Hello, America

by Livia Bitton-Jackson

  “We arrived on April seventh. What’s today’s date?”

  “Today is the twenty-seventh,” Florence offers. “A day less than three weeks.”

  The three of us laugh.

  My voice drops as I make an admission. “I feel humbled … I feel humbled by this evening. This evening’s session showed me how far behind I am … how very far behind all of you.”

  “Nonsense,” Judy cries. “I tell you what’s the difference between us—formal schooling. We are college students. All you have to do is enroll in college and you’ll catch up in no time. Brooklyn College is not far from your aunt’s house. We’ll take you there, show you the ropes.”

  Enroll in college? How old do you have to be to enter college? They must think I’m much older; everyone does. How can I tell them I haven’t gone to high school yet?

  Judy and her friends promise to take me to Brooklyn College next Monday. They are determined to get permission for me to sit in their classes.

  I’m thrilled. To be in a classroom once again! To sit in a college class!

  Judy and her friends’ promise is a secret treasure I carry away with me like a souvenir.

  Chapter Seven

  MRS. RYDER

  When I arrive back home the family gives me a hero’s welcome, and I regale them with the news of my father’s family history as well as with the session of the debating society.

  “A notice came for an appointment with Mrs. Ryder on Monday,” Mommy says later.

  “Oh, no, not on Monday! On Monday Judy is taking me to Brooklyn College. When is the appointment?”

  “Nine-thirty.”

  “That’s good. I can still meet Judy and her friends at Brooklyn College in the afternoon.”

  At our meeting Mrs. Ryder gave us notice that we must regularly report on the progress of our job hunting and submit a receipt for every item we purchase. She warned that the money we receive from HIAS will depend on our ability to prove our need and will be repayable from our first earnings. But from her broad hints it was apparent that our allowance depended primarily on Mrs. Ryder’s goodwill, and that this commodity was in meager supply.

  At first Mother and I rejected the notion of accepting HIAS’s allowance for living expenses. We were determined to make it on our own, without assistance from anyone. But when we discovered that our savings would not suffice even for basic necessities, let alone for setting up a household, and that these allowances were repayable from our first earnings in small installments, we consented.

  Last week I bought a pair of shoes for six dollars. I carefully compared prices before I settled on the brown pumps in an outlet store for what I believed was a bargain price. I hate brown but chose it because it is practical. Mother pointed out that the shoe color must match everything you wear when all you have is that one pair of shoes, and I thought brown neutral enough to match most of my clothes.

  I dread our meeting on Monday. I find it humiliating to have to produce receipts. Why isn’t our word good enough?

  As I hand the sales slip for the shoes to Mrs. Ryder, I’m confident that she will approve of my judicious choice. Mrs. Ryder peruses the slip of paper and her eyebrows shoot up in a menacing sign of displeasure.

  “Six dollars for a pair of shoes?” Mrs. Ryder’s voice cuts like a razor. “Didn’t you know that you can get shoes for two dollars and ninety-nine cents?” Now she looks straight at me and her eyes are tiny thumbtacks pinning me like an insect against the wall. “Six dollars is much too extravagant for a pair of shoes.”

  “Tell her for two dollars and ninety-nine cents you can get only sandals,” Mother says in Hungarian, and I translate. “These shoes are not only for summer but for the year around.”

  “In the autumn you can buy shoes from the money you will earn then,” Mrs. Ryder snaps back, her voice retaining its fine cutting edge.

  “What is she saying?” Mother asks. But before I can translate, Mrs. Ryder moves to the next item on our agenda. “And what about a job? When will you start earning your keep? HIAS cannot provide for you indefinitely.”

  When I translate, Mother waves three fingers in the air. “Tell her we arrived three weeks ago. And that included eight days of the Passover holiday. How can she expect us to find employment in such a short time?”

