Fairytales (50 page)

“My grandfather left Bavaria and went to France, hoping that life would be better there. But he was wrong.”

“For us Jews, it’s not really good anywhere.”

“You’re right. But here I know we’re going to survive, because America has a Constitution that says everybody is equal and has the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

“Ho, ho, ho!” she said. “We have a professor here! How do you know?”

“Because I found a book and I read about it. I love the history of this country. They had a real revolution to free the people. There are no Pales, no pogroms, nobody knocks down your door in the middle of the night. I can go anywhere I want—because I’m free.” And Ephraim truly believed that.

“Yes,” Leah said. “This is a great country of freedom. But now you must consider the present. Where are you living?”

He told her about the Bowery: the squalor and how it had sickened him. “Now I have to find a room and a job. Do you know of any place?”

“You came to the right person. Here, I’ll write down the address of my husband’s cousin. Her name is Malka Greenberg. Here, let me give you more coffee and I’ll write down the street where she lives.”

After she handed him the slip of paper, he stood up and looked at her. He’d always remember today. “Thank you, Mrs. Cohen, for all your kindness. God is really so good to me.”

“What’s to thank? Listen, when I came, it wouldn’t have been so easy if it hadn’t been for our people. The blessing is that we all stick together. Now, good luck! And you’ll come back and see me, yes?”

Ephraim swallowed hard and nodded. “Thank you,” he said once again and heard the little bell ring twice as he opened the door, then closed it behind him.

He made his way carefully toward Canal Street with the aid of Leah’s instructions.

Malka Greenberg had only one room in the attic. It was cold and rain came in between the eaves, but after the muddy roads of France and the ship, it seemed like a palace. At least he was alone.

As he stood warming his hands, he asked, “If you have some newspaper, I can put it up to keep the wet out.”

“Of course.” Ephraim followed her down three flights of stairs and watched as she handed him copies of the Yiddish newspaper and an orange crate to stand on. That night the temperature dropped and the rain changed to snow. In the morning, Ephraim woke to find that the paper had fallen to the floor and was lying under a pile of dirty melting snow. He looked out the dormer window to the gray dawn, feeling the chill in the marrow of his bones. “This, too, will pass,” he promised himself. He was in America now, and today would be the beginning of the rest of his life. He was going to find a job.

During the next few weeks, the verve and resoluteness that had fed him began to dissolve. He found only menial labor that paid almost nothing, and there was very little of that. How would he save sufficient money to bring his family to America?

As winter faded and spring came, the city slowly lost the glamour that had first impressed him. What he now saw was ugliness, squalor, and decaying buildings. The streets were overcrowded; the people wan, harassed-looking, and badly dressed.

Then, in the midst of the bleakness, an extraordinary thing happened. Above the usual tumult and shouting on Hester Street a new word rang out:
Gold! Gold! Gold!
In Yiddish newspapers, Ephraim read the accounts of the fantastic discoveries made in a distant place called California. He found himself being caught up in the fever. He had truly believed that all he had come to this new world for was religious freedom and the right for his family to live in dignity. Any thought of riches had been far from his mind. Now he questioned his goals. Even in America could the poor live with dignity? Was there real freedom without wealth? Would a full stomach mean a shriveled soul? For the first time Ephraim realized that it might be easier to achieve a great dream rather than a more modest one.

Once again he was confronted with a three-thousand-mile journey, and the fact that it was by land rather than sea made it no less dangerous. Those who returned from the West spoke about the terrible trip over the mountains, through the desert, and, worst of all, through the Indian territory. The reports came back that men, women, and children had been scalped and tortured to death.

Still, Ephraim reasoned that if he had been able to reach New York alive, he could survive the journey to California. After considering the several routes to the gold fields, he chose to go by way of the Isthmus of Panama—this in spite of the warnings of those who said the heat, insects, diseases, and incessant rains were beyond endurance. But he had a skill to sell—he could stoke coal—and this route seemed the fastest.

He found a job on the barque
John Benson,
headed for New Orleans, and as the weather warmed with each day’s journey south, Ephraim’s spirits rose.

