Dear Malka,
Papa and I barely slept, and at the crack of dawn, we returned to the port. I carried the white gardenias to give to you, though they’d lost their sweet fragrance.
Suddenly, we heard a boy’s voice yell, “Papa!”
It was Moshe. He rushed into Papa’s arms. Then he smiled and widened his eyes at me and said, “You’re all grown up! You’re showing your arms and legs!”
“We’re in Cuba, Moshe. Impossible to be covered up like in Poland!”
Eliezer and Chaim came next, also yelling, “Papa! Papa!” and hugged him with such force, I feared they’d crush him.
At last Mama came. She looked tired and there were dark circles under her eyes.
“Mama!” I yelled, and ran up to her.
“Esther!” she said to me with a pained smile, and I saw that my beautiful blue-eyed mother was missing a front tooth.
She collapsed into my arms and started crying. Papa came over and held her in his arms, but she kept on crying.
“Avrumaleh, Avrumaleh,” she said, using her nickname for Papa.
She was crying from happiness, but she was also crying from sadness.
“Where is Bubbe?” I asked. “Where is Malka?”
Moshe and Eliezer and Chaim bowed their heads and stood around us in a circle. They waited for Mama to give the answer.
“Bubbe didn’t come with us. She stayed in Govorovo,” Mama said.
Papa let out a wail. Gasping for breath, he asked, “My mother? My dear sweet mother isn’t here?”
“No, Avrumaleh, she isn’t here. She said she was too tired and old to make such a long journey. Just getting to the ship was going to wear her out. A trip across the ocean to Cuba would surely kill her. And how could she go to Cuba and abandon the graves of her mother and father in Govorovo? She refused to leave her home. She gave us her blessing. She told me to tell you to forgive her. She hopes one day we will all return to Poland and be reunited there.”
Tears slid down Papa’s cheeks and Mama hugged him. “I am sorry, Avrumaleh, I am sorry,” she said.
I stood there in silence with Moshe and Eliezer and Chaim, tasting the bitterness of the salt in the sea mist.
Then Mama went on, “Malka was miserable on the ship. She couldn’t stop worrying about Bubbe and was seasick the whole journey. She barely ate and most of what she did she threw up. They’ve called a special doctor to determine whether she will be allowed to stay. Hopefully they’ll finish the examination soon. If she’s too ill, they may send her back.”
Malka, dear Malka, it broke my heart to hear Mama say those words. But I understood how much it hurt you to leave our beautiful Bubbe, who has lived with us since we were born. I don’t want you to feel like you have to carry alone all the sadness of the world we needed to leave behind. We are here for you!
Papa took Mama by the elbow. “Let’s not lose faith. Malka is a young and sensitive girl. She feels things deeply, she is in pain, but she will recover.”
And so we all continued to wait for you, dear Malka.
“Do you want me to take some of you home to rest for a few hours and return later?” Papa asked.
But after the long separation, none of us wanted to be apart again.
It was the middle of the afternoon, the hottest time of the day, when the streets become deserted as people rush home to rest in darkened rooms or sit in outdoor cafeterias drinking tall glasses of cool coconut water under awnings that offer the blessing of shade. Papa got us some cold sodas and we found a spot where the sun wasn’t so bright. There, Papa and Mama, Moshe, Eliezer, Chaim, and I stood looking out at the ocean silently, a family missing two of its limbs, wishing for a bit of happiness.
Then a girl who looked like you came slowly toward us, watching her every step as if there was quicksand underneath that could pull her to the center of the earth and swallow her whole. This girl was thinner and frailer than the Malka I remembered. Her woolen dress hung on her like a potato sack and she looked like she’d forgotten how to laugh. She wore glasses too big for her face. And I realized it was you, dear Malka, it was you!
You fell into my arms like a sparrow with broken wings.
“Esther, I missed you.”
That was all you had the strength to say in a whisper of Yiddish.
