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From Plotzk to Boston
BY
MARY ANTIN
WITH A FOREWORD BY
ISRAEL ZANGWILL
BOSTON, MASS.
W. B. CLARKE & CO., PARK STREET CHURCH
1899
COPYRIGHT, 1899
BY MARY ANTIN
PRESS OF PHILIP COWEN
NEW YORK CITY
* * * * *
DEDICATED TO
HATTIE L. HECHT
WITH THE LOVE AND GRATITUDE OF
THE AUTHOR
* * * * *
FOREWORD
The "infant phenomenon" in literature is rarer than in more physical
branches of art, but its productions are not likely to be of value
outside the doting domestic circle. Even Pope who "lisped in numbers for
the numbers came," did not add to our Anthology from his cradle, though
he may therein have acquired his monotonous rocking-metre. Immaturity of
mind and experience, so easily disguised on the stage or the
music-stool--even by adults--is more obvious in the field of pure
intellect. The contribution with which Mary Antin makes her début in
letters is, however, saved from the emptiness of embryonic thinking by
being a record of a real experience, the greatest of her life; her
journey from Poland to Boston. Even so, and remarkable as her
description is for a girl of eleven--for it was at this age that she
first wrote the thing in Yiddish, though she was thirteen when she
translated it into English--it would scarcely be worth publishing merely
as a literary curiosity. But it happens to possess an extraneous value.
For, despite the great wave of Russian immigration into the United
States, and despite the noble spirit in which the Jews of America have
grappled with the invasion, we still know too little of the inner
feelings of the people themselves, nor do we adequately realize what
magic vision of free America lures them on to face the great journey to
the other side of the world.
Mary Antin's vivid description of all she and her dear ones went
through, enables us to see almost with our own eyes how the invasion of
America appears to the impecunious invader. It is thus "a human
document" of considerable value, as well as a promissory note of future
performance. The quick senses of the child, her keen powers of
observation and introspection, her impressionability both to sensations
and complex emotions--these are the very things out of which literature
is made; the raw stuff of art. Her capacity to handle English--after so
short a residence in America--shows that she possesses also the
instrument of expression. More fortunate than the poet of the Ghetto,
Morris Rosenfeld, she will have at her command the most popular language
in the world, and she has already produced in it passages of true
literature, especially in her impressionistic rendering of the sea and
the bustling phantasmagoria of travel.
What will be her development no one can say precisely, and I would not
presume either to predict or to direct it, for "the wind bloweth where
it listeth." It will probably take lyrical shape. Like most modern
Jewesses who have written, she is, I fear, destined to spiritual
suffering: fortunately her work evidences a genial talent for enjoyment
and a warm humanity which may serve to counterbalance the curse of
reflectiveness. That she is growing, is evident from her own
Introduction, written only the other day, with its touches of humor and
more complex manipulation of groups of facts. But I have ventured to
counsel delay rather than precipitation in production--for she is not
yet sixteen--and the completion of her education, physical no less than
intellectual; and it is to this purpose that such profits as may accrue
from this publication will be devoted. Let us hope this premature
recognition of her potentialities will not injure their future
flowering, and that her development will add to those spiritual and
intellectual forces of which big-hearted American Judaism stands sorely
in need. I should explain in conclusion, that I have neither added nor
subtracted, even a comma, and that I have no credit in "discovering"
Mary Antin. I did but endorse the verdict of that kind and charming
Boston household in which I had the pleasure of encountering the gifted
Polish girl, and to a member of which this little volume is
appropriately dedicated.
I. ZANGWILL.
PREFATORY
In the year 1891, a mighty wave of the emigration movement swept over
all parts of Russia, carrying with it a vast number of the Jewish
population to the distant shores of the New World--from tyranny to
democracy, from darkness to light, from bondage and persecution to
freedom, justice and equality. But the great mass knew nothing of these
things; they were going to the foreign world in hopes only of earning
their bread and worshiping their God in peace. The different currents
that directed the course of that wave cannot be here enumerated. Suffice
it to say that its power was enormous. All over the land homes were
broken up, families separated, lives completely altered, for a common
end.
The emigration fever was at its height in Plotzk, my native town, in the
central western part of Russia, on the Dvina River. "America" was in
everybody's mouth. Business men talked of it over their accounts; the
market women made up their quarrels that they might discuss it from
stall to stall; people who had relatives in the famous land went around
reading their letters for the enlightenment of less fortunate folks; the
one letter-carrier informed the public how many letters arrived from
America, and who were the recipients; children played at emigrating; old
folks shook their sage heads over the evening fire, and prophesied no
good for those who braved the terrors of the sea and the foreign goal
beyond it;--all talked of it, but scarcely anybody knew one true fact
about this magic land. For book-knowledge was not for them; and a few
persons--they were a dressmaker's daughter, and a merchant with his two
sons--who had returned from America after a long visit, happened to be
endowed with extraordinary imagination, (a faculty closely related to
their knowledge of their old country-men's ignorance), and their
descriptions of life across the ocean, given daily, for some months, to
eager audiences, surpassed anything in the Arabian Nights. One sad fact
threw a shadow over the splendor of the gold-paved, Paradise-like
fairyland. The travelers all agreed that Jews lived there in the most
shocking impiety.