Even though most of the crew drank, gambled, and caroused as much as the passengers, and Ephraim frequently had to work double shifts, he never lost sight of his dream. The food was greasy and often included pork, which despite his hunger he would not eat. Instead, he filled up on lentils and beans and on his few hours off duty stood on deck trying to catch a glimpse of the changing shoreline.

New Orleans was colorful and exciting and Ephraim, enjoying the familiar French accents, would have liked to linger, but he was afraid to waste his carefully hoarded money, so he quickly found another steamer headed for the Isthmus.

This time the voyage was a nightmare: an endless pitching hell with giant waves crashing over the bow. One night a careless sailor was washed overboard to his death. Even if there had been palatable meals, Ephraim would have been unable to eat. As it was, he forced himself to chew just enough dry bread and heavily salted fish to keep himself alive. When he landed in the malarial Panamanian port called Chagres, he was a good fifteen pounds thinner and his clothes hung on him like a scarecrow. Yet when he stood on dry land again he thanked God with real gratitude for having let him survive and lost no time getting on with his journey to Panama City.

In Chagres, after waiting a week, he was able to hire a canoe from a local entrepreneur for $100 to take him partway up the Chagres River, where a riverboat would complete the journey to Panama City.

There was barely enough room in the canoe for Ephraim and the two native paddlers, so at his first stop he slept on shore, where mosquitoes ravished his flesh. A brief but fierce tropical rain fell during the night, soaking him through the thin blanket that covered him. The next morning he could barely stand up, and he had to force his exhausted body back to the canoe. The shallow river wound its way between muddy banks crawling with alligators. During the day, swarms of flies added to his misery, and at night he slept in the open, praying not to get sick.

When he reached the collection of huts where the river deepened and the riverboat waited, he heaved a sigh of relief. But the three-day trip, even with a hammock to sleep in, was far from pleasant. Fever swept the tiny craft, and Ephraim spent his days tending the sick and looking away when the stoker pitched the dead overboard. As they neared the Pacific the terrible heat diminished, and Ephraim, knowing he would have to work hard as soon as they landed, was able to save his strength for a short time. It had taken him a week and three times the amount of money he had anticipated spending to cover the sixty-odd miles between Chagres and Panama City.

Panama City, which pretty much resembled Chagres, was teeming with adventurers on their way to the gold fields. The overpriced food available in the marketplace was covered with flies or maggots; cholera and dysentery were rampant; and an epidemic of yellow fever had just broken out. The death wagons rattled back and forth along the garbage-strewn streets day and night.

The second night in the city Ephraim fell ill. He lay moaning and semiconscious on a sweat-soaked cot in one corner of a communal room he had rented for four dollars a night. Every breath he fought for burned his lungs. For nearly a week he was consumed with fever, deliriously imagining himself in that distant land which he once called home. At times he was certain he was back with his family, being called for by his mother and sister. Then one morning he opened his eyes and stared into the face of a total stranger.

“What place is this?” Ephraim whispered. And the man replied, “This is Panama City, the hell of all hells, but you are alive.”

Ephraim stared at the man, finally found his voice, and asked, “Who are you?”

“Patrick O’Shea. I’m from the old sod and probably as greedy as you.” His brogue was so thick Ephraim was barely able to understand him. But he did know Patrick was a friend.

“Why did you help me? I’m a Jew.”

“Because in Panama City there are no Jews, no Catholics—only mosquitoes who don’t give a damn about faith. They would just as soon eat you as me.”

“How can I thank you for helping me?”

Patrick laughed. “Maybe I’ll convert you. Now, enough of all this nonsense.”

When Ephraim was finally able to get up, he and Patrick walked short distances each day. One of their walks took them to the far end of the burial grounds. New graves were everywhere one looked, raw mounds of earth unmarked by stone or statue. Patrick was right—death was no respecter of religion.

