Letters from Cuba

by Ruth Behar

  Ma Felipa responded, “I caught him trying to hurt Señor Abraham on the road by my house. I thought he was being mean in his usual way. I didn’t know it was because he hates the Hebrews.”

  “I am ashamed he’s my brother,” Señora Graciela said, bowing her head.

  Doctor Pablo spoke again. “Maybe it seems impossible, but one day Hitler or his followers might want to take over Cuba. We must not lose our beautiful island to people who want to spread hatred.”

  Mario José asked, “What can we do?”

  “We can’t allow Nazis here!” Manuela said. “Or for Señor Eduardo to hurt Esther or Señor Abraham.”

  Francisco spoke up in his soft, polite way. “What if we form a society? The Anti-Nazi Society of Agramonte.”

  “That’s a good idea! Even if the members are just us,” I said.

  “There will be more than just us. I’m the leader of the union at the sugar mill and will speak to the workers. We’ll call a strike if Señor Eduardo tries anything,” Mario José announced.

  Señora Graciela shuddered. “But, Mario José, a strike would stop the sugar production and the workers would lose their pay.”

  Mario José replied, “We’ve known each other since we were children, Graciela, so I hope you don’t mind me speaking frankly. You are different from your brother and I appreciate that. If it’s the workers you are concerned about, they’ve been ready to call a strike for a long time because of the miserable conditions at the sugar mill. They work themselves to the bone cutting the cane and boiling the molasses and can barely feed their families.”

  “I understand,” Señora Graciela said. “If you must strike, I will be on your side, Mario José. I must do what is good, even if it means being against my own flesh and blood.”

  Doctor Pablo looked around the table. “As of today, then, we’re all members of the Anti-Nazi Society of Agramonte. Do you agree?”

  We all said yes, and before Doctor Pablo left, he told us, “Our society will be following in the footsteps of the anthropologist Fernando Ortiz. Last year he started an association in Cuba to educate people so they’re not afraid of cultures that are different from their own. He says hatred comes from ignorance. That’s why it’s good to learn about each other’s customs and traditions. Thank you, Esther and Señor Abraham, for sharing yours with us tonight.”

  Then everyone said, “Hasta mañana,” and I felt at peace, hoping for a tomorrow filled with kindness.

  Afterward, Papa and I sat in the rocking chairs.

  “You see, Papa, everything went well.”

  “Fortunately, yes, Esther. But tomorrow night, let’s have a quiet seder, just the two of us.”

  “Of course, Papa.”

  I hope you and Mama and Bubbe and my brothers have had a good seder, with plenty of matzo.

  Sending all my love,

  ESTHER

  AGRAMONTE

  May 5, 1938

  Dear Malka,

  The rainy season’s begun and I’ve never seen so much rain come pouring from the sky all at once. An umbrella doesn’t help at all—you still end up soaking wet. The storms usually occur in the afternoon and clear very suddenly, losing their fury all at once. The sun reappears and the countryside turns the brightest green.

  Rainy days are good for sewing, and the last few weeks have been a frenzy of work to finish the next order of dresses for Rifka Rubenstein. But Papa and I have been in a cheerful mood and each day he insists we take a break. So while Papa prays or naps, I go to Manuela’s or visit with Francisco Chang at the store.

  I’ve learned many new jump-rope rhymes with Manuela. One that we like a lot goes like this:

  Caballito blanco,

  Llévame de aquí.

  Llévame a mi casa,

  Donde yo nací.

  Little white pony,

  Take me away from here.

  Take me home,

  Where I was born.

  We play and laugh, and when we get too hot and sweaty, Ma Felipa gives us a delicious coconut sweet. We talk about our dreams too.

  “My father is saving to send me away to school next year,” Manuela tells me. “I really want to go so that I can become a teacher, but I’ll miss my father and grandmother so much. They’re the only family I have.”

  “I’m so sorry your mother died.”

  “She’s not here to hug me anymore, but I feel her inside me, encouraging me.”

