With all my love,
ESTHER
AGRAMONTE
March 21, 1938
Dearest Malka,
Papa and I have been working constantly. We barely go out, except to buy bread and eggs and milk on Calle Independencia. We have ten dresses to make that will earn us much more money than we get from peddling. If we keep going, we’ll have all of you here very soon! But Papa insisted we rest on Saturday and respect our Shabbos. He prayed and sat in the yard, contemplating the trees and the flowers. I daydreamed about dresses, how I’d change collars or pockets to create different looks.
Our neighbors must have been wondering what we were doing indoors. They had gotten used to seeing us with our satchels, roaming about the town and trudging on the dirt roads leading to the sugar mill. Late on Sunday afternoon, Señora Graciela knocked on our door to ask if we were well. She was wearing the black dress I’d made for her and I could see her white handkerchiefs sticking out of the pockets. I meant to tell her how much I appreciated her gift of the sewing machine, but I was so busy making the dresses, I had not had a chance to knock on her door.
She was stunned to see how the house had been turned upside down with our sewing. Dresses in different stages of completion were scattered on the kitchen table and on the floor of the living room.
“This has become a factory!” she said. “Una fábrica.”
From the way she said the word “fábrica,” I wondered if we were doing something wrong.
I said, “No, no fábrica. Papa and me.”
I was happy when she smiled and said she was glad we were well. And then she invited us to come to dinner the next day.
Papa and I stood at the door as she turned in the direction of her house. In that same moment, Señor Eduardo appeared on his whinnying horse. He stared at us so coldly it gave me the shivers. He didn’t say it, but I knew the word “judíos” was on the tip of his tongue. He got off the horse and accompanied Señora Graciela to her house.
We shut the door and kept on sewing, rushing to finish the dresses we had promised by the end of the week.
I tried not to think about Señor Eduardo, but he scared me. All I had to do was recall his icy glare to get chills, though it was as hot and humid as ever.
With all my love as always,
ESTHER
AGRAMONTE
March 24, 1938
Dear Malka,
Last night I stayed up late while Papa slept, adding the finishing touches to the dresses. After making sure they were perfect, I used the remnant of paisley fabric Rifka Rubenstein had given me to sew one more dress so I’d have a new sample to show. I added a wide sash that could be tied in a bow in the front or the back. I folded the dresses carefully, separating them into the different sizes and styles. I added layers of tracing paper to keep them neat. When Papa was done with his prayers, we divided the dresses and packed them into our satchels.
We took the train to Havana and went directly to Rifka Rubenstein’s store. The first three sample dresses I made were still hanging in the shop window. Papa and I waited while she helped a customer. When Rifka Rubenstein was done, she put up a sign that said CERRADO so customers would know the store was closed.
“Come with me,” she said, and led us to the office in the back.
“We have more orders! Women have been stopping in all week asking about the dresses. I have never seen anything like it!” Rifka Rubenstein exclaimed.
Papa said, “That is wonderful news, but Esther has worked very hard, day and night. I have done what I could to help by cutting the fabric and keeping things organized, but that is nothing compared to Esther’s labor. I don’t know how she managed to make so many dresses in one week!” He turned to me with a worried look. “Can you really keep going at this rate?”
“Of course I can, Papa! I even made an additional dress last night while you slept, just to try a few new things.”
I carefully took out the dress and held it up in the air so Rifka Rubenstein could see the details. Her eyes glistened as she marveled at my handiwork.
“You have outdone yourself! I am sure all of these dresses will be adored by the people who wear them,” she said.
She reached into a safe box, which was hidden behind a chair, and pulled out a wad of bills. She counted out eighty pesos.
“Here’s a little extra money for all your efforts.”
I passed the money to Papa for safekeeping. Then Rifka Rubenstein said, “So I’ve taken orders for another twenty-five dresses. Everyone loves the design, because the dresses can be easily adjusted to anyone’s measurements. It is a lot of sewing, even for a magician like you, Esther. That is why I told the customers the orders would take a little longer, two weeks or so rather than one.”
Papa kissed my forehead and said a prayer for my good health. “Oh, my dear child, you have come to Cuba to exhaust your eyesight and strain your neck and hands. But what can we do? If you are willing, it is the only way we’ll ever save our family. If they only knew the sacrifices you are making to bring them here!”
“Papa, I do it with my heart, my entire heart,” I said, and I meant it.
“I too am grateful God put you in my path,” Rifka Rubenstein remarked. “Now, I must tell you I’ve raised the prices of the dresses. You will earn a little more and I will earn a commission to cover the cost of the fabric and my other expenses. The dresses are still a steal. I don’t think you can find a handmade dress with so much charm and so much practicality anywhere else in Havana. This afternoon the women will be coming to pick up their dresses, and I can’t wait to see the smiles on their faces!”
I wished I could see the women’s smiles too. But that was impossible. Rifka Rubenstein explained that it would be better if the women didn’t know a Jewish refugee girl from Poland was making their dresses. “We’ll pretend it’s a designer from New York. Is that all right with you?” she said.
I wanted to say no, it wasn’t all right. The dresses were my creation, the work of my hands. But we needed the money and we needed it quickly, so I agreed.
Rifka Rubenstein gave us more fabric and buttons, an even better selection than the last time. We couldn’t fit it all into our two satchels, so she gave us each a suitcase. Our bags were very heavy, and we must have looked like two mules walking through Havana! Papa was disappointed we couldn’t stop to pray at the synagogue or buy a loaf of challah, as we were so weighed down.
We squeezed onto the crowded train with our belongings. As usual, Papa slept, snoring blissfully, but I couldn’t even close my eyes. This time I had brought José Martí’s Simple Verses to read and perfect my Spanish. I stared at the words, whispering them slowly to myself. I didn’t understand the poems very well, but there were many words I now knew—“tierra,” land; “flores,” flowers; “vida,” life; “hojas,” leaves; “cielo,” sky; “corazón,” heart—and I felt proud of all that I’d learned without going to school. I hoped one day I would no longer be a refugee and Spanish would slip from my tongue as easily as a cubana.