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Copyright © 2010 by Margarita Engle

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Engle, Margarita.

The firefly letters : a suffragette’s journey to Cuba / Margarita Engle.—1st ed.

p.    cm.

ISBN 978-0-8050-9082-6

1. Women—Suffrage—Cuba—Juvenile poetry. 2. Young adult poetry, American. I. Title.

PS3555.N4254F57 2010 813'.54—dc22 2009023445

First Edition—2010

Printed in February 2010 in the United States of America

by R.R. Donnelley & Sons Company, Harrisonburg, Virginia

1  3  5  7  9  10  8  6  4  2

for Curtis, Victor, and Nicole

with love

and for Reka Simonsen

with gratitude

Your majesty . . . I can from Cuba, better than from any other point on this side of the globe, speak of the New World, because Cuba lies between North and South America . . . Heaven and earth, the people, language, laws, manners, style of building, every thing is new . . .

FREDERIKA BREMER,

in a letter to Carolina Amelia,

Queen Dowager of Denmark

April, 1851

Matanzas, Cuba

CECILIAI

I remember a wide river

and gray parrots with patches of red feathers

flashing across the African sky

like traveling stars

or Cuban fireflies.

In the silence of night

I still hear my mother wailing,

and I see my father’s eyes

refusing to meet mine.

I was eight, plenty old enough

to understand that my father was haggling

with a wandering slave trader,

agreeing to exchange me

for a stolen cow.

Spanish sea captains and Arab merchants

are not the only men

who think of girls

as livestock.

ELENA

Mamá has informed me

that we will soon play hostess

to a Swedish traveler, a woman

called Fredrika, who is known to believe

that men and women are completely equal.

What an odd notion!

Papá has already warned me to ignore

any outlandish ideas that I might hear

from our strange visitor.

I have never imagined a woman

who could travel all over the world

just like a man!

Mamá says Fredrika

does not speak much Spanish,

so we will have to speak to her in English.

Cecilia can help.

I’m so glad Papá

taught one of the slave girls

how to speak the difficult language

of all the American engineers

who work at our sugar mills,

giving orders to the slaves.

I am sorry to say

that Cecilia’s English

is much better than mine.

She is just a slave,

but she does have a way

with words.

Translating is a skill that makes her useful

in her own gloomy, sullen,

annoying way.

CECILIA

The visiting lady wears a little hat

and carries a bag of cookies

and bananas.

Her shoes are muddy.

She asks so many questions

that Elena turns her over to me

because my English is better

and I am a slave

accustomed to the rudeness

of strangers.

When I ask the foreign lady

where she is from,

she points toward the North Star.

Can her native country

truly be as distant

as the Congo,

my lost home?

FREDRIKA

In all my travels, I have never smelled

any place as unfamiliar as Cuba.

Even here in the lovely city of Matanzas,

with elegant shops and ladies in carriages

waving silk fans,

there is always the scent

of rotting tropical vegetation,

a smell that releases a bit of sorrow,

like the death of some small wild thing—

a bird, perhaps, or a frog.

I am eager to see the city

and then set off on my own,

exploring the beautiful countryside

with my translator, Cecilia,

a young African girl

with lovely dark eyes.

With her help

I will see how people live

on this island of winter sun

that makes me dream

of discovering Eden.

ELENA

I find the Swedish lady’s freedom to wander

all over the island

without a chaperone

so disturbing

that I can hardly bear her company.

I hide in my room, embroidering

all sorts of dainty things — pillowcases

and gowns with pearl-studded lace ruffles

for my hope chest.

Cecilia and I are not quite the same age.

I am only twelve,

but I feel like a young woman,

and she is at least fifteen,

already married and pregnant.

Too soon, I will reach fourteen,

the age when I will be forced to marry

a man of my father’s choice.

The thought of marriage

to some old frowning stranger

makes me feel just as helpless

as a slave.

FREDRIKA

When I asked the Swedish Consul

to place me in a quiet home

in the Cuban countryside,

I expected a thatched hut

on a small farm.

Instead, I find myself languishing

among gentry, surrounded by luxury.

The ladies of Matanzas

rarely set foot outdoors.

Enclosed in marble courtyards,

Elena and her mother move like shadows

lost in their private world

of silk and lace.

If I’d wanted to endure

the tedious life of a noblewoman,

I could have stayed home

at Årsta Castle, where my mother

never allowed me to speak to servants

and if I wanted to greet my father

I had to wait

while a footman

rolled out a carpet

and a hairdresser powdered

my father’s pigtail.

There is no place more lonely

than a rich man’s home.

CECILIA

Fredrika’s visit is touching my life

in ways I could never have imagined.

She has asked Elena’s father

to give us a little house in the big garden

where the two of us can live in peace,

surrounded by cocuyos — fireflies —

instead of chandeliers.

Together, we walk over hills and valleys

to see sugar plantations and coffee groves.

We visit fields owned by wealthy planters

and tiny patches of corn and yams

that belong to freed slaves

who live in little huts

that look like paradise.

We ride across rivers in small boats,

carrying bags of cookies and bananas

to share with all the children, dogs, goats,

and tame flamingos

that follow us wherever we go,

begging for treats, and hearing stories

about the North Star.

CECILIA

The huts of the freed slaves

make me think of my lost home—

I remember a ghostly mist

rising over the river

after a boy drowned

trying to escape

from the slave traders.

The mist was silent

but the water sang softly,

telling its own

flowing story.

If I had known

that my father would trade me

for a stolen cow,

I would have run away

into the forest

to live in a nest

made of dreams

and green leaves.

