Touched by Fire (10 page)

“That’s what I am, how you say? ‘Tempest-tossed,’ ” Rosie says.

“We are not homeless, are we, Rosie? Let’s exchange addresses, so that we will never lose each other.”

Rosie’s brother lives on Cherry Street, where she says many Italian families have settled. I hope Clinton Street is not far away from her, so we can visit each other.

We are alone on deck now. It is too cold and windy to stay here any longer.

As we walk along the alleyway, back to our cabin, Rosie nudges me. “That sailor is loitering outside the washrooms again,” she whispers. “I noticed him last night, trying to catch sight of a pair of ankles. He’s got no business down here – these are women’s quarters. He’s not the one who rings the bell for meals. Up to no good, I bet. Be careful – don’t give him even a glance.”

“Oh, Rosie, you are as bad as Mama. She thinks every man is a kidnapper,” I say.

“I’m serious, Miriam,” Rosie says, “no one would hear if … well if anything happened, so let’s stick together. I know you like to wander the ship, but try to wait till I’m with you.”

“I’ll do my best,” I say, laughing at her.

The days and nights pass slowly, but at the end of our first week on board, a violent storm shakes us awake. The ship plunges and rears, and little Essie rolls out of the bunk she shares with her mother. We are terrified. The vessel creaks and groans; the machinery beneath us grinds, clatters, and rasps. The moans and cries from cabins on either side of us, and from our own, seem to signal the end of the world.

I stumble, heaving, shaking, to the washroom, joining scores of girls and women. The thought of going back to our fetid cabin is dreadful. Instead, I drag myself in almost total darkness to the stairs, craving just one breath of air. The floor around the bottom of the steps leading to the deck is ankle-deep in water. My skirt hem is soaked. I climb the stairs, grateful for a gulp of air at the top. The wind almost blows me over. A sailor shouts at me to go down again, before I’m washed overboard. I do as I’m told, unsure if I’m awake or having a nightmare. All along the alleyway, wretched women and children are crying hopelessly and vomiting.

No one comes down to help us clean up, to bring a little tea or water, a word of comfort. “Wretched refuse,” Emma Lazarus calls us, and that is how we are treated. Somehow I crawl back up to my bunk.

The hours pass. I can’t tell day from night. I close my eyes and dream that Mama is here. She places a cool cloth on my forehead. Washes me with sweet-smelling soap, changes my gown. Mama lifts a glass of water to my cracked lips. I thank her and hold out my arms, but she is not there. I want my mother. I want to go home.

I grip the side of my bunk, afraid to roll off. The overhead bulb dims and brightens or goes out, swaying with the movement of the ship. It is as if a giant is toying with us.
Will he get tired of us? Will we drown before we reach the Golden Land?

The storm lasts all the next day and night. Listening to the foghorn’s eerie warning, I think that nothing can ever happen to me worse than this. I could hide from the pogrom, but I can’t hide from the storm.

On the second night, there is a scream so piercing and tragic that Rosie and I manage to raise our heads. Later, I wish that I had slithered down from my bunk to help, but that was after we found out what had caused that agonizing cry.

We wake up to calm seas. For the first time in days, passengers crowd the dining room for breakfast. When we go up on deck, everything smells fresh and clean, unlike below.

A small group of men and women stand protectively around a grief-stricken mother. Her baby son died in the night. He has already been buried at sea. We hear that a rabbi spoke a kaddish for the baby. His father was not there to say the prayer for the dead. The mother’s friends do their best to console her. Two little girls cling to her skirts. How I pity the mother, losing her baby and having to break such news to her husband when she arrives in America. It must have been her scream we heard in the night.…

Whenever the weather permits, the deck is busy: groups of men play cards, others play the harmonica. Girls sing, a few even dance. Women make friends and gossip with each other. Families walk round the deck, and children shout and play freely. I can’t help thinking Yuri should be playing chase round the deck, clambering on the railings with the other boys, enjoying the freedom and fresh sea air.

In a short while, we will arrive. Rosie and I teach each other words in English and Italian. Today, for the first time, even Pearl is talking with a group of older women. This is unusual for her. She likes to keep to herself or lies in wait for her brother, no doubt to make him miserable with her nagging.

Tonight, after our meager supper, which gets worse each day, I share the last of Bubbe’s honey cake with our cabin mates. Even her black bread, when dipped in salt water to soften, is not that bad. We have hardly seen more than a
cupful of fresh water for days, and the milk is only for the youngest children.

We get ready for bed, talking over the day’s events. Pearl is the last one to return to the cabin, bursting to share some gossip she’s picked up on deck. Full of her own importance, she asks us if we’ve heard what happened to the Polish girl in the cabin three doors down from us. We don’t give her any encouragement, guessing it’s something unpleasant.

“Let this be a lesson to girls who are too friendly with the crew,” she says. “No one knows if the girl arranged to meet the sailor or if he just happened to be there and she encouraged him with her fancy ways.… She was almost raped, I hear. Her blouse was torn and …” She pauses dramatically. Essie is listening with the rest of us, her eyes wide. Fanny puts her hands over the child’s ears.

“If her mother had not come looking for her, wondering why she was so long returning to her cabin, and dragged her away, who knows what might have occurred. Of course, it’s not for me to say, but I hear she encouraged him. That girl is always showing herself off, flouncing around, making eyes at the men on deck, smiling at the stewards and crew. No wonder one of them thought his attentions would be welcome.”

“You are just spreading rumors,” I say. “You weren’t there, were you? She probably just said good night, politely. Why are you trying to give the girl a bad name?”

