With my sincere love as always,
ESTHER
AGRAMONTE
April 15, 1938
Dear Malka,
Maybe it was a foolish idea, but I asked Papa if I could invite some guests to our Passover seder tonight.
“Who will you invite, Esther? There isn’t another Jew for miles and miles.”
“Do they have to be Jewish to come to our seder?”
“But we’re not even going to have a true seder. We don’t have wine or a shank bone for the seder plate.”
“We have eggs. And I can find bitter herbs in the yard. We have an onion that I will cut up so everyone can dip it in salt water.”
“And tell me, Esther, what will we offer them to eat after the seder? We barely have enough for ourselves.”
“There are pineapples and coconuts and bananas growing everywhere. There is plenty of guava paste. And of course there is sugarcane.”
“That is not a proper Passover meal.”
“Papa, we’re in Cuba and we need to do things the Cuban way.”
“And who do you want to invite?”
“I want to invite Doctor Pablo and Señora Graciela, Ma Felipa, Mario José, and Manuela, and Juan Chang and his nephew Francisco Chang.”
Papa looked at me as if I were crazy.
“Esther, haven’t you noticed black people and white people in this town don’t like to be together? And Chinese people keep to themselves, like us.”
“They may be different from one another, but they are the ones who’ve been kind to me in Agramonte. That’s why I want to invite them all. Papa, please . . .”
His shook his head, but he agreed, and I rushed out to invite them. It was hard to explain what a seder was. I called it a “fiesta hebrea.” But that only made sense to Doctor Pablo, so I said it was a “fiesta de los polacos.” A Polish party! And everyone agreed to come.
We had just enough mismatched plates for the nine of us. And miraculously we had exactly ten cups, so I could even put one out for Elijah. I’d have to explain to my guests that the tradition is to pour an extra cup of wine and leave the door open in case he shows up as an unexpected guest. But what would we drink? I remembered we had the sour cherry tea. I would brew a big pot, let it cool, and add lots of sugar so it would almost taste like wine.
When I realized we had no tablecloth, I made one by sewing some cloth remnants together, and I also made napkins. Then I gathered up our fabric and supplies and put them in my bedroom, leaving no trace of the lint and scraps and the mess that had become ordinary since I’d begun making dresses.
Shortly before dusk, Doctor Pablo and Señora Graciela arrived. Señora Graciela wore the black dress I made for her. She greeted me with a sad smile and I wondered if she was thinking of her daughter, Emilia. While Papa and Doctor Pablo chatted in the living room, she took my hand and we stepped aside. She peered into my bedroom and saw the fabric and the supplies I had stashed in a corner of the room. Then she ran her hand over the sewing machine.
“You are happy with the sewing machine?” she asked.
I told her I loved it and would always be grateful to her for her gift.
Tears filled her eyes and she said, “Lo siento.”
Why was she saying she was sorry?
I didn’t understand every word she said, but she mentioned Señor Eduardo, and I understood that she knew what had happened and felt bad. Without expecting he would be vicious, she had told Señor Eduardo about the sewing machine and how talented I was at dressmaking.
“Lo siento, mi niña,” she repeated, and hugged me.
We stepped back into the living room and heard a soft knock on the door. It was Juan and Francisco Chang. They looked embarrassed as they politely nodded and said, “Buenas noches.” Doctor Pablo and Señora Graciela also looked embarrassed. Then another soft knock sounded and there were Ma Felipa, Mario José, and Manuela, looking embarrassed too. What had I done by bringing such different people together? Was Papa right to warn me?
I led everyone to the table. I had placed a chair at the head for Papa, and the rest of us would have to squeeze onto the benches on either side. I asked Doctor Pablo and Señora Graciela to sit on the same bench as Ma Felipa and Mario José, and I sat with Juan Chang, Francisco, and Manuela on the other.
I lit the Shabbos candles and then Papa began the seder. “Tonight we remember the suffering of the Hebrews when we were slaves in Egypt,” he said.
Ma Felipa looked astonished. “Who were the Hebrews? You mean the polacos, like yourselves?”
Papa nodded. “Yes, our ancestors were slaves in Egypt.”
“I never knew the Hebrews were slaves. I was also enslaved when I was a young woman.”
Mario José gently patted Ma Felipa’s hand. “Mamá, you can tell your story another time. We are going to hear the story of the Hebrews tonight.”
Señora Graciela, who was sitting next to Ma Felipa, started to fidget. Her elbow bumped into Ma Felipa as she reached for a handkerchief in her pocket to wipe the sweat from her brow. “Lo siento,” she told Ma Felipa.
“Are you sorry for bumping into me or for coming from a family that owned slaves on your sugar mill?” Ma Felipa said. “A family that once owned me?”
I understood every painful word Ma Felipa had spoken.
Señora Graciela replied, “Lo siento todo.”
She was sorry for everything.
Juan Chang looked across the table, and in a whisper, he said, “There were Chinese slaves too at the sugar mill.”
Francisco also spoke quietly as he said to his uncle, “That was a long time ago.”
Manuela said, “My grandmother was enslaved and I was born free.”
There was an awkward silence.
Mario José turned to Papa. “We should let Señor Abraham continue now.”
Papa held up his cup and the others did the same with theirs. Papa said the prayer and drank the sour cherry tea. We all followed him.
I brought a bowl and a pitcher filled with water for us to wash our hands. Then Papa said another prayer.
Papa instructed everyone to dip a piece of onion into the cup of salt water. As we did so, he explained, “Agua salada para las lágrimas de los esclavos.”
Salt water for the tears of the enslaved.
I remembered the ceiba tree in Ma Felipa’s yard, the tree that cries.
Papa held up the matzo and explained that when the Hebrews escaped from Egypt, they didn’t have time to wait for the bread to rise, and so they ate unleavened bread.