“I don’t want to go to America,” Yuri says. “I want to stay in Kiev, with my friends. I am a Russian boy, and I have decided, when I grow up, to be a soldier like my teacher’s son. I will ride a big black horse and carry a sword or a gun. I will stay here and protect the tsar from his enemies. I will not go to America.” He stands with legs apart, arms crossed, daring any of us to defy him.
Papa bangs his fist on the table – I have never seen him so angry. Mama and Bubbe look at each other, and Mama’s hands fly to her mouth.
“You have decided,” Papa says. “You have decided to be a soldier in the tsar’s army. You will not go?”
Yuri stamps his foot. “Yes, I have decided, Papa,” he says. “I will defend Russia from the tsar’s enemies.”
Mama tries to make peace. “Samuel, don’t be upset – he is a child. He does not know what he is saying!”
“Then it is time my little son grew up,” Papa says. “I want you to tell him, Sara.”
I know what Mama is going to say, because Bubbe told me the story a long time ago. Another secret we share.
“Come here, Yuri,” Mama says. She looks at him, putting her hand under his chin so that he cannot squirm away. “Once, I had a brother, an older brother. His name was Yaakov, and you are named after him. When he was not quite twelve years old, he was taken from us by Tsar Alexander. His soldiers came and stole him away. It had been the law in Russia for many years to conscript Jewish boys and make them join the army for twenty-five years. They snatched little boys as young as ten, sometimes.…” Mama wipes her eyes and cannot go on.
“My son never came back to us, Yuri,” Bubbe continues. “Even though that law is abolished now, if someday the tsar wishes …” She does not finish her sentence, but in a moment goes on speaking. “It can happen again – today, tomorrow, next week. The laws against us, like pogroms, never end. Every day they make another, and who has enough rubles to bribe the police to look the other way?”
“If Papa says it is time to leave,” Mama says, “then we go. Tell him you are sorry, Yuri.” Her voice is firm.
My little brother hangs his head. He whispers, “I am sorry, Papa.”
Zayde says, “I will need a clever helper like you, Yuri, as an apprentice when we go to Germany. You have good hands, much too good to carry a sword or a gun. You will see, together, we will make the best shoes in the whole of Berlin.”
Mama sends us to bed. I take Yuri’s hand, and for once he does not pull away.
3
SEEKING REFUGE
The train journey from Kiev to Berlin passes in a blur of sleep, musty air, rattles, and sudden stops and starts. We sit on hard wooden seats; the windows are sealed shut. Even when the train halts, we may not get out for a drink of fresh water. The garlic-smelling breath of the fat couple who share our compartment, the old man with his grandson – who never stops kicking the seats – and the crying, sickly baby, rocked to and fro by his tired mother, give me a headache. The excitement I felt as we began our journey has disappeared. I just want to get there. Mama insists I eat a little black bread and some cheese.
Papa pats my hand, smiling at me. He says, “Imagine the good meal that Bubbe will have ready for us.” But does she know when we are coming?
I realize I need not have worried, as the train jolts to a halt. I see Zayde pacing back and forth on the platform, waiting for us, holding Yuri’s hand. It has been lonely without them all, these last three months. I am so glad Papa will stay with us for a while longer. I know most families cannot afford to leave for America all at the same time. Usually, the father goes first. Sometimes it is the older children, like the two sisters who used to live next door to us. They went alone and send money back home to their parents and five brothers and sisters. I would never dare to travel across the ocean without Mama.
We climb down onto the platform, and the guard shuts the doors behind us. We are here in Berlin, at last. The train departs in a hiss of steam, still packed with passengers on their way to the port of Hamburg.
Zayde greets us with joy. “The train is only four hours late. Welcome, my children.” Yuri jumps up and down with excitement and talks so fast that my head spins. Zayde has borrowed a horse and cart for us. He helps Papa load our belongings, and we are off to our new home in East Berlin.
“Many Jews have settled there,” Zayde tells us. “Wealthy Jews live in their fine houses overlooking the parks and grand streets. But most of us who have escaped the hardships of Poland and Russia and Lithuania live in the Scheunenviertel, the Barn Quarter. Some Jews are just passing through, waiting for passage to England, Canada, or America. Others plan to stay forever.”