  “Your mother would be proud of you,” I told Manuela, and this brought a few tears to her eyes.

  I reached into my pocket and gave her a lace-trimmed handkerchief I’d made with a leftover square of linen. It wasn’t embroidered like one of Bubbe’s handkerchiefs, but it still reminded me of her.

  “How pretty!” Manuela said. “Everything you sew is beautiful, even the simplest things. You are already such a good dressmaker, Esther! When you grow up, you will be even more amazing.”

  “Right now, it’s hard to think of who I’ll be when I grow up. I just want my family to be safe and make it to Cuba.”

  “We’ll keep fighting against the Nazis here so your family will have a safe home when they arrive.”

  “Gracias, Manuela. I’ll always remember when you called me amiga for the first time.”

  Manuela smiled and squeezed my hand. “Amiga, let’s jump rope again!”

  It is so nice to have a friend to confide in and one who helps you put aside your worries!

  And I am blessed because my friendship with Francisco Chang is growing too. He and I like to sit together in his store at the end of the long counter while Juan Chang works at the other end.

  Now that Francisco is used to me coming by, he has shown me more of his drawings. He’s very talented and can sketch plants and flowers and trees in great detail. I told him about the ceiba tree that cries in Manuela’s yard, and he said he’d like to draw it sometime.

  “Do you believe a tree can cry?” I asked.

  “Maybe,” he said. “Everything is different in Cuba.”

  “But you like it here?”

  “I like it a lot. The people are so friendly. I just wish they’d call me by my name, Francisco, and not always say ‘chino’ or ‘chinito.’ But I know they don’t mean it badly—it’s their custom.”

  “It’s the same with me. Everyone calls me ‘la polaquita.’ In Poland, I wasn’t even considered Polish. I was just a Jew. I had to come to Cuba to become Polish. It’s funny, isn’t it?”

  We laughed, and Juan Chang turned from his accounting and said, “Esther, you should visit more often. I haven’t heard Li Qiang laugh like that in a while.”

  I was suddenly confused. “Wait, so your name isn’t really Francisco?”

  “No, Francisco is my Cuban name. My real name is Li Qiang. But no one would be able to pronounce it here. At first it felt strange, but I’ve gotten used to being Francisco.”

  “I guess when we move to a new place, we become other people.”

  “I know. Sometimes I look in the mirror and ask, ‘What happened to Li Qiang? Where has he gone?’ But there’s a piece of him still in me somewhere.”

  I knew just what he meant—I could barely remember the girl I’d been in Poland, working for Yoelke the baker, sweeping ashes and crumbs.

  I turned to Francisco. “Do you want me to call you by your real name, Li Qiang? Did I say it correctly?”

  “You said it right, Esther. But no, call me Francisco. That’s who I am now.”

  His face grew sad. He waited until Juan Chang stepped out for a moment to add, “Also, Li Qiang means ‘strong,’ and I don’t think I deserve the name.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He whispered, “Because I miss my family in China, especially my mother, who gave me my name. I cry at night on my pillow.”

  “Lo siento,” I s
aid, and thought about the tears I’d left on my pillow. Then I told him, “I cry too, but I don’t think that makes us weak. We cry because there are people in the world we love so much that it hurts when they are far away. And how can you be weak when you were brave enough to come here on your own to help your uncle and your family back in China?”

  Francisco smiled at me. “Perhaps you’re right, Esther. I’m glad you know my real name.”

  “I will not forget that part of you,” I told him. And in my heart, he’d always be a boy called Strong in Chinese.

  With love forever,

  ESTHER

  AGRAMONTE

  May 23, 1938

  Dear Malka,

  I felt a pang I’d never felt before when leaving Agramonte today. As the train full of strangers pulled out of the station, I missed Manuela and Francisco, I missed Señora Graciela and Doctor Pablo, I missed Juan Chang, I missed Ma Felipa and Mario José, and of course I always miss all of you. It seems like I spend a lot of time missing people!

