From Plotzk to Boston
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Mary Antin >> From Plotzk to Boston
From Plotzk to Boston
BY
MARY ANTIN
WITH A FOREWORD BY
ISRAEL ZANGWILL
BOSTON, MASS.
W. B. CLARKE & CO., PARK STREET CHURCH
1899
COPYRIGHT, 1899
BY MARY ANTIN
PRESS OF PHILIP COWEN
NEW YORK CITY
* * * * *
DEDICATED TO
HATTIE L. HECHT
WITH THE LOVE AND GRATITUDE OF
THE AUTHOR
* * * * *
FOREWORD
The "infant phenomenon" in literature is rarer than in more physical
branches of art, but its productions are not likely to be of value
outside the doting domestic circle. Even Pope who "lisped in numbers for
the numbers came," did not add to our Anthology from his cradle, though
he may therein have acquired his monotonous rocking-metre. Immaturity of
mind and experience, so easily disguised on the stage or the
music-stool--even by adults--is more obvious in the field of pure
intellect. The contribution with which Mary Antin makes her debut in
letters is, however, saved from the emptiness of embryonic thinking by
being a record of a real experience, the greatest of her life; her
journey from Poland to Boston. Even so, and remarkable as her
description is for a girl of eleven--for it was at this age that she
first wrote the thing in Yiddish, though she was thirteen when she
translated it into English--it would scarcely be worth publishing merely
as a literary curiosity. But it happens to possess an extraneous value.
For, despite the great wave of Russian immigration into the United
States, and despite the noble spirit in which the Jews of America have
grappled with the invasion, we still know too little of the inner
feelings of the people themselves, nor do we adequately realize what
magic vision of free America lures them on to face the great journey to
the other side of the world.
Mary Antin's vivid description of all she and her dear ones went
through, enables us to see almost with our own eyes how the invasion of
America appears to the impecunious invader. It is thus "a human
document" of considerable value, as well as a promissory note of future
performance. The quick senses of the child, her keen powers of
observation and introspection, her impressionability both to sensations
and complex emotions--these are the very things out of which literature
is made; the raw stuff of art. Her capacity to handle English--after so
short a residence in America--shows that she possesses also the
instrument of expression. More fortunate than the poet of the Ghetto,
Morris Rosenfeld, she will have at her command the most popular language
in the world, and she has already produced in it passages of true
literature, especially in her impressionistic rendering of the sea and
the bustling phantasmagoria of travel.
What will be her development no one can say precisely, and I would not
presume either to predict or to direct it, for "the wind bloweth where
it listeth." It will probably take lyrical shape. Like most modern
Jewesses who have written, she is, I fear, destined to spiritual
suffering: fortunately her work evidences a genial talent for enjoyment
and a warm humanity which may serve to counterbalance the curse of
reflectiveness. That she is growing, is evident from her own
Introduction, written only the other day, with its touches of humor and
more complex manipulation of groups of facts. But I have ventured to
counsel delay rather than precipitation in production--for she is not
yet sixteen--and the completion of her education, physical no less than
intellectual; and it is to this purpose that such profits as may accrue
from this publication will be devoted. Let us hope this premature
recognition of her potentialities will not injure their future
flowering, and that her development will add to those spiritual and
intellectual forces of which big-hearted American Judaism stands sorely
in need. I should explain in conclusion, that I have neither added nor
subtracted, even a comma, and that I have no credit in "discovering"
Mary Antin. I did but endorse the verdict of that kind and charming
Boston household in which I had the pleasure of encountering the gifted
Polish girl, and to a member of which this little volume is
appropriately dedicated.
I. ZANGWILL.
PREFATORY
In the year 1891, a mighty wave of the emigration movement swept over
all parts of Russia, carrying with it a vast number of the Jewish
population to the distant shores of the New World--from tyranny to
democracy, from darkness to light, from bondage and persecution to
freedom, justice and equality. But the great mass knew nothing of these
things; they were going to the foreign world in hopes only of earning
their bread and worshiping their God in peace. The different currents
that directed the course of that wave cannot be here enumerated. Suffice
it to say that its power was enormous. All over the land homes were
broken up, families separated, lives completely altered, for a common
end.
