Letters from Cuba

by Ruth Behar

Our neighbors must have been wondering what we were doing indoors. They had gotten used to seeing us with our satchels, roaming about the town and trudging on the dirt roads leading to the sugar mill. Late on Sunday afternoon, Señora Graciela knocked on our door to ask if we were well. She was wearing the black dress I’d made for her and I could see her white handkerchiefs sticking out of the pockets. I meant to tell her how much I appreciated her gift of the sewing machine, but I was so busy making the dresses, I had not had a chance to knock on her door.

  She was stunned to see how the house had been turned upside down with our sewing. Dresses in different stages of completion were scattered on the kitchen table and on the floor of the living room.

  “This has become a factory!” she said. “Una fábrica.”

  From the way she said the word “fábrica,” I wondered if we were doing something wrong.

  I said, “No, no fábrica. Papa and me.”

  I was happy when she smiled and said she was glad we were well. And then she invited us to come to dinner the next day.

  Papa and I stood at the door as she turned in the direction of her house. In that same moment, Señor Eduardo appeared on his whinnying horse. He stared at us so coldly it gave me the shivers. He didn’t say it, but I knew the word “judíos” was on the tip of his tongue. He got off the horse and accompanied Señora Graciela to her house.

  We shut the door and kept on sewing, rushing to finish the dresses we had promised by the end of the week.

  I tried not to think about Señor Eduardo, but he scared me. All I had to do was recall his icy glare to get chills, though it was as hot and humid as ever.

  With all my love as always,

  ESTHER

  AGRAMONTE

  March 24, 1938

  Dear Malka,

  Last night I stayed up late while Papa slept, adding the finishing touches to the dresses. After making sure they were perfect, I used the remnant of paisley fabric Rifka Rubenstein had given me to sew one more dress so I’d have a new sample to show. I added a wide sash that could be tied in a bow in the front or the back. I folded the dresses carefully, separating them into the different sizes and styles. I added layers of tracing paper to keep them neat. When Papa was done with his prayers, we divided the dresses and packed them into our satchels.

  We took the train to Havana and went directly to Rifka Rubenstein’s store. The first three sample dresses I made were still hanging in the shop window. Papa and I waited while she helped a customer. When Rifka Rubenstein was done, she put up a sign that said CERRADO so customers would know the store was closed.

  “Come with me,” she said, and led us to the office in the back.

  “We have more orders! Women have been stopping in all week asking about the dresses. I have never seen anything like it!” Rifka Rubenstein exclaimed.

  Papa said, “That is wonderful news, but Esther has worked very hard, day and night. I have done what I could to help by cutting the fabric and keeping things organized, but that is nothing compared to Esther’s labor. I don’t know how she managed to make so many dresses in one week!” He turned to me with a worried look. “Can you really keep going at this rate?”

  “Of course I can, Papa! I even made an additional dress last night while you slept, just to try a few new things.”

  I carefully took out the dress and held it up in the air so Rifka Rubenstein could see the details. Her eyes glistened as she marveled at my handiwork.

  “You have outdone yourself! I am sure all of these dresses will be adored by the people who wear them,” she said.

  She reached into a safe box, which was hidden behind a chair, and pulled out a wad of bills. She counted out eighty pesos.

  “Here’s a little extra money for all your efforts.”

  I passed the money to Papa for safekeeping. Then Rifka Rubenstein said, “So I’ve taken orders for another twenty-five dresses. Everyone loves the design, because the dresses can be easily adjusted to anyone’s measurements. It is a lot of sewing, even for a magician like you, Esther. That is why I told the customers the orders would take a little longer, two weeks or so rather than one.”

  Papa kissed my forehead and said a prayer for my good health. “Oh, my dear child, you have come to Cuba to exhaust your eyesight and strain your neck and hands. But what can we do? If you are willing, it is the only way we’ll ever save our family. If they only knew the sacrifices you are making to bring them here!”

  “Papa, I do it with my heart, my entire heart,” I said, and I meant it.