  “HIAS is prepared to pay two dollars and ninety-nine cents for the shoes,” Mrs. Ryder remarks while shuffling papers in our folder on her desk. “It’s up to you to pay the difference. Now, let’s see … I have a job offer here.” She stabs her finger at one of the papers. “Buros Bags. The job requires no training, no language skills. You can start tomorrow morning.” Now Mrs. Ryder raises her head from her folder and her piercing gaze probes the depth of my bowels. “By the end of the month you can start repaying what you owe us. In weekly installments.”

  “I was hoping to go to school,” I say in a low, steady voice, my eyes meeting the challenge of the social worker’s stare. “Could you help me find an evening job, so that I can go to school in the mornings?”

  “In your situation the job comes first.” She snaps the folder shut in a gesture of finality to underline her response. “Going to school can wait. It’s a luxury you can’t afford now. Maybe someday, once you have repaid us …” She picks up a piece of paper from her desk and hands it to me. “Here is the address of your workplace.” On the sheet in block letters it says BUROS BAGS, COURTLAND STREET, BROOKLYN. “It’s near the Manhattan Bridge, on the Brooklyn side. You can take the subway to a station near the bridge, and walk the rest of the way. Ask for the manager, Igor Polonski. Be there on time tomorrow morning at eight.”

  “What does the job entail?” I ask with a sickly feeling in my stomach.

  “There is no job description here. What’s the difference? It’s open, so you can start right away. The sooner you start the sooner you’ll begin earning money. And repaying your debt to HIAS.”

  Bubi had advised me not to start work immediately but to take time and acclimatize first. “Look around,” he cautioned. “Learn what’s out there. Find out what you want to do. Decide wisely. Once you start working you won’t have time to make wise decisions about your life’s goals.”

  But I have no choice. I must not antagonize Mrs. Ryder and jeopardize the HIAS allowance. We have no other resources. No money to live on.

  Sitting on the bus on the way home I involuntarily hunch over my pocketbook, clasping it to my stomach. When will I continue my education if I have to take on a full-time job? Will I have to give up school altogether? How will my dream of becoming a teacher ever be realized? How about other job opportunities—will I miss out on those, as Bubi said? And the medical exams Alex has arranged for me? How will I manage to get to them? I should’ve told Mrs. Ryder about my medical tests!

  Mother puts her arm about my shoulders. “Don’t worry, Elli. This woman will not beat us. Remember, we have overcome greater troubles. This too we shall overcome.”

  Mother’s reassuring words, as always, ease the pain in my stomach.

  Suddenly I remember. “Mommy, do you know what today is? April thirtieth!”

  “April thirtieth … ?”

  “The day the American army liberated us!”

  “Really? How could I have forgotten?”

  “It was on a Monday—just like today.”

  “So you see, what better reminder does one need of what we’ve been through? And you see, with God’s help we have made it. You’ll see, Leanyka. Soon we won’t need to kowtow to the likes of Mrs. Ryder. We’ll earn enough to repay her organization… . And we’ll be free … hold our head up high again.”

  In the afternoon as I make my way across the magnificent Brooklyn College campus to the library, where I am to meet Judy and her friends, my spirits soar as if the dreadful meeting with Mrs. Ryder has not happened. The guard at the gate directs me across a lush green lawn that reminds me of Vienna’s Stadtpark.

  The path that leads to the library is lined on both sides with shrubbery and trees in glo
rious bloom. When I enter the library the murals on the walls strike me. I have not expected a school to look like this. The schools I have known were drab, no-nonsense buildings, surrounded by walls of stone, not greenery. Certainly the walls were not adorned with art.

  “What a beautiful campus!” I exclaim with enthusiasm when Judy and her friends arrive. “And these murals, they are beautiful!”

  My comments astonish the three girls.

  “I’ve never noticed these things,” Judy says. “I guess we’ve taken everything on the campus for granted.”

  “I’ve never noticed there were murals on the walls,” Betty laughs.

  As we leave the library building on our way to their class in Boylan Hall the girls insist they have gained a new appreciation for their college campus.

  The classroom itself is also a source of revelation for me. I have never expected an atmosphere of such informality in a college classroom—the professor’s leisurely presentation and the open, friendly interchange between him and the students who, by the way, are sitting on chairs that are not bolted to the floor!