  But I was eager to arrive at Rifka Rubenstein’s store and deliver the next batch of dresses and get more orders and keep saving to be able to pay for your steamship tickets. We walked in and Rifka Rubenstein’s store was quiet. She sat behind the counter, leafing through the Yiddish newspaper.

  She looked up and smiled. “Here you are, right on time. You are wonderful, Esther! Like a golden goose. The orders keep coming in.”

  She marveled over the new dresses. Then she noticed the label I had discretely sewed onto the back of the neckline.

  “What is this? ‘Designs by Esther’?” Rifka Rubenstein said. “Really, dear child, I think you have perhaps gone a little too far. You have an extraordinary talent, but putting a label on the dresses . . .”

  I knew Papa wouldn’t like it if I made a fuss, but I had to interrupt her.

  “I am the creator of the dresses and I believe they should carry my name. Nobody has to know that Esther is a young refugee girl from Poland.”

  But Rifka Rubenstein wasn’t happy. “I cannot accept the dresses with these labels. You will have to cut them out if you want me to sell them.”

  It was then that a sophisticated lady walked into the store. She wore a beige dress with a beige jacket and a belt cinched tightly at her waist. She carried a beige purse, no bigger than an envelope, in one hand and sunglasses in the other.

  I knew Rifka Rubenstein would have liked for Papa and me to disappear, not to be standing at the counter with our sweaty faces and our dusty satchels. Papa bowed his head and stepped aside, trying his best to be invisible. But I stayed put. Rifka Rubenstein would have to pick me up and move me herself if she didn’t want me there. Sure enough, glancing at Papa and me from the corner of her eye, she said, in her best Yiddish-accented Spanish, “My friends, you have made such a long trip to come visit me, maybe you’d like to rest in the back room while I take care of the lady?”

  Before Papa or I could reply, the lady spoke. “I’ve heard from friends that there are some very well-designed dresses being sold here. Who, may I ask, is the designer?”

  Rifka Rubenstein replied, “The designer is from New York.”

  “I know all the designers in New York. You see, I come from El Encanto. What is the designer’s name?”

  Rifka Rubenstein raised both eyebrows. “El Encanto?”

  The sophisticated lady nodded. “I am Isabel de la Fuente, and I work at the salon de señoritas of El Encanto. I want to see if the dresses would be right for our young ladies. We choose only the most original designs at El Encanto.”

  I felt my entire body trembling at her words. Mutely, I picked up a dress and pointed to the label.

  “What is this?” she said. “‘Designs by Esther’? Who is Esther?”

  In the clearest Spanish I could muster, I said, “Yo soy Esther.”

  “You are the designer?”

  I nodded.

  “And these dresses are made by you?”

  I nodded again.

  She turned to Rifka Rubenstein. “Is this true?”

  Rifka Rubenstein sighed. “I cannot hide the truth anymore. The dresses are designed and sewn by this talented young girl you see standing here, who is accompanied by her father, Señor Abraham Levin.”

  “You have an air of someone from another part of the world. Where are you from, Esther?”

  “I am polaca,” I said. “But really I am judía.” I used the word “Jewish” rather than “Hebrew” so she would not think I was anything but what I am.

  “None of that really matters to me. I want to see the dresses. May I look at them more closely?”

  I passed her a batch of dresses that I had made for young girls and one for an adult woman. She examined them slowly and then turned to me. “These are beautiful and very original. I would like to take them to show to my boss at El Encanto. How much are they?”

  Papa, who stood watching and barely breathing, suddenly said, “Please just take them and show them to your boss. We’ll settle the price later.”

  Rifka Rubenstein gasped. She had not responded quickly enough and she was regretting it. I was so glad Papa had spoken for us.

  But I had made the dresses for Rifka Rubenstein to sell in her store, and it would have been rude not to ask her for permission. In my sweetest voice, I said, “Would you mind if Señorita Isabel takes a few of the dresses to El Encanto?”

  Trying not to seem annoyed, Rifka Rubenstein responded, “Of course I don’t mind. Please take the dresses, señorita. It’s thanks to me that this girl has been sewing since the day she arrived in Cuba!”

