by Ruth Behar
Women, men, and children were crowded at the door, swaying to the music. I didn’t want to barge in, so I just stood there with them. Before long, Manuela spotted me and pulled me inside.
There were three men playing drums of different sizes that rested sideways on their laps—I learned they were called batá drums—and Mario José played the largest one. Manuela explained that these drums were very old, and through them they called to the ancestors who had survived the sufferings of slavery to thank them and to say they’d never forget them.
Ma Felipa led the singing and the women repeated her words in a chorus. She was wearing the dress I had made for her and lots of colorful beaded necklaces. After a while, she began to dance in a small circle next to her Yemayá fountain.
Manuela squeezed my hand.
“Baila,” she said.
Dance.
I tried to imitate Manuela’s steps, feeling awkward at first. But then I listened to the drums and the singing and let myself move back and forth to the music.
Suddenly Ma Felipa stopped dancing, the drumming stopped, and everyone froze. Her body was shaking and she had closed her eyes. She bowed toward the batá drums and then greeted everyone in an African language. Several women came to her side and walked her around the room. She left for a moment and returned with a bright blue shawl around her shoulders. Everyone greeted her as if they were meeting her for the first time.
Then she began to dance and the drums started up again. As she twisted and turned, her shawl moved like sea waves around her.
Yemayá, they called her. Not Ma Felipa. She had become Yemayá.
Finally, she grew tired from the dancing and a woman offered her water from the fountain in a gourd. Then the crowd drifted outside and formed a circle around the ceiba tree. They had white flowers in their hands, and one by one they placed them within the loops of the chain that encircled the ceiba tree.
I suddenly realized I’d left Papa napping and hadn’t told him where I was going. If he woke up, he’d be worried about me.
“Manuela,” I said.
She turned and smiled. I was still holding the dress I’d made for her. I’d rolled it up and tied it together with a ribbon of fabric. I didn’t want to give it to Manuela in front of all the people.
She understood and led me out to the street, where I gave her my gift. She untied the ribbon and the dress spilled out.
“Bonito, bonito,” she said.
She was wearing the floral dress I’d made for her, and she put the new dress over it. She smiled when she saw how it wrapped around her waist and held together with just the tie. Then we said goodbye and I rushed to get back to Papa.
I found Papa, scissors in hand, cutting fabric.
“Papa, I’m so glad you’re feeling strong enough to work again.”
“Where have you been, my child?” he asked.
“I went to give Manuela the new dress I made for her. There were a lot of people at her house. They had drums and everyone was dancing and singing.”
“That’s part of their religion. They brought it from Africa. And they let you stay?”
“Yes, Papa, they all knew who I was and didn’t mind my being there. I even danced a little.”
“Esther, as I’ve told you, don’t forget you’re a Jew.”
“I always remember, Papa.”
I didn’t say it aloud, not to contradict Papa, but I was grateful I had heard the drums. I could never forget I am a Jew. But the sound of the drums at Ma Felipa’s house was now in my life and I was sure it would never leave me.
One day you too will hear the drums when you come to Cuba, and they will change you, my dear sister.
Your older sister, who loves you,
ESTHER
AGRAMONTE
April 12, 1938
Dear Malka,
We were a few days late bringing the dresses to Rifka Rubenstein, but she didn’t make a fuss, as the dresses had all come out beautifully.
This time, when Rifka Rubenstein paid us, we asked if we could keep most of our money in her safe box. When we told her we had been robbed, Rifka Rubenstein was horrified. “I’m so sorry. I will give you a little extra to help make up for what you lost. Of course you can keep your money here. My safe box is always locked and no one has the key except me.”
“Thank you,” Papa said. “That will take a weight off our shoulders.”
She smiled and said, “I have taken orders for forty dresses. Can you believe it? Some of the women have come back for a second or a third dress. They say the dresses fit so well and are so comfortable and so stylish, coming from New York. Little do they know the dresses are made right here in Cuba! They even say the dresses rival those of El Encanto—the most expensive department store in Havana! Isn’t that wonderful?” She paused and asked, “Could you finish this order by the end of next month? That will give you more time.”
I looked at Papa to see if he agreed. When he nodded, so did I.
“Very good,” Rifka Rubenstein said. “I know you will want to take a few days off for Passover. I am going to my cousin’s for both seders or I would invite you here.”
When she mentioned Passover, I got homesick for our seders in Govorovo, when we were all together. Remember how emotional Papa would get when he spoke of our ancestors being slaves in Egypt? He would talk about the suffering of all those who came before us as if he’d been there and gone through it himself.
I put these thoughts aside as Rifka Rubenstein gave us the fabric and buttons and lace and thread that we needed to complete the next order of dresses. I was happy my dresses were selling so well, but it hurt that no one could know the dresses were my creation. I decided, right then and there, that I would put a label in all the new dresses that would say “Designs by Esther.”
After we left, Papa and I stopped at the synagogue for matzo. An old man with a long white beard and a dark black coat sat at a desk in the office, with boxes of matzo piled up against the wall behind him. He gave Papa a friendly greeting when we came in, then told him, “Well, Avrum, I can only give you two boxes today. The donation from the American Jews is not so large this year.”
