THE EXODUS
On the day when our steamer ticket arrived, my mother did not go out
with her basket, my brother stayed out of heder, and my sister salted
the soup three times. I do not know what I did to celebrate the
occasion. Very likely I played tricks on Deborah, and wrote a long
letter to my father.
Before sunset the news was all over Polotzk that Hannah Hayye had
received a steamer ticket for America. Then they began to come. Friends
and foes, distant relatives and new acquaintances, young and old, wise
and foolish, debtors and creditors, and mere neighbors,--from every
quarter of the city, from both sides of the Dvina, from over the
Polota, from nowhere,--a steady stream of them poured into our street,
both day and night, till the hour of our departure. And my mother gave
audience. Her faded kerchief halfway off her head, her black ringlets
straying, her apron often at her eyes, she received her guests in a
rainbow of smiles and tears. She was the heroine of Polotzk, and she
conducted herself appropriately. She gave her heart's thanks for the
congratulations and blessings that poured in on her; ready tears for
condolences; patient answers to monotonous questions; and handshakes
and kisses and hugs she gave gratis.
What did they not ask, the eager, foolish, friendly people? They
wanted to handle the ticket, and mother must read them what is written
on it. How much did it cost? Was it all paid for? Were we going to
have a foreign passport or did we intend to steal across the border?
Were we not all going to have new dresses to travel in? Was it sure
that we could get koscher food on the ship? And with the questions
poured in suggestions, and solid chunks of advice were rammed in by
nimble prophecies. Mother ought to make a pilgrimage to a "Good
Jew"--say, the Rebbe of Lubavitch--to get his blessing on our journey.
She must be sure and pack her prayer books and Bible, and twenty
pounds of zwieback at the least. If they did serve trefah on the ship,
she and the four children would have to starve, unless she carried
provisions from home.--Oh, she must take all the featherbeds!
Featherbeds are scarce in America. In America they sleep on hard
mattresses, even in winter. Haveh Mirel, Yachne the dressmaker's
daughter, who emigrated to New York two years ago, wrote her mother
that she got up from childbed with sore sides, because she had no
featherbed.--Mother mustn't carry her money in a pocketbook. She must
sew it into the lining of her jacket. The policemen in Castle Garden
take all their money from the passengers as they land, unless the
travellers deny having any.
And so on, and so on, till my poor mother was completely bewildered.
And as the day set for our departure approached, the people came
oftener and stayed longer, and rehearsed my mother in long messages
for their friends in America, praying that she deliver them promptly
on her arrival, and without fail, and might God bless her for her
kindness, and she must be sure and write them how she found their
friends.
Hayye Dvoshe, the wig-maker, for the eleventh time repeating herself,
to my mother, still patiently attentive, thus:--
"Promise me, I beg you. I don't sleep nights for thinking of him.
Emigrated to America eighteen months ago, fresh and well and strong,
with twenty-five ruble in his pocket, besides his steamer ticket, with
new phylacteries, and a silk skull-cap, and a suit as good as
new,--made it only three years before,--everything respectable, there
could be nothing better;--sent one letter, how he arrived in Castle
Garden, how well he was received by his uncle's son-in-law, how he was
conducted to the baths, how they bought him an American suit,
everything good, fine, pleasant;--wrote how his relative promised him
a position in his business--a clothing merchant is he--makes
gold,--and since then not a postal card, not a word, just as if he had
vanished, as if the earth had swallowed him. _Oi, weh!_ what haven't I
imagined, what haven't I dreamed, what haven't I lamented! Already
three letters have I sent--the last one, you know, you yourself wrote
for me, Hannah Hayye, dear--and no answer. Lost, as if in the sea!"
And after the application of a corner of her shawl to eyes and nose,
Hayye Dvoshe, continuing:--
"So you will go into the newspaper, and ask them what has become of my
Möshele, and if he isn't in Castle Garden, maybe he went up to
Balti-moreh,--it's in the neighborhood, you know,--and you can tell
them, for a mark, that he has a silk handkerchief with his monogram in
Russian, that his betrothed embroidered for him before the engagement
was broken. And may God grant you an easy journey, and may you arrive
in a propitious hour, and may you find your husband well, and strong,
and rich, and may you both live to lead your children to the wedding
canopy, and may America shower gold on you. Amen."
The weeks skipped, the days took wing, an hour was a flash of thought;
so brimful of events was the interval before our departure. And no one
was more alive than I to the multiple significance of the daily drama.
My mother, full of grief at the parting from home and family and all
things dear, anxious about the journey, uncertain about the future,
but ready, as ever, to take up what new burdens awaited her; my
sister, one with our mother in every hope and apprehension; my
brother, rejoicing in his sudden release from heder; and the little
sister, vaguely excited by mysteries afoot; the uncles and aunts and
devoted neighbors, sad and solemn over their coming loss; and my
father away over in Boston, eager and anxious about us in Polotzk,--an
American citizen impatient to start his children on American
careers,--I knew the minds of every one of these, and I lived their
days and nights with them after an apish fashion of my own.
