The fact that he was a little disappointed by the probable author of the painting being a student and not the increasingly valued Dutch master made Benjamin Kaminsky give no other fate for the work but for it to be placed in a modest frame on the wall of the family home. Otherwise, had he been certain of its value, he would have surely exchanged the heirloom for money—money that, also surely, would have become thin air during any of the crises of those terrible years before and after the world war.
It would be Dr. Isaiah Kaminsky himself who finally decided to submit the painting to rigorous analysis. A man more curious and spiritual than his father, he wanted to erase all doubt and took it with him to Berlin when he traveled to Germany to marry the beautiful Esther Kellerstein in 1928. He made appointments with two specialists in the city, true connoisseurs of Dutch painting of the classic period, and he showed them the portrait of the young Jew similar to the Jesus of Christian iconography … Both certified that, although it looked more like a study than a finished work, without a doubt it was a canvas from the series of the tronies (as the Dutch called bust portraits) painted in the 1640s in Rembrandt’s workshop, with the image of a very human Christ. But, they added, this canvas specifically, almost certainly, had been painted … by Rembrandt!
When he was sure of the work’s origin and value, Isaiah Kaminsky ordered its cleaning and restoration, at the same time writing a long letter to his brother Joseph, already living in Havana and in the process of turning into Pepe the Purseman, narrating the details of the fabulous confirmation. Thanks to the specialists’ opinion, Isaiah now thought there must have been a lot of truth in what that mythical Sephardic Jewish Dutchman, supposedly a painter, supposedly said when he supposedly handed the canvas over to the rabbi—Why? Why give it to someone if it was already valuable around that time—who, after escaping the Cossacks’ swords and horses so many times, ended up trapped by the Black Plague devastating the city of Kraków and went to die in the arms of Dr. Moshe Kaminsky? The generous rabbi who, before dying, supposedly had given the doctor three oil paintings, a handful of letters, and that extraordinary tale about the existence of a Dutch Sephardic Jew in love with painting, lost in Little Russia’s enormous meadows. A story in which, the painting’s origins confirmed, the Kaminskys now had more reasons to believe.
* * *
The port would soon become a sort of grotesque carnival. From the very morning of Saturday, May 27, the day the Saint Louis arrived, the thousands of Jews living in Havana, whether they had relatives or not on the boat, had camped out on the docks, surrounded by countless curious onlookers, journalists, prostitutes, and lifelong seamen, as well as some policemen who wanted to do their job and exercise repression. On the sidewalks and porches, businesses and stands had gone up selling food and drinks, umbrellas and binoculars, hats and fold-up chairs, Catholic prayers and Afro-Cuban symbols, fans and flip-flops, remedies for sunburn and newspapers with day-old news about transactions that would determine whether the passengers would stay or take their music elsewhere, as one of the announcers would say. The most lucrative business, without a doubt, was the rental of boats aboard which people with relatives on the passenger ship could get as close to the vessel as the rope made up by police and navy launches would allow, to see their family members there and, if their voices reached them, to convey some message of encouragement.
In those days, Daniel Kaminsky soon noticed how his senses were dulled by the accumulation of experiences and discoveries that seemed amazing to him. If the months he had already lived in the city had allowed him to admire its vitality and ease, the fact that he had spent the majority of his time among Jews like himself and his inability to understand the quick slang spoken by Cubans had barely offered him the possibility of peering at the country’s surface. But that human whirlwind unleashed by the ship crammed with refugees whom the people insisted on calling “Poles” would end up being a storm of passions and interests that somehow involved a poor immigrant like himself and the president of the Republic. For Daniel, the dramatic episode would function like a push in the direction of the belly of a bubbling world that was already magnetic to him: that Cuban capacity for living each situation as if it were a party seemed to him, even from the perspective of his ignorance and desperation, a much more pleasant way to spend time on earth and to obtain from that ephemeral passage the best that could be had. There everyone laughed, smoked, drank beer, even at wakes; women, married, single, or widowed, black and white, walked with a perverse cadence and stopped in the middle of the street to talk to friends or strangers; blacks gesticulated as if they were dancing, and whites dressed like pimps. People, men and women, looked into each other’s eyes. And even when people moved frenetically, in reality no one seemed to be in a rush for anything. With the passing of years and an increase in his comprehension skills, Daniel came to understand that not all of his impressions from those times had a basis, since Cubans also dealt with their own dramas, their misery and pain; although, at the same time, he would learn that they did so with a levity and pragmatism that he would love for the rest of his life with the same intensity that would sustain his romance with black bean soups.