  The lady looked at Papa and me with curiosity. “And where do you live? How will I find you?”

  Papa smiled. “We live in Agramonte.”

  “Don’t tell me! Isn’t that somewhere in the countryside of Matanzas?”

  “It’s a little far, but we’ve gotten used to taking the train, and the people have been kind to us there.”

  Rifka Rubenstein couldn’t stay quiet. “But you had your money stolen in Agramonte. How can you say the people have been kind to you there?”

  “Most everyone is kind. There is only one bad pineapple,” Papa responded, making a silly joke.

  The lady laughed. “You are very gracioso,” she said. “I am so glad I have met you and your talented daughter. It would be easiest if you both came to El Encanto in a few days. How about Thursday? What do you say?”

  Papa and I smiled at each other.

  “We will be delighted to come on Thursday,” Papa said.

  She replied, “I will be waiting for you.” Then she took my dresses with her, dresses I had held next to my heart, and said adiÓs as she slipped out the door.

  Rifka Rubenstein paid us for the rest of the dresses, and I was happy that she no longer seemed to mind about my label. Again, we put most of the money in her safe box.

  “You are a lucky girl,” Rifka Rubenstein said to me.

  I remembered how Bubbe always feared the evil eye when someone gave her too big a compliment. “Pooh, pooh,” she’d say to ward off the evil spirits. “Pooh, pooh,” I whispered to myself. But come rain or shine, Papa and I would be at El Encanto on Thursday. This time I would not allow anyone to make me feel like a fly being swatted away.

  In the meantime, we agreed to make thirty more dresses for Rifka Rubenstein, plus an additional five dresses to make up for the ones we had given to Isabel de la Fuente. As usual, she gave us fabric and supplies to fulfill the orders she had taken—and some extra for myself.

  The whole ride back to Agramonte, I could only think about the day we’d return to Havana and go to El Encanto.

  And I kept saying “pooh, pooh.” I was afraid to dream, afraid to be lucky.

  With all the love a sister can give another sister,

  ESTHER

  AGRAMONTE


  May 26, 1938

  Dear Malka,

  Time seemed to pass much too slowly as I waited to go to El Encanto. I decided I must make a special dress for the visit. I pulled out some white cotton fabric that was soft like a handkerchief. I cut the cloth into the wraparound style that no one had worn yet except Manuela and me and added lace trim around the edge of the hem.

  Finally the Thursday we had agreed upon arrived and we set off for Havana. Papa carried his empty satchel so we could bring back challah and a few other things. The trains were crowded as usual, and I sat stiffly with my arms on either side of my lap to protect my dress.

  We arrived early, and Papa and I set off at a leisurely pace to El Encanto, winding our way through Havana’s streets and plazas. As we passed by the Capitolio, its dome shimmering in the sun, one of the street photographers came up to us and asked if we wanted a picture. I assumed Papa would say no, as we never spend money on anything but essentials, but he asked the photographer to take a picture of me.

  “You look nice in your white dress, my child, and it is such a beautiful day. We should remember it.”

  I stood in front of the Capitolio, and the photographer set his camera on its tripod and snapped the picture. After a few moments, he handed me a square of paper, still wet, bearing an image of me smiling into the camera. The first picture of me in Cuba.

  I stared at the girl in the picture. Was this really me? Esther from Govorovo? I didn’t recognize myself. I had changed in the last few months. I stood straighter; I was more sure of myself. And now I looked like I belonged here. The white dress caught the rays of Cuba’s sunshine and it seemed as if I was glowing with happiness.

  “Muy bonita,” the photographer said. Then he added with a chuckle, “Hold the photo by the edges until it dries. That way it will last until you are old like me.”

  Papa and I continued on, and as we got closer to El Encanto, I began to feel nervous. But the guard who had told me to leave the last time now opened the door. We entered, and the store was all lit up and glittering, with glass counters filled with perfumes and powders.