I
The Rosenheimers arrived in New York on a day in April. New York,
flushed with the first touch of Spring, moved on inscrutably, almost
suavely unawares. It was the greatest thing that had ever happened to
the Rosenheimers, and even in the light of the profound experiences
that were to follow it kept its vast grandeur and separateness, its
mysterious and benumbing superiority. Viewed later, in half-tearful
retrospect, it took on the character of something unearthly,
unmatchable and never quite clear—a violent gallimaufry of strange
tongues, humiliating questionings, freezing uncertainties, sudden and
paralyzing activities.
The Rosenheimers came by way of the Atlantic Ocean, and if anything
remained unclouded in their minds it was a sense of that dour and
implacable highway’s unfriendliness. They thought of it ever after as
an intolerable motion, a penetrating and suffocating smell. They saw it
through drenched skylights—now and then as a glimpse of blinding blue
on brisk, heaving mornings. They remembered the harsh, unintelligible
exactions of officials in curious little blue coats. They dreamed for
years of endless nights in damp, smothering bunks. They carried off the
taste of strange foods, barbarously served. The Rosenheimers came in
the steerage.
There were, at that time, seven of them, if you count Mrs. Feinberg. As
Mrs. Feinberg had, for a period of eight years—the age of the oldest
Rosenheimer child—been called nothing but Grandma by the family and
occasionally Grandma Rosenheimer by outsiders, she was practically a
Rosenheimer, too. Grandma was Mrs. Rosenheimer’s mother, a decent,
simple, round-shouldered “sheiteled,” little old woman, to whom life
was a ceaseless washing of dishes, making of beds, caring for children
and cooking of meals. She ruled them all, unknowing.
The head of the house of Rosenheimer was, fittingly, named Abraham.
This had abbreviated itself, even in Lithuania, to a more intimate Abe.
Abe Rosenheimer was thirty-three, sallow, thin-cheeked and bearded,
with a slightly aquiline nose. He was already growing bald. He was
not tall and he stooped. He was a clothing cutter by trade. Since his
marriage, nine years before, he had been saving to bring his family
over. Only the rapid increase of its numbers had prevented him coming
sooner.
Abraham Rosenheimer was rather a silent man and he looked stern.
Although he recognized his inferiority in a superior world, he was not
without his ambitions. These looked toward a comfortable home, his own
chair with a lamp by it, no scrimping about meat at meals and a little
money put by. He had heard stories about fortunes that could be made
in America and in his youth they had stirred him. Now he was not much
swayed by them. He was fond of his family and he wanted them “well
taken care of,” but in the world that he knew the rich and the poor
were separated by an unscalable barrier. Unless incited temporarily to
revolution by fiery acquaintances he was content to hope for a simple
living, work not too hard or too long, a little leisure, tranquillity.
He had a comfortable faith which included the belief that, if a man
does his best, he’ll usually be able to make a living for his family.
“Health is the big thing,” he would say, and “The Lord will provide.”
Outside of his prayer-book, he did little reading. It never occurred to
him that he might be interested in the outside world. He knew of the
existence of none of the arts. His home and his work were all he had
ever thought about.
Mrs. Rosenheimer, whose first name was Minnie, was thirty-one. She was
a younger and prettier reproduction of her mother, plump and placid,
with a mouth inclined to petulancy.
There were four Rosenheimer children. Yetta was eight, Isaac six,
Carrie three and little Emanuel had just had his first birthday. Yetta
and Carrie were called by their own first names, but Isaac, in America,
almost immediately gave way to Ike and little Emanuel became Mannie.
They were much alike, dark-haired, dark-eyed, restless, shy, wondering.
The Rosenheimers had several acquaintances in New York, people from the
little village near Grodno who had preceded them to America. Most of
these now lived in the Ghetto that was arising on the East Side of New
York, and Rosenheimer had thought that his family would go there, too,
so as to be near familiar faces. He had written several months before,
to one Abramson, a sort of a distant cousin, who had been in America
for twelve years. As Abramson had promised to meet them, he decided to
rely on Abramson’s judgment in finding a home in the city.
Abramson was at Ellis Island and greeted the family with vehement
embraces. He seemed amazingly well-dressed and at home. He wore a large
watchchain and no less than four rings. He introduced his wife, whom he
had married since coming to America, though she, too, had come from the
old country. She wore silk and carried a parasol.
“I’ve got a house all picked out for you,” he explained in familiar
Yiddish. “It isn’t in the Ghetto, where some of our friends live, but
it’s cheap, with lots of comforts and near where you can get work, too.”
Any house would have suited the Rosenheimers. They were pitifully
anxious to get settled, to rid themselves of the foundationless
feeling which had taken possession of them. With eager docility, Yetta
carrying Mannie and each of the others carrying a portion of the
bundles of wearing apparel and feather comforts which formed their
luggage, they followed Abramson to a surface car and to their new home.
In their foreign clothes and with their bundles they felt almost as
uncomfortable as they had been on shipboard.
The Rosenheimers’ new home was in MacDougal Street. They looked with
awe on the exterior and pronounced it wonderful. Such a fine building!
Of red brick it was! There were three stories. The first story was
a stable, the big door open. Little Isaac had to be pulled past the
restless horses in front of it. The whole family stood for a moment,
drinking in the wonders, then followed Abramson up the stairs. On the
second floor several families lived in what the Rosenheimers thought
was palatial grandeur. Even their own home was elegant. It consisted of
two rooms—the third floor front. They could hardly be convinced that
they were to have all that space. There was a stove in the second room
and gas fixtures in both of them—and there was a bathroom, with running
water, in the general hall! The Rosenheimers didn’t see that the paper
was falling from the walls and that, where it had been gone for some
years, the plaster was falling, too. Nor that the floor was roughly
uneven.
“Won’t it be too expensive?” asked Rosenheimer. Abramson chuckled.
Though he himself was but a trimmer by trade, he was pleased with the
rôle of fairy godfather. He liked twirling wonders in the faces of
these simple folk. In comparison, he felt himself quite a success, a
cosmopolite. Just about Rosenheimer’s age, he had small deposits in two
savings banks, a three-room apartment, a wife and two American sons,
Sam and Morrie. Both were in public school, and both could speak “good
English.” He patted Rosenheimer on the back jovially.
“You don’t need to worry,” he said. “A good cutter here in New York
don’t have to worry. Even a ‘greenhorn’ makes a living. There’s half
a dozen places you can choose from. I’ll tell you about it, and where
to go, to-morrow. Now, we’ll go over to my house and have something
to eat. Then you’ll see how you’ll be living in a few years. You can
borrow some things from us until you get your own. My wife will be glad
to go with Mrs. Rosenheimer and show her where to buy.”
The Rosenheimers gave signs of satisfaction as they dropped their
bundles and sat down on the empty boxes that stood around, or on the
floor. This was something like it! Here they had a fine home in a big
brick house, a sure chance of Rosenheimer getting a good job, friends
to tell them about things—they had already found their place in New
York! Grandma, trembling with excitement, took Mannie in her arms and
held him up dramatically.
“See, Mannie, see Mannischen—this is fine—this is the way to live!”