The tense week that the ship was grounded in Havana was a crazy time during which, from day to day and even within the same day—and at times in the space of a few minutes—euphoric moments were followed by disappointment and frustration, which was then relieved by the arrival of some hope that would later disappear and increase the quantity of accumulated suffering for the refugees’ relatives.
Their dreams from the first moments were always maintained by the possibility of some financial negotiation with the Cuban government and, above all, in the pressure that Jews, established in the United States, exercised or tried to exercise on President Roosevelt so that he would dramatically alter the quota of admissible refugees in the Union. But as the days passed without any settled agreements in Havana or policy changes in Washington, any remaining dreams were deflated.
What most affected Daniel was seeing how, in that same lighthearted and festive Cuba, a country that was generally so open, anti-Semitic propaganda had reached unsuspected levels. Encouraged by Spanish fascists, by the anti-immigrant and anti-Semitic editorials in the Diario de la Marina, by the vocal members of Cuba’s Nazi Party, by the money and pressures of German agents established on the island, that expression of hate invaded too many consciousnesses. The boy Daniel Kaminsky, who had the opportunity to see a Berlin march that brought together forty thousand people dedicated to yelling insults against the Jews and foreigners in general, came to feel that he had imagined his return to a lost world so many times that that world had come to find him in the distant, musical, and colorful capital of the island of Cuba.
The campaign against the refugees’ possible disembarkment was an explosion of nastiness and opportunism. Small in number yet very vocal, the Cuban Nazis—who were opposed to any immigrants who were not Catholic and white—demanded not only barring the current voyagers but also the expulsion of the other Jews who were already living on the island. And, as long as they were at it, since they needed to whiten the nation, the expulsion of the Jamaican and Haitian laborers. The communists, on their end, saw their hands tied because of their battle to withhold jobs from foreigners, and admitting the recently arrived passengers could be counter to that policy. Meanwhile, several leaders from the community of the richest Spanish businesspeople, men who nearly all leaned toward Falangism, rejected the Jews on the basis of their scattered Republican compatriots, many of whom also sought to establish themselves in Cuba. The most painful thing, nonetheless, was seeing how regular people, usually so open, often repeated what had been ingrained in them—they said Jews were dirty, criminal, tricky, greedy communists … What Daniel Kaminsky, overwhelmed by so many discoveries, would never fully understand was how that could happen in a country where, before and after, Jews had peacefully integrated themselves, without suffering any particular discrimination or violence. It was clear, abunda
ntly clear, as he would later come to understand it, that Nazi money and propaganda had succeeded in its goal, with the anticipated collaboration of the U.S. government and its immigrant quota policy. And, at the same time, that the Cuban political game had taken the refugees as hostages, or that the available sum for the Jewish organizations to purchase the disembarkation of the voyagers would not be enough for the politicians’ limitless ambitions. He also learned, forever, that the process of manipulating the masses and bringing out their worst instincts would be easier to exploit than one would believe. Even among the kind and educated Germans. Even among the open and happy Cubans.
Very soon, the people on the island would know that President Brú, pressured by the U.S. State Department, was not willing to risk the ire of his powerful neighbor over $250,000, the sum that he had managed to raise in his negotiations with the Joint Distribution Committee envoys, the amount they were willing to pay for the disembarkation of the Saint Louis’s passengers. Brú, hopeful that he would emerge from that misstep with very full pockets, at the least, insisted on fixing the demanded sum at half a million dollars. But when he didn’t achieve that sum and was overcome by U.S. pressure, he would end up taking the least convenient option for him and the passengers; shutting down all conversations with the committee’s lawyers with the order that on June 1, the sixth day since the Saint Louis’s arrival in Havana, the boat should leave Cuban jurisdictional waters.
