Llévame de aquí.
Llévame a mi casa,
Donde yo nací.
Little white pony,
Take me away from here.
Take me home,
Where I was born.
We play and laugh, and when we get too hot and sweaty, Ma Felipa gives us a delicious coconut sweet. We talk about our dreams too.
“My father is saving to send me away to school next year,” Manuela tells me. “I really want to go so that I can become a teacher, but I’ll miss my father and grandmother so much. They’re the only family I have.”
“I’m so sorry your mother died.”
“She’s not here to hug me anymore, but I feel her inside me, encouraging me.”
“Your mother would be proud of you,” I told Manuela, and this brought a few tears to her eyes.
I reached into my pocket and gave her a lace-trimmed handkerchief I’d made with a leftover square of linen. It wasn’t embroidered like one of Bubbe’s handkerchiefs, but it still reminded me of her.
“How pretty!” Manuela said. “Everything you sew is beautiful, even the simplest things. You are already such a good dressmaker, Esther! When you grow up, you will be even more amazing.”
“Right now, it’s hard to think of who I’ll be when I grow up. I just want my family to be safe and make it to Cuba.”
“We’ll keep fighting against the Nazis here so your family will have a safe home when they arrive.”
“Gracias, Manuela. I’ll always remember when you called me amiga for the first time.”
Manuela smiled and squeezed my hand. “Amiga, let’s jump rope again!”
It is so nice to have a friend to confide in and one who helps you put aside your worries!
And I am blessed because my friendship with Francisco Chang is growing too. He and I like to sit together in his store at the end of the long counter while Juan Chang works at the other end.
Now that Francisco is used to me coming by, he has shown me more of his drawings. He’s very talented and can sketch plants and flowers and trees in great detail. I told him about the ceiba tree that cries in Manuela’s yard, and he said he’d like to draw it sometime.
“Do you believe a tree can cry?” I asked.
“Maybe,” he said. “Everything is different in Cuba.”
“But you like it here?”
“I like it a lot. The people are so friendly. I just wish they’d call me by my name, Francisco, and not always say ‘chino’ or ‘chinito.’ But I know they don’t mean it badly—it’s their custom.”
“It’s the same with me. Everyone calls me ‘la polaquita.’ In Poland, I wasn’t even considered Polish. I was just a Jew. I had to come to Cuba to become Polish. It’s funny, isn’t it?”
We laughed, and Juan Chang turned from his accounting and said, “Esther, you should visit more often. I haven’t heard Li Qiang laugh like that in a while.”
I was suddenly confused. “Wait, so your name isn’t really Francisco?”
“No, Francisco is my Cuban name. My real name is Li Qiang. But no one would be able to pronounce it here. At first it felt strange, but I’ve gotten used to being Francisco.”
“I guess when we move to a new place, we become other people.”
“I know. Sometimes I look in the mirror and ask, ‘What happened to Li Qiang? Where has he gone?’ But there’s a piece of him still in me somewhere.”
I knew just what he meant—I could barely remember the girl I’d been in Poland, working for Yoelke the baker, sweeping ashes and crumbs.
I turned to Francisco. “Do you want me to call you by your real name, Li Qiang? Did I say it correctly?”
“You said it right, Esther. But no, call me Francisco. That’s who I am now.”
His face grew sad. He waited until Juan Chang stepped out for a moment to add, “Also, Li Qiang means ‘strong,’ and I don’t think I deserve the name.”
“Why do you say that?”
He whispered, “Because I miss my family in China, especially my mother, who gave me my name. I cry at night on my pillow.”
“Lo siento,” I said, and thought about the tears I’d left on my pillow. Then I told him, “I cry too, but I don’t think that makes us weak. We cry because there are people in the world we love so much that it hurts when they are far away. And how can you be weak when you were brave enough to come here on your own to help your uncle and your family back in China?”
Francisco smiled at me. “Perhaps you’re right, Esther. I’m glad you know my real name.”
“I will not forget that part of you,” I told him. And in my heart, he’d always be a boy called Strong in Chinese.
With love forever,
ESTHER
AGRAMONTE
May 23, 1938
Dear Malka,
I felt a pang I’d never felt before when leaving Agramonte today. As the train full of strangers pulled out of the station, I missed Manuela and Francisco, I missed Señora Graciela and Doctor Pablo, I missed Juan Chang, I missed Ma Felipa and Mario José, and of course I always miss all of you. It seems like I spend a lot of time missing people!
But I was eager to arrive at Rifka Rubenstein’s store and deliver the next batch of dresses and get more orders and keep saving to be able to pay for your steamship tickets. We walked in and Rifka Rubenstein’s store was quiet. She sat behind the counter, leafing through the Yiddish newspaper.
She looked up and smiled. “Here you are, right on time. You are wonderful, Esther! Like a golden goose. The orders keep coming in.”
She marveled over the new dresses. Then she noticed the label I had discretely sewed onto the back of the neckline.
“What is this? ‘Designs by Esther’?” Rifka Rubenstein said. “Really, dear child, I think you have perhaps gone a little too far. You have an extraordinary talent, but putting a label on the dresses . . .”
I knew Papa wouldn’t like it if I made a fuss, but I had to interrupt her.
“I am the creator of the dresses and I believe they should carry my name. Nobody has to know that Esther is a young refugee girl from Poland.”
But Rifka Rubenstein wasn’t happy. “I cannot accept the dresses with these labels. You will have to cut them out if you want me to sell them.”