She remembers a few things.
All the mirrors in the little house were covered with sheets or women’s shawls, she remembers that. Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, all is vanity. And all the people in the house removed their shoes and moved about barefoot or in soft cloth slippers, and when not walking they sat on low stools or benches. One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh, but the earth abideth forever. A bowl of fresh water, for the ritual of washing of hands, is placed at the feet of the twin coffins. She remembers all of that, and the mirrors covered with sheets and shawls.
Several reasons are given for this today, though they were not given to Sari at the time, nor did she ask. Some say that if you look into a mirror during this time of mourning, you will see the ghosts of the departed in it. Others say that the mourner must not be distracted from the solemn presence of the dead by a glimpse of his own reflection in the glass, and that this is why no housework, no work of any sort, must be done in this period, not even study of the Torah, and why women do not fix their hair or powder their faces, and why the men do not shave their beards, during these seven days. But still others say that the Angel of Death himself, whose name is Malchemuvis, is vain and puffed up with his vanity, and when he has visited a house, and if he should see his image in a mirror, he will primp and preen himself in front of it. Then he will be tempted to come back to that same house soon for another visit with its occupants, and another look at his reflection in the glass. Malchemuvis must not be angered or threatened or challenged. Instead, he must be quietly thwarted, frustrated, and confused as to where he is. When he cannot see his handsome reflection in a glass, he will leave, uncertain about where he has been, and will forget his way back for a long time. All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again.
The coffins were taken away.
The next day they were simply gone. But every day, at morning and at evening, a group of men came to the house to recite the Kaddish. “May the Almighty comfort you among the mourners for Zion and Jerusalem.” The lapels of their shirts bore short rips. There was no other conversation.
Then, Sari remembers, when that time had passed, there was talk among the others in the house, frightened talk. These would have been friends and neighbors. What is going to become of the little girl? She is all alone. Who will take her in? Who can afford to feed her, clothe her, bring her up? She has no close family, no aunts, no uncles, no grandparents, even? No. She is all alone. War is everywhere, mutinies, strikes, riots. You can smell it in the streets, the smell of death. Soon it will not be safe anywhere, anywhere in Europe. And for a child alone. Something must be decided. Something must be done, and soon.
Then Sari remembers the beginning of her own fear. How does one remember fear? She remembers fear gripping at her stomach, clutching at her with knotted fingers, fear filling her mouth with the taste of dust, fear—white fear—seeming to freeze that part of her head behind her eyeballs, fear pounding in her eardrums. Fear seemed to paralyze her, and of the next few months all she can really remember was that fear.
Later, she would be given an explanation of what had happened. She would be told that it must have been typhus, or what was called “Spanish influenza,” and she would read the statistics. This epidemic, the worst to afflict mankind since the Black Death of the fourteenth century, would kill nearly twenty-two million people, three million people in Russia alone, more than one percent of the world’s entire population, while the war was killing nearly ten million more. But at the time all she knew was that one day she had had two people, a mother and a father, looking after her, and that the next day she had no one at all, except these frightened strangers who wandered in and out of the house, whispering, making incomprehensible plans. The year was 1917.
“Where are my mother and my father?”
The strangers would shake their heads sadly, but would not tell her.
Her mother’s red scarf with a golden fringe—she remembered that scarf more vividly than she remembered her mother’s face, because that scarf had been her mother’s favorite—was taken out into the street, doused with paraffin, and burned, along with all the rest of her parents’ clothing. “Why are you burning everything?” Again, they would simply shake their heads and tell her nothing. Later, she would suppose that it was assumed that her parents’ clothes were infected with the typhus, and therefore must be burned, but at the time all she could remember was the horror of seeing her mother’s beautiful scarf being consumed by orange flames, its golden fringe twisting into a mass of tiny, blackened worms, then unraveling into ashes.
