He gave everyone a piece of matzo and told us to eat it first with the bitter herbs, then with a slice of the thick candied guava paste.
Papa said, “We eat something bitter first to remember the sadness of the Hebrews and then something sweet to remember the happiness of the Hebrews, because we were slaves and then we were free.”
Ma Felipa asked for an extra slice of guava paste. “I am glad we are all free people. May slavery never exist again.”
“Amen,” Papa said.
“Amen,” repeated Ma Felipa, Juan Chang, and all the rest of us.
Then I brought the fruit that Papa and I had prepared to the table, along with the eggs and the sugarcane, and served everybody.
As we ate, I thought about what to say to my guests. I remembered how everyone in Cuba loved the poems of José Martí. Slowly, pronouncing each word carefully, I recited the verse about the leopard who is happy in his den in the forest, staying warm and dry. But then Martí says,
Yo tengo más que el leopardo
Porque tengo un buen amigo.
I have more than the leopard
Because I have a good friend.
To our guests, who had joined Papa and me for Passover without knowing what a Jewish girl from Poland was asking of them, I said, “You are all my good friends. I want to say gracias.”
Doctor Pablo chuckled. “Look at that, la polaquita has already learned to recite the poems of our beloved José Martí!” Everyone laughed. Then he added, “Esther, you don’t need to say gracias. I am glad you and your father chose to live in Agramonte.”
Ma Felipa chimed in, “We are happy you are with us.”
Juan Chang said, “I have more sour cherry tea in from Poland. Don’t be shy about asking for another tin.”
Manuela and Francisco squeezed a little closer to me.
Then Doctor Pablo told us he had something he wanted to say.
“Tonight, Esther invited us and we all came separately, not knowing we’d sit together at the same table. We came because we’ve seen what good people she and her father are. They are here in Cuba working hard to bring over their family. They’ve come as immigrants because the land they’re from no longer welcomes them. The situation of the Hebrews is growing worse day by day in Europe. The Nazis have taken over Austria and they will not stop there. You’ve heard of Hitler—he’s spreading hatred of the Jewish people. Now there are people in Cuba who are starting to think like Hitler. In my own family, I have seen this hatred.”
Señora Graciela chimed in, “It is my brother, Eduardo. We are so sorry for how horribly he has treated Esther and Señor Abraham.”
Ma Felipa responded, “I caught him trying to hurt Señor Abraham on the road by my house. I thought he was being mean in his usual way. I didn’t know it was because he hates the Hebrews.”
“I am ashamed he’s my brother,” Señora Graciela said, bowing her head.
Doctor Pablo spoke again. “Maybe it seems impossible, but one day Hitler or his followers might want to take over Cuba. We must not lose our beautiful island to people who want to spread hatred.”
Mario José asked, “What can we do?”
“We can’t allow Nazis here!” Manuela said. “Or for Señor Eduardo to hurt Esther or Señor Abraham.”
Francisco spoke up in his soft, polite way. “What if we form a society? The Anti-Nazi Society of Agramonte.”
“That’s a good idea! Even if the members are just us,” I said.
“There will be more than just us. I’m the leader of the union at the sugar mill and will speak to the workers. We’ll call a strike if Señor Eduardo tries anything,” Mario José announced.
Señora Graciela shuddered. “But, Mario José, a strike would stop the sugar production and the workers would lose their pay.”
Mario José replied, “We’ve known each other since we were children, Graciela, so I hope you don’t mind me speaking frankly. You are different from your brother and I appreciate that. If it’s the workers you are concerned about, they’ve been ready to call a strike for a long time because of the miserable conditions at the sugar mill. They work themselves to the bone cutting the cane and boiling the molasses and can barely feed their families.”
“I understand,” Señora Graciela said. “If you must strike, I will be on your side, Mario José. I must do what is good, even if it means being against my own flesh and blood.”
Doctor Pablo looked around the table. “As of today, then, we’re all members of the Anti-Nazi Society of Agramonte. Do you agree?”
We all said yes, and before Doctor Pablo left, he told us, “Our society will be following in the footsteps of the anthropologist Fernando Ortiz. Last year he started an association in Cuba to educate people so they’re not afraid of cultures that are different from their own. He says hatred comes from ignorance. That’s why it’s good to learn about each other’s customs and traditions. Thank you, Esther and Señor Abraham, for sharing yours with us tonight.”
Then everyone said, “Hasta mañana,” and I felt at peace, hoping for a tomorrow filled with kindness.
Afterward, Papa and I sat in the rocking chairs.
“You see, Papa, everything went well.”
“Fortunately, yes, Esther. But tomorrow night, let’s have a quiet seder, just the two of us.”
“Of course, Papa.”
I hope you and Mama and Bubbe and my brothers have had a good seder, with plenty of matzo.
Sending all my love,
ESTHER
AGRAMONTE
May 5, 1938
Dear Malka,
The rainy season’s begun and I’ve never seen so much rain come pouring from the sky all at once. An umbrella doesn’t help at all—you still end up soaking wet. The storms usually occur in the afternoon and clear very suddenly, losing their fury all at once. The sun reappears and the countryside turns the brightest green.
Rainy days are good for sewing, and the last few weeks have been a frenzy of work to finish the next order of dresses for Rifka Rubenstein. But Papa and I have been in a cheerful mood and each day he insists we take a break. So while Papa prays or naps, I go to Manuela’s or visit with Francisco Chang at the store.
I’ve learned many new jump-rope rhymes with Manuela. One that we like a lot goes like this:
Caballito blanco,