Dear Malka,
Last night I stayed up late while Papa slept, adding the finishing touches to the dresses. After making sure they were perfect, I used the remnant of paisley fabric Rifka Rubenstein had given me to sew one more dress so I’d have a new sample to show. I added a wide sash that could be tied in a bow in the front or the back. I folded the dresses carefully, separating them into the different sizes and styles. I added layers of tracing paper to keep them neat. When Papa was done with his prayers, we divided the dresses and packed them into our satchels.
We took the train to Havana and went directly to Rifka Rubenstein’s store. The first three sample dresses I made were still hanging in the shop window. Papa and I waited while she helped a customer. When Rifka Rubenstein was done, she put up a sign that said CERRADO so customers would know the store was closed.
“Come with me,” she said, and led us to the office in the back.
“We have more orders! Women have been stopping in all week asking about the dresses. I have never seen anything like it!” Rifka Rubenstein exclaimed.
Papa said, “That is wonderful news, but Esther has worked very hard, day and night. I have done what I could to help by cutting the fabric and keeping things organized, but that is nothing compared to Esther’s labor. I don’t know how she managed to make so many dresses in one week!” He turned to me with a worried look. “Can you really keep going at this rate?”
“Of course I can, Papa! I even made an additional dress last night while you slept, just to try a few new things.”
I carefully took out the dress and held it up in the air so Rifka Rubenstein could see the details. Her eyes glistened as she marveled at my handiwork.
“You have outdone yourself! I am sure all of these dresses will be adored by the people who wear them,” she said.
She reached into a safe box, which was hidden behind a chair, and pulled out a wad of bills. She counted out eighty pesos.
“Here’s a little extra money for all your efforts.”
I passed the money to Papa for safekeeping. Then Rifka Rubenstein said, “So I’ve taken orders for another twenty-five dresses. Everyone loves the design, because the dresses can be easily adjusted to anyone’s measurements. It is a lot of sewing, even for a magician like you, Esther. That is why I told the customers the orders would take a little longer, two weeks or so rather than one.”
Papa kissed my forehead and said a prayer for my good health. “Oh, my dear child, you have come to Cuba to exhaust your eyesight and strain your neck and hands. But what can we do? If you are willing, it is the only way we’ll ever save our family. If they only knew the sacrifices you are making to bring them here!”
“Papa, I do it with my heart, my entire heart,” I said, and I meant it.
“I too am grateful God put you in my path,” Rifka Rubenstein remarked. “Now, I must tell you I’ve raised the prices of the dresses. You will earn a little more and I will earn a commission to cover the cost of the fabric and my other expenses. The dresses are still a steal. I don’t think you can find a handmade dress with so much charm and so much practicality anywhere else in Havana. This afternoon the women will be coming to pick up their dresses, and I can’t wait to see the smiles on their faces!”
I wished I could see the women’s smiles too. But that was impossible. Rifka Rubenstein explained that it would be better if the women didn’t know a Jewish refugee girl from Poland was making their dresses. “We’ll pretend it’s a designer from New York. Is that all right with you?” she said.
I wanted to say no, it wasn’t all right. The dresses were my creation, the work of my hands. But we needed the money and we needed it quickly, so I agreed.
Rifka Rubenstein gave us more fabric and buttons, an even better selection than the last time. We couldn’t fit it all into our two satchels, so she gave us each a suitcase. Our bags were very heavy, and we must have looked like two mules walking through Havana! Papa was disappointed we couldn’t stop to pray at the synagogue or buy a loaf of challah, as we were so weighed down.
We squeezed onto the crowded train with our belongings. As usual, Papa slept, snoring blissfully, but I couldn’t even close my eyes. This time I had brought José Martí’s Simple Verses to read and perfect my Spanish. I stared at the words, whispering them slowly to myself. I didn’t understand the poems very well, but there were many words I now knew—“tierra,” land; “flores,” flowers; “vida,” life; “hojas,” leaves; “cielo,” sky; “corazón,” heart—and I felt proud of all that I’d learned without going to school. I hoped one day I would no longer be a refugee and Spanish would slip from my tongue as easily as a cubana.
Finally we arrived in Agramonte. We lugged the bags to our house. We had barely finished washing our hands when we were startled by a loud knock at the door. I heard a horse neighing and had a bad feeling.
Papa opened the door and there was Señor Eduardo—with a policeman! They rudely pushed Papa aside and entered our home. Señor Eduardo pointed to the satchels and ordered Papa to open them.
Papa did as he was asked. Señor Eduardo reached in and pulled out fabric and buttons and lace, throwing everything on the floor.
After he finished making a mess, he turned to me and said, “¿Dónde está la máquina de coser?”
I took him to my bedroom and showed him the sewing machine, standing in front of it, trying to protect it with my body. If he took it away, what would we do? But instead, Señor Eduardo turned to Papa and said, “Dame el dinero.”
He was demanding Papa give him his money! Papa looked dumbfounded. Why did Papa have to give him any money?
Then came the accusation: I was a refugee and a child and I was working illegally in Cuba. Señor Eduardo said if he reported us, the government would take everything—the fabric, the sewing machine—and charge us a hefty fine. They would put Papa in jail for letting me work. Afterward they would send us back to Poland, where we belonged. They didn’t need any more Jews in Cuba. The Jews that Cuba had taken in out of pity were too many.
“Fuera, judíos,” he said in conclusion—and I understood what Señor Eduardo really wanted. He wanted to hurt us. He had wanted to hurt us from the moment he saw us walking along the country paths leading to his sugar mill. He had wanted to hurt us simply because we were Jewish. He had been waiting for the right moment and the right excuse. And he found it.
The policeman yanked Papa’s arms and twisted them behind his back. Señor Eduardo reached into Papa’s pocket and pulled out the eighty pesos we had received today from Rifka Rubenstein, all the money we had earned from the dresses I had sewn, all the money that was going toward bringing you and Mama and Bubbe and my brothers to Cuba.
Señor Eduardo counted out the bills, gave some to the policeman, and took the rest for himself. Then he threw ten pesos on the floor and stepped on them.
“Recógelo, judío,” he said to Papa, and tried to force him to get down on his knees and pick up the money from under his boot.
Poor Papa was trembling like a leaf. I wouldn’t let Señor Eduardo humiliate my sweet papa like that.
“No!” I yelled, and bent down myself and got the money as the two men walked out laughing.
Papa felt broken by everything that had happened. I told him to pray, that prayers always helped, but he said he couldn’t, not today. I told him things would be better tomorrow. He went to bed and fell asleep right away.
I am awake, unable to sleep, writing to you, dear Malka, on this sad night. From a distance, I hear a lone dog barking, lost and hungry. I try to remember that most Cubans are not like Señor Eduardo. I have met so many people with big hearts on this island, where every day feels like summer, and their kindness is like sunshine. I console myself as much as I can with that thought.
Now I will say good night and close my eyes and dream of a new day.
With my love as always,
ESTHER