“That’s all right,” Papa told him. “It’s only two of us for now, until we’ve saved up enough to bring my wife and my mother and my other four children here. This is my daughter Esther, and we are working so hard you cannot imagine.” Papa smiled at me and continued, “So we will manage fine with two boxes of matzo. And hope that next year the rest of my family is here and that the American Jews will be more generous with their brothers and sisters who haven’t had the good fortune to land with them in the Golden Medina.”
Papa stuffed the two boxes of matzo into his satchel, and then I asked him if we could make a stop at El Encanto.
“Please, Papa, I’m so curious to have a look! It will just be for a minute.”
“It is a store for rich people, but how can I say no to you, my dear child? Of course we will go, even though it is in the opposite direction of the train station.”
I have never seen anything like El Encanto, Malka! The store was as magnificent as a palace, and guards stood at the main entrance to open the doors for the sophisticated shoppers who streamed in and out. Those who happened to glance at Papa and me weighed down with all our shmattes quickly turned their heads in embarrassment. I felt small and unimportant, like a fly to be swatted away.
Papa was patient and walked around the outside of the store with me so I could stare at the shop windows. The women mannequins had on slinky evening gowns, and the young girl ones wore frilly dresses that looked stiff and uncomfortable. There were no dresses like mine that were both elegant and practical in any of the windows.
I was so lost in thought, I didn’t notice how long my nose was pressed to one of the windows. A guard came over and tapped me on the shoulder and motioned for Papa and me to
get moving.
We were worn to the bone when we arrived back at the train station and collapsed into our seats. After being on our feet all afternoon, the hard wooden benches on the second-class train actually felt cozy. While Papa slept, I stayed awake and watchful as always. I tried to read José Martí’s poems to keep improving my Spanish, but I couldn’t concentrate. All around me were other worried-looking people, keeping a watchful eye on their own bundles.
I thought about the carefree shoppers I saw streaming in and out of El Encanto. Why is the world divided into rich and poor? Why can’t there be enough for everyone? Why does a whole sea have to separate me from you, dear Malka?
With my sincere love as always,
ESTHER
AGRAMONTE
April 15, 1938
Dear Malka,
Maybe it was a foolish idea, but I asked Papa if I could invite some guests to our Passover seder tonight.
“Who will you invite, Esther? There isn’t another Jew for miles and miles.”
“Do they have to be Jewish to come to our seder?”
“But we’re not even going to have a true seder. We don’t have wine or a shank bone for the seder plate.”
“We have eggs. And I can find bitter herbs in the yard. We have an onion that I will cut up so everyone can dip it in salt water.”
“And tell me, Esther, what will we offer them to eat after the seder? We barely have enough for ourselves.”
“There are pineapples and coconuts and bananas growing everywhere. There is plenty of guava paste. And of course there is sugarcane.”
“That is not a proper Passover meal.”
“Papa, we’re in Cuba and we need to do things the Cuban way.”
“And who do you want to invite?”
“I want to invite Doctor Pablo and Señora Graciela, Ma Felipa, Mario José, and Manuela, and Juan Chang and his nephew Francisco Chang.”
Papa looked at me as if I were crazy.
“Esther, haven’t you noticed black people and white people in this town don’t like to be together? And Chinese people keep to themselves, like us.”
“They may be different from one another, but they are the ones who’ve been kind to me in Agramonte. That’s why I want to invite them all. Papa, please . . .”
His shook his head, but he agreed, and I rushed out to invite them. It was hard to explain what a seder was. I called it a “fiesta hebrea.” But that only made sense to Doctor Pablo, so I said it was a “fiesta de los polacos.” A Polish party! And everyone agreed to come.
We had just enough mismatched plates for the nine of us. And miraculously we had exactly ten cups, so I could even put one out for Elijah. I’d have to explain to my guests that the tradition is to pour an extra cup of wine and leave the door open in case he shows up as an unexpected guest. But what would we drink? I remembered we had the sour cherry tea. I would brew a big pot, let it cool, and add lots of sugar so it would almost taste like wine.
When I realized we had no tablecloth, I made one by sewing some cloth remnants together, and I also made napkins. Then I gathered up our fabric and supplies and put them in my bedroom, leaving no trace of the lint and scraps and the mess that had become ordinary since I’d begun making dresses.
Shortly before dusk, Doctor Pablo and Señora Graciela arrived. Señora Graciela wore the black dress I made for her. She greeted me with a sad smile and I wondered if she was thinking of her daughter, Emilia. While Papa and Doctor Pablo chatted in the living room, she took my hand and we stepped aside. She peered into my bedroom and saw the fabric and the supplies I had stashed in a corner of the room. Then she ran her hand over the sewing machine.
“You are happy with the sewing machine?” she asked.
I told her I loved it and would always be grateful to her for her gift.
Tears filled her eyes and she said, “Lo siento.”
Why was she saying she was sorry?
I didn’t understand every word she said, but she mentioned Señor Eduardo, and I understood that she knew what had happened and felt bad. Without expecting he would be vicious, she had told Señor Eduardo about the sewing machine and how talented I was at dressmaking.
