by Ruth Behar
Ma Felipa wouldn’t let me leave without giving me a cluster of bananas. As soon as I went out the door, I checked to be sure Señor Eduardo was nowhere in sight and rushed all the way back home.
I was glad to find Papa in a cheerful mood. He added up our sales and said our savings under the bed were growing. Soon he’ll send money to Mama for food and put aside money for the steamship tickets for all of you.
We went out to sell sandals in the afternoon and I tried not to worry about Señor Eduardo appearing out of nowhere.
I wondered if I’d imagined it all. I hoped I had. I wish you could tell me, dear Malka, that I imagined it—didn’t I?
With all my love and still more love,
ESTHER
AGRAMONTE
March 14, 1938
Dear Malka,
I am getting better and better at sewing. But it’s true I spent all of Saturday night and Sunday doing little else. For the dress for Ma Felipa, I used the blue fabric and designed it to be looser and longer so it would be comfortable and flow like the water of her Yemayá fountain. I added iridescent mother-of-pearl buttons down the front and cut a big square of fabric she can use as a kerchief.
Papa came with me to deliver the dress and kerchief to Ma Felipa. When I gave the things to her, she began to sing, “Yemayá, Yemayá,” and sprinkled water from the fountain onto the dress. Then she went to the other room and changed into the dress and tied the kerchief around her head. Upon returning, she stretched out her arms and hugged Papa and me at the same time and said, “Bendiciones,” which Papa told me means “blessings.”
The next dress I decided to make was a black one for Señora Graciela. I knew I couldn’t make anything as elegant as the dresses she wore every day, but I designed it with a high collar and a bow at the top of the neck and gathered it at the waist with a full skirt. I also made hidden pockets for her dress. Señora Graciela can use them for her many handkerchiefs. I borrowed the measurements for Ma Felipa’s dress since the two women are about the same size. The only difference is Ma Felipa is taller, so I made Señora Graciela’s dress a bit shorter.
Señora Graciela was astonished I had made the dress myself. She ran to her bedroom to try it on and returned in a rush of excitement about how well it fit. She was stunned I had crafted it with the hidden pockets and instinctively placed the two handkerchiefs she was carrying inside them. She called in Doctor Pablo to see my handiwork. They marveled at my “gran talento.”
“¿Te gusta coser?” Señora Graciela asked me.
She asked if I liked to sew. I now understood those words in Spanish!
I responded, “Sí, me gusta.” I’ve learned that I actually do like to sew.
“Muy bien,” Señora Graciela said, pleased by my response. Then she asked if I wanted a máquina de coser.
A sewing machine? Of course I wanted a sewing machine! I thought about all the dresses I could make in a week if I didn’t have to stitch them together by hand.
Señora Graciela said she had an old sewing machine that belonged to an aunt who moved to el norte. Pulling a handkerchief out of the pocket of the dress I’d sewn, Señora Graciela dried a tear and explained how she had dreamed of making dresses for Emilia, but could neither cut nor sew straight. Doctor Pablo put an arm around Señora Graciela’s shoulders, and I thought how fortunate she was to be married to a doctor who could care for her, although no doctor could heal her sorrow.
Then a smile appeared on Señora Graciela’s face. She said she had never imagined a sweet girl like me would come along—a girl who could sew her own clothes. That I was like a gift from the sky, “del cielo,” she said. If I would accept her gift of the sewing machine, she would feel so happy.
I turned to Papa, not knowing if I could accept such an enormous gift. Now I was excited about the idea of making lots of dresses and selling them. I hadn’t thought of that when I started sewing; I just wanted to get out of my itchy wool dress and sew dresses for people who’d been kind to me. But if I did well and my dresses sold, I could help Papa get you all to Cuba even faster!
Papa looked back at me with a warm smile, nodded to Señora Graciela, and told her I would be happy to take the sewing machine. She clapped her hands and said she’d have it sent over in the afternoon.