  “I too am grateful God put you in my path,” Rifka Rubenstein remarked. “Now, I must tell you I’ve raised the prices of the dresses. You will earn a little more and I will earn a commission to cover the cost of the fabric and my other expenses. The dresses are still a steal. I don’t think you can find a handmade dress with so much charm and so much practicality anywhere else in Havana. This afternoon the women will be coming to pick up their dresses, and I can’t wait to see the smiles on their faces!”

  I wished I could see the women’s smiles too. But that was impossible. Rifka Rubenstein explained that it would be better if the women didn’t know a Jewish refugee girl from Poland was making their dresses. “We’ll pretend it’s a designer from New York. Is that all right with you?” she said.

  I wanted to say no, it wasn’t all right. The dresses were my creation, the work of my hands. But we needed the money and we needed it quickly, so I agreed.

  Rifka Rubenstein gave us more fabric and buttons, an even better selection than the last time. We couldn’t fit it all into our two satchels, so she gave us each a suitcase. Our bags were very heavy, and we must have looked like two mules walking through Havana! Papa was disappointed we couldn’t stop to pray at the synagogue or buy a loaf of challah, as we were so weighed down.

  We squeezed onto the crowded train with our belongings. As usual, Papa slept, snoring blissfully, but I couldn’t even close my eyes. This time I had brought José Martí’s Simple Verses to read and perfect my Spanish. I stared at the words, whispering them slowly to myself. I didn’t understand the poems very well, but there were many words I now knew—“tierra,” land; “flores,” flowers; “vida,” life; “hojas,” leaves; “cielo,” sky; “corazón,” heart—and I felt proud of all that I’d learned without going to school. I hoped one day I would no longer be a refugee and Spanish would slip from my tongue as easily as a cubana.

  Finally we arrived in Agramonte. We lugged the bags to our house. We had barely finished washing our hands when we were startled by a loud knock at the door. I heard a horse neighing and had a bad feeling.

  Papa opened the door and there was Señor Eduardo—with a policeman! They rudely pushed Papa aside and entered our home. Señor Eduardo pointed to the satchels and ordered Papa to open them.

  Papa did as he was asked. Señor Eduardo reached in and pulled out fabric and buttons and lace, throwing everything on the floor.

  After he finished making a mess, he turned to me and said, “¿Dónde está la máquina de coser?”

  I took him to my bedroom and showed him the sewing machine, standing in front of it, trying to protect it with my body. If he took it away, what would we do? But instead, Señor Eduardo turned to Papa and said, “Dame el dinero.”

  He was demanding Papa give him his money! Papa looked dumbfounded. Why did Papa have to give him any money?

  Then came the accusation: I was a refugee and a child and I was working illegally in Cuba. Señor Eduardo said if he reported us, the government would take everything—the fabric, the sewing machine—and charge us a hefty fine. They would put Papa in jail for letting me work. Afterward they would send us back to Poland, where we belonged. They didn’t need any more Jews in Cuba. The Jews that Cuba had taken in out of pity were too many.

  “Fuera, judíos,” he said in conclusion—and I understood what Señor Eduardo really wanted.
He wanted to hurt us. He had wanted to hurt us from the moment he saw us walking along the country paths leading to his sugar mill. He had wanted to hurt us simply because we were Jewish. He had been waiting for the right moment and the right excuse. And he found it.

  The policeman yanked Papa’s arms and twisted them behind his back. Señor Eduardo reached into Papa’s pocket and pulled out the eighty pesos we had received today from Rifka Rubenstein, all the money we had earned from the dresses I had sewn, all the money that was going toward bringing you and Mama and Bubbe and my brothers to Cuba.

  Señor Eduardo counted out the bills, gave some to the policeman, and took the rest for himself. Then he threw ten pesos on the floor and stepped on them.

  “Recógelo, judío,” he said to Papa, and tried to force him to get down on his knees and pick up the money from under his boot.

  Poor Papa was trembling like a leaf. I wouldn’t let Señor Eduardo humiliate my sweet papa like that.

  “No!” I yelled, and bent down myself and got the money as the two men walked out laughing.

