by Alex George
Several hours later, Frederick stumbled back to the cabin. All of his attempts to strike up a conversation in German or French had been rejected, usually with a look of suspicion or distaste, sometimes with a salvo of angry words that he could not understand. The flamboyantly mustachioed bartender was faultlessly polite, but not even he was prepared to converse with him. Frederick watched as other men came into the bar and easily began to talk with their fellow travelers. As the evening wore on, he descended into a pit of morose introspection. Embarrassment was not an emotion that Frederick Meisenheimer was well acquainted with, and his instinct was to flee from it, right to the bottom of the nearest bottle. He pushed his glass toward the taciturn bartender, and the bartender filled it up.
The next day, neither Frederick nor Jette felt well enough to face breakfast. Jette’s face was chalk-white beneath the blankets that she had heaped upon herself. She lay on her bunk, shivering in the grip of fever. Frederick, meanwhile, was suffering from a monstrous hangover. He thought blackly about the previous evening. This was a new form of torture for him, to be surrounded by men he couldn’t talk to. As his head throbbed in reproach, he resolved to learn English at once.
Later that morning, he staggered to his feet and went out onto the deck for some fresh air. The ship passed a procession of soupy bayous, lazy crucibles of iridescent green, fringed by small forests of cypress and hanging moss. Across the vast expanse of water, Frederick could just make out tiny trees on the far shore. The Mississippi was still running high. Water rippled and broke into silver flashes as the Great Republic plowed its way upriver.
Frederick considered his position. He had to find someone to teach him English, but it seemed unlikely that any of the ship’s passengers would be willing to help. Then, through the fog of his hangover, he had an idea. He walked toward the saloon. Inside, waiters were beginning to lay tables for lunch. At the far end of the room, the bartender was at his post, holding a glass up to the light. He watched Frederick approach with an inscrutable look in his eye.
It took several minutes for Frederick to establish, by means of zesty pantomime, that he wanted language lessons, not a drink. Finally, the bartender understood. He said that his name was Thomas. It was agreed that, for the duration of the journey, Thomas would provide such instruction in English as was possible, subject to his professional obligations. There followed a brief negotiation as to fees. At its conclusion, Frederick marveled at exactly how much could be communicated simply by gesticulation and facial expression. Even before the first lesson had begun, the two men understood each other perfectly.
Jette was too ill to leave the cabin. The ship’s doctor examined her and prescribed bed rest and plenty of liquids. While she did as instructed, Frederick roamed the ship, watching the country unfurl before him. The Great Republic made several stops on its journey north, tying up alongside crowded levees to off-load cargo and passengers. Frederick watched, hungry for clues about his new country. He stared at the dark-skinned roustabouts as they skipped along the narrow gangplanks that perched precariously between the ship’s hold and the shore, backs bent double beneath their loads. They worked quickly, stacking up cargo on the quay under the watchful eye of the ship’s clerk, a short, corpulent man in a bowler hat. A small fortification of merchandise would soon appear on the side of the wharf: sacks of cottonseed meal and rice, barrels of oil, sugar, and molasses. The clerk strutted between the waiting merchants, completing paperwork, while the workers regained their breath in the ship’s cool shade. Then the process was reversed, with new crates and sacks and barrels carried back onto the ship for delivery to destinations farther upriver.
Frederick also had his lessons with the barman to occupy him. For an hour in the middle of the morning and for longer in the afternoons, he perched on a tall stool in front of the bar and began to learn English. Given that teacher and pupil did not share one word of common language, the process was necessarily a slow one. Every day Frederick arrived with a list of new words he wanted to learn, and the first hour or so was spent establishing the correct translation for each one. Without access to a dictionary, Frederick had to identify the words in other ways. Objects were easy enough—a rudimentary drawing would usually do. Abstract concepts such as love, or hope, or lies, were more difficult. Adverbs and adjectives were murder. They must have presented a peculiar spectacle, Frederick gravely performing his charades to his unblinking audience of one. The final part of each lesson was spent on establishing a basic idiomatic repertoire. Since he was the only one with a grasp of the local vernacular, Thomas was responsible for deciding exactly which phrases would be most useful. It is possible that the bartender was not entirely honest in communicating with his pupil the exact substance of what it was he was being taught. Soon Frederick’s lexicon of expressions included:
Let me give you a large tip.
I like big mustaches.
My wife is a witch, you know.
I am a German idiot.
God bless the United States of America!
Frederick was an eager student. At Thomas’s insistence, he spent his evenings in the cabin, going over that day’s work rather than practicing on the other passengers. The strange words felt heavy on his tongue, as new and different as the spicy food of their first night in New Orleans. He hardly recognized his voice as the alien sounds emerged cautiously from his mouth. His head was filled with foreign words and syntax, a bewildering storm of meaning. Still, Thomas would applaud every morning as Frederick showed him what he had learned.
The ship continued its steady progress north. Jette finally emerged from the cabin at Cape Girardeau. She watched the off-loading of cargo and passengers in silence, her eyes dull in the bright afternoon sun. The worst of her fever had passed, but she had barely eaten anything in days.
