Letters from Cuba

by Ruth Behar

  “He sells things from all over the world!” Señora Graciela exclaimed.

  I smiled, thinking of how kind he’d been to me.

  Papa asked if Juan Chang had been in Agramonte a long time, and she said he arrived ten years ago. He was Cantonese and came by himself to Cuba. He married a black woman and it was a happy marriage, but she and their baby died in childbirth. Such a sad story, Señora Graciela said. His store was all he lived for. But he was lonely. He sent for his nephew, Francisco Chang, who came from China to live and work with him.

  Dinner ended and Señora Graciela turned to Papa and said she wanted to buy all the religious statues we still had left for sale.

  Papa said there was no reason for her to do such a thing. But Doctor Pablo explained that Señora Graciela was a devout Catholic and would appreciate having the Virgin and the saints on her nightstand, where she could light a candle and pray to them before going to sleep, so they might take care of their beloved daughter, Emilia, whom they had lost too young.

  I imagined Emilia was now a star shining from the light of her mother’s candles and prayers.

  On our way out, Señora Graciela gave me another book that had belonged to Emilia, a book of poems by José Martí. She said it was called Simple Verses and I could read and enjoy the poems to help me learn Spanish. I remembered the statue of José Martí in the Parque Central in Havana and how Papa had said never to say a bad word about José Martí because he is so respected by Cubans.

  Later that night, I fell asleep reciting the lines “Yo vengo de todas partes / Y hacia todas partes voy.”

  The words are simple, but they mean so much: “I come from many places / And to every place I go.” That is how I feel now, Malka. I’m in a place that wasn’t mine but is slowly feeling like it could become my home.

  This morning, we brought Señora Graciela all the idols we had left—including a large figurine of the Virgin of Regla, or Yemayá, as Ma Felipa and Manuela call her. Many people had admired this statue. It was beautiful, but very heavy, and I had felt bad seeing Papa weighed down as he carried it from road to road. I was glad it would be in Señora Graciela’s possession and help her send love to Emilia, whom she misses and mourns every day in her black clothes.

  I am certain Señora Graciela and Doctor Pablo bought the idols from us not only so she could pray to them, but also because they don’t want us to be insulted again by Señor Eduardo.

  Now that we don’t have any more statues to sell, Papa and I must go to Havana tomorrow. Papa needs to pay Zvi Mandelbaum a commission on what we have sold. Then we can start fresh with new things to sell. All I want is to keep saving up for our family’s journey here.

  How I miss you, dear Malka. I remember you would bring home books from the library and stay up reading all night. I imagine you studying and getting smarter every day. Books are precious, aren’t they? I can’t imagine how we’d live without them. They’re powerful too—I guess that’s why there are people in this world who hate books so much that they burn them. Would you believe that happened in Germany a few years ago? It scares me to think it could happen again. Hopefully it will not be long before you are in Cuba and staying up reading the verses of José Martí.

  With all my love as always,

  ESTHER

  AGRAMONTE

  March 2, 1938

  Dear Malka,

  I wish you could have seen the look of surprise on Zvi Mandelbaum’s face when he learned we had sold everything that he’d given to Papa to peddle.

  “Avrum, you never sell out so fast. Esther has brought you good luck!”

  “Yes, she has, Zvi,” Papa replied, smiling at me.

  “So let me give you more of the idols to sell,” Zvi said.

  Papa shook his head. “Give us something else to sell.”

  Zvi reached into a box filled with sandals like the ones he had given me and said, “How about sandals? Everyone needs sandals! You see people running around barefoot in the countryside, hurting their feet. Offer them sandals and they will be grateful, you will see.”

  He told Papa he would take only a small commission if we sold them quickly. We walked out with our satchels full, Papa with sandals for men and boys and I with sandals for women and girls.

