Papa was still in pain, but he said praying had helped calm his soul. I gave him the ointment and told him to rest and spread it on his shoulders. “I am not ill!” he said, but he did as I asked and soon fell asleep.
I boiled water so I could brew tea for Papa when he woke up. Then I toasted the bread so it would be crispy and good for dunking in the tea.
I picked up the scissors and started cutting fabric to make the dresses that had been ordered. I had twenty-five dresses to finish in two weeks, and the sooner I got going, the better.
But I thought of how much I wanted to make another dress for Manuela and myself, so I decided to start with that. There was an apron hanging from a hook in the kitchen, and I took it down, slipped it over my head, and knotted the bow at my waist to see how it was put together. It occurred to me I could make a wraparound-style dress, like the apron, that could tie at the waist with a thin sash and fit people of many different shapes and sizes—and I’d save time by not sewing on buttons or making buttonholes. I had light blue fabric and got started on Manuela’s dress. Then for my own dress I’d use sunflower-yellow fabric, brighter than anything I’ve ever worn.
I was concentrating so intensely making these dresses that I didn’t notice Papa had woken up until he stood by my side.
“Papa, come have some tea and toast,” I said.
“Where did you get tea?”
“Sit down and I’ll tell you.”
Papa sat down and savored the tart flavor that had traveled to Cuba from so far away. “Sour cherry tea. I haven’t had this in years.”
I told him about Juan Chang and Francisco Chang, how the uncle had given me the tin and the nephew had given me the drawing of the palm tree—one giving me something of Poland and the other something of Cuba.
“They are very kind and I am grateful they have shown concern for you,” Papa said. “But you must not get too close, dear Esther. Remember you are Jewish and we’re only here in Agramonte for a brief while. You mustn’t set down roots or it will hurt when we have to leave. Be cordial to everyone who is cordial to you. And know that one day we will be in Havana with other Jews again, not here in the wilderness by ourselves.”
It hurt to hear Papa say this, but I understood. I nodded and said, “Yes, Papa, I know.”
“I brought you here and I must make sure you don’t get swept away and forget you are a Jewish girl.”
A knock on the door interrupted us. We were relieved to find it was Doctor Pablo, and I was glad I had something to offer a guest. I gave him a cup of the sour cherry tea and made sure to tell him to add sugar, because I had learned that Cubans liked everything sweet. He took a few sips and said it was very good, and then they went to the bedroom so Doctor Pablo could examine Papa. When they came back out, they sat in the rocking chairs in the living room like old friends.
“La verdad,” Doctor Pablo said. He wanted to know the truth. How had he gotten those ugly bruises?
Papa kept silent.
“Señor Eduardo,” I said.
Just saying the name aloud made me afraid.
Papa wouldn’t talk, so I told the story as best I could, trying to remember all the terrifying words Señor Eduardo had used. I told him how Señor Eduardo had again said to us, “Fuera, judíos.” Doctor Pablo listened intently. And when I got to the part about Señor Eduardo reaching into Papa’s pocket and snatching his money, Doctor Pablo became furious.
He rose so quickly from the rocking chair he knocked it over. He said he wouldn’t permit Señor Eduardo to keep mistreating us or for Nazis to take over Cuba!
As he took his leave, Doctor Pablo shook Papa’s hand and told him to keep using the ointment and he’d be better in a few days. Then he turned to me and said to keep on sewing, and those words comforted me.
I will keep sewing, day and night, and in my sleep too. I won’t let anyone stop me, dear Malka! I will make a bridge of dresses so that you can cross the ocean, and you know I will be waiting here on the other side.
With my sincere and everlasting love,
ESTHER
AGRAMONTE
March 28, 1938
Dear Malka,
I don’t want to brag, dear little sister, but those two wraparound dresses I started making the other day turned out very well! I’ve stumbled upon a style that’s simple to sew and easy to wear. It only took a moment for me to wrap the sunflower-yellow dress around myself and tie a bow on the side to secure it.
This afternoon, while Papa took his nap, I dashed out to give Manuela her new dress. As I approached Ma Felipa’s house, I heard the sound of drums. The voices of women singing rose into the air. I made out the familiar words: “Yemayá Asesu, Asesu Yemayá . . .”
Women, men, and children were crowded at the door, swaying to the music. I didn’t want to barge in, so I just stood there with them. Before long, Manuela spotted me and pulled me inside.
There were three men playing drums of different sizes that rested sideways on their laps—I learned they were called batá drums—and Mario José played the largest one. Manuela explained that these drums were very old, and through them they called to the ancestors who had survived the sufferings of slavery to thank them and to say they’d never forget them.
Ma Felipa led the singing and the women repeated her words in a chorus. She was wearing the dress I had made for her and lots of colorful beaded necklaces. After a while, she began to dance in a small circle next to her Yemayá fountain.
Manuela squeezed my hand.
“Baila,” she said.
Dance.
I tried to imitate Manuela’s steps, feeling awkward at first. But then I listened to the drums and the singing and let myself move back and forth to the music.
Suddenly Ma Felipa stopped dancing, the drumming stopped, and everyone froze. Her body was shaking and she had closed her eyes. She bowed toward the batá drums and then greeted everyone in an African language. Several women came to her side and walked her around the room. She left for a moment and returned with a bright blue shawl around her shoulders. Everyone greeted her as if they were meeting her for the first time.
Then she began to dance and the drums started up again. As she twisted and turned, her shawl moved like sea waves around her.
Yemayá, they called her. Not Ma Felipa. She had become Yemayá.
Finally, she grew tired from the dancing and a woman offered her water from the fountain in a gourd. Then the crowd drifted outside and formed a circle around the ceiba tree. They had white flowers in their hands, and one by one they placed them within the loops of the chain that encircled the ceiba tree.