As we were about to say goodbye, Doctor Pablo turned to Papa. Pointing to the newspaper on the dining table, he said, “Bad news these days in Europe. Have you heard, Señor Abraham? The Nazis have taken over Austria. They’re treating the Hebrews badly. They forced Hebrew actresses in Vienna to scrub toilets while they stood there laughing.”
Doctor Pablo called Jewish people “hebreos” rather than “judíos” because he thought that word was more polite.
“You are safe here,” Doctor Pablo added, smiling at us.
But Papa and I looked at each other in fear.
“We are safe, but not our family,” Papa said.
“You will be together one day,” Doctor Pablo said.
“Juntos” was the Spanish word he used for “together.” I repeated it to myself to make it come true.
Late in the afternoon, there was a knock on the door, and we found Mario José standing there with a Singer sewing machine. Manuela was with him too.
“Señora Graciela asked me to bring over la Singer,” Mario José said. “I help her with her chores when I’m not busy at the sugarcane fields.”
We invited them in and I asked Mario José to put the sewing machine in my bedroom so I could sew whenever I wanted without disturbing Papa.
Once it was set up, Papa asked them to sit in the rocking chairs in the living room, and I brought over the bench from the kitchen for Papa and me. Then I went to the room and got some remnants of cloth I still had left to show to Manuela. I asked her which she liked, and she said she liked them all. “Todos, me gustan todos.” We both laughed. I unfolded them and we draped them against our bodies to see how they looked. We were wearing the floral dresses I’d made and we were like mirrors for each other.
Mario José asked about our familia and if I had a mamá. Papa explained about our family in Poland and how they were waiting for us to bring them to Cuba.
Mario José nodded. “Separados por el mar,” he said.
Yes, sadly we were separated by the sea from the people we loved most.
Papa should then have asked Mario José about his family, but Papa was not one to ask questions. I was about to when Mario José himself pointed to Manuela and said, “No tiene mamá.”
Manuela’s face became sad and Mario José told us how his wonderful wife, Cecilia, Manuela’s mother, had died two years ago from a heart attack that struck like lightning and took her away so fast there was no time to say goodbye. Ma Felipa had needed to step in and be not only Manuela’s grandmother but her mother as well.
I felt sorry for Manuela and reached over to give her a hug.
I thought about Mama and Bubbe, how lucky we are to have them both. I wish I could give them a big hug right now. You all feel so far away.
By then, the afternoon light had faded. Mario José stood and said he and Manuela needed to get home. Ma Felipa was probably wondering why they were gone for so long. They wished us a good night and we did the same, one father and daughter to another father and daughter.
After Papa went to sleep, I sat down to try the sewing machine.
At first it was a disaster. I sewed a seam and it came out crooked. I had to rip it out and sew it again several times. But once I got the hang of how to step on the treadle, I realized why the sewing machine was such a great invention. I could finish a seam in seconds.
It was harder to sew the buttonholes and attach the sleeves and collars. I kept practicing those tasks as the night stretched before me and the light of the kerosene lamp wore down.
Fortunately, the bobbin had a new spool of thread. I could sew and sew to my heart’s
content.
By the time the soft light of dawn shone through the window, I’d mastered the basics of the sewing machine and decided it was as dear to me as a fiddle is to a fiddler.
Your loving sister,
ESTHER
AGRAMONTE
March 17, 1938
Dearest Malka,
It’s Purim today—and my birthday. I can’t believe I’m officially only twelve years old! I feel like I have grown so much since that day three months ago when I vowed to make the journey across the ocean to help Papa.
For the past few days, I’ve been staying up late sewing and waking up early to sew—I guess I’ve been practically sewing in my sleep. I think that’s how I was able to do so much. Using up a remnant of several yards that I had left, I made dresses in three different sizes—for a little child, a young girl, and an adult woman. They all had buttons down the front and pockets at the hips, with just some variation in the collars, belts, and sashes. My neck and shoulders hurt, but thinking of Mama being proud of my dresses, I could tolerate all the aches and pains.