Who were these people? Friends, neighbors, she supposed, but they had no names. They came and went, one at a time, on some sort of prearranged schedule, to stay with her, to feed her, to put her to bed at night, to bathe her once a week. Why could none of them take her into one of their own houses? She could only later guess that there was no one who was willing or able to take on the responsibility of another mouth to feed. She must go to America, she had heard that. Only in America could a child be safe. But where in America, and to whom? And how? These discussions, as the friends and neighbors came and went, seemed to occupy days, weeks, months, but perhaps the dilemma had been solved sooner than that, for memory plays tricks.
Then, at last, after many more days and many more discussions, a plan was worked out, and now the voices were excited, joyous. And yet, somehow, this enthusiasm for her imminent departure only increased the little girl’s fear, drew all the fears and confusions together into one tight knot of terror in her chest. “I don’t want to go away!” she remembers sobbing. “I don’t want to go!”
“Yes, you do,” they said.
A purse was collected among the others in the village for her passage. Over and over they repeated to her the name and address of the person in America whom she was going to stay with, until she had memorized it: “Mr. Gabriel Pollack, Wabash one hundred and seventeen. Terre Haute, Indiana. United States of America, U.S.A. He is your father’s first wife’s sister’s son.” The rabbi and his wife, she was told, would take her to Hamburg. They would put her on the boat and find some good person to take care of her during the trip. Once she was in America, any remaining problems would solve themselves because—it was one of the wonders of America—America was a land of foreigners and strangers who were always helpful to other strangers and newcomers. Everyone knew that. But, just in case, a carefully written-out set of instructions, with Mr. Gabriel Pollack’s name and address, which she already knew by heart, was sewn into the hem of her long black skirt. Another was placed in the lining of her undershirt, and, for good measure, one each was placed in the yellow wicker hamper and the small brown cardboard valise that she would carry with her. The lid of the wicker hamper was tied down with knotted ropes, one length of which was left looped to form a handle. The cardboard valise was secured with twine. Thus weighted down, and rustling from the pieces of paper sewn and tucked within her garments, she was instructed how to carry her two pieces of luggage, one article in each hand, and never to lose sight of either of them. Last of all, a huge and heavy black mohair shawl smelling of camphor was produced, folded into a triangle, and fastened about her head and shoulders with pins. This shawl, she was told, would be her blanket on the boat, since the boat to America would have no beds but only shelves on which people could sleep. Behind her, the tip of the shawl’s triangle fell nearly to her ankles, but this was a good thing because it would be as cold as winter once the boat got out to sea.
By now, the sheets and scarves had been removed from the mirrors, and the mood in the house was buoyant as the friends and neighbors saw the prospect of being unburdened of their duties to the orphaned child. All the furniture was gone from the house now, too. And why, being driven away from the house in the horse cart by the rabbi and his wife, does she remember looking back and seeing the house itself go up in flames? That may not have happened, but she remember
s it.
She does not remember much of the trip to Hamburg on the train, nor even what the rabbi and his wife looked like, only the mounting terror. The rabbi and his wife were two large, dark figures seated on either side of her, nothing more, but she remembers sensing that they, too, were frightened of this journey. There were many stops along the way when soldiers in uniform, carrying rifles with long, sharp bayonets attached to them, moved through the train, swinging their rifles from side to side, asking stern questions, demanding to see documents and papers. The rabbi and his wife held her hands tightly each time another line of soldiers came toward them. And she does remember that, when the train arrived at last in Hamburg, the rabbi’s wife gave her a small sack of coins, suspended from a leather shoelace, which she was told to hang about her neck, under her dress, and keep out of sight at all times. This was to be opened only for emergencies.
And she remembers her first sight of the ship—that great dark hull, tall, black, and forbidding—that was to take her away. Her terror reached a kind of climax then, and she was for a moment unable to breathe, and then she remembers flinging herself on the ground in a terrible, screaming tantrum, and hands reaching out to control her and voices telling her that she had nothing to be frightened of, that she was going to love America and her new home. And then she remembers strong arms—a woman’s arms, she thinks they were—lifting her, still kicking and screaming, and carrying her aboard the ship. She remembers no good-byes at all.