Driven by a necessity for bettering the family circumstances, and by
certain minor forces which cannot now be named, my father began to think
seriously of casting his lot with the great stream of emigrants. Many
family councils were held before it was agreed that the plan must be
carried out. Then came the parting; for it was impossible for the whole
family to go at once. I remember it, though I was only eight. It struck
me as rather interesting to stand on the platform before the train, with
a crowd of friends weeping in sympathy with us, and father waving his
hat for our special benefit, and saying--the last words we heard him
speak as the train moved off--
"Good-bye, Plotzk, forever!"
Then followed three long years of hope and doubt for father in America
and us in Russia. There were toil and suffering and waiting and anxiety
for all. There were--but to tell of all that happened in those years I
should have to write a separate history. The happy day came when we
received the long-coveted summons. And what stirring times followed! The
period of preparation was one of constant delight to us children. We
were four--my two sisters, one brother and myself. Our playmates looked
up to us in respectful admiration; neighbors, if they made no direct
investigations, bribed us with nice things for information as to what
was going into every box, package and basket. And the house was
dismantled--people came and carried off the furniture; closets, sheds
and other nooks were emptied of their contents; the great wood-pile was
taken away until only a few logs remained; ancient treasures such as
women are so loath to part with, and which mother had carried with her
from a dear little house whence poverty had driven us, were brought to
light from their hiding places, and sacrificed at the altar whose flames
were consuming so much that was fraught with precious association and
endeared by family tradition; the number of bundles and boxes increased
daily, and our home vanished hourly; the rooms became quite
uninhabitable at last, and we children glanced in glee, to the anger of
the echoes, when we heard that in the evening we were to start upon our
journey.
But we did not go till the next morning, and then as secretly as
possible. For, despite the glowing tales concerning America, people
flocked to the departure of emigrants much as they did to a funeral; to
weep and lament while (in the former case only, I believe) they envied.
As everybody in Plotzk knew us, and as the departure of a whole family
was very rousing, we dared not brave the sympathetic presence of the
whole township, that we knew we might expect. So we gave out a false
alarm.
Even then there was half the population of Plotzk on hand the next
morning. We were the heroes of the hour. I remember how the women
crowded around mother, charging her to deliver messages to their
relatives in America; how they made the air ring with their
unintelligible chorus; how they showered down upon us scores of
suggestions and admonitions; how they made us frantic with their
sympathetic weeping and wringing of hands; how, finally, the ringing of
the signal bell set them all talking faster and louder than ever, in
desperate efforts to give the last bits of advice, deliver the last
messages, and, to their credit let it be said, to give the final,
hearty, unfeigned good-bye kisses, hugs and good wishes.
Well, we lived through three years of waiting, and also through a half
hour of parting. Some of our relatives came near being carried off, as,
heedless of the last bell, they lingered on in the car. But at last
they, too, had to go, and we, the wanderers, could scarcely see the
rainbow wave of colored handkerchiefs, as, dissolved in tears, we were
carried out of Plotzk, away from home, but nearer our longed-for haven
of reunion; nearer, indeed, to everything that makes life beautiful and
gives one an aim and an end--freedom, progress, knowledge, light and
truth, with their glorious host of followers. But we did not know it
then.
The following pages contain the description of our journey, as I wrote
it four years ago, when it was all fresh in my memory.
M. A.
FROM PLOTZK TO BOSTON.
The short journey from Plotzk to Vilna was uneventful. Station after
station was passed without our taking any interest in anything, for that
never-to-be-forgotten leave taking at the Plotzk railway station left us
all in such a state of apathy to all things except our own thoughts as
could not easily be thrown off. Indeed, had we not been obliged to
change trains at Devinsk and, being the inexperienced travellers we
were, do a great deal of bustling and hurrying and questioning of
porters and mere idlers, I do not know how long we would have remained
in that same thoughtful, silent state.
Towards evening we reached Vilna, and such a welcome as we got! Up to
then I had never seen such a mob of porters and isvostchiky. I do not
clearly remember just what occurred, but a most vivid recollection of
being very uneasy for a time is still retained in my memory. You see my
uncle was to have met us at the station, but urgent business kept him
elsewhere.
Now it was universally believed in Plotzk that it was wise not to trust
the first isvostchik who offered his services when one arrived in Vilna
a stranger, and I do not know to this day how mother managed to get
away from the mob and how, above all, she dared to trust herself with
her precious baggage to one of them. But I have thought better of Vilna
Isvostchiky since, for we were safely landed after a pretty long drive
in front of my uncle's store, with never one of our number lost, never a
bundle stolen or any mishap whatever.