FREDRIKA

Cecilia is a fine translator,

floating back and forth

between English and Spanish so easily,

yet I feel certain that she is homesick

for Africa, and sadly, she suffers

from the lung sickness.

Walking tires her, so we often stop to rest

in lovely places, beside stream banks

or at the small farms of free men

who used to be slaves.

When I ask Cecilia about liberty,

she lists the prices:

Five hundred gold dollars

would buy the freedom of a slave

who works in the fields,

but she has been taught the art

of translation, so she is worth a fortune,

and her husband is a skilled horseman

valued at more than a thousand

gold dollars.

Fifteen dollars would be enough

to purchase liberty

for their unborn child.

The price will double

on the day of its birth.

How strange the laws are

on this beautiful island where—

if not for slavery—

I could think of the palm trees

and winter sun

as true evidence

of Eden

rediscovered.

ELENA

Cecilia and Fredrika live

in a hut in our garden, but they dine

in the big house with us,

and I must say that the Swedish lady

eats like a castaway

right after the long-awaited rescue

from starvation.

Fredrika tells us that her mother

never allowed her to eat her fill.

She was expected to be as thin and graceful

as a ballet dancer,

even though her natural shape

is sturdy and strong.

Hunger drove her to steal

strawberry cream cake from the pantry.

Anger made her toss her gloves into the fire.

Once, after writing a poem about the moon,

she burned it, because she knew

that nothing she did could ever be good enough

to please her stern mother.

FREDRIKA

On the coldest, darkest night

of Sweden’s long winter,

I used to dress up as the Queen of Light,

with pine branches and candles

balanced on my head.

I walked carefully

to avoid setting my hair on fire

as I carried the traditional gift

of saffron buns to my parents.

I was ravenous, but I was permitted only

to keep half of one spicy golden pastry

for myself, even though girls

in other, more humble homes

were allowed to feast

during that midwinter celebration

of hope for spring.

I knew that I could not survive

as a half-starved rich girl

for the rest of my life.

Roaming the world

has been my escape.

CECILIA

My husband is a young man

of my own tribe.

He was chosen for me

by Elena’s father.

His name is Beni

and he is a postillion,

a skilled horseman who rides

the fancy mare that pulls Elena’s

swift high-wheeled volanta carriage

down the cobblestone street

whenever Elena and her mother

go out to buy silk and pearls

for her hope chest.

Perhaps, if I had been free

to choose Beni myself,

I might know how to love him,

but he is a stranger,

and now that I am living

in a cottage with Fredrika,

I hardly see my husband at all.

Out in the garden

lit by cocuyos

I feel unattached

if not free.

I feel like a young girl again,

unmarried and skinny,

with a flat belly

that has never

known the kick

of an impatient baby

so eager

to be born

into this world

of confusion.

BENI

If I had been free

to choose my own wife,

I would have married the girl

I loved so long ago

before I was captured

by men with guns

who carried me to this island,

a world of noble horses

and human hatred.

I ride with my back straight

and my hands gentle

so my trusting mount will know

that I am balanced and alert,

a rider who will never allow a horse

to stumble and fall.

I cannot protect myself

from the sorrows of this world,

but I can guide any horse

that is placed in my care.

CECILIA

Fredrika tells me she was in love

with a country preacher in her homeland.

He asked her to marry him, but she said no

because she felt certain that as a wife

she would lose her freedom to roam.

Travel is the magic

that allows her to write

about the lives of women

whose husbands think of them

as property

instead of people.

Fredrika says stories can lead

to a change in laws.

I am glad that Fredrika

has chosen to write

about Cuba

and slavery.

CECILIA

When Elena visits us in the cottage,

we take turns leafing

through Fredrika’s sketchbook.

Some of the drawings are pictures

of famous people Fredrika met

while she was traveling in North America—

poets named Emerson

and Longfellow.

Some are pictures of Fredrika’s friends

in Europe: the Queen of Denmark

and a wonderful storyteller

named Hans Christian Andersen

who is in love with a famous singer,

Jenny Lind, the Swedish Nightingale,

even though he knows

that the singer will never love him.

There are pictures of slaves

in the United States.

Fredrika admits that, until she saw

the United States of America

with her own eyes,

she imagined she might find paradise

in the land of Emerson

and Longfellow.

Instead, she found the slave market

in New Orleans, with a schoolhouse

right beside it

where children were singing

about the Land of the Free

while, just outside

their classroom window,

other children

were bought and sold

or traded

like stolen cows.

FREDRIKA

Cuban fireflies are the most amazing

little creatures I have ever seen.

They flock to me at night,

resting on my fingers

so that, while I am sketching

and writing letters,

I need no other lantern,

just the light

from their movements.

I skim my hand across the page

while the brilliant cocuyos help me decide

what to write — there is so much to tell.

How can I describe this shocking journey?

I must speak of Cecilia’s homesickness

and her lung sickness

and the way her baby

is doomed to be born

into slavery.

I must describe Elena’s loneliness

and her longing for a sense of purpose.

Somehow, I must show my readers

the bright flowers and glowing insects

that make Cuba’s night

feel like morning.

CECILIA

When we visit the little huts

where freed slaves live without masters,

Fredrika asks them if they are happy

even though she already knows

the answer.

I believe she simply enjoys the chance

to hear free men and women

describe their little farms

as bits of paradise.

When she asks me if I long

for my birthplace in the Congo,

I tell her that I miss my mother,

and I ask her to put my words

in her letters, so that others will know

what it is like

to be a slave

so far from home.

FREDRIKA

Cecilia has just explained

Los Cuatro Consuelos,

“The Four Comforts” required

by Cuban law

as consolation

for slaves.

