that he would stay with me as I grew older.
Gaby Stein, the young man that was my father, had been adored and respected in our small Jewish community, La Colonia Hebrea, in Havana. He was the only kosher baker in the neighborhood, a trade handed down from his father and his grandfather in the old country, and he would deliver the Sabbath bread himself every Friday afternoon through the small and tightly linked Jewish Havana neighborhood, peddling around on his ratty tricycle with a wooden wagon rigged behind its back tires. Gaby, a humble and gregarious man, would sing songs and ring his rusty bell through the streets, greeting everyone by name with a bright smile and a quick wink. Charming and generous Gaby would often leave fresh bread and pastries at the houses of families who couldn’t afford to pay him. Most of the “Jewbans” who had settled in Havana had more than enough money and food, but there were weeks that were a bit rough for some, and the mantra of our wanderings had always lingered and sustained us all the same: If we don’t take care of our own, who will take care of us?
On the night of my thirteenth birthday, after I was called to the altar in the synagogue to read my bar mitzvah portion in the Torah in front of our entire community, my mother gave me a gift—my father’s gold necklace with a small Jewish star hanging from it.
“It’s a very special gift, Max. Your father wore it every day since he was a little boy, and I know he wanted you to have it when you turned thirteen.” I remember Mamá’s words whistling through puffs of exasperated grunts. She didn’t speak much, especially about my father, so I hung on every word she ever spoke about him. I wondered if she was proud of my performance that night in the synagogue. And if my father had listened proudly from above.
By that time already, Mamá didn’t trust me much. I really didn’t give her much reason to trust me though, and I couldn’t blame my mother for her misgivings about me. I don’t think she ever trusted anyone, really. “You better not lose this,” she warned me, as if she expected me to do just that.
But wear that necklace I did; I never took it off, and I developed a restless habit of twisting that gold star incessantly between my skinny fingers. My fidgeting was just one more additional thing that always drove Mamá crazy.
When I was barely fourteen years old, I daringly snuck into my mother’s bedroom to rummage through her closets and drawers. I snooped often. I never knew exactly what I was looking for—clues, links, anything that would explain all the mysteries of my family. Be careful what you look for, you may not like what you find.
Mamá was so guarded and silent, so I searched for her also the only way I knew how. But the only thing I ever discovered among her random collection of junk was a lingering, stale smell of old relics that could only have held any meaning to my mother—a frayed scarf patterned with pink and yellow flowers, some old pieces of gold jewelry that she never wore in public, and a pipe still stained with dried-up tobacco residue. But one day I found something that really caught my eye. Shoved way back in the corner of a drawer in her nightstand, hidden under a bunch of old papers and empty medicine bottles, I found a black-and-white photograph with crinkled edges. I knew instantly it was a photo of my father.
I was told dozens of times that he had been a gentle and sensitive soul, and I could easily capture that kindness seeping from the noble man in the photo. He wore a straw trilby hat poised coolly on his head and his apron was clearly crusted with baking flour. But he stood tall and dignified with his tricycle in front of his shop with the words “Stein’s Bakery” stenciled in bold blue letters across the glass storefront. His eyes sparkled like two pools of cool water. It was clear to see in those eyes the warmth and compassion and optimism that was my father. I flipped the photo over, and on the back, my father had written in his slanted European handwriting, “Para Mimi, mi unica corazón de melón.” For Mimi, my one and only melon-heart.
A poet or a comedian? I filled with a longing to know him for myself. I bet we would have been great pals. The photo’s dedication was dated March 14, 1941, a month before my birthday and two months before my father’s death. Repeating numbers one and four again. As a young and rambunctious kid, I was already too curious for my own good. I pinched the photo and hid it in my room under my pillow. One day, I will be rich and respected like my father. Everyone will love me and be proud of me too.
Mamá never questioned the missing photograph. It wasn’t until the eve of my fifteenth birthday, though, with the gold star hanging around my neck, that the twinkling stars of the night skies started whispering to me. I was deftly aware that Gabriel Stein was always going to be with me.
My father’s untimely death made neighbors and friends gush with pity for me and Mamá. What was a young mother with a baby to do on her own? They meant well, I’m sure. Gossip, after all, was as natural to La Colonia as breathing air. It was everyone’s way of letting you know that they cared. It was the glue that bound us together. But I grew to resent their two-cent pity, just as Mamá and Abuelo did. What did they know? Anyway, Mamá and I were not on our own—we had each other.
The community blather always got under my skin and gnawed at my young brain. No one ever talked openly about my father; but I swore I would show them all what I, Max Chekovski Stein, was really made of. The inspiration of my father watching me from above and occasionally whispering words of wisdom to me…sometimes I could feel him rattling around in my veins like a ghost trapped in a dark attic.
3
Saul Posternik, my mother’s second husband, seemed to be the answer to our problems. At least, that’s how Mamá tried to explain it to me. All I knew for sure back then was that Saul was a Sephardic Jew whose family had somehow managed to settle on the Caribbean shores from Morocco. (Yuck! a Turko!) Vulnerable and lonely, with a young child and lost in a world without the true love of her life, Mamá was determined to provide security for both our futures. Of course, she would not ask for help from anyone nor would she admit that she was running herself down at the factory. Or that every now and then she could not seem to make ends meet on her own. No matter how many hours she spent in the sweaty, dirty factory, it would have been way more embarrassing for her to ask anyone for a handout.
Marrying Saul was better than worrying about her son running around on the dangerous streets of Havana, or having to cut up square pieces of newspaper for use in the toilet, or complaining about government rations. But even as a young child, the nagging feeling that there was something more to my mother’s desperation gnawed at me. I might have been young, but I could read the sadness in my mother’s eyes every time she looked at me. Her icy-blue stare would get wet and distant. There had to be more to it than just worrying about the politics of the times. Was it something else?
Before my mother and Saul finally married, I had heard my grandparents argue all the time about Mamá’s stubborn choices.
“You should see her in la fábrica, Zoila. No child of mine should be working like a horse in a dirty, stinking factory. Especially not Mimi. And going with a Turko, no less? My daughter must be going absolutely crazy!”
“Oh, shush, viejo. It’s you who is sounding crazy. What can we do? She won’t take our money, and she can’t take care of little Max by herself if she doesn’t work. Maybe Saul won’t be so bad after all.” That’s when Abuela’s words would trail off, leaving an unfinished silence hanging between the two and their angry words.
“If only—” Abuelo’s defeated whispers would fade into the air…and then I could swear I would hear the faint mention of Tío Daniel lingering in the hot air around them.
“Don’t even think it, Yoni. At least now she has Saul and everything will be fine.” It was Abuela who always got in the last word.
So Mamá decided to jump at the opportunity that offered us both a respectable
