From Plotzk to Boston
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Mary Antin >> From Plotzk to Boston
He said that we would now be taken to Keebart, a few versts' distance
from Verzbolovo, where one Herr Schidorsky lived. This man, he said, was
well known for miles around, and we were to tell him our story and ask
him to help us, which he probably would, being very kind.
A ray of hope shone on each of the frightened faces listening so
attentively to this bearer of both evil and happy tidings. I, for one,
was very confident that the good man would help us through our
difficulties, for I was most unwilling to believe that we really
couldn't continue our journey. Which of us was? I'd like to know.
We are in Keebart, at the depot. The least important particular even of
that place, I noticed and remembered. How the porter--he was an ugly,
grinning man--carried in our things and put them away in the southern
corner of the big room, on the floor; how we sat down on a settee near
them, a yellow settee; how the glass roof let in so much light that we
had to shade our eyes because the car had been dark and we had been
crying; how there were only a few people besides ourselves there, and
how I began to count them and stopped when I noticed a sign over the
head of the fifth person--a little woman with a red nose and a pimple on
it, that seemed to be staring at me as much as the grayish-blue eyes
above them, it was so large and round--and tried to read the German,
with the aid of the Russian translation below. I noticed all this and
remembered it, as if there was nothing else in the world for me to think
of--no America, no gendarme to destroy one's passports and speak of two
hundred rubles as if he were a millionaire, no possibility of being sent
back to one's old home whether one felt at all grateful for the
kindness or not--nothing but that most attractive of places, full of
interesting sights.
For, though I had been so hopeful a little while ago, I felt quite
discouraged when a man, very sour and grumbling--and he was a Jew--a
"Son of Mercy" as a certain song said--refused to tell mamma where
Schidorsky lived. I then believed that the whole world must have united
against us; and decided to show my defiant indifference by leaving the
world to be as unkind as it pleased, while I took no interest in such
trifles.
So I let my mind lose itself in a queer sort of mist--a something I
cannot describe except by saying it must have been made up of lazy
inactivity. Through this mist I saw and heard indistinctly much that
followed.
When I think of it now, I see how selfish it was to allow myself to
sink, body and mind, in such a sea of helpless laziness, when I might
have done something besides awaiting the end of that critical time,
whatever it might be--something, though what, I do not see even now, I
own. But I only studied the many notices till I thought myself very well
acquainted with the German tongue; and now and then tried to cheer the
other children, who were still inclined to cry, by pointing out to them
some of the things that interested me. For this faulty conduct I have no
excuse to give, unless youth and the fact that I was stunned with the
shock we had just received, will be accepted.
I remember through that mist that mother found Schidorsky's home at
last, but was told she could not see him till a little later; that she
came back to comfort us, and found there our former fellow passenger who
had come with us from Vilna, and that he was very indignant at the way
in which we were treated, and scolded, and declared he would have the
matter in all the papers, and said we must be helped. I remember how
mamma saw Schidorsky at last, spoke to him, and then told us, word for
word, what his answer had been; that he wouldn't wait to be asked to use
all his influence, and wouldn't lose a moment about it, and he didn't,
for he went out at once on that errand, while his good daughter did her
best to comfort mamma with kind words and tea. I remember that there was
much going to the good man's house; much hurrying of special messengers
to and from Eidtkunen; trembling inquiries, uncertain replies made
hopeful only by the pitying, encouraging words and manners of the
deliverer--for all, even the servants, were kind as good angels at that
place. I remember that another little family--there were three--were
discovered by us in the same happy state as ourselves, and like the dogs
in the fable, who, receiving care at the hands of a kind man, sent their
friends to him for help, we sent them to our helper.
