got something weird to tell you.”
Neil gave a quick glance in Ricky’s direction. “Call me,” he said. “You know our suite number.”
The passageway was nearly empty as Ricky and I walked the short distance to our staterooms. I opened the door to 7278 and turned to Ricky. “Well?” I asked him. “Do you want to tell me the truth now?”
Down the passageway the elevator doors opened. I heard the sound but ignored it.
Ricky didn’t. His eyes widened, and for an instant he stiffened.
Then, to my amazement, instead of using his key to enter his uncle’s stateroom, he pushed me into my stateroom and quickly shut the door. Before I realized what was happening, he grabbed me from behind and clapped a hand over my mouth.
“I think I am being followed,” he whispered into my ear. “Do not call for help. Do not make a sound, I beg of you.”
Held tightly against Ricky, I could feel the rapid pounding of his heart. Or was it my own heart that was so out of control? I had never been so frightened.
“You must not call out,” Ricky whispered. “Will you help me?”
Agreeing with him seemed to be the only way to go, so I managed to nod assent, trembling as he released me and stepped aside.
“Will you check the passageway?” he asked. “Tell me if someone is there.”
Obediently, I peered through the peephole. The short section of the passageway I could see was empty, but I slowly opened the door, clinging to it for support, and glanced to both sides.
I could run. I could scream for help,
I told myself, wild thoughts zinging through my mind. But Ricky had made no move to harm me, and I could see that he was as frightened as I was. I silently shut the door and turned to Ricky, leaning against it. “The passageway is empty,” I said.
Ricky closed his eyes, letting out a long, shuddering sigh.
“You said that someone is following you. Why?” I asked.
Dropping as though his legs no longer had the strength to hold him up, Ricky sat on the edge of one of the twin beds. “We hoped it would not happen,” he said. “The boatman swore he would not tell.”
“Tell what?” I asked.
Ricky looked at me, his eyes wide with fear. “Rose,” he said, “I have escaped from Cuba to seek political asylum in the United States. Now I am being hunted by the government. If they find me, they’ll take me back to Cuba, where I will be charged with desertion . . . a crime punishable by death.”
5
I WAS SHOCKED. “DESERTION? THAT DOESN’T SOUND right. How old are you?”
“Seventeen. I’ll be eighteen in May.”
“Then surely the judge in your trial would—”
Ricky interrupted with a bitter laugh. “Trial? My case would come to trial only if the object would be to teach a lesson to others who try to escape the island. And it would not be the kind of trial that would take place in your country. It is more likely that I would be taken quietly to a Cuban prison. There I could be beaten and tortured, then ‘disappear.’ Only my aunt Ana would ask about me, and she would be ignored.”
I gasped. “You’d be killed?”
“There is an alternative—what they have done to some escapees who have been returned. My work in baseball would be discredited in the press, and I would no longer be allowed to play. I’d be assigned a low-paying, menial job.”
“What about the people who know you—your friends, your teachers? Wouldn’t they come forward to help you?”
Shaking his head, Ricky said, “Rose, there is a big difference between a democracy and a dictatorship. In Cuba you survive by
not
asking questions or offering help.”
“What are you doing on this ship?” I asked. “Don’t most of the people who escape Cuba try to take boats directly to Miami?”
“Yes,” Ricky said. “And with your coast guard on constant patrol, they are usually caught. By the laws your country established, those who set foot on your land may ask for political asylum. Those who are picked up at sea must be returned to
Neil gave a quick glance in Ricky’s direction. “Call me,” he said. “You know our suite number.”
The passageway was nearly empty as Ricky and I walked the short distance to our staterooms. I opened the door to 7278 and turned to Ricky. “Well?” I asked him. “Do you want to tell me the truth now?”
Down the passageway the elevator doors opened. I heard the sound but ignored it.
Ricky didn’t. His eyes widened, and for an instant he stiffened.
Then, to my amazement, instead of using his key to enter his uncle’s stateroom, he pushed me into my stateroom and quickly shut the door. Before I realized what was happening, he grabbed me from behind and clapped a hand over my mouth.
“I think I am being followed,” he whispered into my ear. “Do not call for help. Do not make a sound, I beg of you.”
Held tightly against Ricky, I could feel the rapid pounding of his heart. Or was it my own heart that was so out of control? I had never been so frightened.
“You must not call out,” Ricky whispered. “Will you help me?”
Agreeing with him seemed to be the only way to go, so I managed to nod assent, trembling as he released me and stepped aside.
“Will you check the passageway?” he asked. “Tell me if someone is there.”
Obediently, I peered through the peephole. The short section of the passageway I could see was empty, but I slowly opened the door, clinging to it for support, and glanced to both sides.
I could run. I could scream for help,
I told myself, wild thoughts zinging through my mind. But Ricky had made no move to harm me, and I could see that he was as frightened as I was. I silently shut the door and turned to Ricky, leaning against it. “The passageway is empty,” I said.
Ricky closed his eyes, letting out a long, shuddering sigh.
“You said that someone is following you. Why?” I asked.
Dropping as though his legs no longer had the strength to hold him up, Ricky sat on the edge of one of the twin beds. “We hoped it would not happen,” he said. “The boatman swore he would not tell.”
“Tell what?” I asked.
Ricky looked at me, his eyes wide with fear. “Rose,” he said, “I have escaped from Cuba to seek political asylum in the United States. Now I am being hunted by the government. If they find me, they’ll take me back to Cuba, where I will be charged with desertion . . . a crime punishable by death.”
5
I WAS SHOCKED. “DESERTION? THAT DOESN’T SOUND right. How old are you?”
“Seventeen. I’ll be eighteen in May.”
“Then surely the judge in your trial would—”
Ricky interrupted with a bitter laugh. “Trial? My case would come to trial only if the object would be to teach a lesson to others who try to escape the island. And it would not be the kind of trial that would take place in your country. It is more likely that I would be taken quietly to a Cuban prison. There I could be beaten and tortured, then ‘disappear.’ Only my aunt Ana would ask about me, and she would be ignored.”
I gasped. “You’d be killed?”
“There is an alternative—what they have done to some escapees who have been returned. My work in baseball would be discredited in the press, and I would no longer be allowed to play. I’d be assigned a low-paying, menial job.”
“What about the people who know you—your friends, your teachers? Wouldn’t they come forward to help you?”
Shaking his head, Ricky said, “Rose, there is a big difference between a democracy and a dictatorship. In Cuba you survive by
not
asking questions or offering help.”
“What are you doing on this ship?” I asked. “Don’t most of the people who escape Cuba try to take boats directly to Miami?”
“Yes,” Ricky said. “And with your coast guard on constant patrol, they are usually caught. By the laws your country established, those who set foot on your land may ask for political asylum. Those who are picked up at sea must be returned to
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