Yuri says, “Yes, stay forever, that is what I want to do.” Mama and Papa take no notice of his chatter. They are too busy listening to Zayde.
He says, “Everything you might want can be found on the main shopping street, this one, the Grenadierstrasse. The Barn Quarter is like a small town that people like us have made. We are tailors, butchers, bakers, and shoemakers. Some work out of their homes, others in shops. Some buy and sell from pushcarts. There are hotels and boarding-houses, restaurants offering dishes from many countries. People crowd together. It is a ghetto of our own making, and yet it is not. No walls shut us in or out. Many languages are spoken here – German and Yiddish and Polish and Russian. When the Gypsies come to the market to sell their wares, they speak a mixture of everything—”
“Mama, I like it here very much,” Yuri interrupts, incapable of waiting another moment to speak. “The streets are named after soldiers. It is wonderful. Mikhail, my friend who lives upstairs in our house, and I go everywhere together. We march like soldiers along streets named for army corps – Grenadierstrasse and Artilleriestrasse and Dragonerstrasse. Maybe when I grow up, I will become a Grenadier.”
I give Yuri a warning kick before Mama gets upset at this kind of talk from him. I tell him, “There are no Grenadiers in America, Yuri, and that is where we are going soon.” He tries to pinch me, but Mama grabs his wrist. We turn a corner.
Zayde says, “Here we are on Hirtenstrasse, and this is number seven, our house.” He stops the cart in front of a narrow gray building, three stories high. Bubbe must have been watching for us. There are cries of joy, questions, hugs, and kisses. We follow Bubbe inside.
Bubbe says, “My cousin, Yetta, sends her regards. She hopes you will be comfortable here. She lived in this apartment for many years. It is a stroke of luck that she decided to move in with her daughter, in Frankfurt. The landlord has raised the rent a little, but what do you expect? We will manage. Now, come, I have made you chicken soup with dumplings. You must be tired and hungry.”
Mama and Papa sleep in one room; Bubbe, Zayde, and Yuri in the second room. I’m on the couch in the living room. There is a kitchen too, with a good big stove.
Tonight, before I go to sleep, I wonder why we don’t stay here, if Germany is such a fine place to live. Why does Papa still dream of America?
As we settle in, Zayde tells us word has quickly spread in the neighborhood that he is a good shoemaker. He mended Yuri’s friend Mikhail’s boots and his father’s. Mikhail’s father is a glass cutter and glazier. He carries his bag of tools on his back from street to street in our quarter. We live on the ground floor of the house, and Zayde has put a sign in the window. It says OSTROVSKI – BOOTS AND SHOES REPAIRED AND MADE-TO-ORDER.
Zayde has set up his workshop in the storeroom below the kitchen. He says many small businesses are run out of people’s homes. He and Yuri have whitewashed the walls, and Zayde put up a shelf and strengthened the legs of a table for his tools. Yuri spends many hours there, helping him. After school, Yuri shines the shoes Zayde has repaired and delivers them to his customers. He never has to go far – the Barn Quarter is not very big. Yuri says the customers often reward him with a slice of bread and jam or chicken fat.
Papa has rented a sewing machine. He works in the living room, where the window gives the best light. Papa makes shirts
, coats, and waistcoats, and sells them where he can. Soon he hopes to be taken on at a tailor’s. Everyone in the family helps to earn money for food, for rent, and for tickets to sail to the Golden Land.
Bubbe continues to give me cooking lessons. Everything will come in useful in America, they say.
The minute I get home from school, I start to work. I sew buttons on the blouses Mama embroiders. She sells them at a shop specializing in fine ladies’ wear, lace, and linen. Frau Goldschmidt accepts only the very best work for display. Her business is in the center of the main shopping street.
People come from all over Berlin to buy the goods made in our quarter. Mama is teaching me to attach collars and cuffs to the blouses, now that I have mastered buttonholes. Sometimes I think if I have to finish stitching even one more buttonhole, I will scream!
Then Mama takes pity on me. “Go, Miriam, make some tea. We will rest for a little.”
