Letters from Cuba Read online

  We packed up the rest of our things and were about to leave when a young girl and a handsome man appeared carrying baskets filled with pineapples and bananas. They had black skin but not as dark as the woman’s. “Buenos días,” they said.

  I couldn’t understand what the woman told them, but I made out the words “polacos” and “Yemayá,” enough to know she was explaining to them that she’d gotten the statue from us for half its cost. The woman had barely finished speaking when the man reached into one of the baskets and pulled out a pineapple. He passed it to me and said, “Dulce.”

  As best I could, I replied, “Gracias.”

  The girl smiled at me. We were the same height and I figured we were about the same age. I pointed to myself and said, “Esther,” and she pointed to herself and said, “Manuela.” Then she pointed to the woman and said, “Abuela,” which Papa whispered meant grandmother, and she added “Ma Felipa” to let me know that was her name. Pointing to the man, she said, “Papá.” And she told me her father’s name was Mario José.

  We left and wandered the backcountry roads for hours in the hot sun, hoping to make a few sales. Papa pointed to an old stone building that was so long it seemed to stretch for miles and miles. He said that’s where the people who work on the sugarcane plantations live, lots of different families all crowded together. Some of the workers were sitting outside and nodded politely to us, while others looked too tired to even smile. No one asked to see what we carried in our satchels.

  I was glad we at least had a pineapple to show for our efforts. When we got home, Papa peeled and cut it, and we enjoyed the delicious fruit. Then Papa put the money we earned from our one humble sale in a box under my bed. We’ll need to sell more in the days to come, because at this rate it will take forever to get you here, little sister, and I can’t wait that long.

  With my love as always,

  ESTHER

  AGRAMONTE

  February 15, 1938

  Dear Malka,

  I was waiting to write until I could share some cheerful news. This past week started badly, but it ended up so much better!

  For days and days, Papa and I could find no more customers. Not only is Papa shy about displaying our statues, but he’ll hardly speak to anybody. I think it’s because he has no confidence in the little bit of Spanish he’s learned.

  At the end of the week, I decided it was time to meet our neighbors on Calle Independencia. Papa warned me not to try selling near the stores. He said the shopkeepers would become angry and think we were trying to take away their business.

  While Papa was saying his morning prayers, I headed outside with my satchel and walked past the stores, waving hello. To anyone in sight, I said, “Buenos días.” After that I didn’t know what to say and I didn’t understand anything of what they said to me, except that they all called me “la polaquita.”

  The door to the grocery store was open. The Chinese owner stood behind the counter and nodded to me as I came in. Next to him was a Chinese boy who looked to be about my age.

  I pointed to myself and said, “Esther.”

  The old man pointed to himself and said, “Juan Chang,” and then the boy pointed to himself and said, “Francisco Chang.”

  Behind the counter were shelves filled with things for sale. Glass jars held interesting-looking sauces, and bottles of oil and vinegar and tins of tea gleamed in the sun streaming through the open door. Pictures of cows decorated cans of condensed milk, and pictures of fish decorated cans of anchovies and mackerel.

  I don’t know why, but I had a feeling they wouldn’t mind if I showed them what I had for sale—and I was right! Juan Chang smiled as I took the statues out, and he and Francisco made space so I could line them up on the counter.

  When I pulled out the male figure wearing a purple cape, with wounds on his legs and a dog on either side of him, they exclaimed, “¡San Lázaro! Li Xuan!” Francisco wrote out the Spanish and Chinese names for me on a piece of paper so I could understand it was Saint Lazarus.

  They called the figure in the blue gown—the one that Ma Felipa, the woman with the fountain in her house, called Yemayá—the Virgen de Regla. I remembered seeing the Virgin of Regla’s shrine when the ship sailed into Havana and the sailors thanked her for our safe voyage. It was all starting to make sense—Regla and Yemayá were one and the same and connected to the water. They told me her Chinese name, which is Ama, meant “abuela.” I felt so proud that I already knew that was the word for grandmother.