After another week passed, Ephraim felt well enough to look for a ship to San Francisco. There were eight steamers making the trip back and forth, but the hordes of gold seekers were so plentiful it was over ten days before he could find a spot. This time, knowing he was too weak to work, Ephraim paid out almost the remainder of his money to go as a passenger. When he said goodbye to Patrick, who had found a job at one of the hotels and wanted to save more money before heading for California, Ephraim felt he was leaving the first real friend he’d made since France.

On November 26, 1849, after an uneventful passage, the brig
Golden Gate
dropped anchor in the San Francisco Bay. Standing on deck, Ephraim looked out into a dense, choking fog. After assembling his belongings, he walked gingerly down the rickety gangplank and stepped onto the shore of the promised Eldorado, only to sink to his knees in the icy mud. It had been raining for three weeks; today was the first day it had stopped.
That’s a good omen,
he thought as he plowed through the mire. He finally reached the top of a sand dune, from which he could see part of the city, though much of it was covered with mist. The docks that stretched from “Montgomery Street” (a cow path) to the Bay were swarming with sailors and every sort of riffraff. Tents, shanties, and corrugated-iron shacks were crowded together just beyond the wharfs. The beach was strewn with boxes, bales of cotton, barrels of sugar, and sacks of flour and cornmeal. When Ephraim tried to make his way to Stockton Street to find a place to sleep, he had to remove his shoes more than once in order to pour out the sand.

The energy of the city amazed him. Thousands of newcomers had arrived in recent months to seek their fortunes. San Francisco was a melting pot where the hardworking and the pious rubbed shoulders with prostitutes, cheap adventurers, and criminals. Wherever he looked he saw hastily flung-up saloons, warehouses, hotels, and stores. The brothels and gambling dens seemed to be the most flourishing businesses. For a moment he stood listening to the ringing of carpenters’ hammers to which the sound of tinny barroom pianos seemed to provide an accompaniment. San Francisco was a city obsessed with quick wealth, with a morality that placed gold before God. But for Ephraim America’s promise of freedom and opportunity had been kept.

The first thing he did was find a room, not much better than the garret he had left in New York. But here he could briefly savor the promise of the future. It was just a stopping-off place. He had barely enough money left to buy a grubstake, but he was willing to starve if it meant a chance to bring his family to the New World.

Three days later he joined the ragged, hopeful army of miners that left San Francisco and made its way to the rivers and fields where the first discovery of the golden metal had been made.

It was a time of frenzy, passion, and intrigue. By day the miners panned for gold in the riverbeds and hacked away at the reluctant earth. At night they gambled, fought, and tried to cheat one another. It was a strange environment for a Jew from a shtetl. No one saw as he faithfully bound on his phylacteries each morning and each night. No one cared that he kept so much to himself. And then, one day, amidst shouts and jubilation, he struck gold.

He rushed back to San Francisco, registered the claim before it could be stolen from him, then stood in the assayer’s office and watched as the precious metal was weighed. When the scales tipped, Ephraim was the possessor of one thousand dollars.

Sitting on the edge of his cot that night, Ephraim narrowed his eyes as he contemplated the coins in the palms of his calloused hands. There was money in gold, but the big claims had already been staked out. He had reached California late in the gold rush and he knew the earth would yield just so much. But perhaps the timing could be made to work to his advantage. Maybe success lay not in digging, but in lending. After all, many of the great French-Jewish fortunes had been made in banking. Setting aside a small amount for himself, Ephraim financed two miners to a grubstake. He also had a document prepared which stipulated that, if there were any profits, he would receive half.

Ephraim’s belief in himself was finally rewarded. The miners struck it rich and Ephraim doubled his money. The next time he financed four miners instead of two, and, within a year, Ephraim was an established banker. Small to be sure, but he had no doubts about the eventual growth of his establishment. After all, he was one of God’s blessed.

Sitting behind his desk, dressed in a high, white, starched collar, a frock coat and fashionable curls, he looked every inch a Rothschild. Incongruous though he may have seemed in that primitive city of miners and pioneers, it was no less incongruous than the way he viewed himself. He enjoyed remembering the penniless boy who stood shivering on the Marseilles docks, his feet wrapped in rags. He could almost feel the wind pressing against his clothes, which were still damp from his attempts to wash them the previous night.