  Papa felt broken by everything that had happened. I told him to pray, that prayers always helped, but he said he couldn’t, not today. I told him things would be better tomorrow. He went to bed and fell asleep right away.

  I am awake, unable to sleep, writing to you, dear Malka, on this sad night. From a distance, I hear a lone dog barking, lost and hungry. I try to remember that most Cubans are not like Señor Eduardo. I have met so many people with big hearts on this island, where every day feels like summer, and their kindness is like sunshine. I console myself as much as I can with that thought.

  Now I will say good night and close my eyes and dream of a new day.

  With my love as always,

  ESTHER

  AGRAMONTE

  March 25, 1938

  Dear Malka,

  I fell asleep just before dawn. When I woke up, I went searching for Papa. It was reassuring to find him praying. I was afraid he had lost faith in his prayers. For Papa, that would be the end of everything.

  His shoulders ached from the brutal way he had been pushed and yanked around. I asked Papa to let me go ask Doctor Pablo if he had an ointment to soothe the pain. He agreed but told me not to be gone too long or he would worry.

  Doctor Pablo saw patients at the pharmacy next door to his house. It was still early in the morning and no one was there yet.

  “¿Qué pasa, Esther?” he asked.

  “Dolores,” I said, and pointed to my shoulders. Then I added, “Papa.”

  He excused himself and went to a back room. After a few moments, he returned with a small jar of an ointment he had mixed up himself and told me Papa should rub it on his shoulders. I had brought the ten pesos I had picked up off the floor, but Doctor Pablo wouldn’t accept any money. He said he would come and see Papa when he closed the pharmacy.

  I swung past the grocery store. I called out buenos días to Juan Chang, who was sitting behind the counter, and he said buenos días back to me.

  I kept walking, eager to get back to Papa and give him the ointment. Just before I reached the corner, I heard someone calling me by my name.

  “Esther!”

  I turned and there was Francisco Chang. “Ven, por favor.”

  He motioned for me, politely, to please go back with him to the store. I wondered what for and hesitated. But Francisco repeated “por favor” with such gentleness, I turned around and followed him.

  Inside the store, Juan Chang asked if Papa and I were doing well and getting accustomed to life in Cuba. After the horrible ordeal we’d been through with Señor Eduardo, it was hard for me to lie and say everything was fine. I stuttered as I said, “Bien, gracias,” knowing I didn’t sound very convincing.

  Juan Chang reached under the counter and passed me a little square tin.

  I was surprised to see it was sour cherry tea. The kind that came from Poland. Bubbe loved this tea, but it was a luxury, so we only got it now and then. Do you remember this tea, Malka? It was so tart it made your mouth pucker. Now Juan Chang was insisting I take this tea as a gift, this tea that had come all the way from Poland, just as I had.

  “Té polaco,” he said, and smiled.

  Polish tea.

  Last night Papa and I suffered terribly, and this morning Juan Chang was offering me Polish sour cherry tea. Yes, the world was full of surprises.

  I felt unsure about accepting this gift, but how could I refuse Juan Chang’s kindness? He wanted to show me he understood what it was like to be far from everything that was familiar.

  “Gracias,” I said. “Muchas gracias.”

  Juan Chang nodded in his kindly way and asked Francisco to wrap the tin in brown paper. Francisco took his time. When he was done, he passed the parcel to me. And he passed me something else: a rolled-up piece of paper. I opened it and saw a beautiful drawing of a palm tree. Every detail of the trunk and the leaves was clear and distinct. So Francisco liked to draw! I smiled and said, “Bonito,” and he smiled back.

  “Adiós,” I said, wishing I could explain what had happened with Señor Eduardo and why I had to rush. Another day I would ask if Francisco had more sketches. Now I needed to give Papa a balm for his wounds and a taste of home.

  Papa was still in pain, but he said praying had helped calm his soul. I gave him the ointment and told him to rest and spread it on his shoulders. “I am not ill!” he said, but he did as I asked and soon fell asleep.

