Govorovo December 2, 1937 Dearest Papa, I am writing to you out of desperation. I pray that my letter arrives safely in your hands so you will listen to my plea. How is it possible we''re still separated from you and that three years have passed since you left for Cuba? Would you recognize us today--your own family? I could fill a river with my tears when I think of you being so far away. Mama worries we will never see you again. "Your papa is gone forever," she says. She scares my brothers and sister with those terrible words, but I promise them we''ll be reunited. You will be surprised to learn how much I''ve grown in the last year. I''m taller than Mama now (which I know isn''t say­ing much).

I try to do everything I can to help here. I go to the woods every day and cut balls of juniper for cooking. After school, I work two afternoons a week for Yoelke the baker, sweeping ashes and crumbs. He pays me with two loaves of rye bread so that for breakfast we have something to dip into the bit of milk our tired cow, Zisseleh, still gives us. The other children help as much as they can, especially Malka. She reminds me of you because she''s smart and studi­ous and never complains. Every morning she warms the water for Bubbe so it won''t be too cold when she washes up. Even the twins are old enough to help--you wouldn''t recognize Eliezer and Chaim, since they were such babies when you left for Cuba.

Today they collected three full buckets of berries with Moshe, who they look up to and call "Little Papa." This made Mama smile. She is beautiful when she smiles and her blue eyes sparkle. I''m sad to say not a lot makes Mama smile anymore. It''s getting harder and harder for us here in Poland, especially for me and Moshe and the twins, since we all share your dark hair and eyes. There is no chance we can pass for Polish as Mama and Malka often can. The Poles always know we are Jews. Some are kind, but some give us nasty looks and spit on the ground as we walk past.

Yet I''ve seen them nod hello to Mama and Malka, as if they are more worthy, just because of how they look. Mama is still angry about the loss of our store in Govorovo, and what happened was so unfair. Now that I''m older, I under­stand that the government overtaxed you and put you out of business just because we are Jewish. You had no choice but to leave Poland to find work and take care of all of us. I don''t know what we''d do without the money you send us from Cuba. I''ve been thinking a lot about all this. According to Jewish tradition, I will be an adult when I turn twelve in a few months. The truth shouldn''t be kept from me, which is why I''m upset that Mama tried to hide your letter.

She knows how much I miss you, and I am always asking if you''ve written. I thought we hadn''t heard from you in so long because the mail''s unreli­able these days, but then I found your letter squirreled away inside her shoe. I had gotten suspicious because suddenly we had a little bit of meat to eat with our potatoes and the money had to come from somewhere. When I read your letter, I understood why Mama hid it. She didn''t want me to know that you now have enough sav­ings to bring only one of us to Cuba. Papa, you write that the child who should travel first is Moshe because he''s the oldest of the boys and you think he''ll be the most capable of helping you work. But I''m the eldest and stronger than you think. By birthright, it is I who should come.

Please, Papa, choose me. Don''t think less of me because I am a girl. I will help you show Mama that it wasn''t a mistake for you to go to Cuba. I prom­ise if you let me be the one to come first, I will work hard and make you proud. I''m eager to see you, dear Papa, and hear your voice. Put your trust in me. I will not disappoint you. Your loving daughter, Esther On board the ship to Cuba January 22, 1938 Dear Malka, Oh dear sister, I have been on the ship for three days and three nights and I still keep pinching myself, unable to believe I''m really on my way to Cuba! Even after I begged, I doubted Papa would choose me.

I''m so grateful, but saying goodbye at the train station was the hardest thing I''ve ever done. The tears in Bubbe''s eyes left a hole in my heart. When she wiped my tears with her embroidered handkerchief, then gave it to me as a gift, I could barely hold myself together. I was sur­prised to see some tears from Moshe, Eliezer, and Chaim too. I guess they will miss me a little. Mama will too, I hope. I was touched when she gave me her silver thimble to remember her by, even though I know she''s still angry with me for encour­aging Papa to go to Cuba--but where else was he to go when the door to the United States had closed to Jewish refugees? I hugged her and told her I loved her, and all she said was "Tell your father we need him at home." But you, Malka, my treasured only sister, I know you will miss me as much as I''ll miss you.

I feel terrible that I won''t be around to protect you at school. I hope you''ll feel like I''m there in spirit, urging you to stay smart and studious, even when jealous girls tease you. And if one of them hides your eyeglasses again, please tell Moshe! I don''t know what I will do without you and I''ll be think­ing of you every day. I promise to write down every interesting thing that happens while we''re apart so that the hours, weeks, and months we''re separated won''t seem so painful. I''m begin­ning now, writing in this old accounting notebook of Papa''s, and I will fill it up with letters from Cuba that I will save for you. Writing them will make the days bearable until you arrive. Then when you''re finally here, we will read them together and it will be as if you were with me the whole time. The train ride from Warsaw to Rotterdam was scary.

I wor­ried if I got up to go to the bathroom, another traveler would take my seat. I sat stiff as a doll and ate the hard-boiled egg you packed for me and barely had a sip of water. Mama had warned me to be careful around strangers, so I looked at no one and kept my eyes glued to the window. I felt happy and sad at the same time, seeing my own country as I was leaving it behind. Glimpses of cities, towns, and forests that I would never know flew past. If only things were different for us in Poland and we hadn''t lost our store! If only so many people didn''t hate us. If only, if only . My head grew heavy from holding back the tears.

But if I started crying, I wouldn''t stop! When we crossed the border from Germany into the Netherlands, they ordered everyone who had steamship tick­ets to step down from the train. We had to walk a long way to get to the inspection station, where we were checked for illnesses and had our baggage disinfected. The doctor hardly examined me at all, quickly looking down my throat and running his fin­gers over my scalp. But there were grown-ups who weren''t so lucky, and they wouldn''t be allowed to continue their journey. "But here''s my steamship ticket! My brother''s waiting for me!" a man yelled in a mix of Polish and Yiddish. He lifted his suitcase onto his shoulders and shoved his way toward the door. A policeman rushed after him and dragged him back in. The man''s suit got torn and his nose spouted blood as he crumpled to the ground.

I felt so sad. With his dark beard, the man reminded me of Papa. I went to his side and offered him the handkerchief that Bubbe gave me. He brightened and smiled at me. "Shayna maideleh, shayna maideleh," he said in a gentle voice. "You are a beautiful dear maiden, just like my daughter at home." He told me his name was Jacob. At first, Jacob wouldn''t take the handkerchief.

He said he didn''t want to dirty it, but I told him I wanted him to have it, that it was my grandmother''s gift and she''d be proud of me for helping him. By then it was night. All the people there, whether they''d passed the inspection or not, had nowhere to go, and they slept on the floor or leaning against the walls. I stayed with Jacob and felt safe enough to sleep. In the morning, we said our goodbyes and he held my head with both hands and gave me his blessing: "May you go in peace to your destination and be delivered from accidents and enemies along the way." I returned to the station and took the train to Rotterdam, feeling less afraid because of Jacob''s blessing. And do you know what? I think it protected me. When I arrived in Rotterdam, I noticed an old couple speaking Yiddish.

The man had a white beard and wore the black suit of a rabbi, and the woman''s hair was hidden under a kerchief. I asked if they knew the direc­tions to the port, and it turned out they had tickets for the same ship as me! "What are you doing alone, little girl?" the woman asked. "I am not little. I am fifteen," I told them. All the papers say I am fifteen, so I thought I''d better keep my story straight, though I felt bad about lying to them. But then I told them the truth. "There was only enough money for one child to travel, so I''m going to help my father bring all our family to Cuba." "It''s a shame we are being forced out of our ho.