Inside, she motioned us to sit down in some rocking chairs as she took a seat on a stool and spread her blue-and-white skirt around her like flower petals. Her hair was wrapped inside a matching blue-and-white scarf.
She pointed to our bags, and when we took out all the statues, she didn’t hesitate. She chose a medium-sized statue of the Virgin Mary dressed in a long white dress and a blue cape and holding a pale baby in her arms. The skin of this Mary was as black as hers.
Papa looked at the statue and said, “Virgen María.”
But the woman shook her head and replied, “Yemayá.”
Papa looked confused.
The woman stood and again motioned to us, this time asking us to follow her through a door into another room. “Look, there is Yemayá,” she said, pointing to a fountain of water sprouting from the ground.
The woman bent down and I did too. “Agua,” she said. Papa told me that was the word for water in Spanish.
“Agua,” I repeated, and she smiled and repeated “Yemayá” so we understood that the water, the fountain, and Yemayá were all connected.
She told Papa she wanted to buy the statue but could only pay half the amount. Papa told her that if that was all she could pay, it was fine. I imagined how upset Mama would be to hear him—she would say that Papa is the worst salesman. But I wish you all could have seen how the woman’s eyes lit up and with what affection she hugged Papa, practically lifting him off his feet. Then she took the statue and carefully placed it on the ground next to the fountain.
We packed up the rest of our things and were about to leave when a young girl and a handsome man appeared carrying baskets filled with pineapples and bananas. They had black skin but not as dark as the woman’s. “Buenos días,” they said.
I couldn’t understand what the woman told them, but I made out the words “polacos” and “Yemayá,” enough to know she was explaining to them that she’d gotten the statue from us for half its cost. The woman had barely finished speaking when the man reached into one of the baskets and pulled out a pineapple. He passed it to me and said, “Dulce.”
As best I could, I replied, “Gracias.”
The girl smiled at me. We were the same height and I figured we were about the same age. I pointed to myself and said, “Esther,” and she pointed to herself and said, “Manuela.” Then she pointed to the woman and said, “Abuela,” which Papa whispered meant grandmother, and she added “Ma Felipa” to let me know that was her name. Pointing to the man, she said, “Papá.” And she told me her father’s name was Mario José.
We left and wandered the backcountry roads for hours in the hot sun, hoping to make a few sales. Papa pointed to an old stone building that was so long it seemed to stretch for miles and miles. He said that’s where the people who work on the sugarcane plantations live, lots of different families all crowded together. Some of the workers were sitting outside and nodded politely to us, while others looked too tired to even smile. No one asked to see what we carried in our satchels.
I was glad we at least had a pineapple to show for our efforts. When we got home, Papa peeled and cut it, and we enjoyed the delicious fruit. Then Papa put the money we earned from our one humble sale in a box under my bed. We’ll need to sell more in the days to come, because at this rate it will take forever to get you here, little sister, and I can’t wait that long.
With my love as always,
ESTHER
AGRAMONTE
February 15, 1938
Dear Malka,
I was waiting to write until I could share some cheerful news. This past week started badly, but it ended up so much better!
For days and days, Papa and I could find no more customers. Not only is Papa shy about displaying our statues, but he’ll hardly speak to anybody. I think it’s because he has no confidence in the little bit of Spanish he’s learned.
At the end of the week, I decided it was time to meet our neighbors on Calle Independencia. Papa warned me not to try selling near the stores. He said the shopkeepers would become angry and think we were trying to take away their business.
While Papa was saying his morning prayers, I headed outside with my satchel and walked past the stores, waving hello. To anyone in sight, I said, “Buenos días.” After that I didn’t know what to say and I didn’t understand anything of what they said to me, except that they all called me “la polaquita.”
The door to the grocery store was open. The Chinese owner stood behind the counter and nodded to me as I came in. Next to him was a Chinese boy who looked to be about my age.
I pointed to myself and said, “Esther.”
The old man pointed to himself and said, “Juan Chang,” and then the boy pointed to himself and said, “Francisco Chang.”
Behind the counter were shelves filled with things for sale. Glass jars held interesting-looking sauces, and bottles of oil and vinegar and tins of tea gleamed in the sun streaming through the open door. Pictures of cows decorated cans of condensed milk, and pictures of fish decorated cans of anchovies and mackerel.
I don’t know why, but I had a feeling they wouldn’t mind if I showed them what I had for sale—and I was right! Juan Chang smiled as I took the statues out, and he and Francisco made space so I could line them up on the counter.
When I pulled out the male figure wearing a purple cape, with wounds on his legs and a dog on either side of him, they exclaimed, “¡San Lázaro! Li Xuan!” Francisco wrote out the Spanish and Chinese names for me on a piece of paper so I could understand it was Saint Lazarus.
They called the figure in the blue gown—the one that Ma Felipa, the woman with the fountain in her house, called Yemayá—the Virgen de Regla. I remembered seeing the Virgin of Regla’s shrine when the ship sailed into Havana and the sailors thanked her for our safe voyage. It was all starting to make sense—Regla and Yemayá were one and the same and connected to the water. They told me her Chinese name, which is Ama, meant “abuela.” I felt so proud that I already knew that was the word for grandmother.
Then Juan Chang surprised me by reaching into a metal box and pulling out enough money to buy five statues!
“Gracias,” I said, not knowing many other words in Spanish. And I ran all the way back to our house, eager to tell Papa how well I had done.
“Esther, I hope you sold the religious items honestly,” he said.
“Of course I did, Papa!”
He replied, “My child, then you have done better in one morning than I in all the years I’ve been here.”
We had enough to buy a chicken, which Papa slaughtered in the kosher way, making sure we didn’t eat any of its blood, since the blood is the life force of all living things and we have no right to take that away from any creature. Papa said a prayer of thanks, and we roasted the chicken and ate it happily, putting away the rest of our earnings in the savings box under my bed.