Letters from Cuba Read online

  ALSO BY RUTH BEHAR

  Lucky Broken Girl

  NANCY PAULSEN BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York

  Copyright © 2020 by Ruth Behar

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  Ebook ISBN 9780525516484

  This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical persons appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © 2020 by John Parra • Cover design by Kristin Boyle

  pid_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0

  In memory of my Baba and her Baba

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Also by Ruth Behar

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraphs

  Govorovo: December 2, 1937

  On board the ship to Cuba: January 22, 1938

  On board the ship to Cuba: January 26, 1938

  Port of Mérida: February 1, 1938

  Port of Havana: February 4, 1938

  Triscornia: February 4, 1938

  On the train from Havana to Matanzas: February 4, 1938

  On the train from Matanzas to Agramonte: February 4, 1938

  Agramonte: February 6, 1938

  Agramonte: February 7, 1938

  Agramonte: February 15, 1938

  Agramonte: February 18, 1938

  Agramonte: February 22, 1938

  Agramonte: February 25, 1938

  Agramonte: March 1, 1938

  Agramonte: March 2, 1938

  Agramonte: March 7, 1938

  Agramonte: March 10, 1938

  Agramonte: March 14, 1938

  Agramonte: March 17, 1938

  Agramonte: March 21, 1938

  Agramonte: March 24, 1938

  Agramonte: March 25, 1938

  Agramonte: March 28, 1938

  Agramonte: April 12, 1938

  Agramonte: April 15, 1938

  Agramonte: May 5, 1938

  Agramonte: May 23, 1938

  Agramonte: May 26, 1938

  Agramonte: June 14, 1938

  Agramonte: June 23, 1938

  Agramonte: June 24, 1938

  Agramonte: June 28, 1938

  Agramonte: July 19, 1938

  Agramonte: August 7, 1938

  Agramonte: August 18, 1938

  Agramonte: August 29, 1938

  Agramonte: September 7, 1938

  Agramonte: September 26, 1938

  Agramonte: October 5, 1938

  Agramonte: October 25, 1938

  Agramonte: November 10, 1938

  Agramonte: November 11, 1938

  Agramonte: November 14, 1938

  Agramonte: December 10, 1938

  Agramonte: December 17, 1938

  Havana: December 19, 1938

  Havana: January 8, 1939

  Havana: January 16, 1939

  Havana: January 22, 1939

  Havana: January 26, 1939

  Havana: January 27, 1939

  Havana: February 2, 1939

  Havana: February 4, 1939

  Havana: February 5, 1939

  A Note from the Author

  Resources

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  “For how can I bear to see disaster fall on my people?

  How can I bear to see the destruction of my family?”

  Esther 8:6

  * * *

  —

  Yo vengo de todas partes,

  Y hacia todas partes voy:

  Arte soy entre las artes,

  En los montes, monte soy.

  I come from many places,

  And to every place I go:

  I am art among the arts,

  And mountain among mountains.

  José Martí, Versos sencillos

  (Simple Verses), 1891

  GOVOROVO

  December 2, 1937

  Dearest Papa,

  I am writing to you out of desperation. I pray that my letter arrives safely in your hands so you will listen to my plea.

  How is it possible we’re still separated from you and that three years have passed since you left for Cuba? Would you recognize us today—your own family?

  I could fill a river with my tears when I think of you being so far away. Mama worries we will never see you again. “Your papa is gone forever,” she says. She scares my brothers and sister with those terrible words, but I promise them we’ll be reunited.

  You will be surprised to learn how much I’ve grown in the last year. I’m taller than Mama now (which I know isn’t saying much). I try to do everything I can to help here. I go to the woods every day and cut balls of juniper for cooking. After school, I work two afternoons a week for Yoelke the baker, sweeping ashes and crumbs. He pays me with two loaves of rye bread so that for breakfast we have something to dip into the bit of milk our tired cow, Zisseleh, still gives us.

  The other children help as much as they can, especially Malka. She reminds me of you because she’s smart and studious and never complains. Every morning she warms the water for Bubbe so it won’t be too cold when she washes up. Even the twins are old enough to help—you wouldn’t recognize Eliezer and Chaim, since they were such babies when you left for Cuba. Today they collected three full buckets of berries with Moshe, who they look up to and call “Little Papa.” This made Mama smile. She is beautiful when she smiles and her blue eyes sparkle.

  I’m sad to say not a lot makes Mama smile anymore. It’s getting harder and harder for us here in Poland, especially for me and Moshe and the twins, since we all share your dark hair and eyes. There is no chance we can pass for Polish as Mama and Malka often can. The Poles always know we are Jews. Some are kind, but some give us nasty looks and spit on the ground as we walk past. Yet I’ve seen them nod hello to Mama and Malka, as if they are more worthy, just because of how they look.

