Letters from Cuba

by Ruth Behar

  Papa says not to be sad today, because if we are sad on the first day of our New Year, the whole year will be sad.

  He said we should each say a prayer in our own way, and if we really meant it, then God would hear it. I had only one prayer in my heart: Next year may we all be together in Cuba.

  Afterward, Papa and I ate rice with a fried egg, as we always do for dinner.

  A gentle knock on the door surprised us.

  It was Francisco. He bowed politely to Papa.

  “I brought you something for your New Year celebration,” he said.

  “How did you know?” I asked.

  “My uncle told me. He was in Havana the other day, at the port, waiting for his merchandise. A few hebreos were waiting for their merchandise and they told him that today is your New Year. My uncle asked what special foods you eat on this day, and they gave him this.”

  He held out a cardboard box tied with a string. The label on the box said it was from Goldstein’s Bakery in New York. Inside was an apple strudel.

  Papa and I were thrilled. An apple strudel in Agramonte! No apples grow in Cuba, so this was very special!

  We thanked Francisco for the marvelous gift. Papa asked him to stay and have a slice of strudel with us, but he said he had to help his uncle in the store.

  Francisco reached into his pocket and pulled out another gift. It was a tin of the Polish sour cherry tea. “My uncle thought you might like more tea.”

  And he turned and slipped away into the night.

  The strudel was delicious. Rather than leave any of it to be eaten by the ants while we slept, we ate it all, down to the last crumb.

  I went to bed thinking what a special New Year celebration it had been, thanks to Juan and Francisco Chang’s gift. They had understood about our New Year because they too have a different New Year. Francisco told me that in the Chinese calendar, it was the Year of the Tiger, when anger can become courage.

  Hearing that made me feel hopeful, Malka. I remembered how the sugarcane workers had used their anger to fight against injustice, and if we can all use our anger to make the world a little bit better, that would be such a good thing!

  Your sister, who always remembers you,

  ESTHER

  AGRAMONTE

  October 5, 1938

  Dear Malka,

  Since Yom Kippur is the holiest day of the year, Rifka Rubenstein had insisted we come to Havana and stay overnight with her and go pray at her synagogue.

  Papa told me that morning that I could just fast for half the day, but I decided to fast for the whole day along with him and Rifka Rubenstein. I’d fasted once before and knew I could do it again.

  When we arrived at Rifka Rubenstein’s house, a big pot of chicken soup with kreplach and a honey cake greeted us, but we had to wait—we’d only get to indulge after an entire day of prayer and hunger.

  And what a long day it was!

  But it was amazing to be surrounded by so many other Jewish people, all of them praying and singing and greeting us like old friends, even when we were meeting for the first time.

  “It’s the Day of Atonement,” whispered Rifka Rubenstein. I sat next to her in the women’s section, upstairs from where Papa sat with the men. “I have some smelling salts, if either of us grows faint. It isn’t easy to fast, but we must do it. We have come to ask for forgiveness today.”

  I’d heard about asking for forgiveness before, but still wasn’t sure what that really meant.

  “All of us have come to ask for forgiveness?” I asked Rifka Rubenstein.

  “Yes, all of us Jews. We ask God to forgive us.”

  “What have we done wrong?”

  “Listen to the prayers, Esther. Read what it says in the mahzor.”

  I listened to the many things we have done wrong.

  We have been faithless.

  We have been presumptuous.

  We have spoken falsely.

  We have gone astray.

  We have let our hearts grow hard.

  I watched as Rifka Rubenstein tapped her chest with her fist as she prayed. I turned to each side of me and saw all the women doing the same. Then I looked below at the men and they were tapping their chests with devotion too.

  It was beautiful to see how sincerely they prayed. I wished I were better at praying. But I recited the words along with everyone.

  And then, after a while, the words weren’t just words anymore, Malka.

  I began to feel them deep inside me, like the beating of my heart in my chest. Bubbe and those who came before, and before, and before, had recited these very same words and tapped on their chests.

  As the words moved through me, they shone a light on my life. Maybe my heart had grown hard and I hadn’t realized it? But by praying and asking for forgiveness, I could make my heart soft again so it could fill up with love.

  Suddenly I understood that there were people whose hearts had turned to stone. Their hearts had become so hard, they had no room for love, only for hate.

  At last nightfall came. The sound of the shofar woke me from my thoughts. Tekiah, Shevarim, Teruah, Tekiah Gedolah.

  Then the fast was over and we ate Rifka Rubenstein’s delicious chicken soup with kreplach and sweet honey cake. I was grateful not to be hungry anymore. And after a whole day of asking myself how I could try to be a better person, I felt a little less afraid of all the scary things going on in the world.

  With all my love as always,

  ESTHER

  AGRAMONTE

  October 25, 1938

  Dear Malka,

  Our day started out sad, knowing Papa and I were going to El Encanto for the last time. We took the elevator to the fourth floor, and the first thing I noticed was that my dresses were gone. The new dresses now on display looked starched and formal, and none of them had pockets!

  We went over to a very tall saleswoman in rickety high heels.

  “Buenos días,” I said.

  The saleswoman knew who I was from my accent. “¿Eres Esther?” she asked. “¿La polaquita?”