Our stay in Vilna was marked by nothing of interest. We stayed only long
enough for some necessary papers to reach us, and during that time I
discovered that Vilna was very much like Plotzk, though larger, cleaner
and noisier. There were the same coarse, hoarse-voiced women in the
market, the same kind of storekeepers in the low store doors, forever
struggling and quarrelling for a customer. The only really interesting
things I remember were the horsecars, which I had never even heard of,
and in one of which I had a lovely ride for five copeiky, and a large
book store on the Nemetzka yah Ulitza. The latter object may not seem of
any interest to most people, but I had never seen so many books in one
place before, and I could not help regarding them with longing and
wonder.
At last all was in readiness for our start. This was really the
beginning of our long journey, which I shall endeavor to describe.
I will not give any description of the various places we passed, for we
stopped at few places and always under circumstances which did not
permit of sightseeing. I shall only speak of such things as made a
distinct impression upon my mind, which, it must be remembered, was not
mature enough to be impressed by what older minds were, while on the
contrary it was in just the state to take in many things which others
heeded not.
I do not know the exact date, but I do know that it was at the break of
day on a Sunday and very early in April when we left Vilna. We had not
slept any the night before. Fannie and I spent the long hours in playing
various quiet games and watching the clock. At last the long expected
hour arrived; our train would be due in a short time. All but Fannie and
myself had by this time fallen into a drowse, half sitting, half lying
on some of the many baskets and boxes that stood all about the room all
ready to be taken to the station. So we set to work to rouse the rest,
and with the aid of an alarm clock's loud ringing, we soon had them at
least half awake; and while the others sat rubbing their eyes and trying
to look wide awake, Uncle Borris had gone out, and when he returned with
several droskies to convey us to the station, we were all ready for the
start.
We went out into the street, and now I perceived that not we alone were
sleepy; everything slept, and nature also slept, deeply, sweetly.
The sky was covered with dark gray clouds (perhaps that was its
night-cap), from which a chill, drizzling rain was slowly descending,
and the thick morning fog shut out the road from our sight. No sound
came from any direction; slumber and quiet reigned everywhere, for every
thing and person slept, forgetful for a time of joys, sorrows, hopes,
fears,--everything.
Sleepily we said our last good-byes to the family, took our seats in the
droskies, and soon the Hospitalnayah Ulitza was lost to sight. As the
vehicles rattled along the deserted streets, the noise of the horses'
hoofs and the wheels striking against the paving stones sounded
unusually loud in the general hush, and caused the echoes to answer
again and again from the silent streets and alleys.
In a short time we were at the station. In our impatience we had come
too early, and now the waiting was very tiresome. Everybody knows how
lively and noisy it is at a railroad station when a train is expected.
But now there were but a few persons present, and in everybody's face I
could see the reflection of my own dissatisfaction, because, like
myself, they had much rather have been in a comfortable, warm bed than
up and about in the rain and fog. Everything was so uncomfortable.
Suddenly we heard a long shrill whistle, to which the surrounding
dreariness gave a strangely mournful sound, the clattering train rushed
into the depot and stood still. Several passengers (they were very few)
left the cars and hastened towards where the droskies stood, and after
rousing the sleepy isvostchiky, were whirled away to their several
destinations.
When we had secured our tickets and seen to the baggage we entered a car
in the women's division and waited impatiently for the train to start.
At last the first signal was given, then the second and third; the
locomotive shrieked and puffed, the train moved slowly, then swiftly it
left the depot far behind it.
From Vilna to our next stopping place, Verzbolovo, there was a long,
tedious ride of about eight hours. As the day continued to be dull and
foggy, very little could be seen through the windows. Besides, no one
seemed to care or to be interested in anything. Sleepy and tired as we
all were, we got little rest, except the younger ones, for we had not
yet got used to living in the cars and could not make ourselves very
comfortable. For the greater part of the time we remained as unsocial as
the weather was unpleasant. The car was very still, there being few
passengers, among them a very pleasant kind gentleman travelling with
his pretty daughter. Mother found them very pleasant to chat with, and
we children found it less tiresome to listen to them.
At half past twelve o'clock the train came to a stop before a large
depot, and the conductor announced "Verzbolovo, fifteen minutes!" The
sight that now presented itself was very cheering after our long,
unpleasant ride. The weather had changed very much. The sun was shining
brightly and not a trace of fog or cloud was to be seen. Crowds of
well-dressed people were everywhere--walking up and down the platform,
passing through the many gates leading to the street, sitting around the
long, well-loaded tables, eating, drinking, talking or reading
newspapers, waited upon by the liveliest, busiest waiters I had ever
seen--and there was such an activity and bustle about everything that I
wished I could join in it, it seemed so hard to sit still. But I had to
content myself with looking on with the others, while the friendly
gentleman whose acquaintance my mother had made (I do not recollect his
name) assisted her in obtaining our tickets for Eidtkunen, and attending
to everything else that needed attention, and there were many things.