I remember seeing night come out of that mist, and bringing more trains
and people and noise than the whole day (we still remained at the
depot), till I felt sick and dizzy. I remember wondering what kind of a
night it was, but not knowing how to find out, as if I had no senses. I
remember that somebody said we were obliged to remain in Keebart that
night and that we set out to find lodgings; that the most important
things I saw on the way were the two largest dolls I had ever seen,
carried by two pretty little girls, and a big, handsome father; and a
great deal of gravel in the streets, and boards for the crossings. I
remember that we found a little room (we had to go up four steps first)
that we could have for seventy-five copecks, with our tea paid for in
that sum. I remember, through that mist, how I wondered what I was
sleeping on that night, as I wondered about the weather; that we really
woke up in the morning (I was so glad to rest I had believed we should
never be disturbed again) and washed, and dressed and breakfasted and
went to the depot again, to be always on hand. I remember that mamma and
the father of the little family went at once to the only good man on
earth (I thought so) and that the party of three were soon gone, by the
help of some agent that was slower, for good reasons, in helping us.
I remember that mamma came to us soon after and said that Herr
Schidorsky had told her to ask the Postmeister--some high official
there--for a pass to Eidtkunen; and there she should speak herself to
our protector's older brother who could help us by means of his great
power among the officers of high rank; that she returned in a few hours
and told us the two brothers were equal in kindness, for the older one,
too, said he would not wait to be asked to do his best for us. I
remember that another day--so-o-o long--passed behind the mist, and we
were still in that dreadful, noisy, tiresome depot, with no change, till
we went to spend the night at Herr Schidorsky's, because they wouldn't
let us go anywhere else. On the way there, I remember, I saw something
marvellous--queer little wooden sticks stuck on the lines where clothes
hung for some purpose. (I didn't think it was for drying, because you
know I always saw things hung up on fences and gates for such purposes.
The queer things turned out to be clothes-pins). And, I remember, I
noticed many other things of equal importance to our affairs, till we
came to the little house in the garden. Here we were received, I
remember with much kindness and hospitality. We had a fire made for us,
food and drink brought in, and a servant was always inquiring whether
anything more could be done for our comfort.
I remember, still through that misty veil, what a pleasant evening we
passed, talking over what had so far happened, and wondering what would
come. I must have talked like one lost in a thick fog, groping
carefully. But, had I been shut up, mentally, in a tower nothing else
could pierce, the sense of gratitude that naturally sprung from the
kindness that surrounded us, must have, would have found a passage for
itself to the deepest cavities of the heart. Yes, though all my senses
were dulled by what had passed over us so lately, I was yet aware of the
deepest sense of thankfulness one can ever feel. I was aware of
something like the sweet presence of angels in the persons of good
Schidorsky and his family. Oh, that some knowledge of that gratitude
might reach those for whom we felt it so keenly! We all felt it. But the
deepest emotions are so hard to express. I thought of this as I lay
awake a little while, and said to myself, thinking of our benefactor,
that he was a Jew, a true "Son of Mercy." And I slept with that thought.
And this is the last I remember seeing and feeling behind that mist of
lazy inactivity.
The next morning, I woke not only from the night's sleep, but from my
waking dreaminess. All the vapors dispersed as I went into the pretty
flower garden where the others were already at play, and by the time we
had finished a good breakfast, served by a dear servant girl, I felt
quite myself again.
Of course, mamma hastened to Herr Schidorsky as soon as she could, and
he sent her to the Postmeister again, to ask him to return the part of
our passports that had been torn out, and without which we could not go
on. He said he would return them as soon as he received word from
Eidtkunen. So we could only wait and hope. At last it came and so
suddenly that we ran off to the depot with hardly a hat on all our
heads, or a coat on our backs, with two men running behind with our
things, making it a very ridiculous sight. We have often laughed over it
since.
Of course, in such a confusion we could not say even one word of
farewell or thanks to our deliverers. But, turning to see that we were
all there, I saw them standing in the gate, crying that all was well
now, and wishing us many pleasant things, and looking as if they had
been receiving all the blessings instead of us.
I have often thought they must have purposely arranged it that we should
have to leave in a hurry, because they wouldn't stand any expression of
gratefulness.
Well, we just reached our car in time to see our baggage brought from
the office and ourselves inside, when the last bell rang. Then, before
we could get breath enough to utter more than faint gasps of delight, we
were again in Eidtkunen.