  I nodded and she motioned for us to follow her. She led us into the office where we had always met with Isabel de la Fuente. Once the door was closed and the three of us were alone, the saleswoman passed Papa a very thick envelope. Papa placed it at the bottom of his satchel, where it would be safe.

  We both felt sorry about the loss of Isabel de la Fuente in our lives, and took a long, meandering walk through El Parque de la Amistad, the sprawling park filled with palm trees behind El Capitolio. Young couples in love and mothers with small children lingered on benches, munching on peanuts and enjoying shaved ices with sugary syrup, whiling away the time. It was such a beautiful sunny day in Havana, it seemed like nothing could be wrong in the world.

  We walked past the park and ended up in a neighborhood we’d never seen before, a part of the city where Chinese people lived. Restaurant tables covered in bright red tablecloths spilled onto the street. I could smell the jasmine from the Chinese food, which I so much wanted to taste. Papa would never let me eat it because it contained pork.

  As we walked along a street called Zanja, we came across a peddler selling newspapers in Chinese.

  “Papa, let’s get a newspaper for Francisco Chang.”

  “Of course,” Papa said. “That will be a nice gift for your friend.”

  We went to see Rifka Rubenstein afterward, and she had big news.

  “I received my visa to go to America, the real America!” she announced. “My turn comes in two months, so I will leave Cuba in December.”

  “Congratulations,” Papa said. “Your wish has come true.”

  “Yes, finally.” Rifka Rubenstein sighed. “But I have much to do in the next two months to get ready.”

  “Can we help you?” Papa asked.

  Rifka Ru
benstein smiled. “Would you like to manage the store after I leave?”

  “What a surprise!” Papa responded. “I thought you’d want help packing up to go to New York.”

  “I can pack my own bags, thank you. But I will need money to get settled in New York. That’s why I don’t want to sell the store. If you’ll manage it for me, we can split the profits half and half. That way, you’ll earn money and so will I.”

  “I can’t think of a more perfect arrangement,” Papa said.

  Rifka Rubenstein looked pleased. “You and Esther can live upstairs in my apartment, and there’s plenty of room for your family too when they come.”

  My head started spinning. I closed my eyes and opened them again to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.

  Then Papa said, “I’d be glad to manage the store. Esther and I will live upstairs and prepare everything for the arrival of our family from Poland.”

  Suddenly I imagined myself in Havana. It would be exciting to wake up to the cries of the peanut vendors, the hustle and bustle of people rushing from place to place, the honking cars, the smell of coffee and fragrant tobacco smoke from the cafeteria across the street. But I’d no longer hear crickets and birds bursting into song in the morning and the roosters crowing. I’d be far from my friends, Manuela and Francisco Chang, and the weeping ceiba tree, and Yemayá’s water that pours from the ground inside Ma Felipa’s house. A gloom settled over me as I thought about everything I’d miss from Agramonte.

  Rifka Rubenstein frowned. “You’re so quiet, Esther. Cat got your tongue?”

  I shook my head, unable to speak. “I don’t know, I—I’m sorry,” I stammered.

  “My, oh my! You are a strange one, Esther,” Rifka Rubenstein replied. “You should be jumping for joy. You’ll finally get out of the countryside and come to the city. You’ll be able to meet other Jewish children and go to a Jewish school.”

  I tried to smile. I felt a lump in my throat.

  Papa understood. He put his hand on my shoulder. “My child, don’t be sad. You’ll have time to say goodbye to Agramonte. We have two months still to go.”

  “That’s right, it’s not as if you’re moving tomorrow,” Rifka Rubenstein said, a touch of sympathy in her voice. “Think of how much you’ll enjoy helping your papa in the store when you come home from school. You can sell your dresses here as you did at the beginning. If you want to put anything else on the labels, be my guest. I won’t care anymore, since I’ll be in New York!”

  We went to the back room and Papa opened up the envelope Isabel de la Fuente had left for us. “The angel was kind to us again,” he said. “How will we repay such kindness?” Then Papa counted all the money we had in the safe box.

  “We have almost enough now!” Papa said happily. “Next time we come to Havana, we’ll get the steamship tickets and send everything else they’ll need for the journey.” But then Papa became sad. “It’s all thanks to you, Esther. I couldn’t have raised the money alone. You’ve seen what a terrible salesman I am.”

  “Papa, we’ve done it together. But you say we need a little more money?”

  “Yes, we have enough for their tickets and visas, but we need extra to make sure they don’t run short during their journey. It’s harder to leave Poland now. They are making it more and more difficult for Jews to come here. Many palms have to be greased.”

  “What does that mean, Papa?”

  “People like Señor Eduardo, every step of the way, demanding money. If you don’t pay them, they will block the path.”

  “I am going to make lots more dresses so we can sell them here in the store. With each stitch, I’ll bring Malka and all of our dear family closer to us.”

  Papa smiled. “Wonderful, my child. What a blessing your sewing is.”

  We filled up our satchels with fabric from Rifka Rubenstein’s store. Then we stopped at Zvi Mandelbaum’s store to pay him the commission we still owed him from the sale of the sandals on the installment plan.