  We walked along Calle Muralla, peeking at the window displays of the fabric shops owned by Jewish immigrants. There were bolts of cloth in every color and pattern you can imagine. I thought of Mama and what an artist she is with needle and thread. She taught me to sew—not with a lot of patience—but what does that matter now? Do you remember, Malka, how when we were little, I made patchwork skirts for our dolls out of scraps of cloth? That seems so long ago.

  I asked Papa if we could buy fabric, scissors, needles, and thread so I could make some dresses. After sweating in my wool dress for a month, I was eager to change into something soft and light. Papa agreed, and we picked a store and went inside.

  The kind woman who helped us is also from Poland. Her name is Rifka Rubenstein and she speaks Yiddish in the same singsong way as Bubbe. It almost brought tears to my eyes to hear her.

  For a few pennies, we bought yards of remnants in several colors. I made sure to get cloth in a nice shade of blue, thinking of a dress I could make for Ma Felipa. I even chose a bit of black fabric to make a dress for Señora Graciela. There were two pretty floral prints in a light cotton as smooth as butter, and I took those too, thinking they’d be nice for dresses for Manuela and for me. I got scissors, needles, pins, and thread. And I remembered to get a tape measure, the kind that rolls up and fits in my pocket, and some tracing paper and pencils to be able to draw the patterns.

  I was so excited by all my purchases, I kissed the woman goodbye as we were leaving.

  That brought a tear to her eye. She said I reminded her of a granddaughter she had left behind in Poland. Then she reached behind the counter where she was sitting and pulled out a big box of buttons, all shapes and sizes, and gave them to me. She told me to return whenever I needed more supplies, and she would always give me a good price.

  We were hungry by then, so we stopped at La Flor de Berlín and bought two challahs, one to devour as we walked around Havana and the other to bring back with us to Agramonte. Of course, Papa and I said the prayer first before we dug in. We were both so hungry! But how strange it felt to be eating that braided bread that reminded me of you and Mama and Bubbe and my brothers and my old life in Poland while the sun shone bright, the sea air gave off a scent of faraway places, and street vendors roamed the humid streets selling peanuts and fruit ices. It was all Papa and I needed for lunch. We were eager to return to Agramonte and start selling the sandals. I wanted to sit and sew and see what dresses I could make on my own, without Mama looking over my shoulder.

  But Papa felt he had to go to synagogue, if only for a few minutes, to pray with other men and remember he wasn’t alone in the wilderness. We stopped in for afternoon prayers, and Papa sat with the men while I sat on the women’s side.

  There was only one woman sitting there with a girl who seemed a bit older than me. We were too far from the men to hear the prayers, so I whispered to the woman in Yiddish, asking if they had been in Cuba for very long.

  “My daughter and I just arrived,” she responded. She spoke Yiddish with a different accent than I was used to, but we could understand each other. “We are from Germany,” she said. She wiped away a tear. “Things are getting very bad there for the Jews.”

  Her daughter put her arm around her mother to comfort her. “We were fortunate to be able to escape. Papa is safe in Bolivia and we’ll be reunited soon.”

  Her mother shivered, even though it was hot in the synagogue. “There is a terrible man in power in Germany. His name is Hitler. He hates Jews and Romani people and sick people—and anyone who disagrees with him. His followers, the Nazis, took everything from us—not just our home, but our hopes and dreams.”r />
  “We will find new hopes and dreams here, and we will begin again,” the girl said. She held her mother even tighter. I realized at that moment how much I wanted to hug Bubbe and Mama, and you, dear Malka, and even my brothers if they’d let me!

  Hearing about the Jewish people in Germany got me even more worried about what might be happening to all of you in Poland. Not knowing if you’re hungry, if the dark winter days are filled with fear, I feel an ache in my heart. But even if I could look into a magic glass and see all of you, there’s little I can do from this great distance, and that hurts more. I know Papa feels helpless and desperate whenever he receives a letter from Mama. He doesn’t let me read these letters, which come so rarely and arrive so ragged they look as if they’re filled with clumps of sadness.