  Then Juan Chang surprised me by reaching into a metal box and pulling out enough money to buy five statues!

  “Gracias,” I said, not knowing many other words in Spanish. And I ran all the way back to our house, eager to tell Papa how well I had done.

  “Esther, I hope you sold the religious items honestly,” he said.

  “Of course I did, Papa!”

  He replied, “My child, then you have done better in one morning than I in all the years I’ve been here.”

  We had enough to buy a chicken, which Papa slaughtered in the kosher way, making sure we didn’t eat any of its blood, since the blood is the life force of all living things and we have no right to take that away from any creature. Papa said a prayer of thanks, and we roasted the chicken and ate it happily, putting away the rest of our earnings in the savings box under my bed.

  Your loving sister,

  ESTHER

  AGRAMONTE

  February 18, 1938

  Dear Malka,

  Ever since Papa has allowed me to show the merchandise to people, we’ve been selling the Christian statues easily around town.

  I think Cubans are amused by me. “Look at what the little Polish girl is selling,” they say. I must look silly in my woolen dresses, but until I can make myself a lighter dress, I’ll have to make do. I don’t mind making them chuckle if it will help bring you all here sooner.

  Today we crossed paths with a most elegant woman. She was pale and dressed completely in black. She greeted Papa, “¿CÓmo está, Señor Abraham?”

  He nodded politely and said, “Muy bien, Señora Graciela.”

  The woman looked at me and asked, “¿Su hija?”

  Again he nodded.

  “Por favor,” she said, and pointed to a pretty house on the corner with tall columns and balconies edged with wrought-iron railings.

  Papa whispered to me, “That’s Señora Graciela, the doctor’s wife. She’s renting us the house we’re living in for very little money. We’ll visit for a moment.”

  Señora Graciela’s house smelled of lilac perfume and had high ceilings and a piano. The paintings on the walls were of landscapes—hills with tall palm trees, fields of sugarcane, and waves crashing against the seashore. And then there was one large painting of a girl in a ruffled dress, with pale skin and golden amber eyes, like Señora Graciela’s.

  Señora Graciela motioned for us to sit down and left the room. She came back with her husband, Doctor Pablo. He has thick hair that is completely gray, even though he looks years younger than Papa. His dark eyes shone above his glasses, which he wears on the tip of his nose. He and Papa shook hands. Then Doctor Pablo turned to me and said, “Buenos días, Esther.” Papa must have told him my name. I was glad not to be called “la polaquita” for once.

  I said “Gracias” instead of “Buenos días.”

  Doctor Pablo laughed. He said a few words to Señora Graciela, and she said a few words to Papa.

  They wanted us to have dinner with them, and I knew this would worry Papa since the food wouldn’t be kosher and we’d break a commandment of our religion by eating it. But he couldn’t turn down the doctor and his wife. Whatever they served for dinner, even if it was pork, we’d eat it. Then we’d rinse out our mouths and Papa would say prayers and ask to be forgiven.

  We went back to the house to wash up and change into our clean se
t of clothes, and when we returned, the table was set with plates trimmed in gold. The forks and knives and spoons were made of real silver and the glasses were made of crystal. I was afraid to touch anything for fear of breaking it, and I’m sure Papa felt the same!

  Señora Graciela brought out the first dish, which was a tomato soup. I lifted my heavy spoon and dipped it into the bowl. The soup was cold! Doctor Pablo and Señora Graciela acted as if nothing was wrong. How could a soup be cold? I knew what Mama would say: If a soup doesn’t burn your mouth, it isn’t a soup. Papa and I ate without saying a word.

  Señora Graciela brought out one dish after another. We ate potatoes that tasted sweet and were called “boniato.” Bananas cooked in oil that also tasted sweet were called “plátano frito.” There were black beans, or “frijoles negros,” and something soft and green that melted in your mouth, which they called “aguacate,” or avocado. I kept expecting the meat to appear, the pork we’d swallow against our will, but Señora Graciela brought out nothing more.

