Her daughter put her arm around her mother to comfort her. “We were fortunate to be able to escape. Papa is safe in Bolivia and we’ll be reunited soon.”
Her mother shivered, even though it was hot in the synagogue. “There is a terrible man in power in Germany. His name is Hitler. He hates Jews and Romani people and sick people—and anyone who disagrees with him. His followers, the Nazis, took everything from us—not just our home, but our hopes and dreams.”
“We will find new hopes and dreams here, and we will begin again,” the girl said. She held her mother even tighter. I realized at that moment how much I wanted to hug Bubbe and Mama, and you, dear Malka, and even my brothers if they’d let me!
Hearing about the Jewish people in Germany got me even more worried about what might be happening to all of you in Poland. Not knowing if you’re hungry, if the dark winter days are filled with fear, I feel an ache in my heart. But even if I could look into a magic glass and see all of you, there’s little I can do from this great distance, and that hurts more. I know Papa feels helpless and desperate whenever he receives a letter from Mama. He doesn’t let me read these letters, which come so rarely and arrive so ragged they look as if they’re filled with clumps of sadness.
When the prayers ended at the synagogue, I said goodbye to the mother and daughter and wished them well. Papa and I found our way to the train station, carrying our satchels stuffed with sandals and the sewing things, but what really weighed heavily on us were our worries for the future.
With love from your sister,
ESTHER
AGRAMONTE
March 7, 1938
Dearest Malka,
I’ve spent the last few days making a dress for myself, sewing early in the morning when the light is bright, while Papa prays. I sketched the pattern on tracing paper and then chose one of the floral cotton fabrics, placed it on the pattern, and cut the material. I decided on a simple collar and short capped sleeves. I began to sew, following the picture in my imagination. I thought it should button up the front to make it easy to take on and off. I tucked in the waist a bit so it would fit nicely.
I basted first, using big stitches to hold the pieces together and be sure it looked like a real dress. We only have a small mirror that Papa uses to shave. When I tried the dress on, it was difficult to see how it fit, but I caught enough of a glimpse to think I’d done pretty well. I twirled around and the fabric felt like a cool breeze as it swept past my legs.
Confident it looked good, I sat down and stitched it all together with small, tight stitches so the dress would hold up to lots of wear and washings. Mama’s silver thimble came in handy! For the final touch, I added pockets at the hips, where they’d be easy to use and I could easily find my pocket watch. I love pockets and won’t make any dresses without them!
When Papa saw the dress, he was impressed! “Beautiful sewing, Esther,” he said. “Your mother’s lessons weren’t in vain.”
I thought of Mama and was surprised at how much I missed her . . . Now that we’re apart, I wish we hadn’t argued so much and had been more patient with each other. But I know for sure she’d be proud of this dress!
Feeling light as a feather in my cotton dress, I went off with Papa to sell sandals. Zvi Mandelbaum was right about people in the countryside needing them. So many are barefoot or wearing torn-up shoes. Papa decided to sell the sandals for less than Zvi Mandelbaum suggested so even the sugarcane workers living out of town in the barracks could afford them. He lets people pay half now and the rest in a month if they can’t afford the full cost. Papa says this is called an installment plan and it’s a new thing.
Everyone is happy with this arrangement because they get to wear the sandals right away. Papa asked me to keep a record of all the loans, and this way I am learning the names of our neighbors in Agramonte and in the hamlets near the sugar mill.
Now when the people there see us coming down the road, they’re friendly and take us inside their houses so they can try them on.
Ma Felipa also heard about the sandals we were selling. On our way back home, she called to us and said she wanted to buy sandals for Manuela. Papa refused to take any money from her. We would be forever grateful that she saved us from the cruelty of Señor Eduardo. If not for her, who knows what he might have done to Papa?
“It’s a gift,” Papa said. “Un regalo” in Spanish.
Ma Felipa was so touched, she gave Papa one of her big hugs. Manuela was giddy in her new sandals, which are just like mine, but the leather’s still clean and shiny. She danced around and then extended her hand to me so we danced together. When she said, “Amigas!” I felt so happy. I’ve been wanting to make a friend here in Cuba, someone my age to spend time with. I will put even more effort into learning Spanish if I have a friend, though I have learned a lot already, as I mostly understand what I hear and have learned to count to one hundred.
Manuela helps her family with their work too. She helps Mario José in the fields, and she helps Ma Felipa around the house with the cooking and cleaning and feeding the chickens they keep in the yard. She finished elementary school in Agramonte, but there is no secondary school in the town.
Manuela rubbed the skin on her arm with her finger and used this gesture to show that her skin is a different color from mine. She said, “Most black people here were not taught how to read and write until recently.” Then she pointed to Ma Felipa and said, “Fue esclava,” meaning “She was enslaved.”
It was what I had imagined, and I felt sad to know it was true. Ma Felipa nodded and placed her wrists against each other and brought both arms up to her heart, showing how she had once been in chains. Manuela said Ma Felipa wasn’t allowed to learn to read or write, but she had taught her grandmother to write her name and is slowly teaching her the alphabet. Manuela says she dreams of being a schoolteacher, “una maestra,” one day, and teaching in their elementary school. She wants to see the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of people who were once enslaved learn how to read and write. I was so impressed hearing her speak, and I hope her dream will come true.
“Ven conmigo,” Manuela said, and led me outdoors to the field behind their house while Papa and Ma Felipa remained indoors, resting in the rocking chairs.
We walked a few feet and stopped before a tree.
“Ceiba,” she said.
It was a tall tree with a few limbs and a canopy of rustling leaves. Rather than being underground, the roots bulged from the earth, thick and strong. Manuela showed me a chain wrapped around the trunk of the ceiba. Candles and flowers had been left at the base of the tree as offerings. The chain had belonged to a slave, Manuela said. The tree held the suffering of all the slaves who asked for help, and sometimes at night, when the suffering becomes too much for it, tears drip down the trunk. She pantomimed that she was crying to make sure I understood the meaning of the word “lágrimas.”