After Papa was done with his morning prayers, I showed him what I’d been working on. I spread the three sample dresses out on the bed—I thought they looked beautiful.
“You have a great talent, my daughter, just as they say,” he told me. “Now let me wish you a happy birthday!” Papa gave me a hug and my favorite flower from the garden—a pink hibiscus, which Cubans call “mar pacífico.” I held it gently and watched its winged petals unfurl in my hands.
Later we caught the direct midmorning train to Havana. We didn’t know if the Jewish shops would be open on Purim, but they all were. It was Thursday, a regular workday, and no one could afford to lose business.
“What do you want to sell next?” Zvi Mandelbaum said after he paid us our commission. “More sandals? Leather belts? I have a new supply of Christian idols.” He laughed and said we were turning out to be his most successful peddlers.
I tugged at Papa’s sleeve to remind him of my plan, which I hoped would make us a lot more money than we were earning as peddlers. Poor Papa, who is too kind, stood there sweating, thinking of what to say. Fortunately, a customer came in and Zvi Mandelbaum turned his attention away from us.
“Come, Papa,” I whispered, and we ducked out of the store. “Let’s go to Rifka Rubenstein’s store. I want to show her the dresses.”
We wove through the crowds that formed on Calle Muralla in the middle of the day, people strolling not just on the sidewalks but in the middle of the street, their voices sounding musical, rising into the air like joyful melodies.
When we entered the store, Rifka Rubenstein was sitting behind the counter as before, this time reading a Yiddish newspaper. She looked up and greeted us in her chatty way.
“Here you are again, the sweet girl who reminds me of my granddaughter in Poland.” Then she sighed. “Have you seen the news? Look at this! It says the crowds cheered the Nazis as they arrived in Vienna.”
She passed the newspaper to us. It was chilling to see the news confirmed in Yiddish, the same news Doctor Pablo had told us about.
“What is going to become of the world?” Rifka Rubenstein exclaimed as she brought her hands to either side of her head and rocked back and forth, a gesture that reminded me of Bubbe.
Papa told her, “We must not lose faith. There is much good in the world too. But we’re worried about our loved ones in Poland. We’re a long way from having enough savings to bring six members of our family here.”
Rifka Rubenstein nodded. “I know how it is. You take food from your own mouth and save and save and it barely adds up to pennies. My husband worked as a peddler for years when we arrived in Cuba, and with much sacrifice, we finally bought this store. We thought our future looked so bright, and then one day he was on top of a ladder getting a bolt of fabric down from a high shelf and fell to the ground, breaking his skull. It was the saddest day of my life. I have my son and his wife and three grandchildren in Poland, but they don’t want to come to Cuba. They say if I go to New York, then they’ll come and live with me. So I’ve applied for a visa to the United States. Who knows if it will ever arrive? If it does, I will go immediately, and then I will send for my family, and finally we will be together.” She paused before she asked, “But tell me, what can I do for you? Have you come for more fabric?”
I reached into my satchel and pulled out the three dresses. I held one up at a time, starting with the smallest and moving to the biggest.
Rifka Rubenstein watched in wonder. “You made these yourself? My, oh my, you have blessed hands.”
“Our neighbor gave me a sewing machine and I have been experimenting,” I said.
She examined the seams and collars and buttons and belts and sashes. “Such original designs you’ve come up with. And pockets too!”
“These are samples,” I told her. “I want to buy more fabric and make dresses to sell in the countryside. I think they’ll sell if I keep the prices low.”
“These dresses are elegant. You don’t need to sell them in the countryside, my dear,” Rifka Rubenstein replied. “I am sure they’d sell here in Havana. Why don’t I give you some fabric and you can make dresses I can sell in my store? I’ll hang these three dresses up in the window, and I’m sure customers will come.”
