Papa said there was no reason for her to do such a thing. But Doctor Pablo explained that Señora Graciela was a devout Catholic and would appreciate having the Virgin and the saints on her nightstand, where she could light a candle and pray to them before going to sleep, so they might take care of their beloved daughter, Emilia, whom they had lost too young.
I imagined Emilia was now a star shining from the light of her mother’s candles and prayers.
On our way out, Señora Graciela gave me another book that had belonged to Emilia, a book of poems by José Martí. She said it was called Simple Verses and I could read and enjoy the poems to help me learn Spanish. I remembered the statue of José Martí in the Parque Central in Havana and how Papa had said never to say a bad word about José Martí because he is so respected by Cubans.
Later that night, I fell asleep reciting the lines “Yo vengo de todas partes / Y hacia todas partes voy.”
The words are simple, but they mean so much: “I come from many places / And to every place I go.” That is how I feel now, Malka. I’m in a place that wasn’t mine but is slowly feeling like it could become my home.
This morning, we brought Señora Graciela all the idols we had left—including a large figurine of the Virgin of Regla, or Yemayá, as Ma Felipa and Manuela call her. Many people had admired this statue. It was beautiful, but very heavy, and I had felt bad seeing Papa weighed down as he carried it from road to road. I was glad it would be in Señora Graciela’s possession and help her send love to Emilia, whom she misses and mourns every day in her black clothes.
I am certain Señora Graciela and Doctor Pablo bought the idols from us not only so she could pray to them, but also because they don’t want us to be insulted again by Señor Eduardo.
Now that we don’t have any more statues to sell, Papa and I must go to Havana tomorrow. Papa needs to pay Zvi Mandelbaum a commission on what we have sold. Then we can start fresh with new things to sell. All I want is to keep saving up for our family’s journey here.
How I miss you, dear Malka. I remember you would bring home books from the library and stay up reading all night. I imagine you studying and getting smarter every day. Books are precious, aren’t they? I can’t imagine how we’d live without them. They’re powerful too—I guess that’s why there are people in this world who hate books so much that they burn them. Would you believe that happened in Germany a few years ago? It scares me to think it could happen again. Hopefully it will not be long before you are in Cuba and staying up reading the verses of José Martí.
With all my love as always,
ESTHER
AGRAMONTE
March 2, 1938
Dear Malka,
I wish you could have seen the look of surprise on Zvi Mandelbaum’s face when he learned we had sold everything that he’d given to Papa to peddle.
“Avrum, you never sell out so fast. Esther has brought you good luck!”
“Yes, she has, Zvi,” Papa replied, smiling at me.
“So let me give you more of the idols to sell,” Zvi said.
Papa shook his head. “Give us something else to sell.”
Zvi reached into a box filled with sandals like the ones he had given me and said, “How about sandals? Everyone needs sandals! You see people running around barefoot in the countryside, hurting their feet. Offer them sandals and they will be grateful, you will see.”
He told Papa he would take only a small commission if we sold them quickly. We walked out with our satchels full, Papa with sandals for men and boys and I with sandals for women and girls.
We walked along Calle Muralla, peeking at the window displays of the fabric shops owned by Jewish immigrants. There were bolts of cloth in every color and pattern you can imagine. I thought of Mama and what an artist she is with needle and thread. She taught me to sew—not with a lot of patience—but what does that matter now? Do you remember, Malka, how when we were little, I made patchwork skirts for our dolls out of scraps of cloth? That seems so long ago.
I asked Papa if we could buy fabric, scissors, needles, and thread so I could make some dresses. After sweating in my wool dress for a month, I was eager to change into something soft and light. Papa agreed, and we picked a store and went inside.
The kind woman who helped us is also from Poland. Her name is Rifka Rubenstein and she speaks Yiddish in the same singsong way as Bubbe. It almost brought tears to my eyes to hear her.
For a few pennies, we bought yards of remnants in several colors. I made sure to get cloth in a nice shade of blue, thinking of a dress I could make for Ma Felipa. I even chose a bit of black fabric to make a dress for Señora Graciela. There were two pretty floral prints in a light cotton as smooth as butter, and I took those too, thinking they’d be nice for dresses for Manuela and for me. I got scissors, needles, pins, and thread. And I remembered to get a tape measure, the kind that rolls up and fits in my pocket, and some tracing paper and pencils to be able to draw the patterns.
I was so excited by all my purchases, I kissed the woman goodbye as we were leaving.
That brought a tear to her eye. She said I reminded her of a granddaughter she had left behind in Poland. Then she reached behind the counter where she was sitting and pulled out a big box of buttons, all shapes and sizes, and gave them to me. She told me to return whenever I needed more supplies, and she would always give me a good price.
We were hungry by then, so we stopped at La Flor de Berlín and bought two challahs, one to devour as we walked around Havana and the other to bring back with us to Agramonte. Of course, Papa and I said the prayer first before we dug in. We were both so hungry! But how strange it felt to be eating that braided bread that reminded me of you and Mama and Bubbe and my brothers and my old life in Poland while the sun shone bright, the sea air gave off a scent of faraway places, and street vendors roamed the humid streets selling peanuts and fruit ices. It was all Papa and I needed for lunch. We were eager to return to Agramonte and start selling the sandals. I wanted to sit and sew and see what dresses I could make on my own, without Mama looking over my shoulder.
But Papa felt he had to go to synagogue, if only for a few minutes, to pray with other men and remember he wasn’t alone in the wilderness. We stopped in for afternoon prayers, and Papa sat with the men while I sat on the women’s side.
There was only one woman sitting there with a girl who seemed a bit older than me. We were too far from the men to hear the prayers, so I whispered to the woman in Yiddish, asking if they had been in Cuba for very long.
“My daughter and I just arrived,” she responded. She spoke Yiddish with a different accent than I was used to, but we could understand each other. “We are from Germany,” she said. She wiped away a tear. “Things are getting very bad there for the Jews.”