I suddenly realized I’d left Papa napping and hadn’t told him where I was going. If he woke up, he’d be worried about me.
“Manuela,” I said.
She turned and smiled. I was still holding the dress I’d made for her. I’d rolled it up and tied it together with a ribbon of fabric. I didn’t want to give it to Manuela in front of all the people.
She understood and led me out to the street, where I gave her my gift. She untied the ribbon and the dress spilled out.
“Bonito, bonito,” she said.
She was wearing the floral dress I’d made for her, and she put the new dress over it. She smiled when she saw how it wrapped around her waist and held together with just the tie. Then we said goodbye and I rushed to get back to Papa.
I found Papa, scissors in hand, cutting fabric.
“Papa, I’m so glad you’re feeling strong enough to work again.”
“Where have you been, my child?” he asked.
“I went to give Manuela the new dress I made for her. There were a lot of people at her house. They had drums and everyone was dancing and singing.”
“That’s part of their religion. They brought it from Africa. And they let you stay?”
“Yes, Papa, they all knew who I was and didn’t mind my being there. I even danced a little.”
“Esther, as I’ve told you, don’t forget you’re a Jew.”
“I always remember, Papa.”
I didn’t say it aloud, not to contradict Papa, but I was grateful I had heard the drums. I could never forget I am a Jew. But the sound of the drums at Ma Felipa’s house was now in my life and I was sure it would never leave me.
One day you too will hear the drums when you come to Cuba, and they will change you, my dear sister.
Your older sister, who loves you,
ESTHER
AGRAMONTE
April 12, 1938
Dear Malka,
We were a few days late bringing the dresses to Rifka Rubenstein, but she didn’t make a fuss, as the dresses had all come out beautifully.
This time, when Rifka Rubenstein paid us, we asked if we could keep most of our money in her safe box. When we told her we had been robbed, Rifka Rubenstein was horrified. “I’m so sorry. I will give you a little extra to help make up for what you lost. Of course you can keep your money here. My safe box is always locked and no one has the key except me.”
“Thank you,” Papa said. “That will take a weight off our shoulders.”
She smiled and said, “I have taken orders for forty dresses. Can you believe it? Some of the women have come back for a second or a third dress. They say the dresses fit so well and are so comfortable and so stylish, coming from New York. Little do they know the dresses are made right here in Cuba! They even say the dresses rival those of El Encanto—the most expensive department store in Havana! Isn’t that wonderful?” She paused and asked, “Could you finish this order by the end of next month? That will give you more time.”
I looked at Papa to see if he agreed. When he nodded, so did I.
“Very good,” Rifka Rubenstein said. “I know you will want to take a few days off for Passover. I am going to my cousin’s for both seders or I would invite you here.”
When she mentioned Passover, I got homesick for our seders in Govorovo, when we were all together. Remember how emotional Papa would get when he spoke of our ancestors being slaves in Egypt? He would talk about the suffering of all those who came before us as if he’d been there and gone through it himself.
I put these thoughts aside as Rifka Rubenstein gave us the fabric and buttons and lace and thread that we needed to complete the next order of dresses. I was happy my dresses were selling so well, but it hurt that no one could know the dresses were my creation. I decided, right then and there, that I would put a label in all the new dresses that would say “Designs by Esther.”
After we left, Papa and I stopped at the synagogue for matzo. An old man with a long white beard and a dark black coat sat at a desk in the office, with boxes of matzo piled up against the wall behind him. He gave Papa a friendly greeting when we came in, then told him, “Well, Avrum, I can only give you two boxes today. The donation from the American Jews is not so large this year.”
“That’s all right,” Papa told him. “It’s only two of us for now, until we’ve saved up enough to bring my wife and my mother and my other four children here. This is my daughter Esther, and we are working so hard you cannot imagine.” Papa smiled at me and continued, “So we will manage fine with two boxes of matzo. And hope that next year the rest of my family is here and that the American Jews will be more generous with their brothers and sisters who haven’t had the good fortune to land with them in the Golden Medina.”
Papa stuffed the two boxes of matzo into his satchel, and then I asked him if we could make a stop at El Encanto.
“Please, Papa, I’m so curious to have a look! It will just be for a minute.”
“It is a store for rich people, but how can I say no to you, my dear child? Of course we will go, even though it is in the opposite direction of the train station.”
I have never seen anything like El Encanto, Malka! The store was as magnificent as a palace, and guards stood at the main entrance to open the doors for the sophisticated shoppers who streamed in and out. Those who happened to glance at Papa and me weighed down with all our shmattes quickly turned their heads in embarrassment. I felt small and unimportant, like a fly to be swatted away.
Papa was patient and walked around the outside of the store with me so I could stare at the shop windows. The women mannequins had on slinky evening gowns, and the young girl ones wore frilly dresses that looked stiff and uncomfortable. There were no dresses like mine that were both elegant and practical in any of the windows.
I was so lost in thought, I didn’t notice how long my nose was pressed to one of the windows. A guard came over and tapped me on the shoulder and motioned for Papa and me to get moving.
We were worn to the bone when we arrived back at the train station and collapsed into our seats. After being on our feet all afternoon, the hard wooden benches on the second-class train actually felt cozy. While Papa slept, I stayed awake and watchful as always. I tried to read José Martí’s poems to keep improving my Spanish, but I couldn’t concentrate. All around me were other worried-looking people, keeping a watchful eye on their own bundles.
I thought about the carefree shoppers I saw streaming in and out of El Encanto. Why is the world divided into rich and poor? Why can’t there be enough for everyone? Why does a whole sea have to separate me from you, dear Malka?