“Lo siento, mi niña,” she repeated, and hugged me.
We stepped back into the living room and heard a soft knock on the door. It was Juan and Francisco Chang. They looked embarrassed as they politely nodded and said, “Buenas noches.” Doctor Pablo and Señora Graciela also looked embarrassed. Then another soft knock sounded and there were Ma Felipa, Mario José, and Manuela, looking embarrassed too. What had I done by bringing such different people together? Was Papa right to warn me?
I led everyone to the table. I had placed a chair at the head for Papa, and the rest of us would have to squeeze onto the benches on either side. I asked Doctor Pablo and Señora Graciela to sit on the same bench as Ma Felipa and Mario José, and I sat with Juan Chang, Francisco, and Manuela on the other.
I lit the Shabbos candles and then Papa began the seder. “Tonight we remember the suffering of the Hebrews when we were slaves in Egypt,” he said.
Ma Felipa looked astonished. “Who were the Hebrews? You mean the polacos, like yourselves?”
Papa nodded. “Yes, our ancestors were slaves in Egypt.”
“I never knew the Hebrews were slaves. I was also enslaved when I was a young woman.”
Mario José gently patted Ma Felipa’s hand. “Mamá, you can tell your story another time. We are going to hear the story of the Hebrews tonight.”
Señora Graciela, who was sitting next to Ma Felipa, started to fidget. Her elbow bumped into Ma Felipa as she reached for a handkerchief in her pocket to wipe the sweat from her brow. “Lo siento,” she told Ma Felipa.
“Are you sorry for bumping into me or for coming from a family that owned slaves on your sugar mill?” Ma Felipa said. “A family that once owned me?”
I understood every painful word Ma Felipa had spoken.
Señora Graciela replied, “Lo siento todo.”
She was sorry for everything.
Juan Chang looked across the table, and in a whisper, he said, “There were Chinese slaves too at the sugar mill.”
Francisco also spoke quietly as he said to his uncle, “That was a long time ago.”
Manuela said, “My grandmother was enslaved and I was born free.”
There was an awkward silence.
Mario José turned to Papa. “We should let Señor Abraham continue now.”
Papa held up his cup and the others did the same with theirs. Papa said the prayer and drank the sour cherry tea. We all followed him.
I brought a bowl and a pitcher filled with water for us to wash our hands. Then Papa said another prayer.
Papa instructed everyone to dip a piece of onion into the cup of salt water. As we did so, he explained, “Agua salada para las lágrimas de los esclavos.”
Salt water for the tears of the enslaved.
I remembered the ceiba tree in Ma Felipa’s yard, the tree that cries.
Papa held up the matzo and explained that when the Hebrews escaped from Egypt, they didn’t have time to wait for the bread to rise, and so they ate unleavened bread.
He gave everyone a piece of matzo and told us to eat it first with the bitter herbs, then with a slice of the thick candied guava paste.
Papa said, “We eat something bitter first to remember the sadness of the Hebrews and then something sweet to remember the happiness of the Hebrews, because we were slaves and then we were free.”
Ma Felipa asked for an extra slice of guava paste. “I am glad we are all free people. May slavery never exist again.”
“Amen,” Papa said.
“Amen,” repeated Ma Felipa, Juan Chang, and all the rest of us.
Then I brought the fruit that Papa and I had prepared to the table, alo
ng with the eggs and the sugarcane, and served everybody.
As we ate, I thought about what to say to my guests. I remembered how everyone in Cuba loved the poems of José Martí. Slowly, pronouncing each word carefully, I recited the verse about the leopard who is happy in his den in the forest, staying warm and dry. But then Martí says,
Yo tengo más que el leopardo
Porque tengo un buen amigo.
I have more than the leopard
Because I have a good friend.
To our guests, who had joined Papa and me for Passover without knowing what a Jewish girl from Poland was asking of them, I said, “You are all my good friends. I want to say gracias.”
Doctor Pablo chuckled. “Look at that, la polaquita has already learned to recite the poems of our beloved José Martí!” Everyone laughed. Then he added, “Esther, you don’t need to say gracias. I am glad you and your father chose to live in Agramonte.”
Ma Felipa chimed in, “We are happy you are with us.”
Juan Chang said, “I have more sour cherry tea in from Poland. Don’t be shy about asking for another tin.”
Manuela and Francisco squeezed a little closer to me.
Then Doctor Pablo told us he had something he wanted to say.
“Tonight, Esther invited us and we all came separately, not knowing we’d sit together at the same table. We came because we’ve seen what good people she and her father are. They are here in Cuba working hard to bring over their family. They’ve come as immigrants because the land they’re from no longer welcomes them. The situation of the Hebrews is growing worse day by day in Europe. The Nazis have taken over Austria and they will not stop there. You’ve heard of Hitler—he’s spreading hatred of the Jewish people. Now there are people in Cuba who are starting to think like Hitler. In my own family, I have seen this hatred.”
Señora Graciela chimed in, “It is my brother, Eduardo. We are so sorry for how horribly he has treated Esther and Señor Abraham.”