Your loving sister,
ESTHER
AGRAMONTE
February 18, 1938
Dear Malka,
Ever since Papa has allowed me to show the merchandise to people, we’ve been selling the Christian statues easily around town.
I think Cubans are amused by me. “Look at what the little Polish girl is selling,” they say. I must look silly in my woolen dresses, but until I can make myself a lighter dress, I’ll have to make do. I don’t mind making them chuckle if it will help bring you all here sooner.
Today we crossed paths with a most elegant woman. She was pale and dressed completely in black. She greeted Papa, “¿CÓmo está, Señor Abraham?”
He nodded politely and said, “Muy bien, Señora Graciela.”
The woman looked at me and asked, “¿Su hija?”
Again he nodded.
“Por favor,” she said, and pointed to a pretty house on the corner with tall columns and balconies edged with wrought-iron railings.
Papa whispered to me, “That’s Señora Graciela, the doctor’s wife. She’s renting us the house we’re living in for very little money. We’ll visit for a moment.”
Señora Graciela’s house smelled of lilac perfume and had high ceilings and a piano. The paintings on the walls were of landscapes—hills with tall palm trees, fields of sugarcane, and waves crashing against the seashore. And then there was one large painting of a girl in a ruffled dress, with pale skin and golden amber eyes, like Señora Graciela’s.
Señora Graciela motioned for us to sit down and left the room. She came back with her husband, Doctor Pablo. He has thick hair that is completely gray, even though he looks years younger than Papa. His dark eyes shone above his glasses, which he wears on the tip of his nose. He and Papa shook hands. Then Doctor Pablo turned to me and said, “Buenos días, Esther.” Papa must have told him my name. I was glad not to be called “la polaquita” for once.
I said “Gracias” instead of “Buenos días.”
Doctor Pablo laughed. He said a few words to Señora Graciela, and she said a few words to Papa.
They wanted us to have dinner with them, and I knew this would worry Papa since the food wouldn’t be kosher and we’d break a commandment of our religion by eating it. But he couldn’t turn down the doctor and his wife. Whatever they served for dinner, even if it was pork, we’d eat it. Then we’d rinse out our mouths and Papa would say prayers and ask to be forgiven.
We went back to the house to wash up and change into our clean set of clothes, and when we returned, the table was set with plates trimmed in gold. The forks and knives and spoons were made of real silver and the glasses were made of crystal. I was afraid to touch anything for fear of breaking it, and I’m sure Papa felt the same!
Señora Graciela brought out the first dish, which was a tomato soup. I lifted my heavy spoon and dipped it into the bowl. The soup was cold! Doctor Pablo and Señora Graciela acted as if nothing was wrong. How could a soup be cold? I knew what Mama would say: If a soup doesn’t burn your mouth, it isn’t a soup. Papa and I ate without saying a word.
Señora Graciela brought out one dish after another. We ate potatoes that tasted sweet and were called “boniato.” Bananas cooked in oil that also tasted sweet were called “plátano frito.” There were black beans, or “frijoles negros,” and something soft and green that melted in your mouth, which they called “aguacate,” or avocado. I kept expecting the meat to appear, the pork we’d swallow against our will, but Señora Graciela brought out nothing more.
Señora Graciela looked over at Papa and said something that made Papa smile for a moment, but then he became sad.
“Tell me, Papa,” I whispered.
Señora Graciela nodded to Papa, giving him permission to translate what she’d said.
Then Papa turned to me and explained, “She has only served us vegetables for dinner because Doctor Pablo is a vegetarian.”
I looked back at Papa and asked, “Is that all she told you? Why did you become sad?”
He sighed. Then he said, “They had a daughter around your age named Emilia—a name that starts with an E, just like yours. She died a year ago from leukemia. To be a doctor and not be able to save his daughter broke Doctor Pablo’s heart, and so he eats only vegetables as penance and skips the stewed meat and roasted pork that most Cubans adore.”
Señora Graciela wiped tears from her eyes and Doctor Pablo clasped her hand. I wished I could say some consoling words in Spanish.
Before we left, Señora Graciela told us the girl in the painting was Emilia, and she gave me a Spanish grammar book that had belonged to her daughter. Her name was neatly written on the front page. I felt terrible that this girl had died so young and left her mother and father so sad.
I imagined Emilia smiling down at me as I stayed up all night studying the lessons in her Spanish grammar book, pronouncing aloud the verbs and nouns as I lay in bed. I fell asleep with Spanish words on my tongue, words that are starting to feel more and more familiar.
With all my love as always,
ESTHER
AGRAMONTE
February 22, 1938
Dear Malka,
I am sorry to have to tell you that yesterday we had our first ugly experience in Cuba. With only a few statues left to sell, and not wanting to bother the people who had already bought from us, Papa and I set off to the neighborhood where Ma Felipa, the woman with the indoor fountain, lives. We were a few feet from her door when a man in a straw hat riding a tall brown horse came galloping our way. We moved aside as fast as we could, afraid he’d trample us.
“¡Fuera, judíos!” he yelled.
I knew right away that “judíos” meant Jews.
He dismounted and grabbed my satchel, pulling out a Saint Lazarus statue. Then he tore Papa’s satchel from his shoulder, shouted “¡Judíos!” again, and gave Papa a shove.
Just then we heard a woman’s scream, “¡No!” Her voice pierced the air and the man froze. It was Ma Felipa, dressed in her blue-and-white skirt with the blue-and-white scarf wrapped around her head. Manuela, her granddaughter, stood next to her. I understood enough Spanish to know Ma Felipa was telling the man to leave. He listened to her respectfully but then spat on the ground by Papa’s feet, got back on his horse, and galloped away.
Papa was trembling and I was too. I took his hand and tried to steady him. Manuela picked up the satchels from the ground and Ma Felipa led us into her house. We sank down into her rocking chairs and I continued to hold Papa’s hand. Ma Felipa left and came back with two glasses of water for us.