They have the right

to buy freedom

and the right to marry

and the right to own property

and the right to petition

for transfer

to a new owner

if the first one turns out

to be cruel

or unfair. . . .

Of course, none of this seems

adequate or logical

because how can slavery

ever be fair?

When I ask Cecilia

if wealthy planters

honor these laws,

she smiles in a wistful way

that helps me understand

why my question

is foolish.

CECILIA

We go out at night

to rescue fireflies.

Children catch the friendly cocuyos

and pull off their wings

or put them in bottles

to make little lamps

where the insects glow and fly

until they starve.

Women tie living cocuyos

onto their ruffled dresses as ornaments

and girls weave them

into their hair

like flashing jewels.

Fredrika and I

feel like heroines in a story,

following people around

buying captive fireflies

and setting them free.

I notice Elena

peering down from her window,

smiling as she watches

us rush around in circles

rescuing hundreds of small bright creatures

from the sad fate of all

living captives,

even those

with wings.

ELENA

How disturbing it feels

to envy Cecilia,

a slave.

She is free,

at least for now,

to run and shout

out in the open

with Fredrika,

talking to strangers

and splashing

in mud puddles

just like a man

or a boy.

How I wish

that I could go out with them

tonight, to the beach!

In a moment

of hesitant courage

I ask Mamá

to let me venture outdoors . . .

but she scolds me for wishing

to have muddy shoes

and a chance to run

faster and faster

in circles

beneath the light

of the eerie,

dangerous moon.

FREDRIKA

Cubans believe moonlight

is harmful.

Cecilia covers her head

with a blue turban. She warns me

that I should protect myself

from the moon,

although she cannot say

exactly why.

The beach is so lovely

that I feel like a flying fish,

as if I am soaring

up into the starlit sky.

When Cecilia suddenly runs away

from a few small boats

that are bobbing on the waves,

I am perplexed.

How can anything

as beautiful as a moonlit night

be dangerous?

CECILIA

I try to warn her,

but she will not listen.

She jumps up and down

in the roaring waves

like a happy child.

The boats are close now—

I cannot stay!

The memory of arrival

and loss

is too fresh.

Fredrika does not see their faces yet,

all the children from a slave ship

riding in those small boats,

gliding toward this lonely shore

in chains.

I run and run

until my lungs ache

and I cough

and then I collapse

in the muddy road

that leads away

from the soft sand

of the beach.

Gasping for breath,

I struggle to remember

my mother’s voice,

and I struggle

to forget

all the rest. . . .

CECILIA

I remember monkeys

swinging and screaming in the great forest

and a cobra swimming between water plants

in a river the color of coffee.

At sunset, the same river looked purple,

and in the morning it was green.

Light was the only thing

that had changed.

Now, on the far side of the world

here in Cuba — island of torment—

I wonder if light from my homeland

follows me at night, in waking dreams

where it is always daytime

and the river is always sky blue

and every sea breeze is sweet

and gentle

like my mother’s singsong

lullaby voice.

ELENA

Cecilia asks me for help—

Fredrika has taken to her bed

with a sick headache

that goes on day after day,

for a week. . . .

I cannot believe

that Cecilia allowed Fredrika to watch

one of the secret ships

as it dropped its cargo on the beach.

Transporting slaves is forbidden

by a treaty with England—

that is why the price of each slave

is so high.

Even though ships from Africa are illegal,

Papá and the other planters

know how to keep them coming,

each with seven or eight hundred

new slaves, mostly children

who are less likely to rebel

or escape.

CECILIA

I remember wild animals

near the river—

crocodiles, hippos, and leopards

who made the night terrifying.

None of those beasts were as frightening

as people — the strangers

who came with guns

to seize children

or with goods

to buy children.

I do not remember

the ocean.

The distance

between then and now

is too vast for memory

or a calendar

or a map.

FREDRIKA

This island, with its lush gardens

and winter sun,

had me fooled.

I have always imagined

that a gentle climate would make the people

gentle too . . . but that is not the way

of the human heart

when it is lost in the selfishness

of greed.

If only I had known about the boats,

I never would have asked Cecilia

to accompany me to that same cursed

moonlit beach

where she arrived in chains

just a few years ago. . . .

In the eyes of Cecilia

and each enslaved child

I see

hopeful light.

FREDRIKA

By asking many questions,

I have discovered

that fifty gold American dollars

per child

is the price paid by planters

to silence the magistrates

who might otherwise cause trouble

when forbidden ships

bring new captives

to quiet beaches

under the radiant

dangerous moon.

No wonder Cecilia told me to cover my head

so that I would have a cloth to wipe my eyes

after witnessing a sorrow so great

that I must now think carefully

about how to describe slavery

in such a way

that my true stories

about Cuba

will be believed.

CECILIA

After a weeklong headache,

Fredrika is finally feeling stronger,

so we go out again, at night,

to rescue cocuyos.

The insects eventually grow weary of flying

and return to earth

where they are captured again,

so we have to rescue the same fireflies

over and over,

buying them from greedy children

who think we are playing a game.

When Fredrika runs out of pennies,

she spends cookies and bananas

until she is left with nothing to trade

and cannot help the fireflies who remain prisoners

too numerous to save.

Even though we can never help them all,

I feel my mind flying and glowing

along with the winged creatures

that we have rescued

as they soar away, free. . . .

ELENA

Once again, I watch from the window

while Fredrika and Cecilia

run wildly in circles

setting cocuyos free.

A harpist comes to the window,

offering to serenade me

for a price.

I have never possessed

any coins of my own,

so I give him an embroidered

linen handkerchief

that he can trade for coins or food.

After playing three songs,

he strolls away, and I wonder

if anyone will ever

serenade me

for love

instead of money.