  Mama is still angry about the loss of our store in Govorovo, and what happened was so unfair. Now that I’m older, I understand that the government overtaxed you and put you out of business just because we are Jewish. You had no choice but to leave Poland to find work and take care of all of us. I don’t know what we’d do without the money you send us from Cuba.

  I’ve been thinking a lot about all this. According to Jewish tradition, I will be an adult when I turn twelve in a few months. The truth shouldn’t be kept from me, which is why I’m upset that Mama tried to hide your letter. She knows how much I miss you, and I am always asking if you’ve written. I thought we hadn’t heard from you in so long because the mail’s unreliable these days, but then I found your letter squirreled away inside her shoe. I
had gotten suspicious because suddenly we had a little bit of meat to eat with our potatoes and the money had to come from somewhere.

  When I read your letter, I understood why Mama hid it. She didn’t want me to know that you now have enough savings to bring only one of us to Cuba. Papa, you write that the child who should travel first is Moshe because he’s the oldest of the boys and you think he’ll be the most capable of helping you work. But I’m the eldest and stronger than you think. By birthright, it is I who should come. Please, Papa, choose me. Don’t think less of me because I am a girl. I will help you show Mama that it wasn’t a mistake for you to go to Cuba. I promise if you let me be the one to come first, I will work hard and make you proud.

  I’m eager to see you, dear Papa, and hear your voice. Put your trust in me. I will not disappoint you.

  Your loving daughter,

  ESTHER

  ON BOARD THE SHIP TO CUBA

  January 22, 1938

  Dear Malka,

  Oh dear sister, I have been on the ship for three days and three nights and I still keep pinching myself, unable to believe I’m really on my way to Cuba! Even after I begged, I doubted Papa would choose me. I’m so grateful, but saying goodbye at the train station was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

  The tears in Bubbe’s eyes left a hole in my heart. When she wiped my tears with her embroidered handkerchief, then gave it to me as a gift, I could barely hold myself together. I was surprised to see some tears from Moshe, Eliezer, and Chaim too. I guess they will miss me a little. Mama will too, I hope. I was touched when she gave me her silver thimble to remember her by, even though I know she’s still angry with me for encouraging Papa to go to Cuba—but where else was he to go when the door to the United States had closed to Jewish refugees? I hugged her and told her I loved her, and all she said was “Tell your father we need him at home.”

  But you, Malka, my treasured only sister, I know you will miss me as much as I’ll miss you. I feel terrible that I won’t be around to protect you at school. I hope you’ll feel like I’m there in spirit, urging you to stay smart and studious, even when jealous girls tease you. And if one of them hides your eyeglasses again, please tell Moshe!

  I don’t know what I will do without you and I’ll be thinking of you every day. I promise to write down every interesting thing that happens while we’re apart so that the hours, weeks, and months we’re separated won’t seem so painful. I’m beginning now, writing in this old accounting notebook of Papa’s, and I will fill it up with letters from Cuba that I will save for you. Writing them will make the days bearable until you arrive. Then when you’re finally here, we will read them together and it will be as if you were with me the whole time.

  The train ride from Warsaw to Rotterdam was scary. I worried if I got up to go to the bathroom, another traveler would take my seat. I sat stiff as a doll and ate the hard-boiled egg you packed for me and barely had a sip of water. Mama had warned me to be careful around strangers, so I looked at no one and kept my eyes glued to the window. I felt happy and sad at the same time, seeing my own country as I was leaving it behind. Glimpses of cities, towns, and forests that I would never know flew past. If only things were different for us in Poland and we hadn’t lost our store! If only so many people didn’t hate us. If only, if only . . . My head grew heavy from holding back the tears. But if I started crying, I wouldn’t stop!

  When we crossed the border from Germany into the Netherlands, they ordered everyone who had steamship tickets to step down from the train. We had to walk a long way to get to the inspection station, where we were checked for illnesses and had our baggage disinfected. The doctor hardly examined me at all, quickly looking down my throat and running his fingers over my scalp. But there were grown-ups who weren’t so lucky, and they wouldn’t be allowed to continue their journey.

  “But here’s my steamship ticket! My brother’s waiting for me!” a man yelled in a mix of Polish and Yiddish. He lifted his suitcase onto his shoulders and shoved his way toward the door. A policeman rushed after him and dragged him back in. The man’s suit got torn and his nose spouted blood as he crumpled to the ground. I felt so sad. With his dark beard, the man reminded me of Papa. I went to his side and offered him the handkerchief that Bubbe gave me. He brightened and smiled at me. “Shayna maideleh, shayna maideleh,” he said in a gentle voice. “You are a beautiful dear maiden, just like my daughter at home.”