  After class Judy, Betty, and Florence have a short break and we go to the cafeteria in the basement of Boylan Hall. Over a cup of hot chocolate I tell my new friends about the meeting with Mrs. Ryder this morning and the disheartening news that school is not an option for me; I must take on a daytime job, starting tomorrow.

  As it turns out, all three of them have jobs in the morning and attend classes late afternoon and some evenings.

  “You can go to night school,” Judy advises. “It’s no problem.”

  “What are the requirements for admission? Do I have to pass college entrance examinations?”

  “No. All you need is your high school diploma, with average or better grades. I am sure you have better than passing grades.”

  “I have no grades.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have no diploma. I did not go to high school. I did not even complete elementary school.” My voice is barely audible as I say this. The three American girls are silent.

  Then Florence says, “We must go to class. Let’s talk about it after. There must be a way.”

  I must leave. Aunt Celia expects me home for dinner.

  “Thank you. I enjoyed attending your class. It was a wonderful experience.”

  “Don’t worry, Elli. We’ll find a way,” Judy says, and the other two nod agreement. “We’ll make inquiries. There must be a solution.”

  What solution?

  How will I ever gain admission to college without a high school diploma? And if I can’t go to college, how will I become a teacher?

  Chapter Eight

  MY FIRST JOB

  Despite my initial disappointment, I find myself anticipating the challenge of my new job with a growing sense of adventure. I wake up bright and early, and, armed with a sandwich and an ample supply of good advice provided by my “two mothers,” I reach the Kings Highway train station even before 7:00 A.M.

  Clutching the sheet of paper with the address of Buros Bags, I join a throng of people on the platform, awaiting the train. I stand at the edge of the platform to make sure I don’t miss my train: I don’t want to be late on my first day. The Brighton Express arrives, and a tidal wave of riders relentlessly sweeps me into the car. Wait! Wait! I’m losing my balance! I must hold on to something! I must hold on to something … someone … to regain my balance. The doors slide shut, the train picks up speed and is in rapid motion, and I have no room to pull myself into the right position. I’m unable to reach a strap. I am tossed back and forth, back and forth, as the train rushes on and on. I have no room to move … to breathe … there’s no air in the wagon … heavy bodies are pressing against me, bearing down … I’m suffocating … and the doors are shut tight. When will the doors open?

  When will the train stop?

  All at once the train slows to a screeching halt and the doors slide open. Frantically I push my way through the crowd towards the exit, out to the platform. Thank God I’ve made it out of the wagon. I’m on an open platform… . I’m free.

  There’s a metal bench nearby; I sink onto its cool surface and take deep breaths. Thank God I can breathe now. There’s air out here, unlike in the crowded wagon. Wagon? It’s a subway car, not a wagon! Elli, pull yourself together, you’re not there. You’re here, in America, in the subway, not in the crowded cattle wagon destined for Auschwitz, for Plaszow … for Dachau… .The nightmare is over: You’re on your way to work, in a subway car. In a subway car you’re not locked in against your will. The doors open at every station, and you can get out …

  Now I feel better, much better. I must continue my journey. The next train arrives with a frightful clatter, the doors open. There are only a few riders waiting to enter the car, and I manage to remain near the entrance. There’s room here, and when the doors open air surges into the car. I am not trapped.

  It’s 7:40 A.M. when the Brighton Express deposits me at the De Kalb Avenue Station. I hope it’s not too far from here to Courtland Street.

  On the station platform a subway rider ponders. “Courtland Street? About a twenty-minute walk from here. Twenty-five, tops.”

  It is a quiet sunny morning, no people on the street. I walk briskly. Who knows if the man at the subway station did not underestimate the distance? I must make sure to be there by eight. I wonder what will my job be? Clerical? Secretarial? Bookkeeping? Mrs. Ryder is familiar with my qualifications. My typing is not great but I’m willing to learn. I can take dictation. Perhaps they will use my language skills for correspondence in foreign languages … or for answering the telephone. I hope my English is fluent enough for that. I hope my vocabulary is sufficiently sophisticated.