The emigration fever was at its height in Plotzk, my native town, in the
central western part of Russia, on the Dvina River. "America" was in
everybody's mouth. Business men talked of it over their accounts; the
market women made up their quarrels that they might discuss it from
stall to stall; people who had relatives in the famous land went around
reading their letters for the enlightenment of less fortunate folks; the
one letter-carrier informed the public how many letters arrived from
America, and who were the recipients; children played at emigrating; old
folks shook their sage heads over the evening fire, and prophesied no
good for those who braved the terrors of the sea and the foreign goal
beyond it;--all talked of it, but scarcely anybody knew one true fact
about this magic land. For book-knowledge was not for them; and a few
persons--they were a dressmaker's daughter, and a merchant with his two
sons--who had returned from America after a long visit, happened to be
endowed with extraordinary imagination, (a faculty closely related to
their knowledge of their old country-men's ignorance), and their
descriptions of life across the ocean, given daily, for some months, to
eager audiences, surpassed anything in the Arabian Nights. One sad fact
threw a shadow over the splendor of the gold-paved, Paradise-like
fairyland. The travelers all agreed that Jews lived there in the most
shocking impiety.
Driven by a necessity for bettering the family circumstances, and by
certain minor forces which cannot now be named, my father began to think
seriously of casting his lot with the great stream of emigrants. Many
family councils were held before it was agreed that the plan must be
carried out. Then came the parting; for it was impossible for the whole
family to go at once. I remember it, though I was only eight. It struck
me as rather interesting to stand on the platform before the train, with
a crowd of friends weeping in sympathy with us, and father waving his
hat for our special benefit, and saying--the last words we heard him
speak as the train moved off--
"Good-bye, Plotzk, forever!"
Then followed three long years of hope and doubt for father in America
and us in Russia. There were toil and suffering and waiting and anxiety
for all. There were--but to tell of all that happened in those years I
should have to write a separate history. The happy day came when we
received the long-coveted summons. And what stirring times followed! The
period of preparation was one of constant delight to us children. We
were four--my two sisters, one brother and myself. Our playmates looked
up to us in respectful admiration; neighbors, if they made no direct
investigations, bribed us with nice things for information as to what
was going into every box, package and basket. And the house was
dismantled--people came and carried off the furniture; closets, sheds
and other nooks were emptied of their contents; the great wood-pile was
taken away until only a few logs remained; ancient treasures such as
women are so loath to part with, and which mother had carried with her
from a dear little house whence poverty had driven us, were brought to
light from their hiding places, and sacrificed at the altar whose flames
were consuming so much that was fraught with precious association and
endeared by family tradition; the number of bundles and boxes increased
daily, and our home vanished hourly; the rooms became quite
uninhabitable at last, and we children glanced in glee, to the anger of
the echoes, when we heard that in the evening we were to start upon our
journey.
But we did not go till the next morning, and then as secretly as
possible. For, despite the glowing tales concerning America, people
flocked to the departure of emigrants much as they did to a funeral; to
weep and lament while (in the former case only, I believe) they envied.
As everybody in Plotzk knew us, and as the departure of a whole family
was very rousing, we dared not brave the sympathetic presence of the
whole township, that we knew we might expect. So we gave out a false
alarm.
Even then there was half the population of Plotzk on hand the next
morning. We were the heroes of the hour. I remember how the women
crowded around mother, charging her to deliver messages to their
relatives in America; how they made the air ring with their
unintelligible chorus; how they showered down upon us scores of
suggestions and admonitions; how they made us frantic with their
sympathetic weeping and wringing of hands; how, finally, the ringing of
the signal bell set them all talking faster and louder than ever, in
desperate efforts to give the last bits of advice, deliver the last
messages, and, to their credit let it be said, to give the final,
hearty, unfeigned good-bye kisses, hugs and good wishes.
