trust me much. I really didn’t give her much reason to trust me though, and I couldn’t blame my mother for her misgivings about me. I don’t think she ever trusted anyone, really. “You better not lose this,” she warned me, as if she expected me to do just that.
But wear that necklace I did; I never took it off, and I developed a restless habit of twisting that gold star incessantly between my skinny fingers. My fidgeting was just one more additional thing that always drove Mamá crazy.
When I was barely fourteen years old, I daringly snuck into my mother’s bedroom to rummage through her closets and drawers. I snooped often. I never knew exactly what I was looking for—clues, links, anything that would explain all the mysteries of my family. Be careful what you look for, you may not like what you find.
Mamá was so guarded and silent, so I searched for her also the only way I knew how. But the only thing I ever discovered among her random collection of junk was a lingering, stale smell of old relics that could only have held any meaning to my mother—a frayed scarf patterned with pink and yellow flowers, some old pieces of gold jewelry that she never wore in public, and a pipe still stained with dried-up tobacco residue. But one day I found something that really caught my eye. Shoved way back in the corner of a drawer in her nightstand, hidden under a bunch of old papers and empty medicine bottles, I found a black-and-white photograph with crinkled edges. I knew instantly it was a photo of my father.
I was told dozens of times that he had been a gentle and sensitive soul, and I could easily capture that kindness seeping from the noble man in the photo. He wore a straw trilby hat poised coolly on his head and his apron was clearly crusted with baking flour. But he stood tall and dignified with his tricycle in front of his shop with the words “Stein’s Bakery” stenciled in bold blue letters across the glass storefront. His eyes sparkled like two pools of cool water. It was clear to see in those eyes the warmth and compassion and optimism that was my father. I flipped the photo over, and on the back, my father had written in his slanted European handwriting, “Para Mimi, mi unica corazón de melón.” For Mimi, my one and only melon-heart.
A poet or a comedian? I filled with a longing to know him for myself. I bet we would have been great pals. The photo’s dedication was dated March 14, 1941, a month before my birthday and two months before my father’s death. Repeating numbers one and four again. As a young and rambunctious kid, I was already too curious for my own good. I pinched the photo and hid it in my room under my pillow. One day, I will be rich and respected like my father. Everyone will love me and be proud of me too.
Mamá never questioned the missing photograph. It wasn’t until the eve of my fifteenth birthday, though, with the gold star hanging around my neck, that the twinkling stars of the night skies started whispering to me. I was deftly aware that Gabriel Stein was always going to be with me.
My father’s untimely death made neighbors and friends gush with pity for me and Mamá. What was a young mother with a baby to do on her own? They meant well, I’m sure. Gossip, after all, was as natural to La Colonia as breathing air. It was everyone’s way of letting you know that they cared. It was the glue that bound us together. But I grew to resent their two-cent pity, just as Mamá and Abuelo did. What did they know? Anyway, Mamá and I were not on our own—we had each other.
The community blather always got under my skin and gnawed at my young brain. No one ever talked openly about my father; but I swore I would show them all what I, Max Chekovski Stein, was really made of. The inspiration of my father watching me from above and occasionally whispering words of wisdom to me…sometimes I could feel him rattling around in my veins like a ghost trapped in a dark attic.
3
Saul Posternik, my mother’s second husband, seemed to be the answer to our problems. At least, that’s how Mamá tried to explain it to me. All I knew for sure back then was that Saul was a Sephardic Jew whose family had somehow managed to settle on the Caribbean shores from Morocco. (Yuck! a Turko!) Vulnerable and lonely, with a young child and lost in a world without the true love of her life, Mamá was determined to provide security for both our futures. Of course, she would not ask for help from anyone nor would she admit that she was running herself down at the factory. Or that every now and then she could not seem to make ends meet on her own. No matter how many hours she spent in the sweaty, dirty factory, it would have been way more embarrassing for her to ask anyone for a handout.
Marrying Saul was better than worrying about her son running around on the dangerous streets of Havana, or having to cut up square pieces of newspaper for use in the toilet, or complaining about government rations. But even as a young child, the nagging feeling that there was something more to my mother’s desperation gnawed at me. I might have been young, but I could read the sadness in my mother’s eyes every time she looked at me. Her icy-blue stare would get wet and distant. There had to be more to it than just worrying about the politics of the times. Was it something else?
Before my mother and Saul finally married, I had heard my grandparents argue all the time about Mamá’s stubborn choices.
“You should see her in la fábrica, Zoila. No child of mine should be working like a horse in a dirty, stinking factory. Especially not Mimi. And going with a Turko, no less? My daughter must be going absolutely crazy!”
“Oh, shush, viejo. It’s you who is sounding crazy. What can we do? She won’t take our money, and she can’t take care of little Max by herself if she doesn’t work. Maybe Saul won’t be so bad after all.” That’s when Abuela’s words would trail off, leaving an unfinished silence hanging between the two and their angry words.
“If only—” Abuelo’s defeated whispers would fade into the air…and then I could swear I would hear the faint mention of Tío Daniel lingering in the hot air around them.
“Don’t even think it, Yoni. At least now she has Saul and everything will be fine.” It was Abuela who always got in the last word.
So Mamá decided to jump at the opportunity that offered us both a respectable semblance of support and security—she married Saul. It was, after all, a clever way to adjust our circumstances without arousing further unwanted pity or attention.
I was only seven years old when Saul moved into our house. From the very beginning, the struggles between me and Saul mounted and grew more spiteful with each passing year. Just as Saul hated to have me around, I also despised the idea of Saul coming in and taking over our home and our lives. From the very beginning, when Mamá first introduced Saul into our lives, my anger and revulsion for the man burned like acid being forced down my throat, and I was helpless to do anything about it. Would he try to be my father, telling me what to do all the time? What could a young boy do to prevent a desperate, lonely single mother from marrying a man who had offered promises of stability and comfort? I figured my mother had the right to make her own decisions, to feel safe and protected, to not have to work so hard or worry so much. But I was not going to fall for Saul or any phony-bologna fathering. No one was going to tell me how to live my life!
Soon enough, I started getting into trouble in school. Some of it was intentional on my part. As they say, even negative attention is still attention. But as the years passed and I grew older and more resentful of Saul—and Saul’s drinking grew more insufferable—I purposely blew off my studies, preferring to spend my free time hanging out with my buddies, my best buddies, at the beach flirting with the mulattas (the best-looking girls in all of Cuba, as far as I was concerned!) or playing my conga drum at the park. By the time I entered high school, I had almost been held back two times.
With his respected status in the community, Abuelo had needed to call the principal of the school on my behalf on several occasions. My grades were the lowest in the whole class. The lowest in all subjects, except math. It’s not that I was stupid, but who had time for school? I was going to be rich and famous and admired without all that studying and those ridiculous rules.
Most of my early troubles at school were just bits of silly mishaps. Like the time our teacher fell right on her ass in front of the whole class. We had been practicing for the class spring performance, and Señora Vaulkner yelled out for all of us to clear the stage and get