But I was afraid. “Papa!” I called. “Papa, where are you?”
There was no reply, and I sat on the edge of my bed and whispered, “Mama, Mama.” I wanted to hear Mama’s voice breaking open the morning. Esther! Come on! You’ve slept enough! Help me with the chores! Light the stove! It felt strange not having her around to tell me what to do. Everything was so peaceful—but a little lonely too.
I stepped out of the bedroom in my bare feet and felt the smooth floor tiles. The bedroom opened right to the kitchen. Eggs had been piled into a bowl, and a slab of butter, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of milk were neatly arranged on the kitchen table. Just beyond was the yard. It was blooming with flowers that looked too beautiful to be real. I saw a washstand and a clothesline, from which hung Papa’s shirt and pants, the thick dress I had worn on the ship, and the wool stockings that I hoped to never wear again. I had slept so soundly I had not woken up before Papa to do the laundry myself.
I went back inside and walked through the kitchen into the front room. I found a familiar and comforting sight—Papa, his eyes half-closed, bobbed back and forth, praying in the Cuban dawn. I stood watching, not daring to interrupt. Only when he finished did he open his eyes and notice I was there.
“My daughter,” he said. “You are here.”
Tears came to his eyes and to mine.
“My prayers did some good. Now let’s see if the two of us can get the rest of our family out of Poland. I won’t be at peace until we’re all together again.”
I told Papa I wouldn’t be either, and then I got ready for the day. There’s an outhouse and next to it a washroom where you can throw a bucket of water over yourself and get clean. The cool water felt good on my sweaty skin. My dress on the clothesline had dried, so I put it on and rinsed out my other one—but by the time I was finished, I was hot all over again in my wool dress.
I made breakfast, boiling the eggs, warming the milk on the charcoal stove, and slicing the bread. It was nice to work slowly, at my own pace, without Mama looking over my shoulder. Was I doing it all correctly? I didn’t know. But I felt grown-up and free. Then Papa showed me how to make coffee, which filled the house with a pleasant smell, like wet earth. He said I could add a few spoonfuls to my milk and pointed to a tin can filled to the brim with brown sugar. Can you believe I was allowed to take all I wanted, Malka? Sugar is plentiful in Cuba. I took a whole spoonful and let it melt in my mouth. It tasted like happiness.
Papa smiled his sad smile. “There were many days after I first arrived that I made do with sugar and water.”
I told Papa, “If that’s all there is to eat, I can make do on sugar and water too.”
“No, my child, I will not allow that to happen to you,” Papa said.
He took my hand and we went to the front room, where there are two rocking chairs and the cot where Papa sleeps now that I have the only bedroom in the house. We sat side by side. Never having sat in a rocking chair before, I held on to the armrests, worrying about tipping over. Papa laughed and said I should enjoy its movement. He rocked back and forth playfully to show me the chair was designed to move this way, and then I laughed too. Papa said that people in Cuba love rocking chairs and sit in them for hours, talking and telling stories.
We rested for most of the day because it was Shabbos. Then the next day, I asked Papa if I could see what we would be selling, and he lowered his head as if ashamed. He picked up the satchel and pulled out plaster figurines painted in bright colors. “This is what I sell. Please don’t judge me too harshly.”
I looked at the small statues. There was a Jesus Child and a Mother Mary in a yellow gown and a Mother Mary in a blue gown. And there were saints I didn’t recognize, painted in red, in purple, and in green.
“Oh, my daughter. Forgive me. Hopefully our God will forgive me too.”
“Papa, I forgive you. This is what you had to do to survive in Cuba, and our God understands and forgives. We will sell the idols so we can save money and bring the family to Cuba. One day you will have a store here like you had in Poland.”
“You’re a dreamer, Esther. But let’s go and give it a try. It’s Sunday and maybe people will be in a generous mood. Those who went to church will be ready to do a good deed, and those who stayed home will perhaps want to help a wandering father and daughter.”
We organized the small statues, placing all the same kinds and same sizes together. I told Papa to give me some to carry in another satchel, and we set off.
I ask you, dear Malka, please do not ever tell Mama about the idols that Papa has sold in Cuba. I fear she’d react with anger and have no sympathy for Papa.
Your sister, who loves you,
ESTHER
AGRAMONTE
February 7, 1938
Dearest sister Malka,
So yesterday, Papa and I set off with our satchels and had only taken a few steps when someone called out, “Mira, el polaco, con una polaquita.” That is how they addressed us: “Look, the Polish man, with a little Polish girl.” Soon a group of people gathered around us to get a good look at me.
Papa told them, “Mi hija,” my daughter.
“Niña linda,” they said. Pretty girl. And they kissed my cheeks as if they’d known me all my life. I thought it was just the lady selling fruit in Havana who was friendly, but the people in Agramonte are so friendly too.
We walked along the main road of the town, Calle Independencia, passing a pharmacy, a hardware store, a general store, and a hat store. The stores have tall columns in front with awnings that give shade to the sidewalk. The owners sit inside fanning themselves. They’re not peddlers like us who have to go find customers.
It was still early and the air smelled like candy from the nearby sugar mills. We made our way to the edge of town along a dirt path. Bees were buzzing and the squawks of cows, goats, and pigs filled our ears. Men rode past on horses, nodding hello. I tiptoed through the muddy streets in my new sandals, then finally gave up on trying to keep my feet clean. Papa said that with the humidity and the rain in Cuba, the streets are almost always muddy, so I might as well get used to it.
We came to an area full of little wooden houses with palm-thatched roofs. Most of the doors were open, and the people sitting outside waved as we passed and said, “Buenos días,” which means “Good morning.” We waved and said “Buenos días” in return. Now and then, someone called out, “Polaco, ¿cómo le va?” meaning “Polish man, how are you?” Although they don’t all know Papa, they know from his looks that he’s a Jewish peddler.
Papa told me to keep walking and if anyone asked to see what we were selling, we’d stop and show them the merchandise. I thought we’d never sell anything that way, but it wasn’t long before an older woman called out to us. We stopped and Papa pulled out a few statues. The woman smiled and invited us into her home. She pointed to the sun and pressed her hand to her forehead to signal it was too hot to stay outside.