Letters from Cuba

by Ruth Behar

  I don’t think I’ll ever understand people like Señor Eduardo. His hatred is like a shard of glass in his eye that distorts his vision. But today I learned that when people band together, they can make things better for everyone. The sugarcane workers were willing to stand up for Papa and me, losing a day’s pay when they earn so little. That was the most generous of gifts, and yet they shrugged when I said “Gracias” and simply answered, “De nada,” as if it were the most natural thing to do. Tell me, Malka, why did I have to travel so far to find myself at home, here among the palm trees of Cuba?

  With all my love as always,

  ESTHER

  AGRAMONTE

  June 28, 1938

  Dear Malka,

  Isabel de la Fuente asked me to bring two or three designs for new dresses, but I got inspired and prepared four designs. Since I no longer had to sew multiple copies of the dresses, I had time to play around. I made a version of the wraparound dress with ruffles at the hem. For the dress with the buttons down the front, I made them with different collars and with different sizes of pockets in the front.

  I folded the dresses neatly and Papa put them in his satchel. When we arrived in Havana, we confidently walked to El Encanto and didn’t hesitate to enter. Papa and I weren’t afraid of the elevator anymore! We went straight up to the fourth floor and found Isabel de la Fuente in the salon de señoritas.

  “Buenos días,” she said. “You have come at the perfect moment. We just put a few of the dresses we made from your designs on display.”

  She led us to a rack where the dresses hung from cushioned hangers. Then she pulled down a few dresses for me to see. There was the label she had promised: “Designs by Esther. Exclusively for El Encanto.”

  I looked at the dresses and couldn’t believe how gorgeous they were! The fabrics were more luxurious than anything I ever could have imagined, some in fine cotton and some in silk. And the prices they were charging for the dresses! How could something I’d made with my own hands be worth so much money? I thought of Mama and how pleased she’d be. Then I felt sad. Only rich girls could afford the dresses I’d designed. But I consoled myself with the thought that the more money my dresses sold for, the quicker you would all come to Cuba.

  “Did you bring new designs?” Isabel de la Fuente asked.

  I nodded and she took us into an office filled with boxes of merchandise. There, I pulled out the sample dresses I had made.

  She looked at them eagerly. “¡Divino! ¡Bellísimo!” she said as she examined each dress.

  I had left the wraparound dresses for last. I pulled one out and showed her how easy it was to put on and tie around the waist.

  “I love this style, like the white dress you wore last time.”

  I was so proud she remembered my white dress.

  “This dress style is original and very flattering. It will be a wonderful addition to the collection.” She smiled. “Next time you come, we will have these new designs on the rack.”

  She gave Papa a thick envelope with some money, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Remember, we have to be careful. No one can ever know that a refugee girl designed these dresses. We would be in terrible trouble.”

  Papa responded, “No one knows.”

  “Very good,” she replied. “There are secrets that we keep to do good in the world. And this is one of those secrets.”

  We said goodbye and headed to Rifka Rubenstein’s to put our money in her safe box. It was a lot more money than the last time, and as usual, Papa left all of it behind except for the small amount we needed to survive from day to day. I gave Rifka Rubenstein ten of the thirty dresses I had made for her to sell in the store, and she was very pleased I was still loyal to her.

  Then we hurried back to Agramonte. I went to sleep dreaming about my dresses, in silk and fine cotton, hanging on cushioned hangers, all of them with the label “Designs by Esther. Exclusively for El Encanto.”

  With all my love,

  ESTHER

  AGRAMONTE

  July 19, 1938

  Dear Malka,

  Last month it was Shavuot, and Papa and I read the Book of Ruth. I read it again last night and thought a lot about it. When Ruth says, “Wherever you go, I shall go,” that is how I feel being here in Cuba. I’ve come to a strange land and am now a part of it. With our friends standing up for us here, creating the Anti-Nazi Society of Agramonte, and leading the strike of the sugarcane workers, I know there is no returning to Poland for me ever again. I think I should have been named Ruth, not Esther!

  I spend a lot of my time when it is raining or too muggy outside copying out the poems from the book Simple Verses by José Martí. This way, I am learning them better and may even figure out how to become a poet someday!

  Whenever I hold the worn book, I remember it was once held in Emilia’s hands, a girl who left the world too soon and will always be missed by her parents, Doctor Pablo and Señora Graciela.

  How I wish I could write a poem for Emilia, telling her how she isn’t forgotten!

  How I wish I could write poems that express all my feelings—happy and sad and everything in between!

  These letters I am saving for you, dear Malka, are the best I can do for the moment. And in writing them, I’ve discovered what a comfort it is to keep a record of my life so it doesn’t feel like the days are blowing away in the wind and lost forever.

  In the meantime, as my Spanish keeps improving, I marvel at the beautiful ways that José Martí says things. I have learned that for much of his life he lived in New York, not in Cuba, but he wrote in Spanish, not in English, just as I write in Yiddish, not in Spanish. I wonder if the first language you learn in life will always be the language of your deepest feelings, even if you learn other languages.