But at bottom I was aloof from them all. What made me silent and
big-eyed was the sense of being in the midst of a tremendous
adventure. From morning till night I was all attention. I must credit
myself with some pang of parting; I certainly felt the thrill of
expectation; but keener than these was my delight in the progress of
the great adventure. It was delightful just to be myself. I rejoiced,
with the younger children, during the weeks of packing and
preparation, in the relaxation of discipline and the general
demoralization of our daily life. It was pleasant to be petted and
spoiled by favorite cousins and stuffed with belated sweets by
unfavorite ones. It was distinctly interesting to catch my mother
weeping in corner cupboards over precious rubbish that could by no
means be carried to America. It was agreeable to have my Uncle Moses
stroke my hair and regard me with affectionate eyes, while he told me
that I would soon forget him, and asked me, so coaxingly, to write him
an account of our journey. It was delicious to be notorious through
the length and breadth of Polotzk; to be stopped and questioned at
every shop-door, when I ran out to buy two kopecks' worth of butter;
to be treated with respect by my former playmates, if ever I found
time to mingle with them; to be pointed at by my enemies, as I passed
them importantly on the street. And all my delight and pride and
interest were steeped in a super-feeling, the sense that it was I,
Mashke, _I myself_, that was moving and acting in the midst of unusual
events. Now that I was sure of America, I was in no hurry to depart,
and not impatient to arrive. I was willing to linger over every detail
of our progress, and so cherish the flavor of the adventure.
The last night in Polotzk we slept at my uncle's house, having
disposed of all our belongings, to the last three-legged stool, except
such as we were taking with us. I could go straight to the room where
I slept with my aunt that night, if I were suddenly set down in
Polotzk. But I did not really sleep. Excitement kept me awake, and my
aunt snored hideously. In the morning I was going away from Polotzk,
forever and ever. I was going on a wonderful journey. I was going to
America. How could I sleep?
My uncle gave out a false bulletin, with the last batch that the
gossips carried away in the evening. He told them that we were not
going to start till the second day. This he did in the hope of
smuggling us quietly out, and so saving us the wear and tear of a
public farewell. But his ruse failed of success. Half of Polotzk was
at my uncle's gate in the morning, to conduct us to the railway
station, and the other half was already there before we arrived.
The procession resembled both a funeral and a triumph. The women wept
over us, reminding us eloquently of the perils of the sea, of the
bewilderment of a foreign land, of the torments of homesickness that
awaited us. They bewailed my mother's lot, who had to tear herself
away from blood relations to go among strangers; who had to face
gendarmes, ticket agents, and sailors, unprotected by a masculine
escort; who had to care for four young children in the confusion of
travel, and very likely feed them trefah or see them starve on the
way. Or they praised her for a brave pilgrim, and expressed confidence
in her ability to cope with gendarmes and ticket agents, and blessed
her with every other word, and all but carried her in their arms.
At the station the procession disbanded and became a mob. My uncle and
my tall cousins did their best to protect us, but we wanderers were
almost torn to pieces. They did get us into a car at last, but the
riot on the station platform continued unquelled. When the warning
bell rang out, it was drowned in a confounding babel of
voices,--fragments of the oft-repeated messages, admonitions,
lamentations, blessings, farewells. "Don't forget!"--"Take care of--"
"Keep your tickets--" "Möshele--newspapers!" "Garlick is best!" "Happy
journey!" "God help you!" "Good-bye! Good-bye!" "Remember--"
The last I saw of Polotzk was an agitated mass of people, waving
colored handkerchiefs and other frantic bits of calico, madly
gesticulating, falling on each other's necks, gone wild altogether.
Then the station became invisible, and the shining tracks spun out
from sky to sky. I was in the middle of the great, great world, and
the longest road was mine.
* * * * *
Memory may take a rest while I copy from a contemporaneous document
the story of the great voyage. In accordance with my promise to my
uncle, I wrote, during my first months in America, a detailed account
of our adventures between Polotzk and Boston. Ink was cheap, and the
epistle, in Yiddish, occupied me for many hot summer hours. It was a
great disaster, therefore, to have a lamp upset on my writing-table,
when I was near the end, soaking the thick pile of letter sheets in
kerosene. I was obliged to make a fair copy for my uncle, and my
father kept the oily, smelly original. After a couple of years'
teasing, he induced me to translate the letter into English, for the
benefit of a friend who did not know Yiddish; for the benefit of the
present narrative, which was not thought of thirteen years ago. I can
hardly refrain from moralizing as I turn to the leaves of my childish
manuscript, grateful at last for the calamity of the overturned lamp.