That was such an exciting idea, I leaped with joy. With Papa’s help, we hung the dresses in the shop window and Rifka Rubenstein added a for-sale sign: A LA VENTA.
Within half an hour, passersby were stopping and peering at the dresses. I thought I was dreaming! Then they started to come in and ask for prices. We had not even discussed that. I had thought to sell them for fifty cents in Agramonte. But Rifka Rubenstein thought they were worth more. She said they cost two pesos for the children’s sizes and five pesos for the women’s. I guess those prices were a bargain in Havana! Rifka Rubenstein took orders for ten dresses and promised they would be ready by the following week.
I was going to have a lot of work, but I was thrilled. The more dresses I make, the faster we’ll get you to Cuba!
When it was time for lunch, Rifka Rubenstein closed up the store and invited us to eat with her. “You won’t have to go far. I live in the apartment right above the store.”
Papa and I agreed and followed her to the apartment. It had colorful Spanish-tiled floors, a living room, three small bedrooms, a small kitchen with a refrigerator, and an indoor toilet with running water. What I liked the best was the balcony. I stood there with Papa, looking out over the narrow streets of Havana. On the horizon, the sea glittered like a row of sequins. The enormous sea that separates us.
Soon we smelled delicious aromas from the kitchen. Rifka Rubenstein invited us to her table and served us chicken soup with kreplach, brisket with potatoes, and even a raisin kugel. We ate like beggars, not so much because we were ravenous, though we were, but because we hadn’t eaten food like this for so long, food that tasted like Bubbe’s cooking—which reminded us of home.
Afterward we sat by the balcony, feeling the breeze from the sea. Papa said, “Thank you, Rifka. We have enjoyed your lunch and are grateful for your generosity. But I don’t know if my daughter can make all the dresses you have promised. She is only a girl of twelve.”
Why was Papa saying such things? Of course I could make all the dresses that Rifka Rubenstein promised. And many more too! I tried not to feel angry. Papa cared about me and wanted to make clear I was still a young person and shouldn’t be taking on the burdens of an adult. But in times of emergency, a child must rise up and act older than her years, don’t you think?
“Papa, I can do it! Please don’t worry, Mrs. Rubenstein. I can sew quickly—and I like doing it. But it’s true that I am only one person. Papa, do you think you could cut the fabric? I have the patterns already made. If we work together, I can finish all the orders in a week. Then we can take more orders.”
&nb
sp; “Of course I will cut the fabric, Esther,” Papa said. “That’s a wonderful plan. We can be a team.”
Rifka Rubenstein smiled at us. “I will gladly take all the dresses you can make. And on this first order from today, to show my goodwill, I will not take a commission. All the earnings will be for the two of you. And afterward, I promise I will only ask for a small amount so that you can save and bring your family to Cuba.”
“Thank you, thank you!” I said in Yiddish. Because we were in Cuba, I then said, “Muchas gracias.”
Papa stood. “Now we must be going. We have a train to catch.”
Rifka Rubenstein smiled. “It’s time to open the store again. Come, let’s choose some fabric before you go.”
She gave me lots of light cotton fabric, plus some miracle cloth that doesn’t wrinkle, and we squeezed it into our satchels. And she gave me more buttons and needles and thread and a bit of lace.
Then Papa and I ran off to catch the last train back to Agramonte. Papa slept the whole way, but I wanted to guard over the fabric and supplies. I stayed awake, squeezing my satchel to my heart. It contained the most precious gem of all—hope and hope and hope.
With all my love,
ESTHER
AGRAMONTE
March 21, 1938
Dearest Malka,
Papa and I have been working constantly. We barely go out, except to buy bread and eggs and milk on Calle Independencia. We have ten dresses to make that will earn us much more money than we get from peddling. If we keep going, we’ll have all of you here very soon! But Papa insisted we rest on Saturday and respect our Shabbos. He prayed and sat in the yard, contemplating the trees and the flowers. I daydreamed about dresses, how I’d change collars or pockets to create different looks.