Free Stalked: The Boy Who Said No by Patti Sheehy Page B

their finger on the filthy back window. As the bus lurched along the rutted dirt road running through Matanzas province, Pino closed his eyes, his muscles moving in rhythm with the sway of the vehicle.
    It had been a long couple of weeks, full of loss and humiliation. Mederos’s escape and his own trial and conviction had left Pino shaken to the core. The tribunal had not only robbed him of his rank, it had stripped him of his dignity. The thought pained him like a blow to the head.
    If he were lucky, Pino might be able to rebuild his career from the bottom up. Who knew what the future might bring? Even so, that would take years, maybe decades to accomplish. The very idea drained blood from his face.
    Pino shook his head, trying to come to terms with the fact that he was packed into this wretched bus loaded with lowlifes. He worked to distract himself by silently repeating slogans of the revolution:
“Viva el socialismo! Viva Fidel! Socialismo o Muerte!”
He scowled as a mosquito buzzed his ear. He waved it away, attempting to recall better days.
    Pino was settling into his seat, lost in his thoughts, when the man sitting to his right sneezed, a sloppy, wet eruption that spread a nasty mist that landed squarely on Pino’s cheeks. He was a beefyman with bushy eyebrows, known as Emmanuel. He grunted and lifted a filthy hand to wipe his nose. The former lieutenant eyed him with disgust, retrieved his handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed his face. He exhaled loudly, and leaned away.
These people behave like pigs. And to think I’m going to have to live with them.
    Emmanuel didn’t take kindly to Pino’s condescension. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he said, revealing a mouth devoid of adjoining teeth. “Ain’t you ever seen a man sneeze before?” Pino grunted, lowered his chin, and cast Emmanuel a venomous glare.
    There was something about Emmanuel that reminded Pino of his father. A memory flashed through his mind, an image of his father sitting at the kitchen table, his calloused hands caressing a bottle of rum, his teeth fuzzy with lack of brushing.
    Hygiene was never his father’s long suit.
    At the time, Pino had just finished reading a book on the history of Spain. He was smart and he knew it. But his father put no value on intellect or education. Being a tough guy was all he cared about. He pointed an accusing finger in his son’s direction.
    “Knowing that shit ain’t worth a bag of beans,” he said. “Ya just wastin’ your fuckin’ time. Ya ain’t no better than me. Cut from the same cloth, we are. I ain’t made nothin’ of myself and ya ain’t gonna either.”
    At that moment, Pino vowed to get out, to prove his father wrong. He began to spend his free time studying instead of playing, repeating his multiplication tables in his head while doing chores, sitting in the front seat at school, rising to the top of his class. He was well on his way to success when the revolution came. He sensed opportunities and took advantage of them. By his mid-thirties, he was well respected, a member of the Communist Party. And now this.
    Pino rearranged his body and looked out the window. Fields of sugarcane drifted past his eyes like clouds in a storm. The former lieutenant was of Spanish descent. He had light skin and gray-green eyes—a color with no real name—and the sun had never been easy on him.
    This will be tough. Hard labor is supposed to be. But at least the tribunal took my loyalty and service to the Party into consideration when it came to sentencing. At least I wasn’t executed or sent to jail. It could be worse. A lot worse.
    When the bus groaned to a halt, Pino grabbed his small suitcase and descended two stairs to greet the torrid heat. A foreman, a burly, no-nonsense man named Castillo, shouted, “This way, men.” The contingent followed a narrow dirt path to a rough wooden bunker with a corrugated tin roof. Pino scrutinized it. It was beaten and bent, and Pino figured it probably