When they docked at St. Louis the following afternoon, Jette wept, unwilling to quit the cocoon of their cabin. Frederick waited patiently for Jette’s tears to stop, and then they walked down the gangplank and stood on Missouri soil for the first time.
Frederick had planned to travel the last leg of their journey, from St. Louis to Rocheport, by carriage. He had explained all this to Thomas by way of tortuous mime, and so was equipped with the necessary phrase, which he repeated and repeated in his head: I need to hire a carriage for a long journey.
As they walked away from the crowded dockside, there were signs to a hundred different destinations. Frederick understood none of them. Crowds streamed past them. This constant velocity! Did nobody in America remain still? Clouds were massing overhead, dark with the threat of rain. Next to him, Jette shivered.
They made their way onto the street that ran alongside the wharf. Gas lamps cast pale yellow light onto the cobbles. A policeman was standing on the other side of the street.
“I’ll ask this man,” Frederick said to Jette. “He’ll help.”
The policeman watched him approach without expression. Frederick took off his hat. “I need to hire a carriage for a long journey,” he said.
The policeman ignored him.
Frederick tried again. “Please. I need to hire a carriage.”
This time the policeman responded, his tone sharp. Frederick did not understand a word. “I need to hire a carriage for a long journey,” he said again. He turned and pointed to Jette. “My wife is a witch, you know.”
The policeman unleashed another torrent of words, his fingers tightening around the long, black nightstick that hung from his belt. Frederick smiled politely and retreated back to where Jette was watching.
“What did he say?” she asked.
“I have no idea,” admitted Frederick. All his hard work with Thomas had been of no use at all. For the next hour he approached a succession of people, bowing politely before carefully announcing, I need to hire a carriage for a long journey. He was shouted at and ignored in equal measures. Jette was looking paler by the minute, and wh
en an elderly couple shook their heads in a display of harmonious distaste, Frederick lost his patience. He stood in the middle of the sidewalk and raised his hands above his head.
“I need to hire a carriage for a long journey!” he shouted. His words rose into the air, unheeded. The only discernible effect of the outburst was to create an island in the ebb and flow of traffic as people shifted direction to avoid him. Frederick clenched his fists into fat knots of distress and shook them at the sky.
“Excuse me.” A man in an immaculate three-piece suit was standing in front of him. He looked about sixty years old. He had spoken in perfect German.
Frederick dropped his arms to his sides in surprise. “Yes?”
“Can I help you?”
Frederick took a deep breath. “I need to hire a carriage for a long journey,” he said in English.
“A carriage, yes, I see,” replied the man, again in German.
Frederick gave up. “Meine Frau ist ziemlich krank.” My wife is ill. The familiar sound of the words made him want to weep.
“Ill?” said the man.
“She is expecting a baby. She has a fever.”
The man took off his glasses. “I am a doctor. May I see her?”
“Of course. If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Not at all.” He put out his hand toward Frederick. “My name is Joseph Wall.”
Frederick shook his hand. “How could you tell I was German?”
“I studied there for a while. In Königsberg. I recognized your accent.”
“I’ve only just begun to learn your language,” Frederick said. “It’s difficult.”
Joseph Wall nodded. “It certainly is.”
“You’re the first person who has offered to help,” said Frederick, unable to hide his bitterness.
“Well, what do you expect?”
Frederick frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You do know where you are, I presume?”
“Of course. This is St. Louis, Missouri. The United States of America.”
“That’s right. So why were you standing in the middle of the street shouting in Polish?”
Soon the extent of the bartender’s cruel hoax became clear. Frederick had wanted to return to the ship and confront him, but Joseph Wall gently persuaded him that Jette’s health was a more pressing concern.
The doctor’s offices were nearby. There, inspection and diagnosis were swiftly conducted. The baby was nearly engaged, he reported. The safest course of action was complete rest until the birth.
Frederick explained that it was impossible for them to remain in St. Louis. Joseph Wall listened without comment as Frederick told him of their plans to reach Rocheport as soon as possible. When he had finished, the doctor said, “You understand that undertaking such a journey at this juncture would not be without risk?”
“Of course.”
“If I arrange for a carriage for you, will you at least promise me one thing?”
“Certainly.”
“You need a proper night’s rest before you begin your journey. Much better to start in the morning.”
“Very well,” said Frederick. “Can you recommend a cheap hotel?”
Joseph Wall smiled. “I believe I can do better than that,” he said.
That evening Frederick and Jette sat down and ate supper with Joseph Wall and his wife. Reina Wall was a short, neat woman, a contained bustle of domestic efficiency. Her brown hair was twisted into a bun on the back of her head. She and her husband spoke softly to each other in a cocktail of English, Polish, and Yiddish, before Joseph would turn to their guests and address them in perfect German while Reina sat next to him and smiled.
The food was simple, wholesome, and good. Thick white soup, coils of pink sausage, slabs of heavy black bread. For the first time in days, Jette ate.
During the meal, Joseph Wall told their story. He and his wife had arrived in America from Poland thirty years earlier. Their first act as new immigrants was to undertake a bureaucratic metamorphosis, shrinking their name from Walinowski to Wall with a single stroke of a pen. Those last three syllables were lost forever, ghosts from their old life. Joseph and Reina had faced the future with their new name—simple, unforeign, monumental.