  He told me his name was Jacob. At first, Jacob wouldn’t take the handkerchief. He said he didn’t want to dirty it, but I told him I wanted him to have it, that it was my grandmother’s gift and she’d be proud of me for helping him. By then it was night. All the people there, whether they’d passed the inspection or not, had nowhere to go, and they slept on the floor or leaning against the walls. I stayed with Jacob and felt safe enough to sleep. In the morning, we said our goodbyes and he held my head with both hands and gave me his blessing: “May you go in peace to your destination and be delivered from accidents and enemies along the way.”

  I returned to the station and took the train to Rotterdam, feeling less afraid because of Jacob’s blessing. And do you know what? I think it protected me. When I arrived in Rotterdam, I noticed an old couple speaking Yiddish. The man had a white beard and wore the black suit of a rabbi, and the woman’s hair was hidden under a kerchief. I asked if they knew the directions to the port, and it turned out they had tickets for the same ship as me!

  “What are you doing alone, little girl?” the woman asked.

  “I am not little. I am fifteen,” I told them. All the papers say I am fifteen, so I thought I’d better keep my story straight, though I felt bad about lying to them. But then I told them the truth. “There was only enough money for one child to travel, so I’m going to help my father bring all our family to Cuba.”

  “It’s a shame we are being forced out of our home,” the old woman said.

  “We didn’t want to leave Poland,” the old man added. “We’ve lived all our lives there and our ancestors are buried in that soil. But it’s changed. Our children are in Mexico and it’s time for us to join them.”

  I became worried. “But how can we be on the same ship? My ticket says it’s for Cuba.”

  They assured me the ship would make several stops, and we set off together toward the port. Since I only had a small bag for my few necessities, I carried the woman’s heavy suitcase. Before the ocean came into view, I could feel the change in the air, and flocks of white birds appeared. They circled the sky and sang a wistful tune. I learned they were seagulls! A moment later, I saw the ocean and could not believe how huge it was! Extending to the edge of the world.

  We found our ship at the dock but had to pass yet another medical exam before we could board. The old couple gave me some of their herring and potatoes or I would not have eaten. Then when they came to check our passports, my heart was thumping so loudly I was afraid a policeman would rush aboard the ship and pull me off. I wanted to set sail right away, not wait another moment. But I’m learning that everything in life happens in its own good time.

  Now we are out on the high seas and there’s nothing but water surrounding us. In the morning, the ocean is blue, in the afternoon, it is green, and in the evening, it is purple. I’m grateful I’ve seen the miracle of the ocean. If I died tomorrow, I would be happy I’ve seen it. But I don’t plan on dying. I have to get to Cuba!

  What takes more getting used to is the sound of the waves. Sometimes it is like the whisper of a lullaby, soft and soothing. But when the wind blows hard, the crashing waves sound like the roar of a lion. That’s when my fears about this journey become difficult to shoo away. I am crossing the ocean. But it feels as if the ocean is crossing me.

  Your sister, who misses you,

  ESTHER

  ON BOARD THE SHIP TO CUBA

  January 26, 1938

  Dearest sister Malka,

  I
’m sure there are magnificent ships in the world, but this is not one of them. This ship is crowded and dirty and smells of rotten meat and vomit. People say the ship is too old and shouldn’t be traveling the seas anymore. I’m in steerage, which is where the poorest passengers are squeezed together. I have a berth with a straw mattress, and my life preserver is my pillow.

  I share the compartment with a group of Jewish women who are soon-to-be brides. Their fiancés—whom they’ve never met—await them in Mexico. We share a washroom and lavatory, and two women always stand guard when other women are using it. We have to share the soap and even the towels and washcloths. When we boarded the ship, we were each given a spoon, a fork, a tin plate, and a tin pail—to be used for both eating and as a washbasin. So you can imagine how hard it is to stay clean!

  Rita, the bride-to-be who sleeps in the bunk bed below mine, told me that their fiancés are not obligated to marry them if they find their brides-to-be unattractive. She’s worried because her face has broken out with pimples. “What if I’m left in the street all by myself?” she asks. “What will become of me?” She cries every night and extends her hand up toward my bed, and I hold on to it until she falls asleep. Oh, dear little sister, I am glad I am too young to think of marriage and that I am promised to no one but myself!

  The weather’s been cold and stormy, and the blanket the ship provided is thin as gauze. I use my ragged winter coat as a second blanket. I haven’t stepped out on the deck these last two days. Those of us in steerage only get to enjoy a small corner of the deck anyway.

  From our deck, we can see the enormous deck of the first-class passengers, where elegantly dressed people relax on lounge chairs and waiters serve them drinks on trays. Yesterday, a mother in steerage took her sick baby up there so he could get fresh air and they shouted at her to go back to where she belonged. That night I couldn’t sleep, thinking about what had happened and how helpless that woman must have felt. Why does such injustice exist? How did it come about that some people are rich and others poor?