“It seems to me, you and your friend here,” Pearl says, pointing at Rosie, “are no better. It’s a disgrace letting young girls travel alone on a ship, speaking to strange men, asking them for favors. You think I haven’t noticed?”

Tanya and Riva go into action. They get up from their bunks, daring Pearl to say another word.

Tanya, her cheeks on fire, says, “Be quiet, you old crow. Isn’t it enough that one of us has been attacked for no reason and that a bitter old maid like you, with not a good word to say about anything or anyone, should spread such ugly gossip? We all heard about what happened. It was a bad incident: a sailor, who should not have been down here, tried to make advances to the first woman he could find alone. It was reported to the captain, I hear, though with people like you to spread lies, I hope no more will come of it.”

Riva steps closer to Pearl. “Don’t say even one more word about this, and don’t you dare speak unkindly to Miriam and Rosie, who are always nice to everyone. We have had enough of your complaints.” We all smile at Riva, showing our support for her words.

Silence, blissful silence, and for the last two days of the voyage, Pearl says nothing more than good morning and good night! Hopefully, she will mend her ways in the future, or her brother’s hens will refuse to lay eggs if she so much as goes near them.

—

The final day, the fourteenth day of our voyage, has come at last. Rosie and I get up long before dawn and scrub ourselves in cold seawater. We wash our hair, braid it, and cover it with a kerchief. We dress in the clean skirts we have saved, to look our best for our arrival.

We climb the steps to the steerage deck for the last time, clutching our luggage. Both of us are too excited to speak. We push ourselves to the front of the railings – two girls among the throngs of other eager girls, men, women, and children, crowded together, waiting to catch our first glimpse of the Golden Land.

S
eagulls, the first we have seen, circle the ship. It had been foggy earlier, but as we approach New York Harbor, a wintry sun breaks through.

There, rising through the mist as if by magic, the Statue of Liberty appears. She is taller than I dreamed she would be, and her head is crowned with seven spiked rays. In her right hand, she holds a torch aloft; in her left, she clasps a book. Just as the poem says, she welcomes us all.

We have come from shtetls and cities; many of us from hostile, inhospitable, poverty-stricken countries. We have endured the harshness and indignities of the journey, as others have done before us. We have arrived at last. The journey has made me grow up. I am so full of hope, I feel as if I will burst with joy. All I can do is to gasp at the wonder of the skyline in front of us.

We are pushed against the rails by a thousand bodies. Close by, Anna and Eva stand beside their bearded young husbands. Fanny lifts Essie up to wave to the many ferryboats and ships circling the harbor.

I turn to see an old man swaying back and forth in prayer.
Does he murmur words of gratitude for our safe arrival, or does he ask for help to overcome the last and greatest hurdle we all must face?
Some call Ellis Island the Island of Tears. Tears of joy by those who are admitted to America; tears of sorrow and despair by those denied the dream.

How can I think of such a possibility, after coming all this way?
Rosie and I clasp hands, marveling at the wonderful sight that greets us: a skyline decorated with immense buildings, the splendid busy harbor. As our ship draws nearer to shore, we can see the red halls on Ellis Island. Very soon, we will walk through those halls to discover our future.

“All will be well, Miriam,” Rosie says, reading my thoughts.

I adjust the tag pinned to my shawl to make sure it is fixed on firmly. All passengers must wear this label, numbered and lettered, to identify who we are. Our names have to match the ship’s list. If I lose my tag, I might be lost and wander forever. When Papa asks for us, probably unaware that I am here alone, the officer would look at his list, shrug, and say, “They are not here.”

The gangway is lowered, and, in groups, we are hurried into waiting ferries, which bring us the short distance to
Ellis Island. I crane my neck to see the statue towering over us, closer now. Kolya said she is over three hundred feet tall.

We have arrived! Climbing onto the quay, Rosie and I hang on to each other for balance. My legs feel as if they belong to someone else. It seems strange, after all those days at sea, to tread on ground that does not move under my feet.

There is no time to get accustomed to dry land or to anything at all. In several languages, officials shout at us to hurry up, to make haste, to run.
They want us to run?
Here we are, loaded with bundles, baskets, boxes, and babies in arms. As for me, I hobble like an old woman, foolishly wearing boots that pinch my toes. I wore them to bring me luck – my best pair, the ones that Zayde made for me two years ago. He made them with room to grow, but I have definitely outgrown them. They still look like new, the leather soft and clean. My other pair is shabby, stained with salt water, and I do so want to look my best to meet Papa.

Rosie says, “Quickly, Miriam, you must change into your other boots. If the doctors see you limping …” We hang back. I pull my old worn pair out of the case before we hurry up the steps and into the great hall. There is no time to admire the lofty tiled roof or the pretty windows shaped like stars, set high over the balcony above the staircase.

We leave our luggage in the baggage room, downstairs. Then, they hustle us into lines separated by railings. Officials separate men and women again, before we move up
the stairs to see the doctors. They wait for us with pieces of colored chalk in their hands. Each color means something different. Two women have their sleeves marked with blue chalk and are moved away.
To where? Will they be sent back, or to a hospital for quarantine, or for further inspection?
I don’t know. A woman with a constant cough is pulled out of the line. Another, with a shawl concealing a hump, is also drawn aside.

The first doctor passes Rosie and me on to the next.

I whisper my thanks to her for making me change my boots. I might have been removed for limping!

The second doctor makes me take off my kerchief, so that the nurse can inspect my hair. She wears the same pair of gloves to scrutinize every head, searching for lice and diseases of the scalp. It’s all I can do not to pull away in disgust. The doctor asks us if we have diseases I have never even heard of. Luckily, we are passed again.