“For how can I bear to see disaster fall on my people?
How can I bear to see the destruction of my family?”
Esther 8:6
* * *
—
Yo vengo de todas partes,
Y hacia todas partes voy:
Arte soy entre las artes,
En los montes, monte soy.
I come from many places,
And to every place I go:
I am art among the arts,
And mountain among mountains.
José Martí, Versos sencillos
(Simple Verses), 1891
GOVOROVO
December 2, 1937
Dearest Papa,
I am writing to you out of desperation. I pray that my letter arrives safely in your hands so you will listen to my plea.
How is it possible we’re still separated from you and that three years have passed since you left for Cuba? Would you recognize us today—your own family?
I could fill a river with my tears when I think of you being so far away. Mama worries we will never see you again. “Your papa is gone forever,” she says. She scares my brothers and sister with those terrible words, but I promise them we’ll be reunited.
You will be surprised to learn how much I’ve grown in the last year. I’m taller than Mama now (which I know isn’t saying much). I try to do everything I can to help here. I go to the woods every day and cut balls of juniper for cooking. After school, I work two afternoons a week for Yoelke the baker, sweeping ashes and crumbs. He pays me with two loaves of rye bread so that for breakfast we have something to dip into the bit of milk our tired cow, Zisseleh, still gives us.
The other children help as much as they can, especially Malka. She reminds me of you because she’s smart and studious and never complains. Every morning she warms the water for Bubbe so it won’t be too cold when she washes up. Even the twins are old enough to help—you wouldn’t recognize Eliezer and Chaim, since they were such babies when you left for Cuba. Today they collected three full buckets of berries with Moshe, who they look up to and call “Little Papa.” This made Mama smile. She is beautiful when she smiles and her blue eyes sparkle.
I’m sad to say not a lot makes Mama smile anymore. It’s getting harder and harder for us here in Poland, especially for me and Moshe and the twins, since we all share your dark hair and eyes. There is no chance we can pass for Polish as Mama and Malka often can. The Poles always know we are Jews. Some are kind, but some give us nasty looks and spit on the ground as we walk past. Yet I’ve seen them nod hello to Mama and Malka, as if they are more worthy, just because of how they look.
Mama is still angry about the loss of our store in Govorovo, and what happened was so unfair. Now that I’m older, I understand that the government overtaxed you and put you out of business just because we are Jewish. You had no choice but to leave Poland to find work and take care of all of us. I don’t know what we’d do without the money you send us from Cuba.
I’ve been thinking a lot about all this. According to Jewish tradition, I will be an adult when I turn twelve in a few months. The truth shouldn’t be kept from me, which is why I’m upset that Mama tried to hide your letter. She knows how much I miss you, and I am always asking if you’ve written. I thought we hadn’t heard from you in so long because the mail’s unreliable these days, but then I found your letter squirreled away inside her shoe. I had gotten suspicious because suddenly we had a little bit of meat to eat with our potatoes and the money had to come from somewhere.
When I read your letter, I understood why Mama hid it. She didn’t want me to know that you now have enough savings to bring only one of us to Cuba. Papa, you write that the child who should travel first is Moshe because he’s the oldest of the boys and you think he’ll be the most capable of helping you work. But I’m the eldest and stronger than you think. By birthright, it is I who should come. Please, Papa, choose me. Don’t think less of me because I am a girl. I will help you show Mama that it wasn’t a mistake for you to go to Cuba. I promise if you let me be the one to come first, I will work hard and make you proud.
I’m eager to see you, dear Papa, and hear your voice. Put your trust in me. I will not disappoint you.
Your loving daughter,
ESTHER
ON BOARD THE SHIP TO CUBA
January 22, 1938
Dear Malka,
Oh dear sister, I have been on the ship for three days and three nights and I still keep pinching myself, unable to believe I’m really on my way to Cuba! Even after I begged, I doubted Papa would choose me. I’m so grateful, but saying goodbye at the train station was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
The tears in Bubbe’s eyes left a hole in my heart. When she wiped my tears with her embroidered handkerchief, then gave it to me as a gift, I could barely hold myself together. I was surprised to see some tears from Moshe, Eliezer, and Chaim too. I guess they will miss me a little. Mama will too, I hope. I was touched when she gave me her silver thimble to remember her by, even though I know she’s still angry with me for encouraging Papa to go to Cuba—but where else was he to go when the door to the United States had closed to Jewish refugees? I hugged her and told her I loved her, and all she said was “Tell your father we need him at home.”
But you, Malka, my treasured only sister, I know you will miss me as much as I’ll miss you. I feel terrible that I won’t be around to protect you at school. I hope you’ll feel like I’m there in spirit, urging you to stay smart and studious, even when jealous girls tease you. And if one of them hides your eyeglasses again, please tell Moshe!
I don’t know what I will do without you and I’ll be thinking of you every day. I promise to write down every interesting thing that happens while we’re apart so that the hours, weeks, and months we’re separated won’t seem so painful. I’m beginning now, writing in this old accounting notebook of Papa’s, and I will fill it up with letters from Cuba that I will save for you. Writing them will make the days bearable until you arrive. Then when you’re finally here, we will read them together and it will be as if you were with me the whole time.
The train ride from Warsaw to Rotterdam was scary. I worried if I got up to go to the bathroom, another traveler would take my seat. I sat stiff as a doll and ate the hard-boiled egg you packed for me and barely had a sip of water. Mama had warned me to be careful around strangers, so I looked at no one and kept my eyes glued to the window. I felt happy and sad at the same time, seeing my own country as I was leaving it behind. Glimpses of cities, towns, and forests that I would never know flew past. If only things were different for us in Poland and we hadn’t lost our store! If only so many people didn’t hate us. If only, if only . . . My head grew heavy from holding back the tears. But if I started crying, I wouldn’t stop!