Across So Many Seas: Chapters 27-33

But just as I step outside, they come racing into the courtyard, their cheeks flushed.

They sound so childish and innocent, and I think that I will even miss their quarreling.

Mima insists and brings it out to me.

We make a brief stop in La Coruña, Spain, where we are enchanted to hear the Spanish language.

But then Tía Zimbul brings me back down to earth when she says, “You sing very well, Reina. You play the oud very well too. But remember it was your singing and your playing that got you into trouble. May El Dio forgive me for saying this... but for your own good, why don’t you throw your oud into the sea and leave all that mournful music behind?”

How am I supposed to toss away the songs our ancestors passed on to us from the time they fled Spain?

“Well, at least leave behind that stubborn and melancholy girl who you were in Silivri. Pretend she never existed. Start over in Cuba.”

And we are fortunate to have a balcony.

I dare not ask about Sadik; I know that would cause trouble, but I hope he is well too.

“Where are you from?” they’ll ask, and when we say “Turquía,” it’s unbelievable to them.

Will she kick me out and leave me in the street if I misbehave?

“Where is she? The girl who is to be my bride?” he demands.

I may seem gruff, but it’s because I’m exhausted. I work very hard.

I peddle on the streets of Havana all day, and at night the only thing I want is to rest and go to sleep

But I will never abandon you. I know you have no other family here apart from your aunt.

Watching the sky turn pink at the end of the day, I sit on the balcony and sing the song that brought me to Cuba, strumming on Mima’s oud.

Mamá lets out a wail that I can hear as I am huffing and puffing up the tall staircase to our apartment after returning home from school.

She often cries silently, letting the tears slide down her face, not bothering to dry them as she stirs a pot of lentil soup or kneads the dough for potato-and-cheese borekas.

“I’d like to join the literacy campaign. I want to be a brigadista—to go teach people in the countryside how to read and write. There are posters all over town saying they need volunteers. And schools are closing soon in support of the revolution.”

Mamá stares into the distance, past the horizon, past where the sea meets the sky.

Mamá has prepared a delicious array of Turkish dishes, which is her tradition on Friday to welcome Shabbat.

Now, as we eat dinner, the air grows tense with Papá’s silence.

Suddenly, he puts down his fork and exclaims, “I don’t know what is going to happen to us. No one has money to buy things since the rebels took over. They came down from the Sierra Maestra mountains, promising to help the poor, but they’re actually making us poorer! We’ll have to keep living on the bit of savings we’ve stashed under the mattress and see how long it lasts. And I’ll have to keep rummaging at the farmers market to find what food we can afford.”

“Remember, Moshico, a cruel dictator ruled Cuba before. Now there is hope for a better future. We just have to be patient. Things can’t change that quickly.”

I watch as she finds the embroidered velvet pouch where he keeps his kippah and tallit in the dresser next to their bed, and she passes it to him, a sweet gesture I’ve observed for as long as I can remember.