Our route lay over the German border, with Hamburg for our port. On
the way to the frontier we stopped for a farewell visit in Vilna,
where my mother had a brother. Vilna is slighted in my description. I
find special mention of only two things, the horse-cars and the
bookstores.
On a gray wet morning in early April we set out for the frontier. This
was the real beginning of our journey, and all my faculties of
observation were alert. I took note of everything,--the weather, the
trains, the bustle of railroad stations, our fellow passengers, and
the family mood at every stage of our progress.
The bags and bundles which composed our travelling outfit were much
more bulky than valuable. A trifling sum of money, the steamer ticket,
and the foreign passport were the magic agents by means of which we
hoped to span the five thousand miles of earth and water between us
and my father. The passport was supposed to pass us over the frontier
without any trouble, but on account of the prevalence of cholera in
some parts of the country, the poorer sort of travellers, such as
emigrants, were subjected, at this time, to more than ordinary
supervision and regulation.
At Versbolovo, the last station on the Russian side, we met the first
of our troubles. A German physician and several gendarmes boarded the
train and put us through a searching examination as to our health,
destination, and financial resources. As a result of the inquisition
we were informed that we would not be allowed to cross the frontier
unless we exchanged our third-class steamer ticket for second-class,
which would require two hundred rubles more than we possessed. Our
passport was taken from us, and we were to be turned back on our
journey.
My letter describes the situation:--
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. When my 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 and all but I
cried. I was only wondering what would happen.
Moved by our distress, the German officers gave us the best advice
they could. We were to get out at the station of Kibart on the Russian
side, and apply to one Herr Schidorsky, who might help us on our way.
The letter goes on:--
We are in Kibart, 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--and tried to read the German, with the aid of the
Russian translation below. I noticed all this and remembered it,
as if there were nothing else in the world for me to think of.
The letter dwells gratefully on the kindness of Herr Schidorsky, who
became the agent of our salvation. He procured my mother a pass to
Eidtkuhnen, the German frontier station, where his older brother, as
chairman of a well-known emigrant aid association, arranged for our
admission into Germany. During the negotiations, which took several
days, the good man of Kibart entertained us in his own house, shabby
emigrants though we were. The Schidorsky brothers were Jews, but it is
not on that account that their name has been lovingly remembered for
fifteen years in my family.
On the German side our course joined that of many other emigrant
groups, on their way to Hamburg and other ports. We were a clumsy
enough crowd, with wide, unsophisticated eyes, with awkward bundles
hugged in our arms, and our hearts set on America.
The letter to my uncle faithfully describes every stage of our
bustling progress. Here is a sample scene of many that I recorded:--
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.
The phrases "we were told to do this" and "told to do that" occur
again and again in my narrative, and the most effective handling of
the facts could give no more vivid picture of the proceedings. We
emigrants were herded at the stations, packed in the cars, and driven
from place to place like cattle.
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 following is my attempt to describe a flying glimpse of a
metropolis:--
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'
barkings--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.
The plight of the bewildered emigrant on the way to foreign parts is
always pitiful enough, but for us who came from plague-ridden Russia
the terrors of the way were doubled.
In a great lonely field, opposite a solitary 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
sickness. Thank God!
In Polotzk, if the cholera broke out, as it did once or twice in every
generation, we made no such fuss as did these Germans. Those who died
of the sickness were buried, and those who lived ran to the synagogues
to pray. We travellers felt hurt at the way the Germans treated us. My
mother nearly died of cholera once, but she was given a new name, a
lucky one, which saved her; and that was when she was a small girl.
None of us were sick now, yet hear how we were treated! Those
gendarmes and nurses always shouted their commands at us from a
distance, as fearful of our touch as if we had been lepers.
We arrived in Hamburg early one morning, after a long night in the
crowded cars. We were marched up to a strange vehicle, long and
narrow and high, drawn by two horses and commanded by a mute driver.
We were piled up on this wagon, our baggage was thrown after us, and
we started on a sight-seeing tour across the city of Hamburg. The
sights I faithfully enumerate for the benefit of my uncle include
little carts drawn by dogs, and big cars that run of themselves, later
identified as electric cars.
The humorous side of our adventures did not escape me. Again and again
I come across a laugh in the long pages of the historic epistle. The
description of the ride through Hamburg ends with this:--
The sight-seeing was not all on our side. I noticed many people
stopping to look at us as if amused, though most passed by us as
though used to such sights. We did make a queer appearance all
in a long row, up above people's heads. In fact, we looked like
a flock of giant fowls roosting, only wide awake.
The smiles and shivers fairly crowded each other in some parts of our
career.
Suddenly, when everything interesting seemed at an end, we all
recollected how long it was since we had started on our funny
ride. Hours, we thought, and still the horses ran. Now we rode
through quieter streets where there were fewer shops and more
wooden houses. Still the horses seemed to have but just started.
