Touched by Fire (11 page)
Authors: Irene N.Watts
The third doctor is the one we all fear the most – the one with the small buttonhook that turns up our eyelids, to check for trachoma.
A nurse stands by with a bowl of disinfectant. Essie cries, but she is fine. Pearl’s eyes have been red and sore for the last few days. She is sent back.
How will her brother find her?
It’s a miracle she did not infect us all. Still, I feel sorry for her.
Now that we have passed the medical checks, officials group us by nationality. We wait outside a door marked
REGISTRY
. This is the room where an inspector will ask us questions. For the last few days, all people talked about were the questions.
What do you answer if they ask, “Do you have work to go to?
” Tanya and Riva worry that they will be accused of taking jobs away from American applicants. Fanny tells them to say they are only being considered for work, which is true.
Rosie and I have been practicing our answers, trying to predict what the questions will be. Both Papa, in his first letter home, and women who have heard from relatives in America, have offered advice.
Rosie is with the group from Italy. We will wait for each other in the great hall, after the interrogation. We hook little fingers for luck.
These next moments will decide our future. I am going to tell the truth, only the truth. I do not want to enter America with a lie.
Fanny, Essie, and I are in the same group from Germany. Interpreters are here to help translate the questions. Even the littlest children, who can barely speak, must answer. When it is Essie’s turn, they ask her name, her age, and her favorite color. She is very shy. Fanny clasps the child’s hand tightly. I hold my breath, remembering Yuri’s silence. It does not take much to be turned down. Fanny strokes the small girl’s cheek, and though Essie speaks in a whisper, it is good enough, and they are passed.
Now it is my turn. The inspector asks me, “What is your name?”
“Miriam Markov, sir.”
“How old are you?”
“I am fourteen years old.”
“Can you read and write?”
I nod. My mouth has gone dry. I manage, “Yes, sir.”
“Read this sentence.” The inspector points to some words on a board.
I read them.
“Now, write your name.”
I do so, hoping this is the last question.
“Who paid for your ticket?” he asks.
“My father,” I answer.
“Why are you traveling alone?”
“My little sister is unwell. When she is stronger, she and my mother will come to America.” I think it is better not to mention Yuri.
“Where are you staying in America?”
I show the inspector the piece of paper with Papa’s address on it.
“Do you have a job to go to?”
“No, sir.”
“What kind of work can you do?”
“I can keep house for my father. I can cook, and I know how to sew.”
“Are you bringing any money to America?”
“I have a little, enough for food and to help with the rent for a short while. I do not know how much it is in American money, sir.”
The inspector seems satisfied and admits me to America. No more questions! I can go downstairs. Now I would like to run, but this once, I slow down and descend the stairs with my head held high, like an American lady.
Suddenly I am afraid. Thousands of people are here, lining up, with or without luggage. Voices shout, people cry. There is no sign of Papa. I look for Rosie everywhere. At last, I see my friend beside a tall man with black curly hair. He carries Rosie’s luggage. A woman, his wife I think, tugs at his arm. I wave, calling Rosie’s name. She turns, says something to the man, pulls away from him, and runs over to me.
“Miriam, I wanted them to wait to meet you, for you to meet Bruno,
mio fratello
, my brother, but Clara says they have to get back. I will find you, Miriam – I have your address. Thank you for everything!” We hug each other. A shrill voice, through the pandemonium of cries, shouts, and sobs, calls out, “Rosina,
pronto!
” Poor Rosie, her sister-in-law does sound strict. We wave good-bye.
I wait.
Where would Papa look for me?
I go to the baggage room and pick up my luggage. Outside the great hall, there is a ticket office, and people come and go. Ferries load and unload passengers. Friends and relatives look for each
other. Some, as I am, are alone, hoping to see one longed for, familiar face. I notice Essie being lifted high in the air by her papa.
Where is mine?
I walk up and down, looking for Papa. On the steps outside the building are men offering help and advice, just as in Hamburg. I remember Mama’s warnings.
Do they think I’m so innocent?
A man wearing a blue cap, which has
H.I.A.S
. embroidered on it, comes up to me.
He speaks in Yiddish. “Is someone meeting you, miss? Do you have an address to go to?”
I want to shout for help, but instead I answer in English. “Yes, go away, please,” I say. “My father is coming.”
Then I hear his dear, remembered voice, “Miriam, Miriam, you are here.” His arms embrace me, but I see only the face of a stranger!