Soon the fifteen minutes were up, our kind fellow-passenger and his
daughter bade us farewell and a pleasant journey (we were just on the
brink of the beginning of our troubles), the train puffed out of the
depot and we all felt we were nearing a very important stage in our
journey. At this time, cholera was raging in Russia, and was spread by
emigrants going to America in the countries through which they
travelled. To stop this danger, measures were taken to make emigration
from Russia more difficult than ever. I believe that at all times the
crossing of the boundary between Russia and Germany was a source of
trouble to Russians, but with a special passport this was easily
overcome. When, however, the traveller could not afford to supply
himself with one, the boundary was crossed by stealth, and many amusing
anecdotes are told of persons who crossed in some disguise, often that
of a mujik who said he was going to the town on the German side to sell
some goods, carried for the purpose of ensuring the success of the ruse.
When several such tricks had been played on the guards it became very
risky, and often, when caught, a traveller resorted to stratagem, which
is very diverting when afterwards described, but not so at a time when
much depends on its success. Some times a paltry bribe secured one a
safe passage, and often emigrants were aided by men who made it their
profession to help them cross, often suffering themselves to be paid
such sums for the service that it paid best to be provided with a
special passport.
As I said, the difficulties were greater at the time we were travelling,
and our friends believed we had better not attempt a stealthy crossing,
and we procured the necessary document to facilitate it. We therefore
expected little trouble, but some we thought there might be, for we had
heard some vague rumors to the effect that a special passport was not as
powerful an agent as it used to be.
We now prepared to enjoy a little lunch, and before we had time to clear
it away the train stopped, and we saw several men in blue uniforms, gilt
buttons and brass helmets, if you may call them so, on their heads. At
his side each wore a kind of leather case attached to a wide bronze
belt. In these cases they carried something like a revolver, and each
had, besides, a little book with black oilcloth covers.
I can give you no idea of the impression these men (they were German
gendarmes) made on us, by saying they frightened us. Perhaps because
their (to us) impressive appearance gave them a stern look; perhaps
because they really looked something more than grave, we were so
frightened. I only know that we were. I can see the reason now clearly
enough. Like all persons who were used to the tyranny of a Russian
policeman, who practically ruled the ward or town under his friendly
protection, and never hesitated to assert his rights as holder of
unlimited authority over his little domain, in that mild, amiable manner
so well known to such of his subjects as he particularly favored with
his vigilant regard--like all such persons, I say, we did not, could
not, expect to receive any kind treatment at the hands of a number of
officers, especially as we were in the very act of attempting to part
with our much-beloved mother country, of which act, to judge by the
pains it took to make it difficult, the government did not approve. It
was a natural fear in us, as you can easily see. Pretty soon mother
recovered herself, and remembering that the train stops for a few
minutes only, was beginning to put away the scattered articles hastily
when a gendarme entered our car and said we were not to leave it. Mamma
asked him why, but he said nothing and left the car, another gendarme
entering as he did so. He demanded where we were going, and, hearing the
answer, went out. Before we had had time to look about at each other's
frightened faces, another man, a doctor, as we soon knew, came in
followed by a third gendarme.
The doctor asked many questions about our health, and of what
nationality we were. Then he asked about various things, as where we
were going to, if we had tickets, how much money we had, where we came
from, to whom we were going, etc., etc., making a note of every answer
he received. This done, he shook his head with his shining helmet on it,
and said slowly (I imagined he enjoyed frightening us), "With these
third class tickets you cannot go to America now, because it is
forbidden to admit emigrants into Germany who have not at least second
class tickets. You will have to return to Russia unless you pay at the
office here to have your tickets changed for second class ones." After a
few minutes' calculation and reference to the notes he had made, he
added calmly, "I find you will need two hundred rubles to get your
tickets exchanged;" and, as the finishing stroke to his pleasing
communication, added, "Your passports are of no use at all now because
the necessary part has to be torn out, whether you are allowed to pass
or not." A plain, short speech he made of it, that cruel man. Yet every
word sounded in our ears with an awful sound that stopped the beating of
our hearts for a while--sounded like the ringing of funeral bells to us,
and yet without the mournfully sweet music those bells make, that they
might heal while they hurt.