  I walk the whole length of Courtland Street twice. It’s ten to eight but I cannot see Buros Bags. I stop a passerby, and he points to a square, flat building at the bottom of a steep slope, in the vicinity of the East River. “See the large letters on that dark brown building, down there under the bridge—see BUROS BAGS?”

  “Down there? Oh yes, I can see. Thank you.”

  The last words I shout over my shoulder as I skip down the slope. What is an office building doing in a godforsaken spot all the way down there on the riverbank?

  Buros Bags is a low, barnlike edifice with the front door open. I stand in the open doorway searching in vain for a bell, so I knock on the open door. There is no answer. I knock again, louder… . Still no answer. What am I to do? Now it is eight o’clock. I can’t afford to waste precious minutes on formalities. I take a deep breath and walk right in … and find myself in a huge depot partially plunged in shadows, with stacks of brown paper piled to the ceiling on all sides, as far as the eye can see. Stacks of brown paper and nothing else … no one else. Where’s everybody?

  “Hello?”

  There is movement in the back of the space and a stocky man of medium height emerges from the shadows with stacks of shiny brown paper under his arms.

  “Excuse me for troubling you, but I lost my way. The sign outside says Buros Bags but I’m looking for an office by that name. Can you direct me to the right place?

  “Buros Bags here.”

  “Is this Buros Bags?”

  “Buros Bags,” the stocky man echoes in a voice as gray as the shadows, and turns to walk away.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Igor Polonski,” I blurt out, directing my despair at his broad back. “Can you direct me to him?”

  The solid figure turns and fixes me with an indifferent gaze. “I’m Polonski.” His black hair is slicked down, black eyes are set wide apart, each perching above a protruding, high cheekbone. His tone, in a thick Slavic accent—is it hostile or simply sullen? “What can I do for you?”

  “I am sent by HIAS,” I say. “You have a job opening?”

  “HIAS,” he echoes again, tonelessly. “Okay. Here.” With a gesture of resignation the massive body named Polonski points to a wide counter pardy obscured by the dark gloom against the neare
st wall. “This is where you work.”

  I look around the bare depot. Where is everybody?

  “Am I the only worker?”

  “And me.” Polonski answers impassively, and deposits the stacks of paper on the counter. “Here. You see this ream? See these markings on the counter? We make three sizes. See this cutter? To make small bag you—you move cutter to here. To make medium—here. And to make big bag—here. You understand?”

  I take a deep breath and nod.

  “After you cut paper you make fold like this.” Polonski folds a brown sheet lengthwise, allowing one side to overlap by about an inch. “See?” Then, draping the stiff double sheet on his arm, he walks toward the shadowy back of the oblong barn. “Come.”

  I follow silently behind Polonski to the counter at the far end of the depot. By now my eyes have become accustomed to the dark and I can see the silhouette of a strange contraption. Polonski raises the lever of the strange contraption and slides the paper through an open gap. Then with a sudden lurch of his arm he brings the lever down, and I flinch. Raising the lever once again Polonski draws the paper out of the contraption, rearranges it so as to slide it in sideways, once again brings the lever down, repeating the operation one more time over the third side of the folded brown paper.

  “See? Done. Sealed. Three sides. Now bag finished,” Polonski declares somewhat more animatedly as he slaps the new brown paper bag on top of a stack of similar shapes piled high on the counter. “And your name?”

  “Miss Friedman.”

  “Miss Friedman.” Polonski seems fond of repeating me. “Come.”

  Now we proceed to another counter, another strange contraption, in another deep shadow. “You begin here, at cutter. First we make five hundred big bags. With this chalk here I mark big size on paper. Then, bring to cutter.” Polonski slides the stack of huge, shiny brown sheets into the contraption, pulls the lever. The lever brings down the blade and … “Cut!” Polonsky grunts and I recoil, my finely honed sense of self-preservation automatically activated.