by Ruth Behar
In just two months, you will all be here, dear Malka! I wish the journey were easier, but the good thing is you will all come together. The boys can carry the suitcases. You and Mama can take care of Bubbe and be sure she doesn’t get too tired. It will be cold in January, so you will need to bundle up with coats and blankets. But when you get to Cuba, you will toss away your woolen garments and let the sun warm your bones and gladden your heart.
I can’t wait to see you and Mama and Bubbe and Moshe and Eliezer and Chaim arrive at the port of Havana! The distance of all these months, the sewing and the saving, will have been worth it just to say, “Welcome, dear sister, welcome to Cuba.”
With love from your sister, who is impatiently waiting for you!
ESTHER
AGRAMONTE
December 10, 1938
Dear Malka,
Today a telegram came from Mama telling Papa the steamship tickets and money for the journey had arrived, and we both breathed a sigh of relief. Now your trip here is beginning to feel real.
I said to Papa, “Think how proud Mama will be when she sees the store in Havana and our apartment upstairs with an indoor toilet. Did you tell her we’re going to manage Rifka Rubenstein’s store?”
“No, I didn’t. I want to surprise her.”
“She will be surprised! And happy. Our whole family will be!”
That night we had our usual rice with fried eggs for dinner. While we ate, I asked, “When are we moving to Havana?”
“In nine days,” Papa replied. “We will leave Agramonte early in the morning so we can arrive to Havana in time to say goodbye to Rifka Rubenstein and pick up the keys to the store and the apartment.”
“Nine days is very soon,” I said. “I haven’t told anyone we are leaving.”
“You must start to say goodbye,” Papa replied.
I knew Papa was right, but I wasn’t sure how I would start. How do you say goodbye to all the people who have been kind to you in a new land?
Then I had an idea.
“Papa, next Saturday is the first night of Hanukkah. Can I invite our friends to come light the first candle with us?”
“My daughter, you make me smile how you are always thinking of ways to share our Jewish holidays with those who know nothing about them. But yes, invite them, why not? And then on Monday, we’ll take the train to Havana and start a new life, counting the days until our whole family is here.”
I went and invited Doctor Pablo and Señora Graciela, and then Francisco and Juan Chang, and they immediately said yes. Then I went and invited Ma Felipa, Mario José, and Manuela. They too said yes right away, and I stayed to visit with Manuela. I was sad I’d soon be saying goodbye to her but couldn’t bear to tell her yet that we were leaving for Havana. It felt terrible keeping that secret from her. The afternoon was breezy, the birds were chirping happily, and the air smelled sweet from the guava and cane sugar that Ma Felipa had boiled in a big pot over an open fire to make squares of candied guava paste. I will miss my life here so much!
Manuela and I jumped rope, singing the rhymes together, letting the words rise into the sweet air. Finally, we got tired and ate thick slices of bread topped with Ma Felipa’s fresh guava paste that tasted so delicious. I looked over at Manuela and wondered if I’d ever have a friend as kind and caring as her again. I reached into my pocket and wrapped my hand around the smooth object I’d been carrying around with me for so long. I realized at that moment that I was ready to pass it on.
“Can I tell you something, Manuela?”
“Tell me, Esther. Is something wrong?”
“I have to tell you that all these months that I’ve been in Agramonte, I’ve been missing my sister, Malka, in Poland. It’s like a part of me is missing. I couldn’t have survived without your friendship.”
“And you’ve been a perfect friend to me, Esther, as close to a sister as I’ll ever have. I’m glad you came to live in Agramonte.”
I pulled out my gold watch. “Keep this watch, Manuela. Maybe you can sell it so you can go to school and become a schoolteacher, as you have dreamed.”
“How can I take this watch from you? Don’t you need it? I know how hard you’ve been working to make money for your family.”
“They are on their way now, Manuela. Can you believe it? I hardly can. And now I want to pass this along to you. Just promise me you’ll go to school.”
“I will,” she said. “Gracias, Esther.”
We hugged and I ran back home to Papa. Then I sat down to write this letter to you, listening to the crickets singing and the palm trees swaying in the wind—it sounds like they are whispering goodbye, goodbye.
I imagine you are getting ready to say goodbye to everything that is familiar in Poland, to the wooden house where our family has lived forever, to the pale sky and the snowy streets. It is painful to say goodbye, but sometimes there is no choice but to close a door in hopes of another door opening.
With all my love as always,
ESTHER
AGRAMONTE
December 17, 1938
Dear Malka,
Just before sunset, our friends came over—Manuela, Ma Felipa and Mario José, Francisco and Juan Chang, and Doctor Pablo and Señora Graciela.
Everyone took their same places around our wooden kitchen table, and Doctor Pablo said, “You bring us all together whenever there is a Hebrew holiday. Tell me, is this another holiday where you deprive yourselves of eating bread?”
Papa laughed. “This holiday is different. Now we eat potato pancakes. Esther has made them with the sweet potatoes of this land. And we light candles, one each night for eight nights. We say thank you for the light that shines in times of darkness. Tonight we light the first candle.”