  Señora Graciela looked over at Papa and said something that made Papa smile for a moment, but then he became sad.

  “Tell me, Papa,” I whispered.

  Señora Graciela nodded to Papa, giving him permission to translate what she’d said.

  Then Papa turned to me and explained, “She has only served us vegetables for dinner because Doctor Pablo is a vegetarian.”

  I looked back at Papa and asked, “Is that all she told you? Why did you become sad?”

  He sighed. Then he said, “They had a daughter around your age named Emilia—a name that starts with an E, just like yours. She died a year ago from leukemia. To be a doctor and not be able to save his daughter broke Doctor Pablo’s heart, and so he eats only vegetables as penance and skips the stewed meat and roasted pork that most Cubans adore.”

  Señora Graciela wiped tears from her eyes and Doctor Pablo clasped her hand. I wished I could say some consoling words in Spanish.

  Before we left, Señora Graciela told us the girl in the painting was Emilia, and she gave me a Spanish grammar book that had belonged to her daughter. Her name was neatly written on the front page. I felt terrible that this girl had died so young and left her mother and father so sad.

  I imagined Emilia smiling down at me as I stayed up all night studying the lessons in her Spanish grammar book, pronouncing aloud the verbs and nouns as I lay in bed. I fell asleep with Spanish words on my tongue, words that are starting to feel more and more familiar.

  With all my love as always,

  ESTHER

  AGRAMONTE

  February 22, 1938

  Dear Malka,

  I am sorry to have to tell you that yesterday we had our first ugly experience in Cuba. With only a few statues left to sell, and not wanting to bother the people who had already bought from us, Papa and I set off to the neighborhood where Ma Felipa, the woman with the indoor fountain, lives. We were a few feet from her door when a man in a straw hat riding a tall brown horse came galloping our way. We moved aside as fast as we could, afraid he’d trample us.

  “¡Fuera, judíos!” he yelled.

  I knew right away that “judíos” meant Jews.

  He dismounted and grabbed my satchel, pulling out a Saint Lazarus statue. Then he tore Papa’s satchel from his shoulder, shouted “¡Judíos!” again, and gave Papa a shove.

  Just then we heard a woman’s scream, “¡No!” Her voice pierced the air and the man froze. It was Ma Felipa, dressed in her blue-and-white skirt with the blue-and-white scarf wrapped around her head. Manuela, her granddaughter, stood next to her. I understood enough Spanish to know Ma Felipa was telling the man to leave. He listened to her respectfully but then spat on the ground by Papa’s feet, got back on his horse, and galloped away.

  Papa was trembling and I was too. I took his hand and tried to steady him. Manuela picked up the satchels from the ground and Ma Felipa led us into her house. We sank down into her rocking chairs and I continued to hold Papa’s hand. Ma Felipa left and came back with two glasses of water for us.

  “Yemayá,” she said.

  It was the water from the fountain in her house, and it tasted cool and refreshing.

  After we drank the water, Manuela and Ma Felipa stood before us, rocking back and forth and singing in a language I’d never heard before.

  Yemayá Asesu

  Asesu Yemayá

  Yemayá Olodo

  Olodo Yemayá . . .

  They repeated the words so many times, I still remember them. The tune was so beautiful I can’t get it out of my head. I have been singing the song to myself ever since.

  When we got up to leave, they helped us lift our satchels back onto our shoulders. Mario José arrived with a basket of fruit, and after Manuela and Ma Felipa told him what happened, he insisted on giving us another pineapple.

  Cubans have been so friendly to me that I almost forgot about how some people hate Jews. I am worried that if the hatred toward Jews has reached all the way across the ocean to Cuba, things must be getting much worse in Poland. I hope that you and the family are safe, Malka. If only I could speak to you for even a minute! But the distance between us is as wide as the sea. Now I am even more determined to work hard to bring you all here.