  “You have done so well!” Zvi Mandelbaum said when he saw us. “Do you want more sandals?”

  Papa shook his head. “Not at this moment, but maybe when my sons come, we will go peddling.”

  “Your sons? Are they on their way to Cuba? That is wonderful news! At last your family will all be together!” Zvi Mandelbaum said, smiling at Papa and me.

  “They are not on the way yet. How I wish they were. But we have raised almost all the money we need for their journey,” Papa replied.

  Zvi Mandelbaum raised his eyebrows and looked at us with curiosity. “Well, I know you haven’t made a fortune from peddling.”

  “It’s Esther. She has magical hands,” Papa told him.

  “I can sew, that’s all,” I said. “I am fortunate that my mother taught me, and now we can sell my dresses.”

  “That is truly a blessing!” Zvi Mandelbaum said, and he gave Papa a hug, practically lifting him off the floor!

  We got on the train, and there was still a little light in the sky when we returned to Agramonte. I was glad to see the town again; it felt like home.

  After I put away the fabric and washed up, I asked, “Papa, may I bring the Chinese newspaper to Francisco Chang?”

  “You can, Esther, but be back before it’s dark.”

  I rushed off and found Francisco at the counter, sketching in his notebook.

  I held out the gift of the newspaper. “Un regalo,” I said.

  His eyes lit up when he saw the Chinese characters.

  I told him Papa and I wandered behind El Capitolio and that’s when we discovered the streets where Chinese people lived. He said he had heard there was a Chinese neighborhood in Havana and hoped one day to go there with his uncle.

  I wasn’t ready to tell him I’d be moving to Havana in two months.

  I turned to leave. It was getting dark outside. Then Francisco opened his notebook and pulled out a sketch.

  I stared at it, amazed at what it was. Francisco had drawn an aleph, the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet. He had made the aleph the size of an entire page and filled it in with colorful flowers and glowing stars.

  He smiled. “I saw this letter in the newspaper at your house,” he said. “It’s a beautiful letter, so I thought I would draw it.”

  “Gracias, Francisco, muchas, muchas, muchas gracias.”

  We both laughed at how I said “muchas” three times. Then I rushed down the street with the aleph in my hand. When I got to our front door, I folded the drawing and put it in the pocket of my dress. This would be another one of my special memories from Agramonte, this gift Francisco gave me on the day I learned I’d be moving to Havana.

  I’ll always share my special memories with you, dear Malka. Very soon I will whisper them to you before we go to sleep, the way we used to share stories with each other in the dark of night when Poland was still my home.

  With all my love,

  ESTHER

  AGRAMONTE

  November 10, 1938

  Dear Malka,

  This morning while Papa was praying, I was busy sewing dresses to sell, but I was already imagining the dress I wanted to sew for you, Malka, in a sea-green fabric, like the color of your eyes.

  We heard a loud knock on the door, too loud to ignore. I stood next to Papa as he took a deep breath before opening it. We feared Señor Eduardo was the one knocking. But it was Doctor Pablo.

  His hands shook as he held up a Spanish newspaper. “Muy malas noticias.” Very bad news.

  “Please sit down,” Papa said, pointing to one of the rocking chairs.

  “I cannot sit. We must take action.”

  “What has happened?” Papa asked.

  “Last night, the Nazis in Germany destroyed everything they could destroy that belongs to the Hebrew people. They smashed the windows of temples, of schools and stores. There is broken glass litter
ing the streets. They are calling it the ‘Night of Broken Glass.’ Munich looks as if it’s been bombed. Many Hebrews have been killed. They have been ordered to turn in the keys to their houses and leave Germany. Those who have passports are fleeing. The ones who have nowhere to go are scared of what will happen next.”

  “Oh no, no, no, no,” Papa said in a voice full of pain.

  “Señor Abraham, get your family to Cuba. Hurry before it’s too late.” He pointed to the newspaper, and Papa and I stared at it in horror. The word Jude was scrawled on a store that had been ransacked.

  Doctor Pablo said, “My dear friends, we must do everything possible to stop the Nazis from bringing their hatred to Cuba. The Anti-Nazi Society of Agramonte needs to organize a march. We must call attention to what is happening to the Hebrews and make sure the hatred in Germany doesn’t cross the ocean and reach us. We don’t have any poisonous snakes on this beautiful island. And we’re not going to allow that Nazi venom to take root here.”

  He rushed off and spoke to Ma Felipa, Mario José, and Manuela, as well as to Juan and Francisco Chang. They fanned out all around Agramonte, sharing the news of the Night of Broken Glass and the rally being organized to keep the Nazis from coming to Cuba.

  By the end of the day, men, women, and children filled the main street, Calle Independencia. Some were from the center of town and some from the hamlets nearby, from the huts and barracks that Papa and I got to know as we walked around with our heavy satchels hanging from our shoulders. The sugarcane workers called out to me, “¡Polaquita, aquí estamos!” Little Polish girl, here we are! It was sweet to hear those words. They didn’t understand the difference between Polish and Jewish, but it didn’t matter; they wanted to show they cared about us and thought we belonged in Cuba as much as anyone else.