“As you know, I don’t practice any religion. I am a proud atheist,” Doctor Pablo replied. “But a holiday where you light candles and say thank you that there is light . . . that seems like a good holiday.”
We don’t have a menorah here, but Papa was so clever! He took nine empty soda bottles and arranged four on one side and four on another side, with the tallest bottle in the center. Then he topped each bottle with a candle.
Papa said the prayer, and I asked Manuela and Francisco to put their hands over mine so we could light the first candle together.
Then I served the latkes. I told everyone to eat them with lots of sugar so they’d taste better. Oh, Malka, I don’t think I’ll ever be good in the kitchen. I beat the eggs and the oil, and Papa had to help me peel and grate the potatoes. The pancakes came out lumpy and uneven, not in nice round circles like Mama’s. I guess I will need some lessons when you are all here!
“Delicioso,” Señora Graciela said, pouring another spoonful of sugar on her pancakes.
Everyone agreed they were delicious. It’s because they like sweet foods in Cuba. Between the sweet potatoes and the dark brown sugar on top, they were the sweetest potato pancakes I’d ever eaten.
After all that sweetness, I knew it would be painful to break the news of our move to Havana.
I cleared the plates and then blurted it out. “Nos vamos.”
We’re leaving.
“Where are you going?” Manuela asked.
“To Havana,” I replied.
“But don’t you like it here?” Manuela had a hurt look on her face.
“We love it here, but we have to move because my father got a job in Havana. We’re very sad to leave Agramonte. But the good news is that our family is coming from Poland in a month! We’ll all be together at last in Havana.”
“Of course we are happy for you but sad for us,” Ma Felipa said. “We thought you were staying here forever. We’ve grown used to having you and your father as our neighbors.”
Señora Graciela pulled out a handkerchief from the pocket of the new blue dress I had made for her. “It makes me want to cry
. When will we see you again?”
Doctor Pablo spoke next. “Señor Abraham and Esther will be missed by all of us. But let’s be reasonable. They are not moving far away. The trains go back and forth every day to Havana.”
A silence fell over the room, and finally Juan Chang spoke. “We mustn’t think of ourselves. If moving to Havana is the road Señor Abraham and Esther need to take, we should not stand in their way. Let us be glad our paths crossed in Agramonte and wish them well.”
I was so grateful for all their kindness and love and wished I could think of the right words to say. Then I remembered the beautiful lines from José Martí and recited them aloud—
Yo vengo de todas partes,
Y hacia todas partes voy . . .
I come from many places,
And to every place I go . . .
Doctor Pablo laughed. “Our polaquita Esther knows she can always win us over with the words of José Martí.”
The night had fallen like a soft blanket of darkness. From a distance, we heard the sound of the drums, and Ma Felipa stood. “I must go now. Tonight is the birthday of San Lázaro. We also call him Babalú-Ayé. Even though he’s a beggar, he’s a powerful saint who brings those who are ill back to health. The celebration is just beginning, but it will go on until late, with drums, dancing, and singing. You are all welcome to come.”
I expected Papa would refuse to go and wouldn’t let me go either. But he surprised me. “We will go,” he said to Ma Felipa.
Her face lit up and she said, “¡Qué bueno!”
Juan Chang said that he and Francisco would also go.
And then Señora Graciela said, “We are invited?”
“Of course you are,” Mario José replied. “Come along, Señora Graciela, and you too, Doctor Pablo. It’s about time you danced at a bembé!”
We stepped out together into the night. The sound of the drums felt like a glowing light, shining as bright as the first Hanukkah candle. We followed the sound until we got to the yard near Ma Felipa’s where the crowd had gathered.
Mario José started playing his drum and Ma Felipa began to sing. Manuela took Francisco and me inside the casa templo, the saint’s house, to see the altar. “That’s San Lázaro. Babalú-Ayé is his African name,” she said, pointing to the life-size wooden statue. He had wounds on his legs and leaned on crutches. A purple cape was draped around his shoulders and a dog stood on either side of him. Glowing candles, bowls of beans, a plate of roasted corn, and coconuts were arranged under the statue. Manuela explained, “Even though he’s a spirit, he gets hungry too and has to eat just like people do. But he only eats the aromas of what we offer him, and that gives him the strength to do good for us and take care of us.”
When we went back outside, people were dancing. Some were dressed in burlap sacks like beggars and had purple scarves on their heads to honor the spirit known by his two names, San Lázaro and Babalú-Ayé.
Papa was standing together with Juan Chang, Señora Graciela, and Doctor Pablo. They were moving back and forth with the music, trying to fit in with the people around them.
I hooked my arm around Papa’s arm and whispered, “It was nice of you to come tonight.”
“I didn’t know it would be so beautiful.”
The two of us swayed to the music along with our Agramonte friends, who looked at us and smiled.
Then Papa turned to me and said, “Just as we have carried the religion of our ancestors wherever we have gone, so have they whose ancestors came from Africa. I am glad I have seen with my own eyes the love with which they remember those who came before.”
I never thought I’d hear those words come out of Papa’s mouth. But Cuba has changed him too, as it has changed me, in more ways than I can say.
