Tropical Secrets (5 page)

 

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?

 

 

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. . . .

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

 

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?

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

 

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?

 

 

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?

 

 

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?

 

 

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?

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

 

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. . . .

 

 

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. . . .

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

 

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?

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

 

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?

 

 

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.

 

 

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.