Dear Malka,
It is 1939 already. You will all be here soon!
I have started school. I’m not as behind in my studies as I thought I’d be. My Yiddish hasn’t suffered thanks to all the letters I’ve been writing for you in my best Yiddish. While I understand Spanish very well now, I haven’t learned to write it. But Spanish is a generous tongue to newcomers. You write it the way it sounds, so it shouldn’t take long for me to improve. And math comes easy to me after all the days of peddling and adding sums with Papa.
At first my classmates treated me as if I’d been living in the jungle for the past year. They didn’t understand why I hadn’t gone to school. They asked if I spent my days hanging from the trees eating bananas. They finally stopped teasing me when I told them about Señor Eduardo and how there are Nazis even in Cuba. Many have family back in Europe that they worry about and wish could come to Cuba. I told them about you, Malka, and about Mama and Bubbe and our brothers, and that you are on your way.
I hope I will make friends eventually, but right now I just want to help Papa get everything ready for all of you. After school each day, I go back to the store and work with Papa, helping him sell the fabric. We sold a lot at the end of December. Women bought fabric to make special clothes for New Year’s Eve and for Three Kings’ Day, which is celebrated on January 6, with gifts for the children. Now sales have dwindled a bit, but Papa says that sales always pick up when I’m around. I make more of an effort to sell the fabric, showing customers everything we have in stock and giving them ideas about sewing.
My dresses have sold out, which is good, but I have to find time to make more. I only have the evenings and Sundays free, since we keep the store open on Saturdays, which Papa doesn’t like, but we can’t afford to lose all the customers who like to shop that day. We close a little early on Friday, which is “el día de los pobres,” the day the poor go around to the stores in the old part of Havana asking for charity. Everyone gives them one penny, but I give them each two pennies. We get a challah, and Papa and I say the blessing, and then Papa goes to synagogue. He doesn’t insist I go with him, and that makes me love Papa even more.
While he’s at religious services, I wait for him on the seawall of the Malecón next to the port where the ships dock. I watch people disembark, imagining the day you’ll be one of them. I love feeling the sea breeze on my face and seeing my dress flutter in the wind. Couples, young and old, sit close to one another on top of the wall. Fishermen throw their lines far into the ocean. Passing musicians strum old Cuban melodies on their guitars.
The sky is dark, but the first stars are very bright when Papa comes to meet me after he’s done praying. We slowly make our way back to our new home in Havana, floating like in a dream.
Waiting anxiously to see you,
ESTHER