Hello, America

by Livia Bitton-Jackson

  But once we were up deck Captain McGregor burst into uproarious laughter.

  “God almighty, you’ve got it bad! Poor devil, right at the start.”

  “What do you mean? What have I got?”

  “A bad case of what’s called seasickness”

  “Seasickness? What are you talking about?”

  “You’re green to the gills. That’s what I’m talking about!”

  The next moment another excruciating wave of nausea hurled my stomach to the roof of my mouth, and what was left of its contents shot out like a salvo of bullets. In panic and shame I doubled over another bucket of sand at the side of the rail. God, I wanted to die that instant.

  “I apologize. This has never … never happened to me before,” I managed to sputter.

  “You’ve never been seasick before.” The captain’s chuckle was no longer mocking. He placed a comforting hand on my shoulder and whispered an astounding confession: “I’ve been at sea for fifteen years, and I get seasick on every passage. Just haven’t started yet. Too early.”

  “How can one be seasick before sailing? While the ship is at anchor in the harbor?”

  Now the captain was rocking with laughter. “At anchor? We’ve been sailing for over an hour!”

  It could not be. I’d asked Mommy to come and tell me when we were sailing. She’d promised to warn me in time.

  I slid my hand into my pocket to touch my little parcel, my last gift to Germany. It was there. A piece of paper wrapped about a small rock and tied with a yellow ribbon the color of the Judenstern, the canary yellow Jewish star I was forced to wear … in readiness. My private message to Germany—to its gas chambers, its mass graves, its fields of grass above mutilated corpses, its forests concealing the shrieks of the tormented. For the moment of departure … my gesture of farewell.

  I ran to the railing. The rock wrapped in my special message was waiting in my pocket, ready for my sacred ritual. The coastline was barely visible in the distance. Rough waves churned at the stern of the ship as it rapidly moved away from Germany. I raised my hand high, ready to fling its contents. It was of no use. The coastline was beyond range. I dropped the missive into my pocket.

  For years I had planned this gesture of last farewell in the name of all who are buried in this accursed soil and who, unlike me, were unable to leave it. Why was I deprived of my goodbye to Germany?

  I ran belowdecks. “Mommy, why didn’t you warn me in time?” I cried with bitter disappointment. “You promised you would call me the minute the ship sailed!”

  “I’m sorry, my daughter,” Mother said apologetically. “I was taking a rest. You know Shabbat afternoon I always doze off. And when I awoke, it was too late. There was no point in disturbing you. You were so busy… .”

  I remembered another lost farewell, another bitter confrontation with Mommy, and I felt my heart break all over again. It’s early spring… . I am standing in my nightgown, barefoot in the chill of the dark dawn … hear the beating of the horses’ hooves, the carriages clattering in the distance. The last carriage is dimly visible, and through a haze of rising dust I can see Papa’s silhouette among several other men in the departing carriage… . Powerless in the face of my savage grief, I shriek, “Mommy, how could you do this to me? How could you rob me of my goodbye? Why didn’t you wake me as you promised?”

  Years had passed since then, but the shriek of pain remained trapped in my soul.

  The ship was heading for the open sea, and the coastline had disappeared. Captain McGregor was no longer on deck. I went below to look for him either in the stateroom or in his office. Perhaps he had some chore for me. I had to keep busy. I had been told that’s the best antidote for seasickness. It’s also the best antidote for heartache.

  Now the captain shakes hands with Mother. “God bless you too, ma’am. You’ve got a great lass here.” Then he turns to me with a wink. “Translate it for me, will you?”

  Two young marines offer to help with our luggage, and we follow them down the gangway.

  Unexpectedly we find ourselves surrounded by the carnival atmosphere of a cavernous enclosure. Colorful flags and banners with bold lettering—NYANA, HIAS, NIMBUS, AMERICO-ITALIA—are brandished by representatives of sponsor groups; whistles and catcalls, sobs and cheerful shrieks of recognition fill the air. More and more arrivals surge forward, scrambling with zealous obedience toward the banners matching the tags in their buttonholes. Loud emotional farewells, frantic waving of hands, tearful promises of contact—the last throes of friendships and romances forged during the ocean crossing.