ELENA

I sit with a row of slave women,

teaching them how to sew.

When they do extra work

on Sunday afternoons,

they can earn a bit of money

to save toward buying their freedom

from Papá.

If Mamá would allow me,

I would even teach them how to read

and paint, and play music on the piano.

Artisans and musicians

are well-paid,

the slaves most likely

to earn enough money

for liberty’s

steep price.

CECILIA

Imagine my nervousness

having to translate while Fredrika

scolds the schoolmistress

for keeping girls in class

only one hour per day

and for teaching them nothing

but embroidery, lacemaking,

and saints’ lives

while boys study all day long

learning mathematics and science.

Elena looks so astounded

sitting in her classroom,

surrounded by giggling girls

in silk dresses with lace ruffles,

while Fredrika scolds

and I translate,

all the time thinking

that one hour of school

is more than any slave girl

can hope to receive

in a lifetime.

CECILIA

In church, Fredrika kneels

in the back, next to the slaves,

instead of sitting up front

with the ladies who are draped

in silks and jewels,

with lace shawls on their heads

instead of turbans.

I kneel beside Fredrika

with my baby kicking

in my belly

while I pray,

wondering if babies

can hear voices

and the music

that pours out the door

of the church

and up

toward the blue sky.

BENI

With the Swedish lady

kneeling beside us in church,

I begin to wonder how much my wife

will have changed

by spending so much time

in the company of a stranger

from the land of the North Star.

I hardly know Cecilia.

We are married

but we are strangers.

When the foreigner

goes away from Cuba

to travel in some other

distant foreign land,

will she leave my wife

with useful gifts . . .

or just fine ideas

and wild hopes?

FREDRIKA

I gave up my wealth

when I left my father’s castle

to roam, and to write.

Now, I am troubled by my inability

to help Cecilia buy her freedom

and the liberty of her husband

and her child,

and I am overwhelmed by my wish

to help all the other slaves

on this suffering island.

Even if I had thousands of gold dollars,

I could not give them to Cecilia

without offending my host, Elena’s father,

and that would cause problems

for the Swedish Consul—

an international incident

between our two nations.

Still, I would do it

if I had inherited

my father’s gold.

CECILIA

In the evenings

I look over Fredrika’s shoulder

as she writes letters

with fireflies resting

on her hand.

When I ask her to tell me

what the rows of squiggles mean,

she reads her Swedish words out loud,

translating into English

so that I can understand

when she describes Cuba as one

of God’s most beautiful creations—

an island of eternal summer

like an outer court of Paradise

where she has inhaled new life,

although she cannot imagine

having to stay here

and live in this garden

where freedom

does not grow.

FREDRIKA

The quality of light in tropical air

is more intense, and on hot days

a sea breeze feels like the breath of heaven.

I cannot understand

how people who live surrounded

by so much beauty

can shut themselves up indoors

like Elena, and her mother.

Can it be

that they are afraid

of hideous truths

that will be revealed

by the lovely sun

as well as the dangerous

moon?

ELENA

Fredrika says her father

gave her a hill

for her birthday.

The hill was stony,

but it overlooked

a green meadow.

Her older sister

had received a hill too,

but one with gardens, walkways,

and benches for visiting

with friends.

Fredrika’s hill had nothing

but a view

of wildflowers

growing.

CECILIA

When we go out at night

to watch the dances of slaves

on sugar plantations,

Fredrika sketches furiously

in her fat notebook,

turning the bursting pages

in a frenzy of excitement.

She says she loves the music of drums

and the graceful movements of dancers

just as much as she loves her own

treasured freedom to roam.

An overseer orders me to warn Fredrika

that some of the songs might be prayers

to dangerous spirits from distant jungles,

but Fredrika merely smiles, and tells me

that in Sweden people still believe in elves

and trolls, and a World Tree with roots

in the Fountain of Destiny.

I understand none of this

until Fredrika explains

that she has no wish to judge

the beliefs of others

because her own beliefs include

both the endless comfort

of the goodness of God

and the practical help

of a little traveling fairy

who rides on her shoulder

protecting her from harm.

I try to see a traveling fairy

on my own shoulder . . .

but all I see is Fredrika

at my side,

helping me to imagine

invisible wings.

FREDRIKA

Ships of stone in a Viking graveyard,

eerie Northern Lights

and golden cloudberries

gathered by little gray men

who guard the barns and cows—

the mysteries of the world are endless.

Once, when I was little,

I wandered away and got lost

in a wooded park

where I saw a forest spirit

playing music on his flute,

and later, after I had been rescued,

I told my father that I had met

the piping god Pan.

That is when my father decided

that I was meant

to be a writer.

He was not pleased.

When I asked my mother

to give me a room of my own

where I could be alone

to read and write poems,

she refused.

Writing was not considered ladylike

in a castle with plenty of room

for pianos and ballet.

ELENA

The castle where Fredrika

spent her childhood

was haunted.

In the attic, there was a sword

that had beheaded a nobleman

during a war.

There were bloodstained clothes

beside the sword.

None of the servants would climb

up to the attic to fetch boxes or trunks

that had been stored

next to ghosts.

This house where I live

is haunted too.

It was built by slaves

who rebelled, and buried an overseer

inside the walls.

Papá has never been able to find

the skeleton,

but sometimes at night

I hear pitiful moans

and rattling chains.

It is either the ghost

or some poor child

from the slave ships

being driven

to market.

CECILIA

On one of our walks

we stop to rest on a hill

with a view of palm trees

waving in the distance.

Fredrika says she feels

like we have wings, and we are both flying

over the brilliant green earth.