With all my love,
from your sleepless sister,
ESTHER
HAVANA
December 19, 1938
Dear Malka,
At the crack of dawn, the man that Papa hired to move our things to Havana arrived with his truck. He took the beds and linens, the table and the rocking chairs, and the sewing machine too. Señora Graciela insisted I keep it so I could continue making dresses. Within minutes, our little home in Agramonte was emptied of Papa and me.
While Papa said his morning prayers, I stepped outside to take a last look at our street in Agramonte. There was Francisco Chang bringing a gift wrapped in tissue paper.
“For you,” he said. “Open it.”
I pulled away the tissue paper, and inside was a rounded teacup. I held it carefully. It was made of porcelain and decorated with flowers and flying birds.
“I brought it from China,” he said.
“I don’t want to take it away from you.”
“I have another one. You keep this teacup and I’ll keep the other. When you drink tea in Havana, I’ll be drinking tea in Agramonte.”
Then he gave me another tin of sour cherry tea.
“Here’s a little more tea,” he said with a smile, and passed the gift to me.
I thanked him, and he nodded and said, “Buena suerte.”
He wished me good luck because neither of us wanted to say goodbye.
When I went back inside, Papa had finished saying his prayers. We got our satchels and caught the direct train to Havana. Papa dozed off, but I was wide awake, gazing at the palm trees touching the sky and the sugarcane fields and feeling this is now my land.
Rifka Rubenstein was waiting with her suitcases, sitting behind the counter and reading the Yiddish newspaper as if it were an ordinary day.
“If you had arrived a minute later, I would have grown impatient, but you came at just the right time,” Rifka Rubenstein said by way of greeting.
“Do you leave soon?” Papa asked.
“In fifteen minutes,” she replied. “Here are the keys to the store and here are the keys to the apartment. Avrum, when you run out of fabric, I will send more from New York. Esther, remember to water the plants on the balcony.” She smiled at us. “May your family arrive safely to Havana.”
“Thank you, Rifka. May you arrive safely to New York, and may your family come soon so you can all be together,” Papa said.
She turned to me. “Esther, since I think of you as like my granddaughter, I took the liberty of going to the school and enrolling you. Classes are in Yiddish and Spanish, and you can begin in January. As my going-away gift, I have paid for the first term. You will meet other Jewish girls and boys. Finally you will be with your own people. Won’t that be good?”
I thought of the Chinese teacup Francisco had given me, still wrapped in tissue paper in my satchel. I thought of Manuela telling me that the power of the African drums can sweep you away. I would never have met Francisco or Manuela if Papa and I had come straight to Havana and only been among Jews. I would have lived in Cuba without really knowing Cuba.
Rifka Rubenstein sighed. “Esther, you haven’t answered me.”
“Sorry, I was thinking. Thank you, that was nice of you to enroll me at the school,” I told her, trying to sound enthusiastic.
“You will be glad I did,” she answered. “Your papa too.”
“We are very grateful to you, Rifka,” Papa said. “Go in peace and don’t worry about a thing. We will take good care of your store. And if there’s ever anything you should want from Cuba, like a sweet pineapple or a juicy mango or a strong coffee, please tell us and we’ll find a way to send it to you in New York!”
“I might take you up on that!” she replied, laughing.
We hugged, and a friendly driver arrived to help her with her suitcases, carrying them all in one hand and extending the other to her politely so she could step down from the curb.
It was hard to believe that Rifka Rubenstein was going to the port to catch her ship to New York. Will she find happiness there? I hope so.
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br /> We waved to her from the front door and she looked back at us with tears in her eyes. Even though she’d been eager to leave Cuba, it seemed she would miss it more than she dared to admit.
Papa and I were unsure what to do next. We looked at each other like two orphans. The store and the apartment were now ours, so long as we did well and made enough for us to live on and for Rifka Rubenstein to earn a profit too.
We spent the day getting the store in order, arranging the fabrics by type and color. I hung a few of my dresses in the window again. Then the man arrived with the truck from Agramonte and we moved our things upstairs to the apartment.
I remembered to water the plants on the balcony. Afterward, I stood and watched our new neighbors taking down the laundry that had dried on the clothesline. I smiled and they smiled back. Farther away, I watched the streetlamps turn on at nightfall.
The city of Havana glowed as if lit by thousands of fireflies. Drivers honked their horns and people shouted and laughed as they walked on the street below. There was a bittersweet smell from the coffee brewing in the cafeteria on the corner.
I wondered why my lips tasted salty and realized it was from the sea. We are very near the harbor. Near the sea! This means we are near the ships. Soon you will be on one of those ships, dear Malka. I am closer to you here in Havana.
With immense love from your sister,
ESTHER
HAVANA
January 8, 1939
Dear Malka,
It is 1939 already. You will all be here soon!
I have started school. I’m not as behind in my studies as I thought I’d be. My Yiddish hasn’t suffered thanks to all the letters I’ve been writing for you in my best Yiddish. While I understand Spanish very well now, I haven’t learned to write it. But Spanish is a generous tongue to newcomers. You write it the way it sounds, so it shouldn’t take long for me to improve. And math comes easy to me after all the days of peddling and adding sums with Papa.