Of the journey itself she remembers only a seemingly endless period of darkness, a rolling, pitching darkness that seemed to last for weeks—since periods of sleep were never interrupted by any daybreak—on a hard, narrow bed. But hands reached out to touch her from time to time, to place cool cloths on her forehead and to brush her lips with water, for she was running a fever. Then suddenly she was lifted out of bed, and there was daylight, and she was told that she was in New York.
All at once there was blinding sunlight. The place must have been Ellis Island, though at the time it had no name. All she remembers is being inside a room larger and loftier than any she had ever seen. Bright sunlight was streaming down in long, dusty shafts from tall, barred windows, and crowded into this vast room were more people than could possibly have been on her boat, but then she could not be sure. They stood in long lines, men, women, and children like herself, all carrying baskets, bundles, and valises like her own. But the first impression of America that she remembered longest was its smell—the pungent, gamy, garlicky smell of unwashed humanity. It was a smell of old, soiled, and damp clothing that had been piled on a closet floor for days, and suddenly pulled out into the room to air. Once, years later, one of her Cookies had prepared an unsuccessful vegetable soup. Putting down her spoon, Assaria LeBaron had said to Thomas, “This soup smells exactly like Ellis Island!”
Mixed with this stale-grocery smell was the faintly acrid smell of ink, the smell one experiences when one presses one’s nose into the spine of an open book. It was a smell of bureaucracy. For all around, it seemed, were officers with pens and inkwells, filling out long sheets of paper, making cryptic notations on them, asking unintelligible questions, shouting instructions, as the people were herded from one long line into another. And over everything else was the ammoniacal smell of disinfectant soaps, a smell that burned the nostrils and brought tears to the eyes, that seemed to emanate upward from the wooden floorboards. And yet the tired faces of the people looked happy and excited.
But all at once, in the confusion of sights and smells and noises, there arose, like a thunderstorm coming, a great sound of sobbing and moaning. Something very wrong was happening, and there was a huge surge of people forward. From the cries, it was clear that some people were being turned away. There were some people whom America did not want. Old people were being separated from their sons and daughters, children from their mothers and fathers, husbands from their wives. There were shrieks and cries and the futile flailing of arms as people reached out to clutch and cling to one another, but were forced apart. It was the fear of typhus again, and she watched as a small baby was snatched out of its mother’s arms. In panic, the people rushed together against a line of policemen with sticks, but they were forced backward, and linked hands were forcibly unjoined. She remembers herself being tightly pressed, terrified, between bodies, between the skirts and buttocks of women and the coats of men, and even the sunlight was blocked out, and once more she felt she could not breathe. She was too frightened by then to cry out, and the person who had brushed her lips with water was nowhere to be seen. But at least her fever was gone, and she could think more clearly, and she remembers a man lifting her and placing her high on his shoulders, carrying her forward through that sea of weeping, angry people, away from it, then setting her down in a quieter place. Then he too was gone.
Now there was a young man in a policeman’s or soldier’s uniform who seemed very tired, and his nose was rubbed red as though he had a bad cold, and he spoke to her in a language she couldn’t understand.
Though she had no idea what this runny-nosed young man was saying to her, she sensed that he was asking her a series of questions. And so she answered him in the words she had memorized: “Mr. Gabriel Pollack, Wabash one hundred and seventeen. Terre Haute, Indiana. United States of America, U.S.A. He is your father’s first wife’s sister’s son.” But, to her dismay, she realized he had no idea what she was trying to say to him in her labored English, and he only looked more tired and discouraged and asked her more unintelligible questions. She recited her words once more, but again to no avail, and all at once she was certain that America was turning her away. The young soldier sneezed loudly, and gave her a despairing look.
Somehow, on her way across the Atlantic, or in that confused scene at the pier, she and her wicker basket had been parted from each other, where or how she would never know—even now. But she still had her brown cardboard valise, and remembering the piece of paper that had been placed inside it, she knelt on the floor, untied the valise, found the piece of paper, and showed it to the young officer.