We were homeless, houseless, and friendless in a strange place. We had
hardly money enough to last us through the voyage for which we had hoped
and waited for three long years. We had suffered much that the reunion
we longed for might come about; we had prepared ourselves to suffer more
in order to bring it about, and had parted with those we loved, with
places that were dear to us in spite of what we passed through in them,
never again to see them, as we were convinced--all for the same dear
end. With strong hopes and high spirits that hid the sad parting, we had
started on our long journey. And now we were checked so unexpectedly
but surely, the blow coming from where we little expected it, being, as
we believed, safe in that quarter. And that is why the simple words had
such a frightful meaning to us. We had received a wound we knew not how
to heal.
When mother had recovered enough to speak she began to argue with the
gendarme, telling him our story and begging him to be kind. The children
were frightened by what they understood, and all but cried. I was only
wondering what would happen, and wishing I could pour out my grief in
tears, as the others did; but when I feel deeply I seldom show it in
that way, and always wish I could.
Mother's supplications, and perhaps the children's indirect ones, had
more effect than I supposed they would. The officer was moved, even if
he had just said that tears would not be accepted instead of money, and
gave us such kind advice that I began to be sorry I had thought him
cruel, for it was easy to see that he was only doing his duty and had no
part in our trouble that he could be blamed for, now that I had more
kindly thoughts of him.
He said that we would now be taken to Keebart, a few versts' distance
from Verzbolovo, where one Herr Schidorsky lived. This man, he said, was
well known for miles around, and we were to tell him our story and ask
him to help us, which he probably would, being very kind.
A ray of hope shone on each of the frightened faces listening so
attentively to this bearer of both evil and happy tidings. I, for one,
was very confident that the good man would help us through our
difficulties, for I was most unwilling to believe that we really
couldn't continue our journey. Which of us was? I'd like to know.
We are in Keebart, at the depot. The least important particular even of
that place, I noticed and remembered. How the porter--he was an ugly,
grinning man--carried in our things and put them away in the southern
corner of the big room, on the floor; how we sat down on a settee near
them, a yellow settee; how the glass roof let in so much light that we
had to shade our eyes because the car had been dark and we had been
crying; how there were only a few people besides ourselves there, and
how I began to count them and stopped when I noticed a sign over the
head of the fifth person--a little woman with a red nose and a pimple on
it, that seemed to be staring at me as much as the grayish-blue eyes
above them, it was so large and round--and tried to read the German,
with the aid of the Russian translation below. I noticed all this and
remembered it, as if there was nothing else in the world for me to think
of--no America, no gendarme to destroy one's passports and speak of two
hundred rubles as if he were a millionaire, no possibility of being sent
back to one's old home whether one felt at all grateful for the
kindness or not--nothing but that most attractive of places, full of
interesting sights.
For, though I had been so hopeful a little while ago, I felt quite
discouraged when a man, very sour and grumbling--and he was a Jew--a
"Son of Mercy" as a certain song said--refused to tell mamma where
Schidorsky lived. I then believed that the whole world must have united
against us; and decided to show my defiant indifference by leaving the
world to be as unkind as it pleased, while I took no interest in such
trifles.
So I let my mind lose itself in a queer sort of mist--a something I
cannot describe except by saying it must have been made up of lazy
inactivity. Through this mist I saw and heard indistinctly much that
followed.
When I think of it now, I see how selfish it was to allow myself to
sink, body and mind, in such a sea of helpless laziness, when I might
have done something besides awaiting the end of that critical time,
whatever it might be--something, though what, I do not see even now, I
own. But I only studied the many notices till I thought myself very well
acquainted with the German tongue; and now and then tried to cheer the
other children, who were still inclined to cry, by pointing out to them
some of the things that interested me. For this faulty conduct I have no
excuse to give, unless youth and the fact that I was stunned with the
shock we had just received, will be accepted.
I remember through that mist that mother found Schidorsky's home at
last, but was told she could not see him till a little later; that she
came back to comfort us, and found there our former fellow passenger who
had come with us from Vilna, and that he was very indignant at the way
in which we were treated, and scolded, and declared he would have the
matter in all the papers, and said we must be helped. I remember how
mamma saw Schidorsky at last, spoke to him, and then told us, word for
word, what his answer had been; that he wouldn't wait to be asked to use
all his influence, and wouldn't lose a moment about it, and he didn't,
for he went out at once on that errand, while his good daughter did her
best to comfort mamma with kind words and tea. I remember that there was
much going to the good man's house; much hurrying of special messengers
to and from Eidtkunen; trembling inquiries, uncertain replies made
hopeful only by the pitying, encouraging words and manners of the
deliverer--for all, even the servants, were kind as good angels at that
place. I remember that another little family--there were three--were
discovered by us in the same happy state as ourselves, and like the dogs
in the fable, who, receiving care at the hands of a kind man, sent their
friends to him for help, we sent them to our helper.