Well, we lived through three years of waiting, and also through a half
hour of parting. Some of our relatives came near being carried off, as,
heedless of the last bell, they lingered on in the car. But at last
they, too, had to go, and we, the wanderers, could scarcely see the
rainbow wave of colored handkerchiefs, as, dissolved in tears, we were
carried out of Plotzk, away from home, but nearer our longed-for haven
of reunion; nearer, indeed, to everything that makes life beautiful and
gives one an aim and an end--freedom, progress, knowledge, light and
truth, with their glorious host of followers. But we did not know it
then.
The following pages contain the description of our journey, as I wrote
it four years ago, when it was all fresh in my memory.
M. A.
FROM PLOTZK TO BOSTON.
The short journey from Plotzk to Vilna was uneventful. Station after
station was passed without our taking any interest in anything, for that
never-to-be-forgotten leave taking at the Plotzk railway station left us
all in such a state of apathy to all things except our own thoughts as
could not easily be thrown off. Indeed, had we not been obliged to
change trains at Devinsk and, being the inexperienced travellers we
were, do a great deal of bustling and hurrying and questioning of
porters and mere idlers, I do not know how long we would have remained
in that same thoughtful, silent state.
Towards evening we reached Vilna, and such a welcome as we got! Up to
then I had never seen such a mob of porters and isvostchiky. I do not
clearly remember just what occurred, but a most vivid recollection of
being very uneasy for a time is still retained in my memory. You see my
uncle was to have met us at the station, but urgent business kept him
elsewhere.
Now it was universally believed in Plotzk that it was wise not to trust
the first isvostchik who offered his services when one arrived in Vilna
a stranger, and I do not know to this day how mother managed to get
away from the mob and how, above all, she dared to trust herself with
her precious baggage to one of them. But I have thought better of Vilna
Isvostchiky since, for we were safely landed after a pretty long drive
in front of my uncle's store, with never one of our number lost, never a
bundle stolen or any mishap whatever.
Our stay in Vilna was marked by nothing of interest. We stayed only long
enough for some necessary papers to reach us, and during that time I
discovered that Vilna was very much like Plotzk, though larger, cleaner
and noisier. There were the same coarse, hoarse-voiced women in the
market, the same kind of storekeepers in the low store doors, forever
struggling and quarrelling for a customer. The only really interesting
things I remember were the horsecars, which I had never even heard of,
and in one of which I had a lovely ride for five copeiky, and a large
book store on the Nemetzka yah Ulitza. The latter object may not seem of
any interest to most people, but I had never seen so many books in one
place before, and I could not help regarding them with longing and
wonder.
At last all was in readiness for our start. This was really the
beginning of our long journey, which I shall endeavor to describe.
I will not give any description of the various places we passed, for we
stopped at few places and always under circumstances which did not
permit of sightseeing. I shall only speak of such things as made a
distinct impression upon my mind, which, it must be remembered, was not
mature enough to be impressed by what older minds were, while on the
contrary it was in just the state to take in many things which others
heeded not.
I do not know the exact date, but I do know that it was at the break of
day on a Sunday and very early in April when we left Vilna. We had not
slept any the night before. Fannie and I spent the long hours in playing
various quiet games and watching the clock. At last the long expected
hour arrived; our train would be due in a short time. All but Fannie and
myself had by this time fallen into a drowse, half sitting, half lying
on some of the many baskets and boxes that stood all about the room all
ready to be taken to the station. So we set to work to rouse the rest,
and with the aid of an alarm clock's loud ringing, we soon had them at
least half awake; and while the others sat rubbing their eyes and trying
to look wide awake, Uncle Borris had gone out, and when he returned with
several droskies to convey us to the station, we were all ready for the
start.
We went out into the street, and now I perceived that not we alone were
sleepy; everything slept, and nature also slept, deeply, sweetly.