  José Martí wrote many poems that are about poems, like this one:

  ¿Qué importa que este dolor

  Seque el mar y nuble el cielo?

  El verso, dulce consuelo,

  Nace alado del dolor.

  Who cares if this pain

  Dries the ocean and dims the sky?

  My verse, sweet consolation,

  Is born from pain with wings.

  What I know for sure is that these letters are born from pain with wings, because we are far away from each other. But these letters are also my sweet consolation as I wait for you and all my family to arrive.

  From your sister, who wishes she were a poet,

  ESTHER

  AGRAMONTE

  August 7, 1938

  Dear Malka,

  Today, on Tisha B’Av, the saddest day of the year, Papa is fasting in memory of the tragedy that took place long ago, when the two Holy Temples in Jerusalem were destroyed. Those were the first temples of the Jewish people. After they were lost, everyone fled in different directions and ended up in many parts of the world. I wonder how our ancestors found their way to Poland? I imagine them crossing forests of cedar, dusty desert roads, and deep oceans, and eventually settling in Govorovo. I am sure they thought we would be in Poland forever, not imagining we would one day have to leave and try to create a new life in Cuba.

  I heard an expression here in Agramonte that says, “El mundo da muchas vueltas.” It means “The world spins round and round.” The world is a carousel and you don’t know where you’ll end up.

  Even though Papa spent the entire day at home praying, he let me work on my sewing. He said I was working too hard to be fasting, but I fasted along with him.

  This is the time when the mangos ripen to a delicious sweetness. Mario José gave us several mangos from their fields, and in the afternoon, Papa said I should eat one. They looked so good and I was very hungry by then. But how could I bite into a sweet mango knowing Papa was fasting until nightfall?

  When it got dark, Papa and I finally took a sip of water and sat d
own to eat the mangos together. They tasted sweeter because we waited to eat them.

  One day you will taste this sweetness, dear Malka. I can’t wait to see you bite into a mango! I warn you, mangos are messy—the juice gets all over your hands and drips down your chin—but it is worth it.

  With all my love,

  ESTHER

  AGRAMONTE

  August 18, 1938

  Dear Malka,

  One of Mama’s ragged letters arrived today and we were so happy to hear from her after all these months. It was a short letter, and Papa read a few lines aloud to me because Mama began in such a surprising way—saying she missed me! I realize now how much I took all of Esther’s work for granted, how hard I was on her.

  Then Mama told Papa that if the money he sent for living expenses had arrived just a day later, you all would have had to go begging in the streets. Thank God it came when it did.

  I know now why Papa doesn’t let me read Mama’s letters, because most of the news is not good, and now I’ve learned you’ve been going hungry. After fasting with Papa, I know a little about how that emptiness in the pit of the stomach feels. It hurts to think of you, my dear little sister, and my family suffering in this way, not just one day but many days. And my heart broke at the news that Mama had to sell her silver candlesticks to buy food. They were her most precious wedding gift. Those were the candlesticks she used each week to light the Shabbos candles.

  When Papa was finished, he handed me the letter, and as I held it in my hands, I suddenly noticed that on the edge of the paper, hidden under Mama’s signature, there was a note from you, Malka! Just a few words, but they gleamed like a thousand pieces of gold—“I love you, big sister, and send you a hug across the ocean. I hope you can feel it.”

  “Look, Papa!” I said. “From Malka!”

  You should have seen the look of joy on Papa’s face. And he said to me, “Hold on to this letter, dear Esther, so you will keep your sister close.”

  Yes, Malka, I do feel your hug and send you a hug back.

  Always,

  ESTHER

  AGRAMONTE

  August 29, 1938

  Dear Malka,

  When Papa and I got to El Encanto this morning, we acted like sophisticated people, calmly taking the elevator to the fourth floor. I was pleased with myself because I’d come up with another new design, a dress easy to slip on over your head, with no buttons down the front or ties at the waist. I liked the design so much, I made a dress for myself with leftover fabric and was wearing it for the first time. My sandals were worn and dusty, but my dress was new and fresh.

  We found Isabel de la Fuente standing by the racks of dresses for young girls. She was wearing one of my dresses! It was the dress with the buttons down the front, which she’d carried off the day we met at Rifka Rubenstein’s store.

  She greeted us with her usual friendliness and pointed to the racks behind her. “Look, Esther, more of your designs! They’re selling well. We’re very pleased.”

  I wanted to run my hands over all the luxurious fabrics, but they weren’t mine to touch.

  “Come, let’s talk in private,” she said.

  She led us inside the office, crowded as usual with boxes of merchandise, and handed Papa a thick envelope.

  “I added a little extra money,” she said to Papa. “I hope it helps you bring your family here.” She turned to me with a twinkle in her eye. “Esther, I see you have a new dress on today. It looks so comfortable.”

  I showed her the sample I had made, just like the one I was wearing.

  “This is wonderful, Esther! So practical and elegant! Perfect for our collection at El Encanto!” She smiled. But then she grew serious. “I am so sorry, Esther, but this will be the last of your designs that I will be able to sell at El Encanto.”

