I gripped Papa’s hand and felt blessed that I had arrived safely and we’d found each other. That is a miracle, isn’t it?
With love from your older sister, who always remembers you,
ESTHER
ON THE TRAIN FROM HAVANA TO MATANZAS
February 4, 1938
Dearest Malka,
Papa said he’d take me to see a little bit of Havana. Then we’d go to the small town where he lived because the rent was cheaper than in the city.
We climbed aboard a ferry that went from Triscornia to the port of Havana. Papa had his satchel and I carried my bag and ragged winter coat. It was hot—my dress stuck to my body like a postage stamp and my legs burned inside my woolen stockings. I looked around at the women and girls on the ferry; they wore dresses that were as thin as tissue paper, showing their arms. Their legs were also uncovered, and their feet, in sandals, were visible to everyone. The men wore loose pants and light suit jackets. Some wore long shirts with pockets down the front that they did not tuck into their pants. Papa wore a black suit and a white shirt as always, but the cloth was a thinner material than what he used to wear in Poland. I stayed close to Papa, listening to the sprightly rhythm of Spanish words being spoken all around us. Everyone nodded in a polite way in my direction, and I wondered if it was because I stood out with my pale skin and woolen clothing. On the ferry, there were people with darker skin than I’d ever seen in Poland.
Papa grasped my elbow and whispered to me in Yiddish, “We’re almost there, Esther. Now, don’t be staring so much. That’s not polite.”
“I’m not staring, Papa. I’m admiring the beautiful faces of the people!”
Papa smiled and gave my shoulders a squeeze. “You’ve always been very curious, my daughter. It’s so good you are here. I feel fortunate my prayers were answered and you arrived safely.”
“Me too. I can’t even believe I’m in Cuba and we’re riding together on a ferry! But, Papa, you never used to travel on the eve of the Sabbath.”
“I know, Esther. But we’re in Cuba now and must adjust to the style of life here. As you can see, I have shaved off my beard. But I still pray every morning and evening. And I still carry the prayer book I received when I was a boy.” He pulled the worn book from his pocket to show me.
That reminded me about what I had in my pocket. I pulled out the gold watch and it shone in the sun.
“Look, Papa, an old man who was traveling with his wife on the same ship gave me his pocket watch as a gift. He said I was wise for my age.”
“That was a generous gift. But don’t be showing it off in the streets of Havana. There are excellent pickpockets here and they’ll snatch it right out of your hand. Now, let’s go.”
I pushed the watch deeper into my pocket and followed Papa off the ferry. We had arrived at the port of Havana. The wide avenue along the coastline was filled with people strolling back and forth as if they hadn’t a care in the world.
“This avenue is called the Malecón,” Papa told me.
I repeated the word in my head to remember it.
“Papa, let’s go for a stroll!” I said.
“I’m sorry, there’s no time,” Papa replied. “We have two trains to catch and I have to take care of some business first.”
Papa led me across the busy avenue and through a maze of streets, holding my hand as he used to do when I was little. We were soon in a leafy plaza where people sat on benches reading newspapers and street peddlers sold roasted peanuts. We passed cafés that opened to the street where women in wide straw hats sipped coffee from tiny cups. A pleasant smoky scent filled the air. Papa told me it was from the cigars made from the fine tobacco leaves that grow in Cuba. We kept walking through the narrow streets and wide plazas, till we came to the largest plaza of all.
Peddlers stood around with fruit carts. My mouth was watering. But I didn’t have to ask Papa. He got me a wedge of pineapple, which is “piña”in Spanish, with the curlicue over the n. Though on the outside it looks like a large scratchy pine cone, on the inside there is a delicious, juicy, sweet fruit. When the peddler woman saw how much I enjoyed the pineapple, she gave me a cone made from a dried palm leaf filled with a thick paste of coconut and brown sugar. It’s called a “cucurucho de coco”—isn’t that beautiful? The coconut was crunchy and milky and sweet too.
Papa reached into his pocket for change, but she wouldn’t let him pay for it. He told me to say “Gracias,” which means “Thank you.” It was my first time speaking Spanish!
The woman cheered and said, “Una polaquita linda.”
I asked Papa what that meant and he said, “A pretty little Polish girl.” He explained that in Cuba they call all Jews by that name—“polacos,” or Polish people, which is funny, since in Poland they call us Jews and don’t think we’re really Polish.
Then the woman gave me a hug as if she’d known me forever. Dear Malka, I fell in love with Cuba at that moment!
But we had no time to dawdle. Papa said we needed to keep going. He led me across the plaza to a long street crowded with stores selling fabric, silks, leather goods, women’s clothes, and men’s ties and shirts.
“This is Calle Muralla. All these stores are owned by Jewish immigrants,” Papa said. “They are the lucky ones. They have more customers than they can handle. But they have no choice but to work on the Sabbath. It’s the busiest shopping day.”
We entered a small, dusty store filled with boxes of all shapes and sizes. There was hardly room to stand. The store owner, a big man with a booming voice, welcomed Papa warmly in Yiddish.
“Avrum, so your daughter is finally here from Poland! And what a shayna maideleh she is.”
In my sweaty clothes, I didn’t feel like a pretty maiden.
The man smiled and said, “Don’t be shy. Tell me, what is your name?”
“I am Esther.”
“Well, Esther, I am Zvi Mandelbaum. I’m from a town not far from Govorovo. Now that you are in Cuba, your feet must be swollen in those lace-up shoes.” He pointed behind me. “See that room in the back of the store? Go take off your stockings, and when you return, we’ll find you some comfortable sandals. You give her permission, don’t you, Avrum?”
“It is hot and she’s in Cuba. What choice do I have?”
I went to the back room and felt glad to have permission to remove the itchy stockings. But I also felt embarrassed at the thought of my bare legs and feet being visible to Papa and Zvi Mandelbaum. There was a full-length mirror hanging on the wall. I looked at myself and saw a different girl from the one who boarded the ship in Rotterdam. I was in Cuba, and my legs and feet and ten toes needed to breathe!