Later, when we walk downhill

into a forest, we find ourselves surrounded

by trees that are slowly being choked

by strangler figs.

The strangler trees have branches

that wrap themselves like long skinny arms

around other trees.

Fredrika sketches sadly

while I wonder

what has happened

to our wings.

FREDRIKA

Cecilia coughs and gasps,

and I wonder if she needs fresh air,

so I ask Elena’s parents to help me find

a simple home out in the countryside

where Cecilia can breathe clean sky

untainted by the smokestacks

of sugar mills.

Beni drives us in a carriage

that scurries over the hills

like a swift insect, or a spider.

Finally, we reach a thatched farmhouse

with a clean-swept earthen floor

and an outdoor kitchen

and the tranquil coziness

of a country home

where the people are poor

but hardworking

and filled with love

for one another.

Our hosts are peasants

from the Canary Islands,

a remote outpost

of volcanic, stony fields and vineyards

off the southern coast of Spain,

not far

from Morocco.

Our beds are hammocks.

The woman is up early

blowing a conch-shell trumpet

to call her husband and sons

in from the fields

for a simple breakfast

of fish, corn, and yams.

All the bowls, spoons, and cups

are made from gourds, the hard, dry fruit

of a calabash tree that grows near the house

along with every other variety of fruit tree

known in the tropics:

mango, sapote, mamey, tamarind,

and half a dozen different types of bananas,

some tiny, and others huge. . . .

It is a garden

of delightful scents

and enchanted flavors . . .

a garden that somehow

helps me revive

the old hope of rediscovering

lost fragments

of Eden.

CECILIA

My sore lungs find no relief

out in this wilderness

of dusty trails,

but I am happy to stay here

so far from the beaches

where ships deliver slaves

and so far from the mills

where vats of sugar

are stirred

like the brew of witches

in stories.

Fredrika plays with the children

who follow us constantly,

pretending that bunches of bananas

are clusters of little yellow chickens

peeking out from beneath

the leafy green wings

of their mother,

the banana tree.

I try to sketch

in Fredrika’s notebook,

but my fingers are not accustomed

to copying the loveliness of brilliant flowers

and darting hummingbirds.

When the pencil breaks

I use a splinter of charcoal

from the cooking fire.

I do not care if my sketches

are rough and messy—

drawing pictures on wings of paper

makes me feel like an angel of God

sketching plans for the creation

of an entirely new world,

one without sorrow or pain.

Fredrika tells me that my eyes

are suddenly sparkling with hope.

She gives me a sketchbook

and a pencil of my own.

Suddenly, I feel like an artist

or a magician.

FREDRIKA

After a supper of boiled beans and rice,

Cecilia reveals that she has brought

a gift of butter and cake from Elena’s home.

We eat with pleasure

in these peaceful surroundings

that make me feel like a shepherdess

in some ancient story of wisdom or magic.

There is no evening in the tropics.

Night simply drapes itself over the day

as if someone had lowered a curtain.

The sky glitters and moves,

filled with shooting stars and fireflies.

Out here, no one tries to catch

the soaring insects.

The cocuyos drift so high

that they seem to live in heaven,

like stars.

CECILIA

Blue doves and green parrots

surround us in the mornings.

Children play games at our feet.

This home is friendly and restful,

so why am I tired?

I cough until my lungs bleed,

making me wonder if the baby in my belly

can feel scared too, and sad — is the baby

aware of my reluctance to leave

this tranquil farm

and return to the life of a slave

at the mill,

translating for American engineers

as they shout at me in English

and I shout at others in a mixture of Spanish

and several African languages,

as if the entire world can be found

trapped inside one Cuban sugar mill

and trapped inside

my own voice?

FREDRIKA

I ask Cecilia to walk with me

toward the sound of drums.

We find ourselves following a long trail

to a distant plantation, where slaves dance

in front of the windowless barracoons

where they must sleep at night

in chains, behind locked doors.

I sketch the dancers

until an overseer notices me

and seizes my notebook

and tears out the pages.

He uses his whip to end the dance.

He chases me away, with Cecilia

at my side, coughing and weeping.

I am ready to leave Cuba,

but how can I go — how can I abandon

this sick girl who has worked so hard

to help me understand

this beautiful island

with its hideous ways?

BENI

When I am sent to fetch my wife

and the foreign lady

from the remote farm

where they have been staying,

I notice that Cecilia looks ill,

and I begin to wonder

if she will live long enough

to be a mother to our child.

We arrive in the city

under stars.

Cecilia’s head is uncovered,

and I feel angry

because perhaps my wife

has been weakened

by roaming with a foreigner,

her head unprotected,

exposed to the rays

of Cuba’s moon.

ELENA

They are back!

Oh, how I wish I could have gone

with them out to the countryside.

I have missed them, and I have missed

the excitement of Fredrika’s stories

about adventures in faraway places.

I have missed seeing her sketchbook

filled with unfamiliar views

of this island where I have lived

all my life,

without seeing much at all

beyond the four walls

of my own room.

I have even missed Cecilia,

with her strong spirit

and the way she whispers

a comforting lullaby

to the restless baby

as it kicks and rolls

inside her huge belly.

I don’t know how or why

it happened,

but somehow

I have begun

to think of Cecilia

as my best friend.

FREDRIKA

I have decided to postpone

my departure from Cuba.

I cannot bear to think of leaving

until I feel certain

that I can somehow

offer help to Cecilia

and Beni

and their baby.

For now, there is the delightful prospect

of watching as freed slaves dance

to raise money

for helping orphans

of all colors.

Elena and Cecilia are both so excited—

they refer to the upcoming charity dance

as the Ball of Free Blacks.

