by Ruth Behar
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!
When I returned to the front of the store, Zvi Mandelbaum had arranged several pairs of sandals around a chair.
“Try these on. Let’s see what fits.”
I didn’t have to try on all the sandals. The first pair, made of soft brown leather, was perfect.
Zvi Mandelbaum wouldn’t let Papa pay for my sandals.
“How can I charge you for the sandals, Avrum? You’re helping me so much with sales in the countryside. I admire all of you peddlers who are willing to go deep into the hills of Cuba where there’s not another Jew for miles and miles.”
Zvi Mandelbaum towered over Papa as he placed his arm around Papa’s shoulders. “Come now,” he told Papa. “Let me give you a few more things to sell and we will both make some money.”
Papa disappeared into another private room with Zvi Mandelbaum. He returned with his satchel stuffed to the brim. When I saw Papa bent over from the weight of his bag, I said, “Papa, I didn’t know you were a peddler. I thought you owned a store.”
“I do own a store, Esther. I carry it on my back.”
“What do you sell, Papa? Let me see.”
“Not now, Esther. We have a train to catch. I’ll show you when we get home.”
“Goodbye, Esther. Enjoy your sandals,” Zvi Mandelbaum said as we left his store.
Even with the satchel on his back, Papa could walk fast, and I hurried to keep up. He pointed out some of the landmarks of the city, which made me sorry to be leaving so soon. “See, that’s the Parque Central! The statue in the middle is José Martí. He was a poet and independence leader. Cubans adore him. Don’t ever say anything bad about him to anyone.” And then he pointed to the building I had seen from the ship. “That domed building is the Capitolio. It looks like the American Capitol in Washington, but larger and more spectacular, so they say here.”
We arrived at the station and Papa got our tickets. He said we would go to a large town called Matanzas and from there we’d catch another train to a small town called Agramonte. It won’t be as magnificent as Havana, but it will be home, and it will be beautiful because I will be with Papa. I would go with him to the ends of the earth.
Poor Papa was so tired he fell asleep as soon as the train started chugging along. He’s snoring as I write to you. Dear Malka, I imagine you’re reading a book, Moshe is studying Talmud and complaining, the twins are wrestling, Mama is sewing, and Bubbe is embroidering another special handkerchief.
I am getting sleepy like Papa, so I will write more on the next train.
Your sister, who loves you very much,
ESTHER
ON THE TRAIN FROM MATANZAS TO AGRAMONTE
February 4, 1938
My dear sister!
I ended up taking a long nap together with Papa on the first train from Havana to Matanzas. It felt so good to curl up next to him and not be alone anymore! We might have kept on sleeping, but thankfully we were startled awake by the slamming of the brakes as the train pulled into the station in Matanzas.
Everyone rushed to get off the train. For a moment, I was separated from Papa and I fell into a panic. “Papa, Papa!” I yelled, unable to find him.
People turned and asked, “Niña, ¿qué pasa?” which I later learned meant “Little girl, what’s wrong?” Cubans didn’t look at me with hatred in their eyes. It was the strangest sensation to realize I was no longer in Poland, where the word “Jew” hung on the lips of strangers like a curse.
A few steps ahead, Papa came into view. I ran to him and everyone around me smiled.
We sat on a bench in the station to wait for our next train. It was late in the afternoon and the warm air had thickened like porridge. I was glad I’d taken off my stockings in Havana. I hope I can find a bit of cloth to make myself a lighter dress. All the girls and women here wear sleeveless dresses. It’s not proper for Jewish girls in Poland, but the Cuban heat is very strong, so I don’t think Papa will mind.
Papa pulled out more challah and bananas from his satchel for a snack. We said the prayer again before we ate. “If you eat without thanking God, you are no better than a beast,” Papa told me. He cut up slices of the challah with his pocketknife and we ate it gratefully with the bananas.
I couldn’t help asking, “Papa, did you miss us all these years?”
He sounded so sad when he answered, “Of course I missed you. I don’t know how three years slipped by so quickly. It feels like I arrived in Cuba only yesterday. And after working so hard, I’ve only managed to bring you to Cuba, while my dear wife, my mother, and my four other children suffer in Poland. I’m a terrible failure.”
“Please don’t think that way, Papa. I’m here now to help.”
Papa sighed. “I am glad you’ve come, Esther. I think Cuba agrees with you. Now let’s see what you think of Agramonte.”
The next train arrived and we climbed aboard. It was a smaller train filled with people in dusty clothes and shoes, their hands rough and callused.
“They are sugarcane workers,” Papa explaine
d. “There are many sugar mills around here. They cut the cane with machetes and boil it to make the molasses that becomes sugar. The work is bitter, but the result is sweet.”
We both stayed awake, sitting side by side, gazing at the sugarcane fields that dotted the landscape. The cane grows tall and forms huge thickets that dance in the breeze. Leaving Matanzas, the train moved on a track parallel to the river. Then it curved around and turned into some tree-covered hills. It reminded me a little of the forest between Govorovo and Vishkov, but with tall palm trees instead—can you imagine?!
The train stopped at lots of little villages, then there was one big one called Unión de Reyes. One side of the track was filled with sturdy wooden houses where the better-off people must live, and on the other side, there were rickety shacks, probably where the peasants who cut the sugarcane live.
At last we stopped at a station with a sign that read AGRAMONTE. It was a town no bigger than Govorovo! I said I would follow Papa to the ends of the earth and I have done just that. Now I will finish writing to you, beloved sister. It is time to know my new home in Cuba.
With love from Cuba,
ESTHER
AGRAMONTE
February 6, 1938
Dearest Malka,
The countryside is so alive in Cuba! On my first night in our little wooden house, I fell asleep to the sound of crickets chattering in the darkness, then woke to the brightest sunshine I’ve ever seen and birds singing and roosters crowing so loudly it seemed they were right next to me.
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.
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.