You could barely clasp the bouquet of gardenias.
“Let’s go to your new home,” Papa said. He put his arm around you and looked at you, Malka, with such love in his eyes. “Now you will rest, my child, and soon you will feel better.”
After we got off the ferry in Havana, we waded through the thick heat of the streets. Mama leaned against Papa with each step she took. She was twice his size, but he held her up. Moshe, Eliezer, and Chaim carried the suitcases. I led the way, pointing out the potholes so no one would trip and fall, never letting go of your hand, dear Malka, because I feared if I did, you would disappear like a ghost.
We turned off the Plaza Vieja and headed up Calle Muralla. There we bumped into Zvi Mandelbaum.
“The family has arrived! Mazel tov!” he said.
“Thank you,” Papa replied. “They have had such a long journey, but we will visit with you another time.”
We smiled at Zvi Mandelbaum and kept walking briskly, relieved to not have to explain that we were missing Bubbe, our dearest, sweetest grandmother.
My heart beat fast as we turned the corner and arrived at Calle Sol, the street of our new home. I was happy we’d live on a street called “Sun.” I hoped for sunny days ahead for all of us.
Papa stopped in front of the building and said to Mama, “Here, downstairs, is our store, dear Hannah, and upstairs is the apartment where we will live.” He unlocked the door to the store and Mama peeked inside. I could tell Papa was eagerly waiting to see what Mama would say. She began to smile and immediately put her hand to her mouth to cover it because of her missing front tooth. But we could hear the happiness in her voice as she said, “It’s marvelous! So many fabrics! And in all the colors of the rainbow!”
Then we climbed the stairs to the apartment, Moshe, Eliezer, and Chaim racing to the top and the rest of us following behind. Papa opened the door and all of us kissed the mezuzah for good luck before stepping inside. Papa and I had swept and mopped and dusted the apartment from top to bottom, and the wooden furniture gleamed in the golden rays of the late-afternoon sunshine. Again, dear Papa stood close to Mama, waiting to see what she’d say. She looked around, then said, “I feared I was traveling to a jungle. But Havana is a pretty city, and this house feels like it could be a home for all of us one day.”
Papa beamed with joy and said, “Oh, my Hannah, it will be!”
Moshe, Eliezer, and Chaim found their room and excitedly jumped from bed to bed. When I showed you ours, you noticed there were three beds there too. “Let’s not touch Bubbe’s bed,” you said. “Maybe she will change her mind and come to Cuba soon.”
“That’s what we’ll do, Malka,” I responded.
And I showed you our common rooms—the kitchen and the sitting room with the two rocking chairs, from where you’ll catch the sea breeze off the small but beautiful balcony and see Havana arise at dawn and go to sleep at night.
“I have been taking care of the plants on the balcony. Aren’t they the greenest green? Look at how the orchids enjoy basking in their little square of sunshine!”
You looked, but you couldn’t see yet; you were too worn from the journey.
“Malka, as I promised, I’ve been writing letters to you this entire year that we’ve been apart. We will sit side by side in the rocking chairs and read them together while the sea breeze keeps us cool. Won’t that be fun?”
“Maybe in a few days, big sister,” you whispered. Then you excused yourself and went straight to sleep.
Oh, dear Malka, your body has arrived in Cuba, but your heart is still with Bubbe in Govorovo. I trust we can help you feel better soon. In the meantime, I will keep writing letters to you as if you are far away, little sister, because it feels that way. And because, after writing so many letters to you all these months while waiting for you to arrive, writing has become a necessity for me—like water, like air, like sunshine. Writing to you has helped and comforted me. It has kept me alive.
Once you get better, I’ll give these letters to you. They are for you and only for you. But I won’t stop writing. I will start keeping a journal—and I will get you one too! You’re carrying so much sadness, my sister, and I hope that if you can let the paper hold even a bit of it, you will feel better.
With all my love as always,
ESTHER