  In a daze I push ahead, making way for Mother toward a group gathered about the banner of our sponsor, HIAS.

  “What’s the meaning of HIAS?” a voice calls from behind, and I respond before turning my head and checking who has asked the question.

  “It’s an acronym for Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society.”

  All at once I recognize my Yugoslav hero, Stanko Vranich. He is sporting a large tag with the letters NYANA.

  “Ah, it’s you! You are with NYANA? And what does NYANA stand for?”

  “New York Association for New Americans. Can you see the sign in the far corner on the right? I’m on my way there.” I crane my neck, but in the sea of people I cannot find it. “I just came by to say goodbye, Miss Friedman. I wanted to wish you good luck.”

  The firmness of Stanko’s handshake comes as a surprise. It is out of character for the soft-spoken translator.

  “Thank you, Mr. Vranich.” I smile in return. “I hope you will achieve your goals.” During the last two days of our journey, Stanko and I discovered that we shared many ambitions, dreams. “I hope all your dreams will materialize.”

  “And yours!” A cloud sails across Stanko’s smiling face and, with regret in his tone, he declares, “Had I applied for HIAS sponsorship in time, we would now be going off together. But I found out about HIAS too late, after I had been accepted by NYANA.”

  HIAS? Stanko is Jewish? Why didn’t he say anything? Stanko now drops his luggage and extends both hands, holding my right hand in a solid grip. “But I didn’t know you then, Miss Friedman. I hope you will find happiness in America.”

  “Much luck to you, too,” I say with sincerity. Stanko bows his head and, gripping his luggage, darts in the direction of the NYANA banner. A second later he turns back and shouts above the din. “I’ll contact HIAS to inquire about you. You don’t mind?” I shake my head. No, I don’t mind. As a matter of fact, I hope he’ll do that. I hope I’ll see Stanko again.

  Mother and I crowd about the counter of an enthusiastic HIAS representative registering names and vital statistics, and a stream of shipboard acquaintances pass by for last-minute handshakes, last-minute good wishes.

  All at once, in the colorful kaleidoscope of faces I spot a smile and my heart gives a jolt. Now the face disappears in the crowd, but the smile lingers before my eyes… . I could not have imagined that smile. It was there a moment ago.

  “Mommy, I saw Bubi! I’m sure he’s here somewhere in the crowd.”

  “Bubi? What are you talking about? Elli, stop fantasizing. You know it’s impossible for your brother to be here. Today is Sabbath. How could he get here? In New York distances are great. It’s not possible to make the trip to the pier on foot. I told you not to expect him, not to drive yourself crazy. Please relax; be patient. You’ll see him tonight after the Sabbath will be over. Or tomorrow.”

  The glimpse of my brother’s face in the crowd has obliterated everything else. Suddenly everything is a blur, the crowd, the HIAS representative, the stream of leavetakers. Only my brother’s smile remains in sharp focus. It was there. I know it. I must reach it.

  Despite Mother’s indignant dismissal of what I have seen, I begin pushing and shoving and making my way through the crowd … in the direction of the smile. I can see him clearly now! Tall, handsome … different. Like an American, in a gray overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat.

  “Bubi! Bubi!”

  I
n our embrace four years of separation dissolve into thin air. Four years of waiting, struggle, anguish, are over. Thank you, my dear God.

  “Elli! Is it really you? I can barely recognize you. You’ve grown … changed… .Where’s Mommy?”

  “There. The lady in the dark blue overcoat. Can you see her now? Come, let me take you to her. She won’t believe her eyes.”

  I clutch Bubi’s hand and drag him through the crowd to the spot where Mother is standing with her back to us. When Bubi stands before her, Mother’s eyes and mouth open wide in astonishment.

  “Here he is, Mommy …”

  “Bubi?!”

  Mother clutches us both to her body, her arms encircling us, holding us tighter and tighter, and the three of us begin to sway in a dance of rebirth. Like a cluster of grapes dangling from a vine branch on a patch of brandnew soil.

