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?
Meals are terrible too. There’s rye bread, but it’s not soft and chewy like Yoelke’s bread in Govorovo. It’s hard as a brick and must be soaked in tea or it will break your teeth. We also get watery pea soup and old potatoes. The meat tastes like shoe leather, but they say it’s kosher. All I can hold in my stomach are sweet things—tea laced with sugar cubes and the coffee cakes they offer in the afternoon. Maybe it is my body’s way of preparing me for the sugar fields of Cuba!
Sorry to be complaining so much. I guess that’s the thing about writing. Once you start, all kinds of thoughts and feelings spill out! But I did keep the best news for last—the other day I was roaming the aisles of the ship and heard what sounded like mooing. I followed the sound and found stables filled with cows, sheep, and goats. It felt as if I’d stumbled onto Noah’s ark! I greeted the animals and they looked at me with the saddest eyes. Then I heard footsteps coming up behind me. It was a young sailor I’d seen mopping the floors in steerage. His name is Casper and he’s Dutch but speaks some Polish. I thought he’d scold me, but instead he smiled.
“Do you like the animals?” he asked.
“Yes,” I told him. “And I feel sorry they can’t wander around the ship. They must hate being trapped in here. They don’t see the light of the sun. Poor things.”
“I know what you mean. They suffer during the journey. But please don’t tell anyone you have seen the animals. It is a secret they are down here.”
He let me help him arrange fresh hay for the cows, goats, and sheep.
Then Casper showed me a picture of his wife that he keeps in his pocket. He held his palm against his heart to show me how much he misses her. The life of a sailor and his wife must be difficult, being far apart for so long. Now I too am like a sailor, far from everyone I love.
I would be so miserable on this ship if not for Casper letting me come back each day to help with the animals. There’s a soft, cuddly baby lamb that I get to hold as long as I like. When I hug the lamb, I realize how much I miss you, sweet sister, and my beloved bubbe. And I miss my dear angry mother and even my brothers, who might miss me a little? With the baby lamb in my arms, I have faith I will make it to dry land and you’ll hear good news from me.
Your older sister,
who loves you very much,
ESTHER