  When the prayers ended at the synagogue, I said goodbye to the mother and daughter and wished them well. Papa and I found our way to the train station, carrying our satchels stuffed with sandals and the sewing things, but what really weighed heavily on us were our worries for the future.

  With love from your sister,

  ESTHER

  AGRAMONTE

  March 7, 1938

  Dearest Malka,

  I’ve spent the last few days making a dress for myself, sewing early in the morning when the light is bright, while Papa prays. I sketched the pattern on tracing paper and then chose one of the floral cotton fabrics, placed it on the pattern, and cut the material. I decided on a simple collar and short capped sleeves. I began to sew, following the picture in my imagination. I thought it should button up the front to make it easy to take on and off. I tucked in the waist a bit so it would fit nicely.

  I basted first, using big stitches to hold the pieces together and be sure it looked like a real dress. We only have a small mirror that Papa uses to shave. When I tried the dress on, it was difficult to see how it fit, but I caught enough of a glimpse to think I’d done pretty well. I twirled around and the fabric felt like a cool breeze as it swept past my legs.

  Confident it looked good, I sat down and stitched it all together with small, tight stitches so the dress would hold up to lots of wear and washings. Mama’s silver thimble came in handy! For the final touch, I added pockets at the hips, where they’d be easy to use and I could easily find my pocket watch. I love pockets and won’t make any dresses without them!

  When Papa saw the dress, he was impressed! “Beautiful sewing, Esther,” he said. “Your mother’s lessons weren’t in vain.”

  I thought of Mama and was surprised at how much I missed her . . . Now that we’re apart, I wish we hadn’t argued so much and had been more patient with each other. But I know for sure she’d be proud of this dress!

  Feeling light as a feather in my cotton dress, I went off with Papa to sell sandals. Zvi Mandelbaum was right about people in the countryside needing them. So many are barefoot or wearing torn-up shoes. Papa decided to sell the sandals for less than Zvi Mandelbaum suggested so even the sugarcane workers living out of town in the barracks could afford them. He lets people pay half now and the rest in a month if they can’t afford the full cost. Papa says this is called an installment plan and it’s a new thing.

  Everyone is happy with this arrangement because they get to wear the sandals right away. Papa asked me to keep a record of all the loans, and this way I am learning the names of our neighbors in Agramonte and in the hamlets near the sugar mill.

  Now when the people there see us coming down the road, they’re friendly and take us inside their houses so they can try them on.

  Ma Felipa also heard about the sandals we were selling. On our way back home, she called to us and said she wanted to buy sandals for Manuela. Papa refused to take any money from her. We would be forever grateful that she saved us from the cruelty of Señor Eduardo. If not for her, who knows what he might have done to Papa?

  “It’s a gift,” Papa said. “Un regalo” in Spanish.

  Ma Felipa was so touched, she gave Papa one of her big hugs. Manuela was giddy in her new sandals, which are just like mine, but the leather’s still clean and shiny. She danced around and then extended her hand to me so we danced together. When she said, “Amigas!” I felt so happy. I’ve been wanting to make a friend here in Cuba, someone my age to spend time with. I will put even more effort into learning Spanish if I have a friend, though I have learned a lot already, as I mostly understand what I hear and have learned to count to one hundred.

  Manuela helps her family with their work too. She helps Mario José in the fields, and she helps Ma Felipa around the house with the cooking and cleaning and feeding the chickens they keep in the yard. She finished elementary school in Agramonte, but there is no secondary school in the town.

  Manuela rubbed the skin on her arm with her finger and used this gesture to show that her skin is a different color from mine. She said, “Most black people here were not taught how to read and write until recently.” Then she pointed to Ma Felipa and said, “Fue esclava,” meaning “She was enslaved.”