“That was the biggest mistake I ever made.” The doctor sighed and looked at Frederick. “If I may give you some advice. Learn the language, but don’t ever change your name. This is a land of immigrants. I don’t just mean you and me. I mean everyone. We all came here from somewhere. But who am I now? Who are my sons? Wall.” He shook his head. “It’s a good name, but it’s not ours.”
Frederick nodded, and just like that, we were doomed to our own polysyllabic heft of German nomenclature.
The following morning, the doctor watched as Jette climbed into the carriage that he had procured. Two horses waited patiently in their harness, eating sugar lumps out of the driver’s hand.
“How much is this going to cost?” asked Frederick anxiously. “Two horses is more than I can really—”
Joseph held up a hand. “I’ve borrowed them from a friend of mine. I explained the situation. He says you’re welcome to them. He won’t miss them for a few days.”
“But you don’t know us,” protested Frederick. “How do you know we’ll send them back?”
Joseph pointed at the driver. “He’ll come back, and he’ll bring the horses with him. Besides,” he said, “I do know you. I was you, once.”
The two men looked at each other for a moment, and then shook hands.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” said Frederick.
“Live your life,” answered Joseph Wall. “Look after your wife and your new baby. Cherish your family. That will be thanks enough.”
“God bless the United States of America,” said Frederick solemnly, in Polish.
The doctor laughed. “Go,” he said. “Go to your new home, Frederick Meisenheimer. Go and be a good American.”
“A good American. Yes. That is what I shall be.” Frederick smiled at him. “I shall never forget you, I promise you that.”
“All right, then. Good. Don’t forget us.” The doctor’s hand landed in the middle of Frederick’s back. “But, go, please, before your wife has her baby right here on the street.”
With a final wave, Frederick climbed into the carriage. The driver shook the reins and the horses moved away.
Frederick turned to his wife. Jette lay limply against the cushions. She smiled weakly at him, her face cast into shadow by exhaustion. “I can feel every cobblestone we go over,” she said.
He held her hand. “Don’t worry,” he said. “With two horses, we’ll be in Rocheport before you know it.”
By then, of course, Frederick was getting used to making mistakes.
SIX
The carriage clattered westward, mile after mile. Frederick stared out the window at the fields of crops that stretched away to the horizon. Occasionally he saw men in the distance, solitary workers toiling beneath the sun. The land went on forever. Jette lay with her face turned to the wall. Every bump in the road, every uneven bounce of the wheel, made her wince. Frederick wished there was something he could do. He wanted the driver, a sour-faced man called Childs, to hurry the horses on to Rocheport, but he didn’t want Jette to suffer the discomfort that a speedier journey would cause. As it was, their progress was steady and unspectacular. At midday they stopped to rest the horses and eat the lunch that Reina Wall had packed for them. Childs preferred his own company, standing near the horses as he ate. My grandparents stared silently at Jette’s stomach, wondering how long they had.
That night they stayed in a small inn. Childs had declined Frederick’s invitation to join them for supper with a terse shake of his head. Frederick had seen him later in the tavern, alone at a table, staring sile
ntly into a glass of beer.
The next day they set off at dawn. As they traveled west, the quality of the roads deteriorated. The carriage shuddered as it jumped crevices and hurdled ridges. By the middle of the morning, Jette’s face was shining with perspiration. She lay with her eyes tightly shut, her belly cradled in her hands. Frederick stroked her forehead, promising that it would soon be over.
Halfway through the afternoon they felt the carriage slow to a standstill. Childs clambered down from his seat. His face appeared at the window, and he motioned that the horses needed water. Frederick opened the carriage door and looked out. They had stopped in a small town. Single-story buildings lined both sides of the street, a wooden sign hanging outside each one. Dirty-faced boys in torn shirts ran back and forth across the road. In front of one shop, boxes of fruits and vegetables were displayed on a long trestle table. Frederick watched a woman with a basket on her arm bend over and inspect some pears. The sign above the shop read lebensmittel.
“Jette,” he whispered. “The grocer’s sign is in German.” When she did not reply, Frederick looked around. Swamped by the sudden bliss of stillness, she had fallen asleep. Frederick climbed down from the carriage. At that moment a man walked by, singing softly to himself in German.
It is hard to imagine the effect on my grandfather of hearing the familiar cadences of his native tongue at that particular moment. For the last two days he had been brooding about being hoodwinked by the Polish barman. Not even Joseph Wall’s kindness had been able to soften the sting of his humiliation, and with that humiliation came a new, unfamiliar suspicion of those around him—now he saw a rapacious glint in the eye of every native, an unscrupulous trick lurking up every foreign sleeve. So when he stepped out onto that street, he was vulnerable to the faintest echo of home. He hurried after the man. “Excuse me,” he called out in German.
The man stopped and turned to look at him.
“Forgive me for interrupting you,” began Frederick. “My name is Frederick Meisenheimer. My wife and I have just arrived in this country.”