The gendarmes came to question us again, but when mother said that we
were going to Herr Schidorsky of Eidtkunen, as she had been told to
say, we were allowed to leave the train. I really thought we were to be
the visitors of the elder Schidorsky, but it turned out to be only an
understanding between him and the officers that those claiming to be on
their way to him were not to be troubled.
At any rate, we had now really crossed the forbidden boundary--we were
in Germany.
There was a terrible confusion in the baggage-room where we were
directed to go. Boxes, baskets, bags, valises, and great, shapeless
things belonging to no particular class were thrown about by porters and
other men, who sorted them and put tickets on all but those containing
provisions, while others were opened and examined in haste. At last our
turn came, and our things, along with those of all other American-bound
travellers, were taken away to be steamed and smoked and other such
processes gone through. We were told to wait till notice should be given
us of something else to be done. Our train would not depart till nine in
the evening.
As usual, I noticed all the little particulars of the waiting room. What
else could I do with so much time and not even a book to read? I could
describe it exactly--the large, square room, painted walls, long tables
with fruits and drinks of all kinds covering them, the white chairs,
carved settees, beautiful china and cut glass showing through the glass
doors of the dressers, and the nickel samovar, which attracted my
attention because I had never seen any but copper or brass ones. The
best and the worst of everything there was a large case full of books.
It was the best, because they were "books" and all could use them; the
worst, because they were all German, and my studies in the railway depot
of Keebart had not taught me so much that I should be able to read books
in German. It was very hard to see people get those books and enjoy them
while I couldn't. It was impossible to be content with other people's
pleasure, and I wasn't.
When I had almost finished counting the books, I noticed that mamma and
the others had made friends with a family of travellers like ourselves.
Frau Gittleman and her five children made very interesting companions
for the rest of the day, and they seemed to think that Frau Antin and
the four younger Antins were just as interesting; perhaps excepting, in
their minds, one of them who must have appeared rather uninteresting
from a habit she had of looking about as if always expecting to make
discoveries.
But she was interested, if not interesting, enough when the oldest of
the young Gittlemans, who was a young gentleman of seventeen, produced
some books which she could read. Then all had a merry time together,
reading, talking, telling the various adventures of the journey, and
walking, as far as we were allowed, up and down the long platform
outside, till we were called to go and see, if we wanted to see, how our
things were being made fit for further travel. It was interesting to see
how they managed to have anything left to return to us, after all the
processes of airing and smoking and steaming and other assaults on
supposed germs of the dreaded cholera had been done with, the pillows,
even, being ripped open to be steamed! All this was interesting, but we
were rather disagreeably surprised when a bill for these unasked-for
services had to be paid.
The Gittlemans, we found, were to keep us company for some time. At the
expected hour we all tried to find room in a car indicated by the
conductor. We tried, but could only find enough space on the floor for
our baggage, on which we made believe sitting comfortably. For now we
were obliged to exchange the comparative comforts of a third class
passenger train for the certain discomforts of a fourth class one. There
were only four narrow benches in the whole car, and about twice as many
people were already seated on these as they were probably supposed to
accommodate. All other space, to the last inch, was crowded by
passengers or their luggage. It was very hot and close and altogether
uncomfortable, and still at every new station fresh passengers came
crowding in, and actually made room, spare as it was, for themselves. It
became so terrible that all glared madly at the conductor as he allowed
more people to come into that prison, and trembled at the announcement
of every station. I cannot see even now how the officers could allow
such a thing; it was really dangerous. The most remarkable thing was the
good-nature of the poor passengers. Few showed a sour face even; not a
man used any strong language (audibly, at least). They smiled at each
other as if they meant to say, "I am having a good time; so are you,
aren't you?" Young Gittleman was very gallant, and so cheerful that he
attracted everybody's attention. He told stories, laughed, and made us
unwilling to be outdone. During one of his narratives he produced a
pretty memorandum book that pleased one of us very much, and that
pleasing gentleman at once presented it to her. She has kept it since in
memory of the giver, and, in the right place, I could tell more about
that matter--very interesting.