I scream, “Let me go! I am waiting for my papa.” When I dare to look up into his eyes, I see they are Papa’s eyes. This time my scream is with happiness! “I did not know you, Papa. Where is your beard?” If Mama were here, she would say he looks like a crazy man.
“I shaved it off,” Papa says, “so that I will look more like an American. You have grown so tall. Where has my little Miriam gone?” He hugs me again, then looks over my shoulder, searching for Yuri and Mama.
“Miriam, my child, where are the others? Was there a problem? Did the doctors keep them back?” Papa asks.
I stammer, “Hasn’t Mama written to you, Papa?”
He says, “Why would she write, when we will see each other so soon?”
The man in the blue cap comes over to us and asks if we need some help. I whisper to Papa that he is a bad man. “I think he wanted me to go with him.”
Papa laughs. I’d forgotten how beautiful that sound is. “Miriam, he is a good man. Every day, he comes to Ellis Island to help travelers who have no place to go. He is from the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society.”
So then I thank the man for his kindness and tell him everything is all right now.
But I must tell Papa the truth. It cannot wait. I look at him, unable to find the right words. This is the moment I have been dreading.
“They are not coming,” Papa says. “I see it in your face. Is Mama sick, Yuri, the baby? Not Bubbe or Zayde? You must tell me, Miriam.”
I have no choice, and there in the middle of the crowd, jostled by strangers, I describe what happened. I leave nothing out – from the time Yuri ran away to the decision Mama made in Hamburg. I give Papa her message, “ ‘Tell Sam I will come.’ There will be a letter, Papa. Mama will explain it all.”
“We will talk more later,” Papa says. “You must be tired. Come, a short ferry ride and we will be in our new home.”
I want to cry with happiness at seeing Papa at last, but it is so sad that we are not all together yet.
“Don’t cry, Miriam. You are a good brave girl, and Mama will join us later.” He takes my hand. “Look about you. Welcome to America,” he says.
A NEW WORLD
74 Clinton Street
Lower East Side
New York
America
March 3, 1910
Dear Mama
,
Here I am, on my third day in New York, and there is so much to write about that I don’t know where to begin. Did Papa tell you in his letter – the one from you arrived the day after I landed – that I did not recognize him without his beard?
I made a wonderful friend on the voyage. She is from Italy, and her name is Rosina, but I call her Rosie. I did not think that I would ever find another friend I like as
much as Malka. We helped each other on the journey
.
Steerage was crowded and not very clean. But we got enough to eat and in a proper dining room. We had one bad storm but managed to survive! Devora will be fine, Mama. The children get milk to drink and play on deck when the weather is fair enough
.
When we first set eyes on the Statue of Liberty, I understood why everyone dreams of the Golden Land. The statue is more wonderful than you can ever imagine
.
The apartment is nice, just as Papa described. And we do have windows. Mama, it is the law here. Every apartment has its own small fire escape. Often it is boarded up, to use as extra living, play, or storage space. Many people sleep there in summer. When you come, we can sit and drink our tea there and watch what is going on in the street below! Night and day, there is life, Mama. The shops stay open very late. You cannot imagine how many people live on the Lower East Side. I don’t even know the number who live and work in our tenement building. Papa says it is called a sweatshop when one whole family, and the outsiders they hire, turn their apartment into a workplace
.
People come and go day and night, working and sleeping at all hours. Their boots clatter up and down the wooden stairs. There is never a moment of silence in the Lower East Side. Whatever the hour, there is activity in the streets
.
It’s hard waiting until you join us, Mama. On my first evening, Mrs. Minnie Singer, the janitor, introduced herself by telling me she is not related to Singer sewing machines. I thought that was funny. Papa’s sewing machine stands in the living room. Seeing it there made me feel right at home. He says his friend Boris Laski, whom he met on the boat, picked it up “cheap.” Papa says all it needed was a bit of oil and kindness
.
Mrs. Singer collects the rent, and scrubs and sweeps the building. She came to welcome me with her daughter, Beckie, who is a little older than I am. They brought a poppy seed cake. Wasn’t that kind?
The Singers live on the ground floor and pay a reduced rent, Papa says, because she works in the building. Mrs. Singer watches everyone who comes in and goes out, and already I have heard her shout at the lodgers. “Put your cigarettes out! Do you want to start afire?” she hollers
.