The sky was covered with dark gray clouds (perhaps that was its
night-cap), from which a chill, drizzling rain was slowly descending,
and the thick morning fog shut out the road from our sight. No sound
came from any direction; slumber and quiet reigned everywhere, for every
thing and person slept, forgetful for a time of joys, sorrows, hopes,
fears,--everything.
Sleepily we said our last good-byes to the family, took our seats in the
droskies, and soon the Hospitalnayah Ulitza was lost to sight. As the
vehicles rattled along the deserted streets, the noise of the horses'
hoofs and the wheels striking against the paving stones sounded
unusually loud in the general hush, and caused the echoes to answer
again and again from the silent streets and alleys.
In a short time we were at the station. In our impatience we had come
too early, and now the waiting was very tiresome. Everybody knows how
lively and noisy it is at a railroad station when a train is expected.
But now there were but a few persons present, and in everybody's face I
could see the reflection of my own dissatisfaction, because, like
myself, they had much rather have been in a comfortable, warm bed than
up and about in the rain and fog. Everything was so uncomfortable.
Suddenly we heard a long shrill whistle, to which the surrounding
dreariness gave a strangely mournful sound, the clattering train rushed
into the depot and stood still. Several passengers (they were very few)
left the cars and hastened towards where the droskies stood, and after
rousing the sleepy isvostchiky, were whirled away to their several
destinations.
When we had secured our tickets and seen to the baggage we entered a car
in the women's division and waited impatiently for the train to start.
At last the first signal was given, then the second and third; the
locomotive shrieked and puffed, the train moved slowly, then swiftly it
left the depot far behind it.
From Vilna to our next stopping place, Verzbolovo, there was a long,
tedious ride of about eight hours. As the day continued to be dull and
foggy, very little could be seen through the windows. Besides, no one
seemed to care or to be interested in anything. Sleepy and tired as we
all were, we got little rest, except the younger ones, for we had not
yet got used to living in the cars and could not make ourselves very
comfortable. For the greater part of the time we remained as unsocial as
the weather was unpleasant. The car was very still, there being few
passengers, among them a very pleasant kind gentleman travelling with
his pretty daughter. Mother found them very pleasant to chat with, and
we children found it less tiresome to listen to them.
At half past twelve o'clock the train came to a stop before a large
depot, and the conductor announced "Verzbolovo, fifteen minutes!" The
sight that now presented itself was very cheering after our long,
unpleasant ride. The weather had changed very much. The sun was shining
brightly and not a trace of fog or cloud was to be seen. Crowds of
well-dressed people were everywhere--walking up and down the platform,
passing through the many gates leading to the street, sitting around the
long, well-loaded tables, eating, drinking, talking or reading
newspapers, waited upon by the liveliest, busiest waiters I had ever
seen--and there was such an activity and bustle about everything that I
wished I could join in it, it seemed so hard to sit still. But I had to
content myself with looking on with the others, while the friendly
gentleman whose acquaintance my mother had made (I do not recollect his
name) assisted her in obtaining our tickets for Eidtkunen, and attending
to everything else that needed attention, and there were many things.
Soon the fifteen minutes were up, our kind fellow-passenger and his
daughter bade us farewell and a pleasant journey (we were just on the
brink of the beginning of our troubles), the train puffed out of the
depot and we all felt we were nearing a very important stage in our
journey. At this time, cholera was raging in Russia, and was spread by
emigrants going to America in the countries through which they
travelled. To stop this danger, measures were taken to make emigration
from Russia more difficult than ever. I believe that at all times the
crossing of the boundary between Russia and Germany was a source of
trouble to Russians, but with a special passport this was easily
overcome. When, however, the traveller could not afford to supply
himself with one, the boundary was crossed by stealth, and many amusing
anecdotes are told of persons who crossed in some disguise, often that
of a mujik who said he was going to the town on the German side to sell
some goods, carried for the purpose of ensuring the success of the ruse.