I remember seeing night come out of that mist, and bringing more trains
and people and noise than the whole day (we still remained at the
depot), till I felt sick and dizzy. I remember wondering what kind of a
night it was, but not knowing how to find out, as if I had no senses. I
remember that somebody said we were obliged to remain in Keebart that
night and that we set out to find lodgings; that the most important
things I saw on the way were the two largest dolls I had ever seen,
carried by two pretty little girls, and a big, handsome father; and a
great deal of gravel in the streets, and boards for the crossings. I
remember that we found a little room (we had to go up four steps first)
that we could have for seventy-five copecks, with our tea paid for in
that sum. I remember, through that mist, how I wondered what I was
sleeping on that night, as I wondered about the weather; that we really
woke up in the morning (I was so glad to rest I had believed we should
never be disturbed again) and washed, and dressed and breakfasted and
went to the depot again, to be always on hand. I remember that mamma and
the father of the little family went at once to the only good man on
earth (I thought so) and that the party of three were soon gone, by the
help of some agent that was slower, for good reasons, in helping us.
I remember that mamma came to us soon after and said that Herr
Schidorsky had told her to ask the Postmeister--some high official
there--for a pass to Eidtkunen; and there she should speak herself to
our protector's older brother who could help us by means of his great
power among the officers of high rank; that she returned in a few hours
and told us the two brothers were equal in kindness, for the older one,
too, said he would not wait to be asked to do his best for us. I
remember that another day--so-o-o long--passed behind the mist, and we
were still in that dreadful, noisy, tiresome depot, with no change, till
we went to spend the night at Herr Schidorsky's, because they wouldn't
let us go anywhere else. On the way there, I remember, I saw something
marvellous--queer little wooden sticks stuck on the lines where clothes
hung for some purpose. (I didn't think it was for drying, because you
know I always saw things hung up on fences and gates for such purposes.
The queer things turned out to be clothes-pins). And, I remember, I
noticed many other things of equal importance to our affairs, till we
came to the little house in the garden. Here we were received, I
remember with much kindness and hospitality. We had a fire made for us,
food and drink brought in, and a servant was always inquiring whether
anything more could be done for our comfort.
I remember, still through that misty veil, what a pleasant evening we
passed, talking over what had so far happened, and wondering what would
come. I must have talked like one lost in a thick fog, groping
carefully. But, had I been shut up, mentally, in a tower nothing else
could pierce, the sense of gratitude that naturally sprung from the
kindness that surrounded us, must have, would have found a passage for
itself to the deepest cavities of the heart. Yes, though all my senses
were dulled by what had passed over us so lately, I was yet aware of the
deepest sense of thankfulness one can ever feel. I was aware of
something like the sweet presence of angels in the persons of good
Schidorsky and his family. Oh, that some knowledge of that gratitude
might reach those for whom we felt it so keenly! We all felt it. But the
deepest emotions are so hard to express. I thought of this as I lay
awake a little while, and said to myself, thinking of our benefactor,
that he was a Jew, a true "Son of Mercy." And I slept with that thought.
And this is the last I remember seeing and feeling behind that mist of
lazy inactivity.
The next morning, I woke not only from the night's sleep, but from my
waking dreaminess. All the vapors dispersed as I went into the pretty
flower garden where the others were already at play, and by the time we
had finished a good breakfast, served by a dear servant girl, I felt
quite myself again.
Of course, mamma hastened to Herr Schidorsky as soon as she could, and
he sent her to the Postmeister again, to ask him to return the part of
our passports that had been torn out, and without which we could not go
on. He said he would return them as soon as he received word from
Eidtkunen. So we could only wait and hope. At last it came and so
suddenly that we ran off to the depot with hardly a hat on all our
heads, or a coat on our backs, with two men running behind with our
things, making it a very ridiculous sight. We have often laughed over it
since.
Of course, in such a confusion we could not say even one word of
farewell or thanks to our deliverers. But, turning to see that we were
all there, I saw them standing in the gate, crying that all was well
now, and wishing us many pleasant things, and looking as if they had
been receiving all the blessings instead of us.
I have often thought they must have purposely arranged it that we should
have to leave in a hurry, because they wouldn't stand any expression of
gratefulness.
Well, we just reached our car in time to see our baggage brought from
the office and ourselves inside, when the last bell rang. Then, before
we could get breath enough to utter more than faint gasps of delight, we
were again in Eidtkunen.
The gendarmes came to question us again, but when mother said that we
were going to Herr Schidorsky of Eidtkunen, as she had been told to
say, we were allowed to leave the train. I really thought we were to be
the visitors of the elder Schidorsky, but it turned out to be only an
understanding between him and the officers that those claiming to be on
their way to him were not to be troubled.
At any rate, we had now really crossed the forbidden boundary--we were
in Germany.