They tell me that even the wealthiest nobles

attend the dance, and donate money

to help freed slaves

feed orphans.

CECILIA

Will I ever feel as free

as during those mornings

when I sketched banana trees

and wildflowers

on the farm of the Canary Islanders

where I felt like an orphan

in a story,

an orphan who has finally

been adopted?

For now, I am stuck

in the city

once again.

This will be my first visit

to the Ball of Free Blacks.

Elena gives me a blue satin dress,

and Fredrika helps me adjust the waist

to fit my growing belly.

If only Beni could attend too

and dance with me

at the Ball . . .

but my husband must stand

beside Elena’s carriage,

protecting the valuable horse

from thieves

and mischievous children

who might try to ride

just for fun.

I have grown to admire

my husband’s dedication

to the constant

protection and care

of each horse.

I believe he will be

a good father.

ELENA

Flowers, lamps, and ornaments

decorate the dance hall.

There must be three hundred people,

all fashionably dressed,

dancing minuets

and trailing garlands of roses.

Fredrika stands beside a table

loaded with bouquets.

She stares at a line of ants

as they carry flower petals

up a wall,

balancing them

like colorful umbrellas.

She does not seem impressed

with frilly dresses

and ornate dance steps.

I suppose she is accustomed

to all the luxuries

of Europe.

After the ball

we climb up to the roof of my house

to watch stars

fall from the sky.

Where do they land?

Are they really good luck?

Cecilia watches

with one hand on her belly

and tears in her eyes.

I imagine she must be wishing

on a star . . . wishing for her baby’s

freedom.

CECILIA

Wishing on stars brings nothing

but disappointment.

How can I ever manage

to buy my baby’s freedom,

and even if I could,

what would happen next?

Would my child grow up

ashamed of parents

who are slaves?

The ways of this island

are too confusing for me.

I just want to breathe

without gasping for air

and love my baby

without struggling

to understand

the impossible future.

FREDRIKA

The Ball of Free Blacks

reminded me of dances in Europe.

The dancers were stiff.

In my sketchbook

they look like lines of ants

trailing flowers.

My sketchbook is filled

with pictures of more inspired dances,

the ones held outdoors

where the men move like warriors

and the women sway

like trees

in a dream.

There is a dance with masks

that make the men look like lions

and one with horned headdresses

and another with graceful parasols

made of palm leaves.

My sketchbook is bursting

with stories

told by dances,

stories about life on two shores . . .

two distant lands,

Africa and Cuba,

joined and also separated

by the endless flow

of ocean waves

that sound

like music. . . .

CECILIA

When we visit the homes of free blacks

out in the countryside,

Fredrika keeps asking

a thousand questions

about their daily life.

Together, we listen to the tale

of an old man who rescued

his owner’s children

during a slave rebellion

on another island.

He rowed a small boat

all the way to Cuba

where he lived as a free man,

working for wages

and caring for the children

he raised as his own.

Now, the two boys are grown

and they take care of him,

and together

all of them wonder

why the ability to share freedom

is such a rare

and fragile gift.

They tell me they do not believe

that people are either

black or white—

if that were so, then mixed-race children

would all be gray

instead of a myriad

lovely warm shades

of natural brown.

ELENA

I sit alone in my room

at the ornately barred window,

embroidering curlicues

like the fancy ironwork

that separates me

from the rest of the world.

I watch as my needle pierces

soft cloth.

The movement of the needle

helps my mind move back and forth

between many thoughts.

Why should a woman like Fredrika

have to choose between a career and love?

She would make such a good wife

and mother, if only she lived

in some distant future

when women will be free

to do more with their lives

than just sit behind bars,

embroidering cloth

for a hope chest that brings

no hope.

CECILIA

For the first time, Elena sneaks out

to help us rescue cocuyos.

Dogs and goats follow Fredrika

while she ransoms captive fireflies

and turns them loose.

Elena tells Fredrika that animals

follow her because she feeds them

from her bag of bananas and cookies,

but Fredrika insists

that friendly creatures follow her

simply because they know

that she believes

all animals have souls.

Without even trying to be a teacher,

Fredrika is teaching us,

showing us how to see things in new ways

instead of always thinking

the same old tired thoughts

that have been passed along by strangers

day after day, year after year

without any spirit of amazement

or wonder.

ELENA

I embroider until my eyes turn red.

I sew with excitement and energy.

My fingers hurt, and my shoulders ache

from bending over my embroidery hoop,

pretending to feel great enthusiasm

for my hope chest.

Mamá is delighted.

She had worried that I might

become lazy

as the year of my marriage

grows closer.

If she knew my secret plan,

she would slap me, or weep.

Fredrika will soon know my plan.

I need her help.

We must work together.

She cannot refuse.

Poor deluded Mamá.

She loves me, but her dreams

and mine are like two islands

separated by the waves

of a deep sea.

FREDRIKA

I won’t be in Cuba much longer.

There was a time when I imagined

that I would be happy

living in any land

blessed with winter sun,

but now I know

that even though I still think of this island

as one of the outer courts of Paradise—

an Eden of natural beauty—

I could not bear to stay here

in the presence of slavery’s

dreadful sadness.

Isn’t life sorrowful enough

in places without slavery,

where so many men

treat the women

of their own families

like possessions of wood or stone,

useful objects

without souls?

ELENA

Each embroidery stitch feels

like a step,

as if I am walking outdoors

in sunlight.

To buy more cloth and thread,

I ride in the swift volanta carriage

with Mamá.

She makes me sit up front

right behind Beni and his horse—

in the niña bonita seat — the “pretty girl” seat

where rich men can see me

and fall in love.