  With all my love,

  ESTHER

  AGRAMONTE

  February 25, 1938

  Dear Malka,

  Yesterday morning, we stepped out of the house with our satchels on our shoulders, ready to try to sell the last of our statues, but we didn’t get very far. There he was—the man on the horse! Papa clasped my hand and said we should go back inside. But it was too late. The man saw us and glared at us but fortunately left us alone. He tied his horse to a post and knocked on the door of Doctor Pablo and Señora Graciela. We watched as he went inside. We thought we’d scramble down the street before he came out, but a moment later, we were face-to-face with him. Papa and I, both short and small, trembled at the sight of him. With his long legs and big boots, he was a giant.

  But Señora Graciela came to his side, and in her friendly way, she said to us, “Señor Abraham and Esther! Let me introduce you to my brother.”

  So that man with the horse was her brother! How could such a kind woman be related to such a cruel man? “This is Señor Eduardo,” she went on, telling him we were “polacos” who had just moved into town.

  He sneered and said, “They’re not polacos, they’re judíos.” To him, we are nothing but Jews.

  He raised one of his long legs into the air to climb onto his horse, and galloped away, stirring up a cloud of dust that got caught in our throats. Señora Graciela blew away the dust from her face with a fan she expertly snapped open, then insisted we come to her house.

  Doctor Pablo greeted us warmly, patting Papa on the back and hugging me, and urged us to sit in the living room with him and Señora Graciela under the portrait of Emilia.

  Señora Graciela told Doctor Pablo about our encounter with her brother. The doctor shook his head and looked at us with sad eyes. “Lo siento, lo siento,” he said, which Papa told me meant he was sorry. Doctor Pablo said many other things I didn’t understand, but I caught several words. Papa explained everything to me later while we rested in our rocking chairs before going to sleep.

  Papa said there is a terrible war going on in Spain, and Doctor Pablo and Señor Eduardo are on opposite sides. Both their grandfathers came from Spain to Cuba. Doctor Pablo is a Republicano who believes all religions should be respected and Cuba should be a place where immigrants can work and progress. Señor Eduardo does not agree. He is a Falangista who wants everyone in Cuba to be of the Catholic faith, like in Spain.

  Señor Eduardo is the owner of a sugar mill near Agramonte that has been in his and Señora Graciela’s family for many generations. Almost all the black people in Agramonte work in their sugar mill. Many white
people who’ve arrived penniless from Spain in the last few years also work there.

  “I’ve been told there are still a few elders left here who were once enslaved,” Papa said. “They were brought to Cuba from Africa to work cutting cane and making sugar in the mills.”

  “They must have suffered so much,” I said.

  Papa nodded. “Yes, they did. The slave owners were very cruel to the African people here. They kept them in chains so they wouldn’t run away.”

  I was shocked. I thought slavery had ended long ago. “How can anybody own somebody?” I asked.

  Papa replied, “The slave masters owned their bodies. But they found out they couldn’t own their souls.”

  It was late, and the sound of crickets chirping and palm trees rustling in the breeze filled the room.

  Papa said, “Now let’s get some rest.”

  I had more questions, but Papa was falling asleep in his chair.

  “Papa, do you think Ma Felipa was enslaved once?”

  He stood up slowly. “I don’t know. Maybe one day she will tell us her story.”

  I went to sleep humming Ma Felipa’s song about the saint of the sea—Yemayá Asesu, Asesu Yemayá—and wondering if it came from Africa.

  With all the love a sister can give,

  ESTHER

  AGRAMONTE

  March 1, 1938

  Dear Malka,

  I think Señora Graciela invited us to dinner again so soon because she felt bad about the way her brother, Señor Eduardo, treated us. Tonight we had another delicious vegetarian meal. This time we began with “frituras de maíz,” corn cakes that were really good; you would’ve loved them! Then she brought out a huge platter of “arroz frito,” which is fried rice. It had peas and carrots and little squares of scrambled eggs. What made it so tasty was the “salsa china,” a Chinese sauce she told us she gets from the store owned by Juan Chang.