Dearest sister Malka,
So yesterday, Papa and I set off with our satchels and had only taken a few steps when someone called out, “Mira, el polaco, con una polaquita.” That is how they addressed us: “Look, the Polish man, with a little Polish girl.” Soon a group of people gathered around us to get a good look at me.
Papa told them, “Mi hija,” my daughter.
“Niña linda,” they said. Pretty girl. And they kissed my cheeks as if they’d known me all my life. I thought it was just the lady selling fruit in Havana who was friendly, but the people in Agramonte are so friendly too.
We walked along the main road of the town, Calle Independencia, passing a pharmacy, a hardware store, a general store, and a hat store. The stores have tall columns in front with awnings that give shade to the sidewalk. The owners sit inside fanning themselves. They’re not peddlers like us who have to go find customers.
It was still early and the air smelled like candy from the nearby sugar mills. We made our way to the edge of town along a dirt path. Bees were buzzing and the squawks of cows, goats, and pigs filled our ears. Men rode past on horses, nodding hello. I tiptoed through the muddy streets in my new sandals, then finally gave up on trying to keep my feet clean. Papa said that with the humidity and the rain in Cuba, the streets are almost always muddy, so I might as well get used to it.
We came to an area full of little wooden houses with palm-thatched roofs. Most of the doors were open, and the people sitting outside waved as we passed and said, “Buenos días,” which means “Good morning.” We waved and said “Buenos días” in return. Now and then, someone called out, “Polaco, ¿cómo le va?” meaning “Polish man, how are you?” Although they don’t all know Papa, they know from his looks that he’s a Jewish peddler.
Papa told me to keep walking and if anyone asked to see what we were selling, we’d stop and show them the merchandise. I thought we’d never sell anything that way, but it wasn’t long before an older woman called out to us. We stopped and Papa pulled out a few statues. The woman smiled and invited us into her home. She pointed to the sun and pressed her hand to her forehead to signal it was too hot to stay outside.
Inside, she motioned us to sit down in some rocking chairs as she took a seat on a stool and spread her blue-and-white skirt around her like flower petals. Her hair was wrapped inside a matching blue-and-white scarf.
She pointed to our bags, and when we took out all the statues, she didn’t hesitate. She chose a medium-sized statue of the Virgin Mary dressed in a long white dress and a blue cape and holding a pale baby in her arms. The skin of this Mary was as black as hers.
Papa looked at the statue and said, “Virgen María.”
But the woman shook her head and replied, “Yemayá.”
Papa looked confused.
The woman stood and again motioned to us, this time asking us to follow her through a door into another room. “Look, there is Yemayá,” she said, pointing to a fountain of water sprouting from the ground.
The woman bent down and I did too. “Agua,” she said. Papa told me that was the word for water in Spanish.
“Agua,” I repeated, and she smiled and repeated “Yemayá” so we understood that the water, the fountain, and Yemayá were all connected.
She told Papa she wanted to buy the statue but could only pay half the amount. Papa told her that if that was all she could pay, it was fine. I imagined how upset Mama would be to hear him—she would say that Papa is the worst salesman. But I wish you all could have seen how the woman’s eyes lit up and with what affection she hugged Papa, practically lifting him off his feet. Then she took the statue and carefully placed it on the ground next to the fountain.
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