive here in Cuba

  or be sent back to Europe,

  to the Nazis

  and the war. . . .

  PALOMA

  Asking my father

  to help the people

  on those ships

  is painful,

  but I have

  no choice.

  I promise

  to raise money

  for the visas.

  He laughs

  and asks,

  “How much?”

  DANIEL

  Forty-seven passengers

  have already been allowed

  to land.

  Two hundred and ten

  remain on the ships.

  I walk to the harbor.

  I stare at the sea.

  I listen.

  The waves play their music

  of arrival

  and then loss.

  My parents were not

  two of those first

  forty-seven.

  How could I ha
ve

  allowed myself

  to hope?

  PALOMA

  Four hundred and eighty thousand

  American dollars—

  that is the price

  my father has chosen

  for survival of the remaining

  two hundred and ten

  human lives.

  Payment cannot be made

  in Cuban pesos.

  Dependable currency

  is required.

  Papá drives a hard bargain.

  I suppose he is good at his work.

  If only he longed

  to devote himself

  to charity,

  instead of bribes.

  I would be so proud

  to be his daughter

  if he were working to raise

  a mercy fund for the refugees

  instead of working