  I boiled water so I could brew tea for Papa when he woke up. Then I toasted the bread so it would be crispy and good for dunking in the tea.

  I picked up the scissors and started cutting fabric to make the dresses that had been ordered. I had twenty-five dresses to finish in two weeks, and the sooner I got going, the better.

  But I thought of how much I wanted to make another dress for Manuela and myself, so I decided to start with that. There was an apron hanging from a hook in the kitchen, and I took it down, slipped it over my head, and knotted the bow at my waist to see how it was put together. It occurred to me I could make a wraparound-style dress, like the apron, that could tie at the waist with a thin sash and fit people of many different shapes and sizes—and I’d save time by not sewing on buttons or making buttonholes. I had light blue fabric and got started on Manuela’s dress. Then for my own dress I’d use sunflower-yellow fabric, brighter than anything I’ve ever worn.

  I was concentrating so intensely making these dresses that I didn’t notice Papa had woken up until he stood by my side.

  “Papa, come have some tea and toast,” I said.

  “Where did you get tea?”

  “Sit down and I’ll tell you.”

  Papa sat down and savored the tart flavor that had traveled to Cuba from so far away. “Sour cherry tea. I haven’t had this in years.”

  I told him about Juan Chang and Francisco Chang, how the uncle had given me the tin and the nephew had given me the drawing of the palm tree—one giving me something of Poland and the other something of Cuba.

  “They are very kind and I am grateful they have shown concern for you,” Papa said. “But you must not get too close, dear Esther. Remember you are Jewish and we’re only here in Agramonte for a brief while. You mustn’t set down roots or it will hurt when we have to leave. Be cordial to everyone who is cordial to you. And know that one day we will be in Havana with other Jews again, not here in the wilderness by ourselves.”

  It hurt to hear Papa say this, but I understood. I nodded and said, “Yes, Papa, I know.”

  “I brought you here and I must make sure you don’t get swept away and forget you are a Jewish girl.”

  A knock on the door interrupted us. We were relieved to find it was Doctor Pablo, and I was glad I had something to offer a guest. I gave him a cup of the sour cherry tea and made sure to tell him to add sugar, because I had learned that Cubans liked
everything sweet. He took a few sips and said it was very good, and then they went to the bedroom so Doctor Pablo could examine Papa. When they came back out, they sat in the rocking chairs in the living room like old friends.

  “La verdad,” Doctor Pablo said. He wanted to know the truth. How had he gotten those ugly bruises?

  Papa kept silent.

  “Señor Eduardo,” I said.

  Just saying the name aloud made me afraid.

  Papa wouldn’t talk, so I told the story as best I could, trying to remember all the terrifying words Señor Eduardo had used. I told him how Señor Eduardo had again said to us, “Fuera, judíos.” Doctor Pablo listened intently. And when I got to the part about Señor Eduardo reaching into Papa’s pocket and snatching his money, Doctor Pablo became furious.

  He rose so quickly from the rocking chair he knocked it over. He said he wouldn’t permit Señor Eduardo to keep mistreating us or for Nazis to take over Cuba!

  As he took his leave, Doctor Pablo shook Papa’s hand and told him to keep using the ointment and he’d be better in a few days. Then he turned to me and said to keep on sewing, and those words comforted me.

  I will keep sewing, day and night, and in my sleep too. I won’t let anyone stop me, dear Malka! I will make a bridge of dresses so that you can cross the ocean, and you know I will be waiting here on the other side.

  With my sincere and everlasting love,

  ESTHER

  AGRAMONTE

  March 28, 1938

  Dear Malka,

  I don’t want to brag, dear little sister, but those two wraparound dresses I started making the other day turned out very well! I’ve stumbled upon a style that’s simple to sew and easy to wear. It only took a moment for me to wrap the sunflower-yellow dress around myself and tie a bow on the side to secure it.

  This afternoon, while Papa took his nap, I dashed out to give Manuela her new dress. As I approached Ma Felipa’s house, I heard the sound of drums. The voices of women singing rose into the air. I made out the familiar words: “Yemayá Asesu, Asesu Yemayá . . .”