There was a terrible confusion in the baggage-room where we were
directed to go. Boxes, baskets, bags, valises, and great, shapeless
things belonging to no particular class were thrown about by porters and
other men, who sorted them and put tickets on all but those containing
provisions, while others were opened and examined in haste. At last our
turn came, and our things, along with those of all other American-bound
travellers, were taken away to be steamed and smoked and other such
processes gone through. We were told to wait till notice should be given
us of something else to be done. Our train would not depart till nine in
the evening.
As usual, I noticed all the little particulars of the waiting room. What
else could I do with so much time and not even a book to read? I could
describe it exactly--the large, square room, painted walls, long tables
with fruits and drinks of all kinds covering them, the white chairs,
carved settees, beautiful china and cut glass showing through the glass
doors of the dressers, and the nickel samovar, which attracted my
attention because I had never seen any but copper or brass ones. The
best and the worst of everything there was a large case full of books.
It was the best, because they were "books" and all could use them; the
worst, because they were all German, and my studies in the railway depot
of Keebart had not taught me so much that I should be able to read books
in German. It was very hard to see people get those books and enjoy them
while I couldn't. It was impossible to be content with other people's
pleasure, and I wasn't.
When I had almost finished counting the books, I noticed that mamma and
the others had made friends with a family of travellers like ourselves.
Frau Gittleman and her five children made very interesting companions
for the rest of the day, and they seemed to think that Frau Antin and
the four younger Antins were just as interesting; perhaps excepting, in
their minds, one of them who must have appeared rather uninteresting
from a habit she had of looking about as if always expecting to make
discoveries.
But she was interested, if not interesting, enough when the oldest of
the young Gittlemans, who was a young gentleman of seventeen, produced
some books which she could read. Then all had a merry time together,
reading, talking, telling the various adventures of the journey, and
walking, as far as we were allowed, up and down the long platform
outside, till we were called to go and see, if we wanted to see, how our
things were being made fit for further travel. It was interesting to see
how they managed to have anything left to return to us, after all the
processes of airing and smoking and steaming and other assaults on
supposed germs of the dreaded cholera had been done with, the pillows,
even, being ripped open to be steamed! All this was interesting, but we
were rather disagreeably surprised when a bill for these unasked-for
services had to be paid.
The Gittlemans, we found, were to keep us company for some time. At the
expected hour we all tried to find room in a car indicated by the
conductor. We tried, but could only find enough space on the floor for
our baggage, on which we made believe sitting comfortably. For now we
were obliged to exchange the comparative comforts of a third class
passenger train for the certain discomforts of a fourth class one. There
were only four narrow benches in the whole car, and about twice as many
people were already seated on these as they were probably supposed to
accommodate. All other space, to the last inch, was crowded by
passengers or their luggage. It was very hot and close and altogether
uncomfortable, and still at every new station fresh passengers came
crowding in, and actually made room, spare as it was, for themselves. It
became so terrible that all glared madly at the conductor as he allowed
more people to come into that prison, and trembled at the announcement
of every station. I cannot see even now how the officers could allow
such a thing; it was really dangerous. The most remarkable thing was the
good-nature of the poor passengers. Few showed a sour face even; not a
man used any strong language (audibly, at least). They smiled at each
other as if they meant to say, "I am having a good time; so are you,
aren't you?" Young Gittleman was very gallant, and so cheerful that he
attracted everybody's attention. He told stories, laughed, and made us
unwilling to be outdone. During one of his narratives he produced a
pretty memorandum book that pleased one of us very much, and that
pleasing gentleman at once presented it to her. She has kept it since in
memory of the giver, and, in the right place, I could tell more about
that matter--very interesting.
I have given so much space to the description of that one night's
adventures because I remember it so distinctly, with all its
discomforts, and the contrast of our fellow-travellers' kindly
dispositions. At length that dreadful night passed, and at dawn about
half the passengers left, all at once. There was such a sigh of relief
and a stretching of cramped limbs as can only be imagined, as the
remaining passengers inhaled the fresh cold air of dewy dawn. It was
almost worth the previous suffering to experience the pleasure of relief
that followed.
All day long we travelled in the same train, sleeping, resting, eating,
and wishing to get out. But the train stopped for a very short time at
the many stations, and all the difference that made to us was that
pretty girls passed through the cars with little bark baskets filled
with fruit and flowers hardly fresher or prettier than their bearers,
who generally sold something to our young companion, for he never
wearied of entertaining us.
Other interests there were none. The scenery was nothing unusual, only
towns, depots, roads, fields, little country houses with barns and
cattle and poultry--all such as we were well acquainted with. If
something new did appear, it was passed before one could get a good look
at it. The most pleasing sights were little barefoot children waving
their aprons or hats as we eagerly watched for them, because that
reminded us of our doing the same thing when we saw the passenger
trains, in the country. We used to wonder whether we should ever do so
again.