Whenever I am sent on an errand, I try to explore a bit. One afternoon, I went to the outskirts of our quarter and walked along the River Spree, which runs all the way through the city of Berlin. I went partway across the Palace Bridge – the Schlossbrücke – and looked at the statues of Greek gods and military heroes. Set in between them were smaller sculptures of strange, mythical creatures from under the water.
I got home later than usual, and Mama was worried, even after I explained to her that I’d been longing to see more than just our little bit of Berlin. She does not scold Yuri when he roams all over the place, and he’s younger than me. It’s not fair.
A girl in my class, who has a sister and a cousin in America, told me girls have much more freedom there. She said that more Jews live in New York than anywhere else.
Papa says we all have to learn English for our move to America. One evening, he brings home a teacher for us whose name is Kolya Seltzovsky. He is from Russia too. Since Papa has started working for a tailor on Dragonerstrasse, he meets many people, and that is how he got to know Kolya. He came into the store to have the lining of his jacket mended. Papa has invited the young man to stay for supper. I set a place for him. Mama presses Kolya to eat, and he does not need much encouragement!
“We have plenty,” Mama says, which is not strictly true. Luckily, Yuri is upstairs having supper with Mikhail and his family, so there is enough for our visitor. He eats a big bowl of potato soup with sour cream and two thick slices of bread. He is tall and thin, and his deep-set dark eyes seem to burn like coals. His smile makes him almost handsome. Kolya has good manners, and he thanks Bubbe and Mama politely for the good supper.
Papa asks him, “What has brought you to Berlin?”
Kolya says, “In Russia, I attended the Lithuanian University of Vilna. One evening, I went to hear some speakers at a political lecture. One speaker was from America, and his talk was about democracy. The place was crowded with students. As I was leaving, someone put a pamphlet into my hand. The police were waiting outside, and they stormed in. I dropped the pamphlet and stood on it. Many of us were arrested, just for attending the meeting. I was fortunate to spend only one night in jail. The guards beat me up a little, warning me that next time they found me in such company, I’d be kept in prison for a long time.”
“So, now your name is on the police files,” Papa says. “It is a miracle they released you, Kolya.”
“Yes. When I got home and told my parents what had happened and they saw my bruised and bleeding face, my father insisted we pack and leave immediately. We took only a few essentials, told no one, and left our home. That night, we attempted to cross the border into Germany. I thought we were going to make it. I was carrying my little brother, Lev, on my back, when suddenly voices shouted to us to halt! My father told us to go on.
“He ran to draw the guards’ attention away from us. Shots were fired. We got across the border, but my father did not. My brother has not spoken a word since – nothing, not a sound. The doctor says it is shock, and one day, when he is ready, he will speak again. Lev is only eight years old.
“Herr Rudolf Mosse, the publisher, has taken me on as an apprentice. How proud my father would have been to hear that I am working for the founder of a Jewish newspaper. In Vilna, I studied languages, so as well as Hebrew and Yiddish and German, I speak English. I hope to give English lessons in my spare time.”
Zayde says, “You have chosen a fine trade. My son-in-law was lucky to find you.” Kolya bows his head modestly and smiles.
So it is decided: Kolya will eat supper with us three times a week, and Papa will make him a new shirt and mend his coat. Zayde will repair his boots too. Kolya says his mother is taking in laundry – that way Lev does not have to be left alone.
Papa says, “If you bring me your brother’s measurements, I will make him a new shirt also. Is it a bargain?”
“It is a bargain. Thank you, sir,” Kolya says with a big smile. They shake hands.
Yuri has been standing at the door, staring at the stranger sitting in his place and listening to Kolya’s story. I had heard his boots clattering down the stairs, but this stranger has kept him quiet for once!
Yuri says, “Your brother can come to play with Mikhail and me, if he wants. I am almost eight too. He does not need to speak; we will just practice marching.”
Kolya shakes Yuri’s hand. “Thank you for your kind thought. One day, when Lev is no longer afraid.”
Yuri flushes. It is not often that our Yuri shows the kind heart that beats under all his bragging of becoming a soldier and going to war.
“Such a smile, he has,” I overhear Bubbe tell Mama after Kolya leaves.