  It was what I had imagined, and I felt sad to know it was true. Ma Felipa nodded and placed her wrists against each other and brought both arms up to her heart, showing how she had once been in chains. Manuela said Ma Felipa wasn’t allowed to learn to read or write, but she had taught her grandmother to write her name and is slowly teaching her the alphabet. Manuela says she dreams of being a schoolteacher, “una maestra,” one day, and teaching in their elementary school. She wants to see the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of people who were once enslaved learn how to read and write. I was so impressed hearing her speak, and I hope her dream will come true.

  “Ven conmigo,” Manuela said, and led me outdoors to the field behind their house while Papa and Ma Felipa remained indoors, resting in the rocking chairs.

  We walked a few feet and stopped before a tree.

  “Ceiba,” she said.

  It was a tall tree with a few limbs and a canopy of rustling leaves. Rather than being underground, the roots bulged from the earth, thick and strong. Manuela showed me a chain wrapped around the trunk of the ceiba. Candles and flowers had been left at the base of the tree as offerings. The chain had belonged to a slave, Manuela said. The tree held the suffering of all the slaves who asked for help, and sometimes at night, when the suffering becomes too much for it, tears drip down the trunk. She pantomimed that she was crying to make sure I understood the meaning of the word “lágrimas.”

  I had never heard of a tree that could cry, but so many things are different in Cuba.

  We went back inside and Papa said it was time to go. I remembered I wanted to take their measurements so I could make dresses for Ma Felipa and Manuela. I was clumsy trying to explain what I wanted. But then I pointed to my dress and they both said, “Un vestido.” They were delighted once they understood I had sewn the dress myself. They let me measure them with my tape and I wrote the numbers down in the back of Papa’s ledger, then we picked up our satchels and said goodbye.

  At the door I turned, and Manuela looked back and said to me, “Amigas.”

  I repeated, “Amigas.”

  The very next morning, I promised myself, I had to begin sewing a dress for Manuela, my first friend in Cuba.

  My dear Malka, I will tell you more in the next letter. I’m so tired I’m falling asleep as I write. The only thing keeping me awake is the sound of crickets singing in the night, and the desire to write everything down for you so I don’t forget any details. I don’t know if you’re awake or sleeping now, but I hope you are well in every way, as I love you with all my heart.

  Wishing you good dreams always,

  ESTHER

  AGRAMONTE

  March 10, 1938

  My dear Malka,

  For the last three days, I got up early and sewed and sewed until I finished the dress for Manuela. I was able to sew faster because I knew what I was doing and Manuela and
I are the same size. I also made hers with buttons in the front, but I experimented and tucked the pockets into the seams so they’re hidden.

  “Can I go over to Manuela’s house and give her the dress?” I asked Papa after he was done praying. Papa agreed and said he was going to do some accounting and see how much we had earned from the sale of the sandals.

  No sooner had I gotten beyond the town center and was walking on the dirt path that led to Manuela’s house than Señor Eduardo appeared on his horse. I kept my gaze down and moved to the edge of the path, trying to make myself invisible, but he turned his horse around and followed me. He didn’t say a word, but I could feel the heat of his horse’s breath on my back. Then when I got to the door of Ma Felipa’s house, he muttered “judía” and sped away.

  Manuela greeted me with a hug and waved me into the house. I tried not to give Señor Eduardo any more thought as I followed her inside.

  “Tengo un regalo,” I said. I have a gift.

  I gave her the folded bundle. She opened it and was thrilled to find the dress. She kept turning it from front to back, looking at every seam and every detail, admiring the yellow buttons I’d chosen to match the flowers on the dress, and saying “bonito,” which means “beautiful.” Ma Felipa came into the room and she marveled at the dress too. When Manuela tried it on, I was happy to see the dress fit perfectly. She twirled around as I had and I could tell she enjoyed the breezy feeling of the light cotton fabric on her legs too. This dress was even lighter than the simple shift she usually wore, made out of muslin. “Gracias,” she said, and gave me a hug, and then Ma Felipa gave me a hug. Next I’ll surprise Ma Felipa with a dress—I already know what design I’ll make for her.