THE RADIO

It was always the sound of his voice that called me to the radio. Too young to understand the words, I was not too little to realize my parent’s reaction to the voice on the radio. At times, there was also the sound of a woman’s voice, which they equally hated.

From my bedroom, I knew the radio was about to go on by the sound of the heavy wooden shutters at the front of our small flat, which dad pulled down a few minutes before they sat down to listen. Then, daddy’s steps toward the small entrance hall, a small sofa, and a side table with the radio next to the lamp. And mommy in the kitchen, getting tea and scones ready. Sometimes the radio buzzed a funny sound, which I have always associated with fear. At that time, it was fear of the unknown, only sensing that there was something in the voice of that man that I associated with pure evil, not really knowing why.

The whole show was preceded and followed by rants on the part of my parents, addressed to no one in particular. Not used to my parents using loud language and definitely not cursing, I wondered if I had done something wrong, or if my brother had decided to run away again.

Once the radio was off, it was obligatory for my mother to bend down to my level. Index finger over her mouth, she would say: “Shhhhhh, Lili, don’t repeat in school what you hear us say at home OK?”

I was only six.

In school, the first two pages of my little reader are forever embedded in my memory. The first one had a drawing of EVITA. Each day, the class would turn to it, look at her, and repeat out loud: “I love Evita.” On the next page, we followed the same procedure, with a photo of Juan Peron. “I love, Peron” the little voices would repeat like an intercessory prayer gone wrong. These were the people my parents hated enough to badmouth and feared enough to pull down the shutters before turning on the radio.

The parakeets’ name was Penny, which, at my age, I thought was an appropriately foreign name. She had blue and white feathers. My dad clipped her wings so she would fly freely around our place, often resting on my shoulder for a quick kiss. I had asked for a puppy, a request which my mother did not support. Penny was the replacement dog. I loved her, so much that I often forgot that she did not have paws or fur. We had a lovely cage for her, a white one that we left outside when it wasn’t raining. The back patio had high walls, and dad promised me she could not escape as long as her wings were trimmed. Daddy warned me that if Penny was inside the cage, and the cage was shut, it meant it was time for a trim. “Do not open the cage, Lili, if the door is shut, OK?” daddy would caution me time and again.

One day, when the dictator's speech was too long and my parents were still flailing insults at him, I walked to the patio, and, seeing Penny locked up, I decided to open the little door to her cage. 

Too little to understand, I was tired of the whole thing: excoriating against someone I was forced to love, my parents’ screams, my brother's shenanigans, the dark and scary living room at 4 in the afternoon. Defying one of daddy’s rules seemed like a good thing to do on that day. After all, no one would ever know, what with all the ranting and raving. The locking handle on the cage’s arched door was almost too little even for my small fingers, but I finally succeeded in opening it. 

My plan was to grab Penny and take her to the room near the garden, where I had both of my dolls and a few coloring books. I would close the door and, with Penny flying around, I hoped to forget about the frightening daily ritual taking place in my own home.

It took an instant. The cage door swinging open, Penny flying out like a caged eagle, the blue color of her wings getting higher and higher and reaching the patio’s walls, up toward the nearest tree, my scream, my running as fast as I could to get daddy.

“Daddy, daddy!”, I said, half in tears, the other half fearing a thrashing and the loss of my dearest friend. Mommy looked angry, either at the interruption or at the fact that I had not listened. Daddy wavered for a second, wondering if he should risk my mother’s anger, miss the latest dictator’s sermon, or allow his little kid to suffer the consequences of her disobedience. It took him less than a second to decide.

My father opened the front door, and ran out, little me running after him. On the other side of the street, Penny was happily sitting on the branch of a jacaranda tree, her color competing with the violet-blue of its flowers. Her song was different, louder, deeper. Years, later, I realized it was the song of freedom. Or maybe not. 

Daddy must’ve known before I did that Penny was not coming back. That my heart would be broken. That mom was going to punish me. He picked me up and told me that Penny was happy up there and that she would find her way around the city. That she would marry and have babies. My head on daddy’s shoulders, I cried inconsolably, his soft sweater soaked with my young tears.

In one swift movement, daddy grabbed me tighter, running across the street. For a second I thought Penny had flown back to our house, and lifted my head off my father’s chest. Instead, two armed men were waiting by our front door, one of them holding my mother, a terrified look on her face. The other man grabbed daddy, pulling him toward him, ordering him to let me go.

Dad took me down slowly. While still holding my hand, he asked the other man to release my mom. I didn’t really understand what anyone was saying, and whether it had anything to do with my lost parakeet. For a split second, I was grateful that mom called the police to rescue my dear Penny.

My mother grabbed me and followed dad’s request - more like a screaming order - to go back into the house. As she shut the door, I thought I saw a blue flash fly away from the jacaranda across the street. 

I never saw my dad or Penny again. I remember the smell of Old Spice, daddy’s strong hands holding my hand, and the look of fear in my mother’s eyes.

And a parakeet flying to freedom and a young man losing his.