I have given so much space to the description of that one night's
adventures because I remember it so distinctly, with all its
discomforts, and the contrast of our fellow-travellers' kindly
dispositions. At length that dreadful night passed, and at dawn about
half the passengers left, all at once. There was such a sigh of relief
and a stretching of cramped limbs as can only be imagined, as the
remaining passengers inhaled the fresh cold air of dewy dawn. It was
almost worth the previous suffering to experience the pleasure of relief
that followed.
All day long we travelled in the same train, sleeping, resting, eating,
and wishing to get out. But the train stopped for a very short time at
the many stations, and all the difference that made to us was that
pretty girls passed through the cars with little bark baskets filled
with fruit and flowers hardly fresher or prettier than their bearers,
who generally sold something to our young companion, for he never
wearied of entertaining us.
Other interests there were none. The scenery was nothing unusual, only
towns, depots, roads, fields, little country houses with barns and
cattle and poultry--all such as we were well acquainted with. If
something new did appear, it was passed before one could get a good look
at it. The most pleasing sights were little barefoot children waving
their aprons or hats as we eagerly watched for them, because that
reminded us of our doing the same thing when we saw the passenger
trains, in the country. We used to wonder whether we should ever do so
again.
Towards evening we came into Berlin. I grow dizzy even now when I think
of our whirling through that city. It seemed we were going faster and
faster all the time, but it was only the whirl of trains passing in
opposite directions and close to us that made it seem so. The sight of
crowds of people such as we had never seen before, hurrying to and fro,
in and out of great depots that danced past us, helped to make it more
so. Strange sights, splendid buildings, shops, people and animals, all
mingled in one great, confused mass of a disposition to continually move
in a great hurry, wildly, with no other aim but to make one's head go
round and round, in following its dreadful motions. Round and round went
my head. It was nothing but trains, depots, crowds--crowds, depots,
trains, again and again, with no beginning, no end, only a mad dance!
Faster and faster we go, faster still, and the noise increases with the
speed. Bells, whistles, hammers, locomotives shrieking madly, men's
voices, peddlers' cries, horses' hoofs, dogs' barking--all united in
doing their best to drown every other sound but their own, and made such
a deafening uproar in the attempt that nothing could keep it out. Whirl,
noise, dance, uproar--will it last forever? I'm so--o diz-z-zy! How my
head aches!
And oh! those people will be run over! Stop the train, they'll--thank
goodness, nobody is hurt. But who ever heard of a train passing right
through the middle of a city, up in the air, it seems. Oh, dear! it's no
use thinking, my head spins so. Right through the business streets! Why,
who ever--!
I must have lived through a century of this terrible motion and din and
unheard of roads for trains, and confused thinking. But at length
everything began to take a more familiar appearance again, the noise
grew less, the roads more secluded, and by degrees we recognized the
dear, peaceful country. Now we could think of Berlin, or rather, what we
had seen of it, more calmly, and wonder why it made such an impression.
I see now. We had never seen so large a city before, and were not
prepared to see such sights, bursting upon us so suddenly as that. It
was like allowing a blind man to see the full glare of the sun all at
once. Our little Plotzk, and even the larger cities we had passed
through, compared to Berlin about the same as total darkness does to
great brilliancy of light.
In a great lonely field opposite a solitary wooden house within a large
yard, our train pulled up at last, and a conductor commanded the
passengers to make haste and get out. He need not have told us to hurry;
we were glad enough to be free again after such a long imprisonment in
the uncomfortable car. All rushed to the door. We breathed more freely
in the open field, but the conductor did not wait for us to enjoy our
freedom. He hurried us into the one large room which made up the house,
and then into the yard. Here a great many men and women, dressed in
white, received us, the women attending to the women and girls of the
passengers, and the men to the others.
This was another scene of bewildering confusion, parents losing their
children, and little ones crying; baggage being thrown together in one
corner of the yard, heedless of contents, which suffered in consequence;
those white-clad Germans shouting commands always accompanied with
"Quick! Quick!"; the confused passengers obeying all orders like meek
children, only questioning now and then what was going to be done with
them.