Mama says, “An apprentice does not earn much money. It is good that he comes here for a meal. How hard it must be for his mother to lose her husband and to make a living in a new country. And now she bears the burden of a child mute with fear. I hope he recovers soon.”
4
ENGLISH LESSONS
We look forward to our lessons after supper. Mama and Bubbe continue with their sewing. Kolya asks them to put their work aside. “You must concentrate,” he says.
He teaches us important questions to ask and how to answer, so that when we go to America we can make ourselves understood.
“Where is this place?”
“How are you?”
And the answer is “I am well,” or “I can’t grumble.”
“Where are you from?”
And the answer is “I am from Russia.”
Mama makes us laugh. Today she asks, “Do you grow chickens?”
Yuri corrects her. “You keep chickens, Mama. Chickens are not the same as cabbages!”
I notice that Bubbe does not find it easy to join in. When she can’t think of a word, she says it in Yiddish – the mix of Hebrew, German, Russian, and Polish she is used to. Bubbe smiles sweetly at Kolya when he corrects her.
The months pass. Almost a year has gone by since we arrived here. Our assignments for Kolya become more difficult. Today we must speak in English for one minute, about someone we admire. A minute seems like a long time. Bubbe talks to herself while she drops dumplings into the soup. I whisper my words as I walk to the butcher to ask for a lamb bone. Mama repeats English phrases over and over again, pounding and kneading dough, as she wrestles with the words. Anyone watching or listening to us would think we are a crazy family! Kolya encourages all of us.
I am the first to begin. I talk about my best friend, Malka, how much I still miss our talks and laughter. I say that I will never forget her. Then it is my brother’s turn.
Yuri stands up to speak. “I admire Kaiser Wilhelm very much. He was born with a small …” he hesitates, seeking the right word, “… crippled arm, but when he was only eight years old, he had to learn to ride. He fell off the horse many times, because he had no balance. He tried again and again, until he succeeded. Now he is a fine horseman. He never gave up. I want to be like him and serve in his army.” Kolya praises Yuri.
I look at Papa and can guess what he is thinking. Papa does not ad
mire the kaiser. He says it is well known, in our community and abroad, that the kaiser despises the Jews.
Mama looks tired. I offer to make the tea. We are accustomed to having a glass of tea together before Kolya leaves.
One evening, Kolya is not his usual cheerful self. He does not tease us. He even refuses a second helping of cabbage rolls.
Bubbe asks him, “Is something wrong? I made them especially for you because they are your favorite. You look pale – are you sick? There is trouble at work, maybe?”
“The supper is good, like always, thank you,” Kolya says. “I had some bad news today.”
Papa says, “You are among friends. Share your sorrow, my boy. It will help you to speak of it.”
Kolya falters, “Do you remember what happened in Kishinev?” The grown-ups look at each other, a look I dread.
Papa whispers, “How can one forget such a tragedy? It will always be remembered. We knew people who came from there. I cannot speak of it – so many dead and injured, so many homes engulfed by flames.”
“I heard that five hundred Jews were injured in that pogrom,” Zayde says.
Kolya continues, “Some good friends of mine managed to escape. They took shelter outside the city, in a small shtetl – barely that – little more than a few houses, a barn, and a wooden synagogue. It was not far enough away. I heard today that the village was burned to the ground and again people died. A few were sent to a labor camp in Siberia. I ask myself, why? They had done nothing, except be what they are, who we are: Jews!”
“From one generation to the next,” Zayde says with a sigh. “It is never-ending.”
“Kaiser Wilhelm will never let that happen here,” Yuri says. He looks shocked.
“You are wrong, Yuri.” Kolya speaks to him as if to another adult. “Kaiser Wilhelm is well known to be a hater of Jews. He is a first cousin of Tsar Nicholas – both of them are like-minded on this. That is why your papa works day and night to bring you all to America. Why do you think it is the dream of all oppressed people to go to the Golden Land? In America, there is no kaiser, no tsar – only a president, who is chosen by the people. Jews are treated the same as everyone else. In America, Jews are free to be who they are and live without fear.”
Touched by Fire Page 2
