Читать книгу We're in America Now - Fred Amram - Страница 16

IX. THREE TO A BED

ALTHOUGH WE’VE BEEN BRANDED with official American names, we’re still lost German Jews in a warehouse of other confused immigrants and refugees. Everyone speaks English to us. Mutti, who studied French and English in high school, translates the signs and whatever she overhears. Many of the words are not part of her classroom vocabulary, but she guides us efficiently. We move from table to table until we come to the immigration-paper checker. Mutti shows our papers and answers questions.

The clerk waves us to another desk and we move on. I’m afraid to lose Mutti and Papa in the milling crowd but I can’t hold on to either of them. My left hand holds my little suitcase and under my right arm I squeeze my new toy truck. Mutti walks too fast. Even Papa can hardly keep up and people push between my parents. My tired legs leave me trailing behind. “Papa, Papa,” I shout. No one waits.

We arrive at yet another desk where we show a certificate and a letter from our sponsor to a uniformed official. The letter is written in English. Mutti translated the letter for us while we were still on the boat. She explained that the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society, the HIAS, helped find American Jews who would be willing to sponsor European Jews desperate to enter the United States. The HIAS matches the sponsor with a refugee family. Mutti said that our sponsor promised the United States government that if we couldn’t support ourselves, he would guarantee our expenses until we could afford to live on our own. Papa added that he must be a very kind man because he trusts us sight unseen.

The official reads the letter quickly. I don’t really understand what a sponsor does, but clearly, we can’t escape Hitler unless we have an American sponsor who promises that we will not be a burden to the land of milk and honey.

“Yes,” says the uniformed man. “Your sponsor’s name is right here in the record book. He’s a doctor.”

Mutti whispers in German, “He must be a rich doctor.”

“You’re good to go,” says the official.

“Go where?” asks Mutti.

The man points to a gate.

“But where will we go?” Mutti whines.

The man points again. “Exit,” he says.

The gate sign says “Exit.” Mutti can translate that. Mutti explains to Papa in German that she doesn’t know where to go in the biggest city in the world. Where will we sleep and eat? But the man at the desk is already talking to another family. We walk through the exit gate, step out of the line of pushing people and stand still. Like most refugees, we did not arrive with riches. In addition to her suitcase, Mutti carries a small briefcase filled with IMPORTANT PAPERS and I’m responsible for my most treasured possession, a toy American army truck.

“Da, da,” shouts Papa suddenly. “There, There.” He rushes to a man with a sign that even I can read: “Amram Familie.” Papa starts chatting in German with the man. The stranger understands every word. He speaks our language and tells Papa not to worry.

“I’m from the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society, the HIAS,” he says. “I’ve come to help you settle into New York City.” He tells us his name, but I can’t remember it. He speaks German perfectly. Papa even uses some Yiddish phrases with our guide. He must be Jewish. Mutti refuses to learn Yiddish. She claims that “only Polacks and boors speak Yiddish.” I don’t think that Papa is in either of those categories but his Yiddish is pretty good.

We walk a little way to a trolley that doesn’t say, “Juden Verboten.” The HIAS man pays the fare for all of us. He finds a seat for himself and points to empty benches. We sit. When he stands up, we stand up. We follow him off the trolley, down a busy street. I smell meat. A Frankfurter stand. I look up and sound out the words “Hot” and “Dog” but I don’t know what they mean. I move closer to the little cart to smell the sausage and the mustard. Yum. I move on and look into a shop window where dresses are displayed on statues that look like women. One woman is naked and a man is dressing her. Another shop shows men’s clothing on statues. I stop when I see a shop that displays oranges and apples and potatoes in large boxes. More food than I’ve ever seen in one store. I’m a puppy that sniffs at every tree. Suddenly the HIAS man is stroking my hair. He’s come back for me.

“Do you want something?”

I’m tongue-tied. I put down my suitcase and point to a green fruit thinking that it’s a new kind of misshapen apple—an American apple.

The HIAS man pays. “I’ll hold this until we sit down. Then you can eat it.”

