Finally we arrived in Agramonte. We lugged the bags to our house. We had barely finished washing our hands when we were startled by a loud knock at the door. I heard a horse neighing and had a bad feeling.
Papa opened the door and there was Señor Eduardo—with a policeman! They rudely pushed Papa aside and entered our home. Señor Eduardo pointed to the satchels and ordered Papa to open them.
Papa did as he was asked. Señor Eduardo reached in and pulled out fabric and buttons and lace, throwing everything on the floor.
After he finished making a mess, he turned to me and said, “¿Dónde está la máquina de coser?”
I took him to my bedroom and showed him the sewing machine, standing in front of it, trying to protect it with my body. If he took it away, what would we do? But instead, Señor Eduardo turned to Papa and said, “Dame el dinero.”
He was demanding Papa give him his money! Papa looked dumbfounded. Why did Papa have to give him any money?
Then came the accusation: I was a refugee and a child and I was working illegally in Cuba. Señor Eduardo said if he reported us, the government would take everything—the fabric, the sewing machine—and charge us a hefty fine. They would put Papa in jail for letting me work. Afterward they would send us back to Poland, where we belonged. They didn’t need any more Jews in Cuba. The Jews that Cuba had taken in out of pity were too many.
“Fuera, judíos,” he said in conclusion—and I understood what Señor Eduardo really wanted. He wanted to hurt us. He had wanted to hurt us from the moment he saw us walking along the country paths leading to his sugar mill. He had wanted to hurt us simply because we were Jewish. He had been waiting for the right moment and the right excuse. And he found it.
The policeman yanked Papa’s arms and twisted them behind his back. Señor Eduardo reached into Papa’s pocket and pulled out the eighty pesos we had received today from Rifka Rubenstein, all the money we had earned from the dresses I had sewn, all the money that was going toward bringing you and Mama and Bubbe and my brothers to Cuba.
Señor Eduardo counted out the bills, gave some to the policeman, and took the rest for himself. Then he threw ten pesos on the floor and stepped on them.
“Recógelo, judío,” he said to Papa, and tried to force him to get down on his knees and pick up the money from under his boot.
Poor Papa was trembling like a leaf. I wouldn’t let Señor Eduardo humiliate my sweet papa like that.
“No!” I yelled, and bent down myself and got the money as the two men walked out laughing.
Papa felt broken by everything that had happened. I told him to pray, that prayers always helped, but he said he couldn’t, not today. I told him things would be better tomorrow. He went to bed and fell asleep right away.
I am awake, unable to sleep, writing to you, dear Malka, on this sad night. From a distance, I hear a lone dog barking, lost and hungry. I try to remember that most Cubans are not like Señor Eduardo. I have met so many people with big hearts on this island, where every day feels like summer, and their kindness is like sunshine. I console myself as much as I can with that thought.
Now I will say good night and close my eyes and dream of a new day.
With my love as always,
ESTHER
AGRAMONTE
March 25, 1938
Dear Malka,
I fell asleep just before dawn. When I woke up, I went searching for Papa. It was reassuring to find him praying. I was afraid he had lost faith in his prayers. For Papa, that would be the end of everything.
His shoulders ached from the brutal way he had been pushed and yanked around. I asked Papa to let me go ask Doctor Pablo if he had an ointment to soothe the pain. He agreed but told me not to be gone too long or he would worry.
Doctor Pablo saw patients at the pharmacy next door to his house. It was still early in the morning and no one was there yet.
“¿Qué pasa, Esther?” he asked.
“Dolores,” I said, and pointed to my shoulders. Then I added, “Papa.”
He excused himself and went to a back room. After a few moments, he returned with a small jar of an ointment he had mixed up himself and told me Papa should rub it on his shoulders. I had brought the ten pesos I had picked up off the floor, but Doctor Pablo wouldn’t accept any money. He said he would come and see Papa when he closed the pharmacy.
I swung past the grocery store. I called out buenos días to Juan Chang, who was sitting behind the counter, and he said buenos días back to me.
I kept walking, eager to get back to Papa and give him the ointment. Just before I reached the corner, I heard someone calling me by my name.
“Esther!”
I turned and there was Francisco Chang. “Ven, por favor.”
He motioned for me, politely, to please go back with him to the store. I wondered what for and hesitated. But Francisco repeated “por favor” with such gentleness, I turned around and followed him.
Inside the store, Juan Chang asked if Papa and I were doing well and getting accustomed to life in Cuba. After the horrible ordeal we’d been through with Señor Eduardo, it was hard for me to lie and say everything was fine. I stuttered as I said, “Bien, gracias,” knowing I didn’t sound very convincing.
Juan Chang reached under the counter and passed me a little square tin.
I was surprised to see it was sour cherry tea. The kind that came from Poland. Bubbe loved this tea, but it was a luxury, so we only got it now and then. Do you remember this tea, Malka? It was so tart it made your mouth pucker. Now Juan Chang was insisting I take this tea as a gift, this tea that had come all the way from Poland, just as I had.
“Té polaco,” he said, and smiled.
Polish tea.
Last night Papa and I suffered terribly, and this morning Juan Chang was offering me Polish sour cherry tea. Yes, the world was full of surprises.
I felt unsure about accepting this gift, but how could I refuse Juan Chang’s kindness? He wanted to show me he understood what it was like to be far from everything that was familiar.
“Gracias,” I said. “Muchas gracias.”
Juan Chang nodded in his kindly way and asked Francisco to wrap the tin in brown paper. Francisco took his time. When he was done, he passed the parcel to me. And he passed me something else: a rolled-up piece of paper. I opened it and saw a beautiful drawing of a palm tree. Every detail of the trunk and the leaves was clear and distinct. So Francisco liked to draw! I smiled and said, “Bonito,” and he smiled back.
“Adiós,” I said, wishing I could explain what had happened with Señor Eduardo and why I had to rush. Another day I would ask if Francisco had more sketches. Now I needed to give Papa a balm for his wounds and a taste of home.