It was precisely the day before that Pepe the Purseman, giving in to his nephew’s many pleas and pushed by the alarming buzz in the air, agreed to pay the two pesos, up from twenty-five cents per person the first day, for the boat ride over to the passenger ship. In front of the Caballería dock, Joseph and Daniel boarded the small launch and, when they were at the closest allowable distance, the uncle started to yell in Yiddish until a few minutes later Isaiah, Esther, and Judith, pushing and shoving, were able to come to the railing of the lower deck. Daniel would always remember, without ever being able to forgive himself, how at that moment he was incapable of saying anything to his parents and sister: a suffocating desire to cry robbed him of his voice. But when it came down to it, the trip had been worth much more than the exorbitant price they paid, since Uncle Joseph was able to receive an encrypted, but definitive, message from his brother: “Only the spoon knows what’s in the pot.” In other words, the sale of the Sephardic man’s legacy was already arranged.
Over the course of those five days, while the fate of the passengers was negotiated, only about two dozen Jews whose tourist visas had been switched to those of refugees before leaving Hamburg had been able to leave the boat. Later, a few others, who for some reason had managed to achieve a similar change in status, had generated a wave of hope. Mean-spirited rumors spread that an old couple favored with a long-term visa were the parents of the madame of a brothel specialized in relieving the urges of local magnates, all of whom, it appeared, she had by the balls … Thus, the confirmation that Isaiah was using the painting to buy a change in his status from tourist to refugee was a comfort that alleviated Joseph and Daniel Kaminsky’s tensions for the next forty-eight hours.
As soon as they got back to shore, the uncle and his nephew walked over to the Adath Israel synagogue, on Calle Jesús María, since the one closest to the dock, Chevet Ahim, on Calle del Inquisidor, was Sephardic territory and Pepe the Purseman didn’t compromise when it came to certain articles of faith or in cases of extreme emergency. Once they were at the temple, in front of the Torah roll and the menorah with all its candles lit since the previous Saturday, they did the best they could: ask God for the salvation of their own, including praying for his divine intervention to tempt the ambitions of a Cuban government worker, putting all of the faith in their hearts and minds into their pleas.
When they left the synagogue, Uncle Pepe the Purseman almost ran right into his then boss, who would again be so years later, the very rich American Jew Jacob Brandon, owner of, among other businesses, the leather workshop where the Polish man worked, in addition to being the president of the Joint Distribution Committee in Cuba. At that moment, Joseph Kaminsky put into practice the essence of Jewish wisdom and, while he was at it, gave his nephew a very important lesson: when someone suffers some kind of misfortune, he should pray as if help can only come from divine providence, but at the same time should act as if only he can find a solution to his misfortune. Thus, Joseph, treating his boss with the utmost respect, explained to him that among the Saint Louis’s passengers were three of his relatives, and any interest Mr. Brandon could demonstrate would be greatly appreciated. Jacob Brandon, who had already put on his kippah, about to enter the synagogue, took a small notebook out of his elegant woven jacket and, without saying a word, made some notes and said goodbye to Joseph, patting his shoulders before ruffling young Daniel’s curls.
Their spirits raised, the Kaminskys went back to the dock. Their mission, from that moment on, was to look at every single one of the immigration workers and policemen who frequently boarded one of the official launches and went onto the passenger ship. Which one of these would be the one to take residency permits to Isaiah, Esther, and Judith? Uncle Joseph was betting on each and every one, although he preferred the ones who were dressed as civilians and wearing straw hats. Those workers, direct government agents, had been selected among the most removed from the now dismissed director of immigration, Manuel Benítez, who himself had been forbidden to come anywhere near the dock. But, like the rest of them, these would also have their own price, and if anyone among the more than nine hundred passengers on the Saint Louis could pay it tenfold, it was Isaiah Kaminsky, thanks to the legacy left by the supposed Sephardic painter who had appeared for God knew what reason on the plains of Little Russia with a portrait of the Christian Jesus in his saddlebags.