  Chapter Two

  MY FIRST DAY IN AMERICA

  “Oh, Papa … Papa!” I shriek, and throw my arms about the shy stranger whose face now materializes in the crowd. He has high cheekbones … a square jaw … hazel eyes. He is tall and lean, and his shoulders are wide. “Papa!” I cannot control my sobs. How I miss those high cheekbones … that square jaw … those hazel eyes. How I miss those wide, athletic shoulders. Oh, Papa … I still cannot believe that you will not emerge from the hazy dawn into which you disappeared without a goodbye. I can’t believe that you’re gone forever. For me your return will forever remain a possible dream.

  My outburst stuns everyone present, especially the tall, lean man with hazel eyes, Papa’s brother, who awkwardly tolerates my embrace, and then with an embarrassed cough moves behind the stately woman next to him. This must be Aunt Lilly, my uncle’s wife. She looks different from in the photographs included in those curious blue envelopes that came from America. A woman of great vivacity, now her smile fades and her eyes brim with tears.

  My shocking display injects into our first meeting the very thing we were determined to avoid, at least for now … to leave unmentioned the unmentionable. Aunt Lilly takes the first step at damage control. She wipes her tears and extends both arms in an expansive welcome.

  “Laura! Elli! Welcome to America.”

  For Mother this is a reunion with my uncle and aunt after an absence of more than twenty years, years before Uncle Abish left Europe for America with his wife and young son. The two women—Mother, tall, slim, and slightly stooped, and Aunt Lilly, rather short and slightly plump—hold each other at arm’s length, assess each other, measure the telltale signs of the years that passed, then fall into each other’s arms.

  “Thank God you’ve arrived. We’ve been waiting and waiting,” Aunt Lilly shouts above the din.

  “How did you get here on the Sabbath?” Mother asks in surprise.

  “On foot. Our apartment is within walking distance. I hope you’re not too tired to make the walk. I believe it’s worth the effort, Laurie, Ellike. A good Sabbath meal awaits you at our house,” Aunt Lilly’s eyes twinkle happily.

  A Sabbath meal! The words reach me through a haze of fatigue, excitement, years of distance. An invitation to a Sabbath meal—how long has it been? How long has it been since we experienced anything as festive, as heartwarmingly mundane? As welcoming?

  “What about our luggage?” Mother asks.

  “Perhaps the HIAS people will let you store your things at their place here until the end of the Sabbath. Your cousin Tommy can drive here after the Sabbath is over and collect them.”

  The HIAS representatives kindly consent to store our luggage, and Mother and I follow our hosts out of the dank air of the reception hall into brilliant sunshine.

  A stroll through the streets of New York! I feel as if I were walking on a cloud. The plainness of the Lower East Side does not mar the radiance of the moment: The walk from the pier to my aunt and uncle’s flat on Avenue D remains one of the most exciting, one of the most memorable, occasions of my life.

  But I’m curious. Where is grand, lavishly rich America I’ve heard so much about? Where are the wide boulevards, the big flashy cars, the skyscrapers, the Americans dressed in brash colors and styles I have seen in the movies?

  “This section of the city is not representative of America. Or New York, for that matter,” Bubi explains. “Don’t worry, Leanyka. You’ll see skyscrapers and wide boulevards and flashily dressed people,” he promises. “In time you’ll see everything, experience everything,’ he adds in the somewhat patronizing, somewhat mocking tone I remember so well. It’s a thrill to be called Leanyka, little girl, once again. After so many years.

  “This is a very big city, a metropolis. It takes time and patience. Are you still impatient, still a bit impetuous?”

  Mommy walks ahead with Aunt Lilly and Uncle Abish. My inexcusable explosion at the pier opened a breach in the dam and the questions, the burning, apprehensive questions, begin to filter through. Bubi and I walk behind them and overhear the dreaded, inevitable exchange. The three of them walk with their backs hunched, Mommy bracing herself for the questions, and they, the American relatives, bracing themselves for the answers.