  “Why, what has happened?” I asked.

  She explained, “I am moving to New York. I have an aunt who will take me in. I know it’s a dream, but I want to find a job at one of the stores on Fifth Avenue. It won’t be easy. I can barely speak English. But I have to give it a try.” Then she whispered, “There’s no one here I can trust with our secret. I don’t want you and your father to get in trouble with the law.”

  I was so saddened by this news that all the words I knew in Yiddish, in Polish, and in Spanish drained out of me.

  “Esther, I will always wear this dress that you made with great pride. I will show it off to everyone. I am sorry I couldn’t do more for you.”

  Papa said, “Don’t be sorry, Isabel. You have done so much for us.”

  “I did all I could,” she responded. “Please come at the end of October. I’ll have another envelope ready with your earnings for the last sales of the dresses. Look for a very tall saleslady. She will give you the envelope.”

  She hugged me warmly, like an older sister, and said, “Let’s not say goodbye. I hope we will meet again.”

  Then we went to see Rifka Rubenstein. We told her about Isabel de la Fuente’s plans to move to New York and she said, “Esther, didn’t I tell you it was too good to be true? I knew it couldn’t last. How were they going to allow a Jewish refugee girl to design dresses for such an exclusive clientele? Be glad it ended quietly and no one is putting you on a boat back to Poland.”

  Before we left to return to Agramonte, I went to the back room with Papa to put away our earnings in the safe box. When he opened the envelope with the money that Isabel de la Fuente had given us, Papa was stunned. “She was very generous again. I tell you, my daughter, she was an angel in our path.”

  Malka, we are now so close to having what we need to buy the steamship tickets for all of you! I’ll keep making dresses for Rifka Rubenstein, and when we get the next envelope from El Encanto, we will have enough!

  With all my love,

  ESTHER

  AGRAMONTE

  September 7, 1938

  Dear Malka,

  Papa was napping and I went to visit Manuela, thinking we’d jump rope and sing rhymes, but I learned it was an important holiday today in her religion.

  A large crowd had formed at Ma Felipa’s front door. The steady beat of the drums could be heard from the street.

  Inside, I saw that everyone was dressed in blue and white. Mario José was playing the large batá drum and the other drummers followed his lead. Manuela had joined the women in the dancing. Ma Felipa was leading the singing.

  I recognized the words I’d heard before:

  Yemayá Asesu

  Asesu Yemayá

  Yemayá Olodo

  Olodo Yemayá . . .

  They were calling to the water, the water that flowed inside Ma Felipa’s house from the fountain that never dries.

  They were calling to the sea, the water I had crossed on a ship, the water that separates me from you, dear Malka.

  They were calling to the water that falls from our eyes when we’re sad, the water we call tears.

  Maybe I hadn’t cried enough about everything I’d lost, everything I was scared of in this world, and that was why the tears started coming.

  I had a puddle of tears at my feet.

  But that couldn’t be true. Who can cry that much?

  All I know is that I was crying and crying and I had an urge to run and see if the ceiba tree was crying too.

  I went outside. There was the ceiba tree with the chain wrapped around its trunk from the days of slavery in Cuba and the white flowers tucked into the chain.

  When I got closer, I saw them clearly, big wet tears falling from the top of the tree down the bark.

  The tree was crying and I was crying.

  I didn’t know if I was awake or dreaming.

  Then I felt many arms holding me up. Manuela and Ma Felipa and several very old women, thin as twigs, were making sure I didn’t fall to the ground. They said
to me in a cooing voice, “Ya, ya, ya.” There, there, there.

  Soon the tears stopped streaming down my cheeks and the ceiba tree stopped crying too. They brought out a chair and sat me down.

  When I came back to myself, Manuela was standing next to me. “You felt it, Esther? How the power of the drums can sweep you away?”

  I nodded, not yet able to speak.

  Then the drums stopped playing, and the singing ended.

  People were milling around, talking to each other. Manuela said it was the cumpleaños of Yemayá. Her birthday. She said Yemayá wanted to talk to me, that was why I cried so much. My tears made the ceiba tree cry.

  It felt as if I’d been there for many hours, but it wasn’t so long. When I went back to Papa, he’d just woken up and was sitting in a rocking chair, lost in thought.

  How could I tell him what happened? Would he believe Yemayá wanted to talk to me and that’s why I cried and the ceiba tree cried with me?

  I thought it better not to tell him. I didn’t want him to think I was wavering in my faith as a Jew.

  What I can’t tell Papa, I tell you, dear Malka. You are my sister and you will understand me.

  With all my love,

  ESTHER

  AGRAMONTE

  September 26, 1938

  Dear Malka,

  Even from this great distance, I want to wish you a happy Rosh Hashanah and good health in the New Year. Singing “Avinu Malkeinu” with Papa, I thought of you and Mama and Bubbe, Moshe, Eliezer, and Chaim, and realized almost eight months have passed since I arrived here, so far from my family. I am fortunate to be with Papa, and you are fortunate to be with Mama and Bubbe and our brothers. But it is unfair that we are not all together, and thinking about this makes me sad.