It was precisely that night from May 31 into June 1 that the presidential decision not to make any deals with the Joint Distribution Committee was announced, giving the passenger ship twenty-four hours to leave Cuban waters. The source of the information must have been all too reliable, since it was relayed to relatives by Louis Clasing himself—the Havana representative of the Hapag Line to which the S.S. Saint Louis belonged and, according to rumor, a partner of Manuel Benítez in the sale of the repealed visas and a close friend of General Batista.
Nonetheless, Daniel and Joseph Kaminsky, still buoyed by the hope represented by the old Dutch painting’s persuasive powers and in Mr. Brandon’s possible influence, decided to stay right around the port. Their anxiety had reached its climax, and every time a vessel passed through the line of police launches, they ran to the dock and, pushing and shoving, made their way through the crowd that, with the same hopes and purpose, was gathered to see who was traveling to the land of salvation, although not promised. Daniel’s mind was never able to free itself of the memory of that tense and depressing display: the police launches surrounding the passenger ship had been outfitted with reflective lights meant to prevent the desperate escape of passengers or suicide attempts, and its halo of warning created a darkness so dense in the rest of the bay that, until they reached the shore, it was impossible to know who was disembarking, which increased the uneasiness of people already shaken up by the drawn-out hopes and the imminence of the government-ordered departure.
On one of those launches, a journalist came back from the Saint Louis with two pieces of hair-raising news: the first was that the police had had to intervene in a mutiny of women who, upon learning the presidential decision, had announced their intent to throw themselves overboard if they didn’t receive a satisfactory answer to their demand for asylum; the second piece of news was that a doctor had tried to kill himself, along with his family, by swallowing some pills. When he heard the latter, Uncle Pepe the Purseman felt so weak he almost fell apart. Fortunately, Daniel didn’t manage to understand the journalist, since he was still incapable of following speeches by rushed and babbling Cubans. But when, at the request of those standing closest to him, the journalist lo
oked in his notes and read the last name of the attempted suicide, Joseph Kaminsky felt his soul rush back into his body, and it was another of the few times in his life that he was explicitly affectionate with his nephew: he pulled him into his arms and hugged him with such force that Daniel felt his relative’s quickly beating heart against his cheek.
Despite the heat assaulting all who gathered around the port in those days, Uncle Joseph always went to the dock wearing the sports coat he used only for major events, and that night, when he decided to remain all night, he used it so that his nephew could set himself up in the doorway of a business located on the other side of the Alameda de Paula. As soon as he wrapped himself up, fatigue overcame the boy. That night, which would end up being too brief, Daniel dreamed the only thing his mind longed to dream: he saw his parents and his sister getting out of a launch at the Hapag dock. When Daniel woke up, alarmed by shouting in what were still the wee hours of the morning, it took him a few minutes to regain consciousness of the situation, and that was when his heart broke: he was lying on the floor, and next to him a man was either snoring or in agony. With no idea of where he was, no idea of where his uncle would be, and no idea who that being reeking of vomit and alcohol could be, the boy felt like screaming and crying. In that precise moment, a small lapse in what would be the length of his entire life, Daniel Kaminsky learned the meaning of the word “fear” in all its dimensions. His previous experiences had been too vague, caused more by the fears felt and demonstrated by others than by any he had sensed himself, born of his own instinctual awareness. Fortunately, that sudden stab of terror ended up paralyzing him, and thus he remained curled up against the step of the colonnade, covered in his uncle’s sports coat and some of the previous day’s newspapers, looking at the ants that transported the remains of vomit clinging to the fallen man’s mouth. A few minutes later he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw his tutor, who had come back, besides, with encouraging news: six Jews had just arrived on land thanks to some visas granted by the Cuban consulate in New York. As always, money was still able to solve many things, even the most seemingly difficult. Hugging his uncle, unable to control himself, Daniel started to cry out of fear and out of joy.
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