Mamá does not allow me

to set foot on the street

where my satin shoes

would get dirty.

So we stay in the carriage

while shopkeepers rush out

with an array of silver trays

bearing samples

of colorful fabrics

for us to see

and touch.

I choose silk

that feels like water

and linen that looks

like morning light

and satin as shiny as stars

and an exotic cloth

with sparkly threads

that make me think

of fireflies.

I ask Mamá to let me buy

pearls and jewels

so I can sew them into the centers

of all my embroidered flowers.

She is thrilled at the chance

to spend money so freely,

buying luxuries

the way other people

buy precious handfuls

of beans and rice.

CECILIA

Elena tells me she has a secret plan.

I have no idea what she means,

and she will not explain.

She knows I cannot read,

so she reads out loud from her journal

where she has written about Fredrika,

who told her that if she owns slaves

when she grows up

she will always have to live

with the temptation

of taking out her temper

on those who do her no harm.

Elena is rich, so I cannot imagine

how she could ever avoid

owning slaves.

She would have to run away with a poor man

and live in a hut, sweeping the dirt floor

and hoeing weeds

in a garden of wildflowers

and hunger.

ELENA

Today I will explain

my thrilling plan

to dear Fredrika,

and I will boldly

ask her to help.

I wonder what she talks about

when she is alone with Cecilia

wandering outdoors so freely

like men

or boys?

Do they know that I feel

like I could go mad

cooped up in this house

like a songbird

in a cage?

Am I selfish

to long for the freedom

to explore?

Shouldn’t I just be thinking

about helping Cecilia

who has no freedom

at all?

FREDRIKA

Elena’s idea

is enchanting!

She has learned

how to dream

of a magical world

without masters

and slaves.

If I can help her,

and if this plan works,

then I will finally

be able to leave Cuba

with new faith

in the future

of all women,

all girls . . .

BENI

I am surprised by the friendliness

of the foreign lady.

No free person has ever treated me

like an equal.

Even the freed slaves

keep their distance.

Fredrika stands beside the carriage

and talks to me,

as if I were a neighbor

instead of a servant,

while Cecilia translates

with a smile on her face.

Fredrika tells me that when she was young

her family took a grand tour of Europe,

riding all over France and Italy in a carriage.

When the carriage got stuck in deep mud,

she was not permitted to get out.

She had to stay inside, in the heat,

bored and sweaty,

simply because her mother

did not want her to speak

to the kind of people

who live in small houses

and walk

or ride swaybacked mules

on quiet country roads,

looking happy.

FREDRIKA

I am so excited

about Elena’s ingenious plan

that it is hard for me

to keep the wonderful secret,

but I know that somehow

I must.

I show Beni my sketchbook.

The drawings are simple.

I am not a good artist.

I simply sketch to fix the images

in my mind

so that, later, I can write them

and bring them back to life.

Beni smiles when he sees

that Cecilia and Elena

have taken turns

sketching each other,

filling many pages of my notebook

with dreams and wishes

of their own.

Beni says he is amazed

that they have managed to learn

how to see each other

as friends.

CECILIA

Each time Elena speaks

of her secret plan,

I grow quiet.

Will I be blamed

for sharing

her daydreams

even though I do not know

what they are?

We take turns sketching

the view from her window.

Freedom is a wall. I cannot climb it.

Once my mind begins to picture liberty,

I am like Fredrika with her sketchbook,

frenzied, unaware of anything around her

beyond that one little paradise,

a single hut, with a few trees

and children at play

pretending that green leaves

are wings.

FREDRIKA

Elena’s marvelous plan

is changing her

from the inside out.

She no longer wears

the pasty white makeup

that causes so many Cuban ladies

to look ghostly.

Her natural skin color

is the hue of wheat, the color

of men and women from southern Spain,

a land ruled by Moors

for seven hundred years.

Who will marry her

without her white makeup?

What will she be

without her parents’

illusions?

ELENA

I am finished.

My hope chest is full.

My plan will soon be complete.

Only Fredrika can help me now,

but I cannot tell her the real purpose

of my secret.

What will I do

if she refuses,

and what will happen

if my parents find out?

Will they blame Cecilia

even though

she is not involved

and knows nothing

about my scheme?

My mind soars

and whirls

in a dance

of wild fear

and graceful hope.

FREDRIKA

Helping Elena

makes me nervous,

but I struggle to stay calm

and confident.

Secrecy troubles me,

but how could this plan work

any other way?

Soon, I will leave Cuba,

and Elena will stay in her room,

embroidering flowers

over and over

like a poor farm girl

in a fairy tale,

spinning straw

into gold.

CECILIA

Secrecy

does not surprise me.

I am accustomed

to the hidden plans

of slaves.

There is always

one dream or another,

a scheme to escape

and flee

into the wilderness

to live

without chains.

Maps of the roads

to wild places

are the reason

that we are not allowed

to learn

how to read.

ELENA

My secret plan

is working.

Fredrika has helped me smuggle

all my lace and embroidery

out of the house,

one piece of cloth at a time.

As I placed the pillowcases

and shawls and collars and ruffles

in Fredrika’s hands,

the folds of cloth stirred

in the sea breeze,

moving with a sigh

like wings.

FREDRIKA

On my last evening in Elena’s home,

we climb up to the roof

to find shapes in clouds.

Cecilia is not with us.

She has an appointment,

so Elena and I have to depend

on our own ability to communicate

in a crazy mixture of English and Spanish

and the movements of our eyes

and our hands.

I believe we finally

understand each other

in our own mixed-up way.

CECILIA

I watch the fireflies in my mind

while I walk beneath a coppery sun

to the office

of the Magistrate.

My heart drums with gratitude.