  Uncle Abish and Aunt Lilly have been totally cut off from their families in Europe since the outbreak of the war in 1939. And when the war was over and contacts were reestablished worldwide, they discovered that for them there was no family to contact. All members of Aunt Lilly’s family perished. For Uncle Abish, whose mother, brother, sister, brother-in-law, and their five children were put to death, we—the dead brother’s widow and two children—are his only family now. For them we are the live witnesses, cinders saved from the fire, to tell the story.

  As we walk Bubi resumes his role as big brother, teacher, my ultimate font of all knowledge. First comes a lesson in local geography. He explains that New York City is divided into five boroughs, and teaches me their names—Manhattan, Brooklyn, Bronx, Queens, and Richmond, or Staten Island.

  “We are now in the borough of Manhattan. Aunt Celia and Uncle Martin live in the borough of Brooklyn.”

  Aunt Celia is Mom’s sister. We plan to stay with her and her husband after our visit with Uncle Abish and Aunt Lilly.

  “I know. Now that Aunt Celia and Uncle Martin have invited us to live with them until we find our own apartment … we have to get to Brooklyn… . But is it true that we need a passport to travel from Manhattan to Brooklyn?” I ask. “Mommy and I have no passports. Officially our status is ’stateless.’”

  “Who told you that you need a passport to go to Brooklyn?” Bubi asks in surprise.

  “The ship’s captain. He said Brooklyn was like a foreign country. You had to cross a bridge to get to Brooklyn. You needed a passport in order to cross that bridge.”

  “Really, he said that?” Bubi chuckles. “Little sister, he was pulling your leg—that’s an American expression. He was joking. Brooklyn is part of New York City, just like Manhattan. It’s true you have to cross a bridge because Manhattan is an island. No matter where you go from Manhattan, you have to cross a bridge. Even to the Bronx. Or Queens.”

  “The captain did say he was only ‘kidding,’” I confide to my brother. “But I wasn’t sure what kidding meant.”

  We finally arrive at my aunt and uncle’s apartment. It is small but airy and spotlessly clean. The dining room table is covered with a heavy damask tablecloth and set with fine bone china dishes, heavy silver cutlery, and crystal drinking glasses. And the air is permeated with the aromas of a traditional Sabbath meal.

  Cousin Tommy, my uncle and aunt’s only son, arrives with family friends. The Goldsteins are compatriots from Hungary, and they give us a hearty welcome. Their two adolescent daughters, a thirteen-and a fifteen-year-old, are wearing lipstick and high-heel shoes! Although they look their age, they are dressed like grown women.

  We all settle down to the Sabbath feast. Aunt Lilly produces a stunning array of food—gefilte fish, chicken soup, roast beef, kugel, cholent, and schnitzel—all served on proper china platters and in bowls. There are drinks—wine
, seltzer, and beer—in cut glasses. And the dessert—apple strudel and tea—is served on side plates and in dainty porcelain teacups!

  My God. In America, time has stood still. Staggering amounts of food, consumed with apparent unconcern. Such a glut of food and drink … taken for granted! Here the war has never happened. Starvation, shortages … never happened. Here the unfathomable chasm between Before and After does not exist. Fine china, silverware, delicate teacups, damask tablecloth. So the Old World, the world of Before that for us had vanished without a trace, that for us had slid into the realm of never-never land, is actually the here and now in America . . It’s alive and well in the New World!

  Where do I belong? Will I ever span the chasm that separates these two realities? Will I ever learn to accept American luxuries without the inhibitions imposed by my memories of deprivation? Will I ever learn to live with this abundance as casually as the Americans do? Could I ever be like them?

  “Mom, the strap on my left shoe broke,” the older Goldstein girl announces.

  “What a shame,” the mother replies. “It’s a new pair. I got them to go with the dress you’re wearing.”

  “What am I to do? I can’t walk in them with the strap broken!” she cries indignantly.

  “I’ll get you another pair on Monday. First thing,” the mother promises, and the girl seems somewhat appeased.

  “Can’t you have the strap repaired?” I ask.

  “In America we don’t repair things,” Mrs. Goldstein explains. “If something breaks, you buy a new one.”

  “Are there no shoe-repair shops here?”