How is it possible to forget whole weeks of time, and yet be able to remember vividly one gesture? The young man yawned noisily, took her piece of paper in one hand, and drew the back of his other hand wetly across his streaming nose. He read the words the neighbors had carefully printed:
Mr. Pollack, Gabriel
Wabash # 117
Terre Haute, Indiana
United States of America, U.S.A.
He asked her another short question, in a kinder voice now.
Once more, she didn’t understand him, but, since he seemed to expect a positive reply, she eagerly nodded yes. With that, he scribbled something on the entry card she had been given, stamped it with his stamp, and motioned her into a long line of people. Later, she would like to say that she might never have been admitted to America at all if the immigration officer hadn’t been very tired, and hadn’t had a bad cold. “I’m probably an illegal alien,” she would like to say.
Somehow again, from that point onward, she was able to remember another piece of advice that one of the neighbors from home had given her: “If you ever think you’re lost, just sit down on your suitcases and wait for someone to help you. In America, everyone helps everyone else.”
Outside the immigration depot at last, she sat on her remaining suitcase, and an elderly gentleman carrying a bouquet of white flowers spoke to her.
She didn’t answer him, but showed him the magic piece of paper.
Picking up the cardboard valise with his free hand, and steering her by the elbow, he escorted her to what turned out to be a railroad station.
The railroad stations of the remainder of the journey—New York, Cleveland, Indianapolis—blurred into one. The stations themselves were huge, vaulted, noisy, and confusing places, each one more elaborate and ornamented than any visions she had had of the palaces of the Czars.
As the trains made their slow way westward across America, the little gir
l was so exhausted from her fear and confusion that nearly all she could do was sleep. She slept for over a thousand miles, through the two days and a night that the journey took. Only from brief waking moments did little things stand out in her mind. On one train, a kind woman sitting next to her offered her a strange-looking fruit whose skin had to be peeled back, in long strips, in order for one to eat it. The woman showed her how. It was a banana. On another train, a man who had at first frightened her—he had a purple-black face and large black hands—gave her a small pillow to prop behind her head as she slept.
Finally—this must have been in the Indianapolis railroad station, where she sat again on her suitcase—there was a tall woman with an anxious, distracted air, who was carrying a suitcase much larger than Sari’s own, and who asked her a great many, always unintelligible, questions. When she looked at the much-folded piece of paper, she indicated that Sari should stay where she was, and then disappeared. When the woman returned, she was smiling, and she then escorted Sari to the proper gate for the train to Terre Haute.
Somehow, the little girl sensed that a transaction involving money had taken place, and carefully she lifted the little sack of coins from under the bosom of her dress, loosened the leather lace, and offered the tall woman one of the coins.
The woman studied the strange gold coin, looking puzzled, turning the coin this way and that. Finally, she smiled again and handed the coin back, pressing it into Sari’s hand. Then she helped Sari carry her cardboard valise aboard this last train, and blew her a good-bye kiss. Later, Sari would learn that this woman had sent a telegram to Mr. Gabriel Pollack, telling him when to expect the child, but at the time there was only more confusion and uncertainty as to why this woman had refused to accept the good ten-kopek piece.
And then, at the very last, waiting for her at the Terre Haute station as if by some sort of miracle, there to collect her at this last granite and marble palace, was the tall young man who turned out to be Mr. Gabriel Pollack himself. His handsome-homely face was smiling shyly as he picked her out from the crowd, which could not have been hard to do, in retrospect, considering the bulky, foreign-looking dress she was wearing, her head in that big camphor-smelling shawl, her cardboard suitcase beginning to fall apart at the corners. And she realized that here, at last, was someone—a living and breathing human being—who actually expected her, was waiting for her, and was ready to take her to an actual house at a specified destination. At that precise moment she made a promise to herself that never again in her life would she let herself be frightened of anything. Ever.
The LeBaron Secret Page 12