We walk down steps into an underground train station. I’ve never been in a tunnel and certainly not one with noisy trains. I’m terrified and need to hold on to someone. The HIAS man sees my predicament and offers to carry my truck. I hand him my suitcase instead and grab Mutti’s skirt. The man pays our fare and explains that we will have to learn how to use the subway—but not right now. Mutti remarks that she has once been on an U Bahn in Berlin.

When we’re seated, the HIAS man hands me the fruit. Mutti says, “Say thank you.”

I’m still tongue-tied. I bite into the fruit expecting a tart apple taste. It’s sweet. Sweeter than any fruit I’ve ever tasted. I can almost smell the sugar. America is wonderful. I can’t control the tears. The HIAS man rushes over to ask if I don’t like my treat. He reaches to take it away. I protect the fruit and continue to cry. Finally I make myself whisper my appreciation, “Danke schoen.” I take another bite.

We follow the man off the subway, up the steps to the street. He points to a waste basket and encourages me to throw the core away. I do and Mutti rushes over to wipe my hand and my mouth with her handkerchief. She reaches for the right hand but I refuse to let go of the truck. I stick my lower lip way out and squint. My mean face. She gives up.

We enter a small hotel lobby that smells like very stale food, mostly cabbage. I look at Mutti and see her nose twitching. This room doesn’t meet her standards for cleanliness. A desk clerk gives the HIAS man a key and we all squeeze into a closet with lots of shiny brass. The closet—my first elevator—rattles up several flights. I’m nearest to Papa so I hold his hand. He winks. Everything will be fine. He explains that I just ate a Birne, a pear. They were once quite popular in Germany but now, in wartime, they’re hard to find. He promises more pears if I’m a good boy.

We’re shown a small, dark, dusty room with one bed and a dresser. The man explains that this will be our home until we’re settled in a better place. The HIAS will pay the rent and give us money for food. He gives each of us a piece of paper money with the number “5” on it. I give mine to Papa.

The next day the man returns to take us to the HIAS office. He wants us to learn how to get there by ourselves. At the HIAS, there are nice men and women who speak any language one could wish. Social workers arrange work papers for Mutti and Papa and English language classes. They help Mutti make contact with former Hannoverians now living in New York.

We eat most of our meals at a cafeteria next to the hotel. Papa holds me up so I can see the foods on the counter and in the little compartments. I point. Mutti uses veto power when I select only meats and desserts. She insists on vegetables and limits me to one inexpensive dessert.

Most significant to me that first week in New York City is our bed. We have one large bed in our hotel room—a double bed. Mutti decides that I must sleep in the middle so that I don’t fall out. However, she insists that I sleep in the opposite direction from my parents with my feet near their faces. Papa calls her meshuga and says something about the New York moon distorting her brain. Mutti wins the argument on health reasons that I don’t understand. So I sleep every night between my parents, looking at their feet which stick out from the covers so that I can breathe. My feet are covered at the other end because I’m still small. After a few nights I become accustomed to the smell of Papa’s feet. They smell just like the egg salad Papa selects at the cafeteria. To be sure that my feet don’t smell funny, I never select eggs.

A woman from the HIAS helps Mutti contact the Strauss family, comfortably settled refugees from Germany. They have a flat and need someone to share the rent. We move into one bedroom in their three-bedroom apartment in Washington Heights. We have use of the kitchen and living room. It isn’t until Papa finds a job and we can afford additional rent that I have my own little “room.” I sleep in a little hallway off the living room. A heavy ceiling to floor curtain allows me to pretend that I have a private space. I like that I can overhear all conversations. Yippee. I finally have my own bed! The Strauss’s son, Walter, has his own bedroom.

Walter is sixteen and quite independent. I watch him closely so that I can learn how to be an American boy. When he comes home from school, he goes directly to the ice box, takes out a bottle of milk and drinks right from the bottle. He does not need permission to make sandwiches for himself. In America, it seems to me, there are no food shortages, rationing and hunger like in Hannover. One day I go to the kitchen while Frau Strauss is washing dishes. I open the ice box and take out a bottle of milk. I remove the cover and drink just a little bit. I cap the bottle and put it back in the ice box. All the while I pretend not to be watching Frau Strauss—although I eye her carefully. She pays no attention to me. I take a cookie and go back to my little space. No food shortage. I can eat to my heart’s content—and I do.