Papa explained that fires often start in these wooden tenements. Mr. Singer works with Papa for J.M. Cohen and Co. They are both senior sewing-machine operators in the factory, and that’s how Papa heard about the apartment. He said, when they have an hour to spare, he and Mr. Singer go the public library and play chess. When the evenings are warm enough, they even play outside in Seward Park, and Boris Laski likes to join them
.
Beckie says she will take me to English class, one evening soon. It is free for everyone, Mama, and so is the library. There are lectures and discussions on all manner of things, and you can even take dance classes. I’d like to do that. There is so much to do here that I wonder anyone ever stays home! For five cents – a nickel – you can go to see moving pictures!
Beckie and I went the public baths, which are near us. For a few cents, we were given a square of soap and a clean towel. I stood in a cubicle, and water like warm rain fell down from the ceiling when I pulled a handle. All the dirty water flowed down a drain in the floor. It is so much easier than heating kettle after kettle to fill a washtub in the kitchen. Best of all, I don’t have to throw the dirty water away or scrub out the tub
.
We have a gas meter on the kitchen wall, and if you put a penny in, it heats the water. You do not need to worry, Mama, I will be very careful to save money and not be extravagant. I hope to find work this week
.
Papa showed me the bank where he exchanged the money I had sewn into my skirt hem. Do you know this bank is the tallest building on the Lower East Side? There is a neon sign on top. On one side, the letters are in Yiddish, and on the other, in English. Papa said when the president of the bank came over to America, he started off with a pushcart!
The money I brought from Berlin, after Papa exchanged it, came to twenty American dollars. He is very pleased that it is nearly two months’ rent. He gave me three dollars to buy food
.
We think that we should look for a boarder to help out. It seems wasteful to have four rooms for only two people!
Today, Papa and I went for a walk after supper. I had made him potato knishes – I must have spent an hour grating the potatoes. He said it was so nice to come home after work and eat supper at his own kitchen table. He is happy not to be a boarder anymore
.
He showed me Hester and Orchard streets, where you can hardly walk because of the many pushcarts jostling for room, crammed with all kinds of interesting things. Anything you might want, you can find: boots and shoes, new and secondhand; ladies’ wear; lace and ribbons. There are books, rings and necklaces, clocks, pieces of furniture, gloves and hats, and bolts of cloth
.
Mama, there are shops filled with so much food that my mouth waters, even after I have just eaten! To celebrate my arrival, Papa bought me a sour pickle for two cents. Big wooden barrels of sweet and sour pickles stand on the sidewalks, tempting passersby to go inside the shops
.
It feels good to have a father who takes me out and explains things. Papa wants to make sure that I get used to the Golden Land, and the way of life here, before I
start work. I don’t remember ever spending so much time with him
.
My holiday will end soon. Beckie works for a company that makes shirtwaists. She knows how anxious I am to begin earning my keep, and tomorrow, she will introduce me to one of the supervisors. She says they are always looking for girls with sewing experience
.
Beckie told me about a big strike that ended a few weeks ago. Thousands of female garment workers left their machines and walked out. They refused to go back to work until hours and pay improved. Some of the men came out on strike in sympathy
.
Isn’t it wonderful that girls and women have such rights? Some strikers even went to prison. They didn’t get all they asked for, but they won shorter hours and better wages
.
I hope I get taken on at the Triangle Waist Company. Papa bought me a gift of lace. I trimmed the blouse I am going to wear for the interview with it. The new collar and cuffs look very elegant. I am lucky that you and Bubbe have taught me so well. It gives me a bit more confidence for my interview
.
One day, when my English is better, I might learn to take shorthand and typing, and then I could become a secretary! Beckie thinks being a salesgirl, even in Macy’s, is very tiring because you have to stand up all day. Mama, can you believe the girls are never allowed to sit down?
Also, Beckie says we can earn more in the clothing factory
.
Papa put up a wooden shelf in the kitchen for our single candlestick, and we have decided to go on using an old brass pair that Boris bought secondhand for him. They look better, now that I have given them a good polish. The best moment will be when the matching one is on the Sabbath table. The one you will bring with you!
My hand aches from writing so much. I forgot to mention there is an important newspaper here that Papa and Mr. Singer take in turns to read. It is called the
Jewish Daily Forward.
I will send you a copy. It is written in Yiddish. Readers write letters to the editor for the column “The Bintel Brief,” for all kinds of advice, such as who to marry or troubles with in-laws. Some letters are funny; some are sad. But there are political ideas and news too
.
I send a kiss to my little Devora
.
Love from your daughter
,
Miriam
