The sailors and stewards came up from their rooms and stood next to me on the deck. Casper arrived, carrying the baby lamb, which he placed in my arms. Soon a shrine came into view. “¡La Virgen de Regla!” they yelled. Casper and the other sailors looked out toward the shrine and bowed their heads in prayer. I heard them thanking the Virgin for bringing them safely to Cuba. I had arrived with Jacob’s blessing, the man who looked like Papa whom I met on the way to Rotterdam. I hope he crossed the border and is on his way to being reunited with his brother.
We came into the port just as the first rays of the sun bathed the city in a soft pink glow. I looked every which way, taking in the beauty of Havana. It was not a jungle at all, despite what Mama always says! A flash of light drew my eyes to the other side of the bay, where a tall lighthouse stood by a stone castle perched high on a crag. I turned back to face the city and saw mansions lining the coast and, in the distance, a huge building with many columns and a golden dome reflecting the rising sun. Two fishermen on a small rowboat held up a big fish they’d caught and waved to us.
As we approached the pier, Casper took the lamb from me to bring her back to her mother in the stable, and that was the last I saw of her. I hope the lamb and the rest of the animals will go to a farm somewhere in Cuba with green pastures and sunny hillsides where they will feast on grasses and flowers and never be trapped again in the dark belly of a ship. I hope that I too will only see the light of day from now on.
With all my love,
your sister,
ESTHER
TRISCORNIA
February 4, 1938
My dear sweet Malka,
As soon as we landed in Havana and the ship was being secured with thick ropes, a policeman appeared and whisked me onto a small boat. He spoke to me in Spanish and I didn’t understand a word.
“Papa, Papa,” I said. He shook his head and I began to cry. Where was he taking me? How would Papa know where to find me?
I soon learned that on the other side of the harbor is a place called Triscornia, where they bring immigrants. In a crowded office that smelled of sweat, a health inspector checked my hair for lice and made sure I didn’t have a cough while a policeman looked through my things. Then they pointed to a chair in a corner. It was next to an open window, and the strong wind that blew in felt like it could lift me into the air and take me back to Poland. But I was far, far away now. I sat down and started writing to you, hoping that putting words on the page would calm my worries and bring Papa to me. I hoped nothing bad had happened to him. Otherwise I’d be in the same situation that poor Rita had feared if her fiancé didn’t like her—all alone in a foreign land.
After a while, they shooed me outside. That was when I discovered I wasn’t the only Jewish refugee in Triscornia. As I walked around the fenced-in yard, I heard Yiddish being spoken and learned there were people who’d been here for months. They had illnesses they caught on the journey, or their families hadn’t yet come for them, or they didn’t have money for the entrance fee that the government requires. Their clothes were dirty and wrinkled and hung heavily on their bodies in the tropical heat. They looked lost among the lost. They were in Cuba but could not enter Cuba. How horrible to make such a long journey and end up stuck in a camp with other helpless refugees!
I said hello to a group of men and women sitting on blankets in the shade. They greeted me in Yiddish, and I decided to entertain them with the story of my journey.
I rose to my feet and began to speak as if I were on a stage.
“I crossed the ocean on a ship that was like Noah’s ark—full of cows and sheep and goats. There was a baby lamb too. The Dutch sailor who took care of the animals let me cuddle with the baby lamb every day. That’s what kept me from losing faith on my journey.”
“That’s impossible!” a man said. “They don’t bring animals aboard the ships that are carrying immigrants.”
A woman added, “The animals would create a big stinky mess. No one would tolerate it!”
“You’re a good storyteller,” another woman said.
Then the man spoke to me in a nicer voice. “Child, are you sure you didn’t imagine all those animals?”
“I saw the animals every day. They were in a secret corridor. No one knew except me. The animals didn’t bother anyone. They were my companions.”
“If you say so, child, if you say so. Maybe it was all a dream that was so vivid it seemed real.”
“It was not a dream! I saw the animals with my own eyes and I held the baby lamb in my own arms!”
“Yes, child, of course.”
I was enraged. Why didn’t they believe me?
“It’s true, it’s true!” I shouted.
“What is true, dear one? Can you tell me?”
I looked up, and there was Papa, holding his arms open toward me! I was so shocked I couldn’t speak. I sunk into his embrace. Tears flowed from his eyes and from my eyes. They were all the tears I’d held in the three years we’d been apart.
“Papa, Papa! You found me!”
“Of course, my Esther.”
Papa still had his kind smile and playful wink, but he was thinner and worry lines creased his brow. His beard was gone too.
He reached into his satchel and pulled out a loaf of challah and a cluster of bananas to share with the group.
“There is challah in Cuba, Papa?”
“Here in Havana there is. There are Jews from all over Europe, and they have a very good Jewish bakery, La Flor de Berlín. Enjoy the challah, my friends. And Shabbat Shalom.”
I had forgotten it was Friday and the Sabbath would start at dusk. Together we said the prayer for the challah and then the Shehecheyanu blessing to celebrate our new beginning. The challah was rich with eggs, and the bananas were even sweeter than the ones I had in Mexico.
Then Papa and I got ready to leave. He had an official-looking document that was covered in stamps and seals, as well as the letter I had written begging him to let me come to Cuba first. He also had a picture of him and Mama with the five of us children taken in Govorovo before he came to Cuba. He showed these things to one of the immigration officers at Triscornia to prove he was my father. The man held up my letter, turning it this way and that, trying to make sense of it. He asked Papa what language it was written in. Papa said it was Yiddish and that it was from me, his stubborn daughter, who wanted to come to Cuba. The man smiled at me and said, “Bienvenida,” which I learned meant “Welcome.”
Passing through the gate with Papa, I turned and waved to the people who were stuck in Triscornia, wondering if they would ever get out.
I am learning how difficult it is to cross borders. Misfortune or illness can leave a person stranded with nowhere to go.