My thoughts sing

with hope.

Fifteen gold dollars

was the amount Fredrika obtained

by selling all the fancy pearl-studded,

jewel-encrusted, lace-edged, ruffled folds

of embroidered cloth

that I thought Elena was keeping

for her own hope chest

so she could run away

and elope.

I assumed she was in love,

but as it turns out

her love was meant

for my child.

Fifteen gold dollars

is the price of liberty

for an unborn baby,

my baby,

a gift

so amazing,

the future,

this hope

I can share!

FREDRIKA

I think of the ladies in Europe

drinking hot tea with sugar.

Do they ever wonder

about the slaves

who chop the cane

that sweetens their tea?

How will they know

unless someone travels

and writes

about the tales

told by brave children

like Elena

and courageous mothers

like Cecilia?

ELENA

The hope chest is empty now,

but tonight I will begin

to fill it again.

I will stitch new flowers

beneath the moon

that shines in

through my window,

flying past the bars

along with fireflies

and hope.

I no longer cover my head.

I think of the moonlight

as friendly

and safe.

HISTORICAL NOTE

Fredrika Bremer (1801–1865) was Sweden’s first woman novelist and one of the world’s earliest advocates of equal rights for women. Her travel books and stories about the daily lives of ordinary women influenced Victorian English literature and helped obtain partial voting rights for Swedish women as early as the 1860s. In 1854, deeply troubled by the Crimean War, Bremer published a historic peace document in newspapers all over the world, imploring women of all countries to unite in praying for peace and actively caring for the sick and the poor, especially children.

Bremer’s Cuban letters, diaries, and sketches from her three-month visit in 1851 comprise the most complete known record of rural daily life on the island at that time. She described Cecilia, her young African-born translator, with admiration, affection, and concern. Together, they roamed the countryside, interviewing slaves, free blacks, and poor whites. During school visits, Bremer argued in favor of equal education for girls. In church, she kneeled in back, with the slaves.

Inspired by Bremer’s poetic descriptions of tropical farms and winter sun, tens of thousands of Swedish immigrants moved to Cuba. In Havana, on the corner of Obrapía and Los Oficios, a plaque commemorates Fredrika Bremer’s Cuban journey.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Nearly all the events described in this book are documented in Fredrika Bremer’s letters and diaries, but Elena is a fictional character, and the hope chest is imaginary.

Cecilia’s husband was mentioned but not named or described in Bremer’s letters. I have chosen to call him Beni, and to imagine that he was a skilled horseman.

Bremer wrote that Cecilia was eight years old when she was taken to Cuba from Africa, and that she said she still missed her mother. I have imagined Cecilia’s childhood memories and her emotional response to the weeks she spent with Fredrika roaming the countryside, visiting the homes of freed slaves, and rescuing fireflies.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I thank God for winter sun, fireflies, and friendship.

I am grateful that women no longer have to choose between writing and marriage, thanks to the efforts of equal-rights advocates such as Fredrika Bremer, who encouraged girls to change the world by thinking independently.

As always, I am deeply grateful to my husband, Curtis, my son, Victor, and my daughter, Nicole.

Special thanks to Reka Simonsen for editing so gracefully and so powerfully, and to Robin Tordini, Tim Jones, Deirdre Hare Jacobson, and everyone else at Henry Holt and Company.

I am grateful to Dan and Peggy Dunklee of the Clovis Book Barn, and William Secrest at the Fresno Library for help with rare-book searches.

For encouragement and friendship, mil gracias to Julie Molina and Celina Bowen.

REFERENCES

Bremer, Fredrika. New Sketches of Every-Day Life. Translated by Mary Howitt. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1850.

_____. The Homes of the New World: Impressions of America. Translated by Mary Howitt. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1858.

_____. Life in the Old World. Translated by Mary Howitt. New York: T. B. Peterson & Brothers, 1860.

_____. Life, Letters, and Posthumous Works of Fredrika Bremer. Edited by Charlotte Bremer. Translated by Frederick Milow and Emily Nonnen. New York: Hurd and Houghton, 1868.

_____. Cartas desde Cuba. Traducción por Matilde Goulard de Westberg. Havana: Editorial Arte y Literatura, 1981.

Stendahl, Brita K. The Education of a Self-Made Woman: Fredrika Bremer, 1801–1865. Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen Press, 1984.

Table of Contents

COVER

TITLE

COPYRIGHT

DEDICATION

CECILIA

ELENA

CECILIA

FREDRIKA

ELENA

FREDRIKA

CECILIA

CECILIA

FREDRIKA

ELENA

FREDRIKA

CECILIA

BENI

CECILIA

CECILIA

FREDRIKA

CECILIA

FREDRIKA

CECILIA

ELENA

FREDRIKA

CECILIA

CECILIA

ELENA

CECILIA

FREDRIKA

FREDRIKA

CECILIA

ELENA

ELENA

CECILIA

CECILIA

BENI

FREDRIKA

CECILIA

FREDRIKA

ELENA

CECILIA

FREDRIKA

ELENA

CECILIA

FREDRIKA

CECILIA

FREDRIKA

CECILIA

FREDRIKA

BENI

ELENA

FREDRIKA

CECILIA

ELENA

CECILIA

FREDRIKA

CECILIA

ELENA

CECILIA

ELENA

FREDRIKA

ELENA

CECILIA

ELENA

FREDRIKA

BENI

FREDRIKA

CECILIA

FREDRIKA

ELENA

FREDRIKA

CECILIA

ELENA

FREDRIKA

CECILIA

FREDRIKA

ELENA

HISTORICAL NOTE

AUTHOR’S NOTE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

REFERENCES