Towards evening we came into Berlin. I grow dizzy even now when I think
of our whirling through that city. It seemed we were going faster and
faster all the time, but it was only the whirl of trains passing in
opposite directions and close to us that made it seem so. The sight of
crowds of people such as we had never seen before, hurrying to and fro,
in and out of great depots that danced past us, helped to make it more
so. Strange sights, splendid buildings, shops, people and animals, all
mingled in one great, confused mass of a disposition to continually move
in a great hurry, wildly, with no other aim but to make one's head go
round and round, in following its dreadful motions. Round and round went
my head. It was nothing but trains, depots, crowds--crowds, depots,
trains, again and again, with no beginning, no end, only a mad dance!
Faster and faster we go, faster still, and the noise increases with the
speed. Bells, whistles, hammers, locomotives shrieking madly, men's
voices, peddlers' cries, horses' hoofs, dogs' barking--all united in
doing their best to drown every other sound but their own, and made such
a deafening uproar in the attempt that nothing could keep it out. Whirl,
noise, dance, uproar--will it last forever? I'm so--o diz-z-zy! How my
head aches!
And oh! those people will be run over! Stop the train, they'll--thank
goodness, nobody is hurt. But who ever heard of a train passing right
through the middle of a city, up in the air, it seems. Oh, dear! it's no
use thinking, my head spins so. Right through the business streets! Why,
who ever--!
I must have lived through a century of this terrible motion and din and
unheard of roads for trains, and confused thinking. But at length
everything began to take a more familiar appearance again, the noise
grew less, the roads more secluded, and by degrees we recognized the
dear, peaceful country. Now we could think of Berlin, or rather, what we
had seen of it, more calmly, and wonder why it made such an impression.
I see now. We had never seen so large a city before, and were not
prepared to see such sights, bursting upon us so suddenly as that. It
was like allowing a blind man to see the full glare of the sun all at
once. Our little Plotzk, and even the larger cities we had passed
through, compared to Berlin about the same as total darkness does to
great brilliancy of light.
In a great lonely field opposite a solitary wooden house within a large
yard, our train pulled up at last, and a conductor commanded the
passengers to make haste and get out. He need not have told us to hurry;
we were glad enough to be free again after such a long imprisonment in
the uncomfortable car. All rushed to the door. We breathed more freely
in the open field, but the conductor did not wait for us to enjoy our
freedom. He hurried us into the one large room which made up the house,
and then into the yard. Here a great many men and women, dressed in
white, received us, the women attending to the women and girls of the
passengers, and the men to the others.
This was another scene of bewildering confusion, parents losing their
children, and little ones crying; baggage being thrown together in one
corner of the yard, heedless of contents, which suffered in consequence;
those white-clad Germans shouting commands always accompanied with
"Quick! Quick!"; the confused passengers obeying all orders like meek
children, only questioning now and then what was going to be done with
them.
And no wonder if in some minds stories arose of people being captured by
robbers, murderers, and the like. Here we had been taken to a lonely
place where only that house was to be seen; our things were taken away,
our friends separated from us; a man came to inspect us, as if to
ascertain our full value; strange looking people driving us about like
dumb animals, helpless and unresisting; children we could not see,
crying in a way that suggested terrible things; ourselves driven into a
little room where a great kettle was boiling on a little stove; our
clothes taken off, our bodies rubbed with a slippery substance that
might be any bad thing; a shower of warm water let down on us without
warning; again driven to another little room where we sit, wrapped in
woollen blankets till large, coarse bags are brought in, their contents
turned out and we see only a cloud of steam, and hear the women's
orders to dress ourselves, quick, quick, or else we'll miss--something
we cannot hear. We are forced to pick out our clothes from among all the
others, with the steam blinding us; we choke, cough, entreat the women
to give us time; they persist, "Quick, quick, or you'll miss the train!"
Oh, so we really won't be murdered! They are only making us ready for
the continuing of our journey, cleaning us of all suspicions of
dangerous germs. Thank God!
Assured by the word "train" we manage to dress ourselves after a
fashion, and the man comes again to inspect us. All is right, and we are
allowed to go into the yard to find our friends and our luggage. Both
are difficult tasks, the second even harder. Imagine all the things of
some hundreds of people making a journey like ours, being mostly
unpacked and mixed together in one sad heap. It was disheartening, but
done at last was the task of collecting our belongings, and we were
marched into the big room again. Here, on the bare floor, in a ring, sat
some Polish men and women singing some hymn in their own tongue, and
making more noise than music. We were obliged to stand and await further
orders, the few seats being occupied, and the great door barred and
locked. We were in a prison, and again felt some doubts. Then a man came
in and called the passengers' names, and when they answered they were
made to pay two marcs each for the pleasant bath we had just been
forced to take.
Another half hour, and our train arrived. The door was opened, and we
rushed out into the field, glad to get back even to the fourth class
car.
We had lost sight of the Gittlemans, who were going a different way now,
and to our regret hadn't even said good-bye, or thanked them for their
kindness.