I looked over our perch again. Something made me think of a
description I had read of criminals being carried on long
journeys in uncomfortable things--like this? Well, it was
strange--this long, long drive, the conveyance, no word of
explanation; and all, though going different ways, being packed
off together. We were strangers; the driver knew it. He might
take us anywhere--how could we tell? I was frightened again as
in Berlin. The faces around me confessed the same.
Yes, we are frightened. We are very still. Some Polish women
over there have fallen asleep, and the rest of us look such a
picture of woe, and yet so funny, it is a sight to see and
remember.
Our mysterious ride came to an end on the outskirts of the city, where
we were once more lined up, cross-questioned, disinfected, labelled,
and pigeonholed. This was one of the occasions when we suspected that
we were the victims of a conspiracy to extort money from us; for here,
as at every repetition of the purifying operations we had undergone, a
fee was levied on us, so much per head. My mother, indeed, seeing her
tiny hoard melting away, had long since sold some articles from our
baggage to a fellow passenger richer than she, but even so she did not
have enough money to pay the fee demanded of her in Hamburg. Her
statement was not accepted, and we all suffered the last indignity of
having our persons searched.
This last place of detention turned out to be a prison. "Quarantine"
they called it, and there was a great deal of it--two weeks of it. Two
weeks within high brick walls, several hundred of us herded in half a
dozen compartments,--numbered compartments,--sleeping in rows, like
sick people in a hospital; with roll-call morning and night, and short
rations three times a day; with never a sign of the free world beyond
our barred windows; with anxiety and longing and homesickness in our
hearts, and in our ears the unfamiliar voice of the invisible ocean,
which drew and repelled us at the same time. The fortnight in
quarantine was not an episode; it was an epoch, divisible into eras,
periods, events.
The greatest event was the arrival of some ship to take some of
the waiting passengers. When the gates were opened and the lucky
ones said good-bye, those left behind felt hopeless of ever
seeing the gates open for them. It was both pleasant and
painful, for the strangers grew to be fast friends in a day, and
really rejoiced in each other's fortune; but the regretful envy
could not be helped either.
Our turn came at last. We were conducted through the gate of
departure, and after some hours of bewildering manoeuvres, described
in great detail in the report to my uncle, we found ourselves--we five
frightened pilgrims from Polotzk--on the deck of a great big steamship
afloat on the strange big waters of the ocean.
For sixteen days the ship was our world. My letter dwells solemnly on
the details of the life at sea, as if afraid to cheat my uncle of the
smallest circumstance. It does not shrink from describing the torments
of seasickness; it notes every change in the weather. A rough night is
described, when the ship pitched and rolled so that people were thrown
from their berths; days and nights when we crawled through dense fogs,
our foghorn drawing answering warnings from invisible ships. The
perils of the sea were not minimized in the imaginations of us
inexperienced voyagers. The captain and his officers ate their
dinners, smoked their pipes and slept soundly in their turns, while we
frightened emigrants turned our faces to the wall and awaited our
watery graves.
All this while the seasickness lasted. Then came happy hours on deck,
with fugitive sunshine, birds atop the crested waves, band music and
dancing and fun. I explored the ship, made friends with officers and
crew, or pursued my thoughts in quiet nooks. It was my first
experience of the ocean, and I was profoundly moved.
Oh, what solemn thoughts I had! How deeply I felt the greatness,
the power of the scene! The immeasurable distance from horizon
to horizon; the huge billows forever changing their shapes--now
only a wavy and rolling plain, now a chain of great mountains,
coming and going farther away; then a town in the distance,
perhaps, with spires and towers and buildings of gigantic
dimensions; and mostly a vast mass of uncertain shapes, knocking
against each other in fury, and seething and foaming in their
anger; the gray sky, with its mountains of gloomy clouds,
flying, moving with the waves, as it seemed, very near them; the
absence of any object besides the one ship; and the deep, solemn
groans of the sea, sounding as if all the voices of the world
had been turned into sighs and then gathered into that one
mournful sound--so deeply did I feel the presence of these
things, that the feeling became one of awe, both painful and
sweet, and stirring and warming, and deep and calm and grand.
I would imagine myself all alone on the ocean, and Robinson
Crusoe was very real to me. I was alone sometimes. I was aware
of no human presence; I was conscious only of sea and sky and
something I did not understand. And as I listened to its solemn
voice, I felt as if I had found a friend, and knew that I loved
the ocean. It seemed as if it were within as well as without,
part of myself; and I wondered how I had lived without it, and
if I could ever part with it.
And so suffering, fearing, brooding, rejoicing we crept nearer and
nearer to the coveted shore, until, on a glorious May morning, six
weeks after our departure from Polotzk, our eyes beheld the Promised
Land, and my father received us in his arms.