Then a smile appeared on Señora Graciela’s face. She said she had never imagined a sweet girl like me would come along—a girl who could sew her own clothes. That I was like a gift from the sky, “del cielo,” she said. If I would accept her gift of the sewing machine, she would feel so happy.
I turned to Papa, not knowing if I could accept such an enormous gift. Now I was excited about the idea of making lots of dresses and selling them. I hadn’t thought of that when I started sewing; I just wanted to get out of my itchy wool dress and sew dresses for people who’d been kind to me. But if I did well and my dresses sold, I could help Papa get you all to Cuba even faster!
Papa looked back at me with a warm smile, nodded to Señora Graciela, and told her I would be happy to take the sewing machine. She clapped her hands and said she’d have it sent over in the afternoon.
As we were about to say goodbye, Doctor Pablo turned to Papa. Pointing to the newspaper on the dining table, he said, “Bad news these days in Europe. Have you heard, Señor Abraham? The Nazis have taken over Austria. They’re treating the Hebrews badly. They forced Hebrew actresses in Vienna to scrub toilets while they stood there laughing.”
Doctor Pablo called Jewish people “hebreos” rather than “judíos” because he thought that word was more polite.
“You are safe here,” Doctor Pablo added, smiling at us.
But Papa and I looked at each other in fear.
“We are safe, but not our family,” Papa said.
“You will be together one day,” Doctor Pablo said.
“Juntos” was the Spanish word he used for “together.” I repeated it to myself to make it come true.
Late in the afternoon, there was a knock on the door, and we found Mario José standing there with a Singer sewing machine. Manuela was with him too.
“Señora Graciela asked me to bring over la Singer,” Mario José said. “I help her with her chores when I’m not busy at the sugarcane fields.”
We invited them in and I asked Mario José to put the sewing machine in my bedroom so I could sew whenever I wanted without disturbing Papa.
Once it was set up, Papa asked them to sit in the rocking chairs in the living room, and I brought over the bench from the kitchen for Papa and me. Then I went to the room and got some remnants of cloth I still had left to show to Manuela. I asked her which she liked, and she said she liked them all. “Todos, me gustan todos.” We both laughed. I unfolded them and we draped them against our bodies to see how they looked. We were wearing the floral dresses I’d made and we were like mirrors for each other.
Mario José asked about our familia and if I had a mamá. Papa explained about our family in Poland and how they were waiting for us to bring them to Cuba.
Mario José nodded. “Separados por el mar,” he said.
Yes, sadly we were separated by the sea from the people we loved most.
Papa should then have asked Mario José about his family, but Papa was not one to ask questions. I was about to when Mario José himself pointed to Manuela and said, “No tiene mamá.”
Manuela’s face became sad and Mario José told us how his wonderful wife, Cecilia, Manuela’s mother, had died two years ago from a heart attack that struck like lightning and took her away so fast there was no time to say goodbye. Ma Felipa had needed to step in and be not only Manuela’s grandmother but her mother as well.
I felt sorry for Manuela and reached over to give her a hug.
I thought about Mama and Bubbe, how lucky we are to have them both. I wish I could give them a big hug right now. You all feel so far away.
By then, the afternoon light had faded. Mario José stood and said he and Manuela needed to get home. Ma Felipa was probably wondering why they were gone for so long. They wished us a good night and we did the same, one father and daughter to another father and daughter.
After Papa went to sleep, I sat down to try the sewing machine.
At first it was a disaster. I sewed a seam and it came out crooked. I had to rip it out and sew it again several times. But once I got the hang of how to step on the treadle, I realized why the sewing machine was such a great invention. I could finish a seam in seconds.
It was harder to sew the buttonholes and attach the sleeves and collars. I kept practicing those tasks as the night stretched before me and the light of the kerosene lamp wore down.
Fortunately, the bobbin had a new spool of thread. I could sew and sew to my heart’s content.
By the time the soft light of dawn shone through the window, I’d mastered the basics of the sewing machine and decided it was as dear to me as a fiddle is to a fiddler.
Your loving sister,
ESTHER
AGRAMONTE
March 17, 1938
Dearest Malka,
It’s Purim today—and my birthday. I can’t believe I’m officially only twelve years old! I feel like I have grown so much since that day three months ago when I vowed to make the journey across the ocean to help Papa.
For the past few days, I’ve been staying up late sewing and waking up early to sew—I guess I’ve been practically sewing in my sleep. I think that’s how I was able to do so much. Using up a remnant of several yards that I had left, I made dresses in three different sizes—for a little child, a young girl, and an adult woman. They all had buttons down the front and pockets at the hips, with just some variation in the collars, belts, and sashes. My neck and shoulders hurt, but thinking of Mama being proud of my dresses, I could tolerate all the aches and pains.
After Papa was done with his morning prayers, I showed him what I’d been working on. I spread the three sample dresses out on the bed—I thought they looked beautiful.
“You have a great talent, my daughter, just as they say,” he told me. “Now let me wish you a happy birthday!” Papa gave me a hug and my favorite flower from the garden—a pink hibiscus, which Cubans call “mar pacífico.” I held it gently and watched its winged petals unfurl in my hands.
Later we caught the direct midmorning train to Havana. We didn’t know if the Jewish shops would be open on Purim, but they all were. It was Thursday, a regular workday, and no one could afford to lose business.
“What do you want to sell next?” Zvi Mandelbaum said after he paid us our commission. “More sandals? Leather belts? I have a new supply of Christian idols.” He laughed and said we were turning out to be his most successful peddlers.
I tugged at Papa’s sleeve to remind him of my plan, which I hoped would make us a lot more money than we were earning as peddlers. Poor Papa, who is too kind, stood there sweating, thinking of what to say. Fortunately, a customer came in and Zvi Mandelbaum turned his attention away from us.