Fairytales

by Cynthia Freeman

  When morning came, he went into the shipping office and waited his turn to be hired to work on one of the boats headed for the New World. His apprehensions grew when he saw the great number of men already in line. But Ephraim soon had more reason to believe he still enjoyed God’s blessing: he was the last to be hired that day, and the next ship would not sail for over three weeks.

  After the shoes were bought and the lodgings paid for, he had no more money, but he had a place on the ship and the opportunity to work during the crossing.

  The worst was behind him, and he could almost taste the word freedom. The word seemed to trip from his tongue like honey. That afternoon, the freighter La Liberté lifted anchor and sailed.

  Deep in the bowels of the ship, Ephraim shoveled coal into the furnace, whose appetite seemed insatiable. As soon as the monster was fed, he slammed the heavy iron door shut, but barely had time to wipe the sweat and soot from his forehead with his blackened arm before the fire again demanded his attention. Trembling with fatigue and holding on to the rail with his raw, blistered hands, he ascended the catwalk. Then, unsteadily, he inched his way along the narrow corridor until he reached his quarters. Too exhausted to wash or eat, he collapsed in his hammock and fell into a deep sleep.

  For several days Ephraim did not see daylight. After passing the Straits of Gibraltar, the ship was gripped by a terrible storm. Even when it lessened and Ephraim could go on deck and breathe the crisp salt air, he had little time or inclination to do so, for the old vessel still turned and twisted like a toy in the mighty Atlantic. To Ephraim, who had never been to sea, the ocean seemed angry and hostile even on fine days, when giant waves shot up like white fangs, then cascaded down in an icy torrent across the bow.

  Belowdecks, hordes of immigrants were being tossed about in their cramped and fetid quarters. Some writhed in pain from hunger, holding their swollen bellies. Others, too weak even to cry out, lay oblivious to the misery around them. A few simply wished that death would overtake them, as was occasionally the case.

  As happens with all things in life, there are beginnings and there are endings. Nearly six weeks after leaving Marseilles, La Liberté weighed anchor in New York harbor, where, as if to prolong the immigrants’ misery a torrential rain pounded against the portholes and the wind howled mournfully.

  Weak and bedraggled women, men, and children, families who until now had been faceless, began to emerge from belowdecks. Many wept with relief at their first sight of the New York skyline. Some, bewildered by the mere fact that they had survived, seemed unaware of the downpour. Others, too ill or weak to stand alone, clung to one another for support.

  For a brief moment Ephraim looked at the crowd and was filled with compassion. Then he picked up his bag, swung it over his shoulder, and walked down the gangplank.

  He went to the shipping office and waited in line for his pay, then watched grimly as a bursar counted out a dollar for each day they had been at sea. As he moved out of the line, he smiled sardonically; forty dollars for the agony he’d suffered. But then he thought to himself: It took Moses forty years to get to the Promised Land, and I came in just forty days. Not that I’m comparing myself with Moses, God forbid. With that happy reflection, he stuffed the money into his pocket and walked out of the shipping office.

  He was in New York. Even under the heavy clouds the city seemed to shimmer with promise. Ignoring the rain, he began to walk, trying to follow the directions one of the crew members had given him to the Lower East Side. An hour later he found a flophouse on the Bowery for twenty-five cents a night. Shedding his wet clothes, he collapsed onto an iron cot.

  In the morning, when he opened his eyes to the bleak winter day, he felt exhausted. But at least his bed wasn’t being tossed up and down by the storm. Maybe he should just rest … Then he looked around at the other men who filled the shabby, stifling room. For many, he suspected, that was how they spent their days. That depressing thought suddenly gave him the strength to get on with his new life. He rose, a little shakily, swung his bag over his shoulder, and looked around the dormitory. Although he had little in the way of worldly goods, Ephraim was a man who understood his own dignity—and he had not come this far to fail. Quickly he turned and ran down the steep flight of stairs to the street.

  Shivering with cold, he stood huddled in the doorway, trying to get his bearings. Then, still uncertain of what direction he should take, he began to walk.

  How far he had gone, he wasn’t quite sure. He stopped to rest, watching his breath steam against the cold, sharp air. Until now he had been oblivious to his surroundings, but suddenly he saw the sign: COHEN’S KOSHER RESTAURANT.

  A bell rang as he opened the door and rang again as he closed it. He stood alone among the vacant tables and chairs. There were no other customers.

  Soon, a woman emerged from the back. Wiping her hands on her white apron, she told him to take any table. When their eyes met, he felt a lump in his throat; she looked like his mother.

  “Nu. So what can I get you?” she asked in Yiddish.

  Ephraim smiled back. “A cup of coffee and a roll, please,” he said, a little embarrassed by his accent.

  “That’s all you want?” she asked, looking at the handsome young stranger. A thousand young boys like this she had befriended throughout the years. It wasn’t necessary to know from where they had come or how long they were staying. They were friendless and bewildered and Leah Cohen’s heart went out to them. After all, she and Yankel knew what it was to be greenhorns.

  She sighed as she went to get the order. Along with the coffee and roll, she brought him a piece of herring. “I won’t charge you,” she said quickly, forestalling his protest. “Not this time. Eat and enjoy.”

  Ephraim felt the tears sting his eyes. She did look like his mother. “Thank you—you’re very kind. But please, I want to pay.”

  “Next time,” she answered as she sat down across from him at the table with a glass of tea. She placed a cube of sugar between her teeth in the Russian style and took a sip of the strong brew.

  She watched him curiously. He had something that set him apart from the other immigrants she’d befriended over the years, a sense of purpose, destiny.

  “Where did you come from?” she asked.

  “From France. Paris.”

  She shook her head in awe. Paris: the name had a magical ring here in the squalor of the Lower East Side. This young boychik was different. She and Yankel had fled the shtetl near Riga. She sighed, remembering how they had been spat upon, beaten, their synagogues and cemeteries desecrated. Even after all these years she could still hear the shouts of the drunken Cossacks. She was only thirteen when her family was annihilated. But Yankel had saved her. At sixteen he had become her protector, had rescued her from the ravaged shtetl, had buoyed her spirits through the long journey to the New World. How well she knew what his boy must be feeling; felt. “So you’re from Paris. And what is your name?”

  “Ephraim Rothenberger.”

  Rothenberger?” she asked quizzically. “You were born in France?”

  “Yes—all of us. My mother and father, too.”

  “But how is it you have a German name?”

  “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.