When several such tricks had been played on the guards it became very
risky, and often, when caught, a traveller resorted to stratagem, which
is very diverting when afterwards described, but not so at a time when
much depends on its success. Some times a paltry bribe secured one a
safe passage, and often emigrants were aided by men who made it their
profession to help them cross, often suffering themselves to be paid
such sums for the service that it paid best to be provided with a
special passport.
As I said, the difficulties were greater at the time we were travelling,
and our friends believed we had better not attempt a stealthy crossing,
and we procured the necessary document to facilitate it. We therefore
expected little trouble, but some we thought there might be, for we had
heard some vague rumors to the effect that a special passport was not as
powerful an agent as it used to be.
We now prepared to enjoy a little lunch, and before we had time to clear
it away the train stopped, and we saw several men in blue uniforms, gilt
buttons and brass helmets, if you may call them so, on their heads. At
his side each wore a kind of leather case attached to a wide bronze
belt. In these cases they carried something like a revolver, and each
had, besides, a little book with black oilcloth covers.
I can give you no idea of the impression these men (they were German
gendarmes) made on us, by saying they frightened us. Perhaps because
their (to us) impressive appearance gave them a stern look; perhaps
because they really looked something more than grave, we were so
frightened. I only know that we were. I can see the reason now clearly
enough. Like all persons who were used to the tyranny of a Russian
policeman, who practically ruled the ward or town under his friendly
protection, and never hesitated to assert his rights as holder of
unlimited authority over his little domain, in that mild, amiable manner
so well known to such of his subjects as he particularly favored with
his vigilant regard--like all such persons, I say, we did not, could
not, expect to receive any kind treatment at the hands of a number of
officers, especially as we were in the very act of attempting to part
with our much-beloved mother country, of which act, to judge by the
pains it took to make it difficult, the government did not approve. It
was a natural fear in us, as you can easily see. Pretty soon mother
recovered herself, and remembering that the train stops for a few
minutes only, was beginning to put away the scattered articles hastily
when a gendarme entered our car and said we were not to leave it. Mamma
asked him why, but he said nothing and left the car, another gendarme
entering as he did so. He demanded where we were going, and, hearing the
answer, went out. Before we had had time to look about at each other's
frightened faces, another man, a doctor, as we soon knew, came in
followed by a third gendarme.
The doctor asked many questions about our health, and of what
nationality we were. Then he asked about various things, as where we
were going to, if we had tickets, how much money we had, where we came
from, to whom we were going, etc., etc., making a note of every answer
he received. This done, he shook his head with his shining helmet on it,
and said slowly (I imagined he enjoyed frightening us), "With these
third class tickets you cannot go to America now, because it is
forbidden to admit emigrants into Germany who have not at least second
class tickets. You will have to return to Russia unless you pay at the
office here to have your tickets changed for second class ones." After a
few minutes' calculation and reference to the notes he had made, he
added calmly, "I find you will need two hundred rubles to get your
tickets exchanged;" and, as the finishing stroke to his pleasing
communication, added, "Your passports are of no use at all now because
the necessary part has to be torn out, whether you are allowed to pass
or not." A plain, short speech he made of it, that cruel man. Yet every
word sounded in our ears with an awful sound that stopped the beating of
our hearts for a while--sounded like the ringing of funeral bells to us,
and yet without the mournfully sweet music those bells make, that they
might heal while they hurt.
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. And that is why the simple words had
such a frightful meaning to us. We had received a wound we knew not how
to heal.
When 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 by what they understood, and all but cried. I was only
wondering what would happen, and wishing I could pour out my grief in
tears, as the others did; but when I feel deeply I seldom show it in
that way, and always wish I could.
Mother's supplications, and perhaps the children's indirect ones, had
more effect than I supposed they would. The officer was moved, even if
he had just said that tears would not be accepted instead of money, and
gave us such kind advice that I began to be sorry I had thought him
cruel, for it was easy to see that he was only doing his duty and had no
part in our trouble that he could be blamed for, now that I had more
kindly thoughts of him.