And no wonder if in some minds stories arose of people being captured by
robbers, murderers, and the like. Here we had been taken to a lonely
place where only that house was to be seen; our things were taken away,
our friends separated from us; a man came to inspect us, as if to
ascertain our full value; strange looking people driving us about like
dumb animals, helpless and unresisting; children we could not see,
crying in a way that suggested terrible things; ourselves driven into a
little room where a great kettle was boiling on a little stove; our
clothes taken off, our bodies rubbed with a slippery substance that
might be any bad thing; a shower of warm water let down on us without
warning; again driven to another little room where we sit, wrapped in
woollen blankets till large, coarse bags are brought in, their contents
turned out and we see only a cloud of steam, and hear the women's
orders to dress ourselves, quick, quick, or else we'll miss--something
we cannot hear. We are forced to pick out our clothes from among all the
others, with the steam blinding us; we choke, cough, entreat the women
to give us time; they persist, "Quick, quick, or you'll miss the train!"
Oh, so we really won't be murdered! They are only making us ready for
the continuing of our journey, cleaning us of all suspicions of
dangerous germs. Thank God!
Assured by the word "train" we manage to dress ourselves after a
fashion, and the man comes again to inspect us. All is right, and we are
allowed to go into the yard to find our friends and our luggage. Both
are difficult tasks, the second even harder. Imagine all the things of
some hundreds of people making a journey like ours, being mostly
unpacked and mixed together in one sad heap. It was disheartening, but
done at last was the task of collecting our belongings, and we were
marched into the big room again. Here, on the bare floor, in a ring, sat
some Polish men and women singing some hymn in their own tongue, and
making more noise than music. We were obliged to stand and await further
orders, the few seats being occupied, and the great door barred and
locked. We were in a prison, and again felt some doubts. Then a man came
in and called the passengers' names, and when they answered they were
made to pay two marcs each for the pleasant bath we had just been
forced to take.
Another half hour, and our train arrived. The door was opened, and we
rushed out into the field, glad to get back even to the fourth class
car.
We had lost sight of the Gittlemans, who were going a different way now,
and to our regret hadn't even said good-bye, or thanked them for their
kindness.
After the preceding night of wakefulness and discomfort, the weary day
in the train, the dizzy whirl through Berlin, the fright we had from the
rough proceedings of the Germans, and all the strange experiences of the
place we just escaped--after all this we needed rest. But to get it was
impossible for all but the youngest children. If we had borne great
discomforts on the night before, we were suffering now. I had thought
anything worse impossible. Worse it was now. The car was even more
crowded, and people gasped for breath. People sat in strangers' laps,
only glad of that. The floor was so thickly lined that the conductor
could not pass, and the tickets were passed to him from hand to hand.
To-night all were more worn out, and that did not mend their
dispositions. They could not help falling asleep and colliding with
someone's nodding head, which called out angry mutterings and growls.
Some fell off their seats and caused a great commotion by rolling over
on the sleepers on the floor, and, in spite of my own sleepiness and
weariness, I had many quiet laughs by myself as I watched the funny
actions of the poor travellers.
Not until very late did I fall asleep. I, with the rest, missed the
pleasant company of our friends, the Gittlemans, and thought about them
as I sat perched on a box, with an old man's knees for the back of my
seat, another man's head continually striking my right shoulder, a dozen
or so arms being tossed restlessly right in front of my face, and as
many legs holding me a fast prisoner, so that I could only try to keep
my seat against all the assaults of the sleepers who tried in vain to
make their positions more comfortable. It was all so comical, in spite
of all the inconveniences, that I tried hard not to laugh out loud, till
I too fell asleep. I was awakened very early in the morning by something
chilling and uncomfortable on my face, like raindrops coming down
irregularly. I found it was a neighbor of mine eating cheese, who was
dropping bits on my face. So I began the day with a laugh at the man's
funny apologies, but could not find much more fun in the world on
account of the cold and the pain of every limb. It was very miserable,
till some breakfast cheered me up a little.