Promised Land — The Boundaries Stretch

CHAPTER VII THE BOUNDARIES STRETCH

The long chapter of troubles which led to my father's emigration to America began with his own illness.

The doctors sent him to Courland to consult expensive specialists, who prescribed tedious courses of treatment.

He was far from cured when my mother also fell ill, and my father had to return to Polotzk to look after the business.

Trouble begets trouble.

After my mother took to her bed everything continued to go wrong.

The business gradually declined, as too much money was withdrawn to pay the doctors' and apothecaries' bills; and my father, himself in poor health, and worried about my mother, was not successful in coping with the growing difficulties.

At home, the servants were dismissed, for the sake of economy, and all the housework and the nursing fell on my grandmother and my sister.

Fetchke, as a result, was overworked, and fell ill of a fever.

The baby, suffering from unavoidable neglect, developed the fractious temper of semi-illness.

And by way of a climax, the old cow took it into her head to kick my grandmother, who was laid up for a week with a bruised leg.

Neighbors and cousins pulled us through till grandma got up, and after her, Fetchke.

But my mother remained on her bed.

Weeks, months, a year she lay there, and half of another year.

All the doctors in Polotzk attended her in turn, and one doctor came all the way from Vitebsk.

Every country practitioner for miles around was consulted, every quack, every old wife who knew a charm.

The apothecaries ransacked their shops for drugs the names of which they had forgotten, and kind neighbors brought in their favorite remedies.

There were midnight prayers in the synagogue for my mother, and petitions at the graves of her parents; and one awful night when she was near death, three pious mothers who had never lost a child came to my mother's bedside and bought her, for a few kopecks, for their own, so that she might gain the protection of their luck, and so be saved.

Still my poor mother lay on her bed, suffering and wasting.

The house assumed a look of desolation.

Everybody went on tiptoe; we talked in whispers; for weeks at a time there was no laughter in our home.

The ominous night lamp was never extinguished.

We slept in our clothes night after night, so as to wake the more easily in case of sudden need.

We watched, we waited, but we scarcely hoped.

Once in a while I was allowed to take a short turn in the sick-room.

It was awful to sit beside my mother's bed in the still night and see her helplessness.

She had been so strong, so active.

She used to lift sacks and barrels that were heavy for a man, and now she could not raise a spoon to her mouth.

Sometimes she did not know me when I gave her the medicine, and when she knew me, she did not care.

Would she ever care any more?

She looked strange and small in the shadows of the bed.

Her hair had been cut off after the first few months; her short curls were almost covered by the ice bag.

Her cheeks were red, red, but her hands were so white as they had never been before.

In the still night I wondered if she cared to live.

The night lamp burned on.

My father grew old.

He was always figuring on a piece of paper.

We children knew the till was empty when the silver candlesticks were taken away to be pawned.

Next, superfluous featherbeds were sold for what they would bring, and then there came a day when grandma, with eyes blinded by tears, groped in the big wardrobe for my mother's satin dress and velvet mantle; and after that it did not matter any more what was taken out of the house.

Then everything took a sudden turn.

My mother began to improve, and at the same time my father was offered a good position as superintendent of a gristmill.

As soon as my mother could be moved, he took us all out to the mill, about three versts out of town, on the Polota.

We had a pleasant cottage there, with the miller's red-headed, freckled family for our only neighbors.

If our rooms were barer than they used to be, the sun shone in at all the windows; and as the leaves on the trees grew denser and darker, my mother grew stronger on her feet, and laughter returned to our house as the song bird to the grove.

We children had a very happy summer.

We had never lived in the country before, and we liked the change.

It was endless fun to explore the mill; to squeeze into forbidden places, and be pulled out by the angry miller; to tyrannize over the mill hands, and be worshipped by them in return; to go boating on the river, and discover unvisited nooks, and search the woods and fields for kitchen herbs, and get lost, and be found, a hundred times a week.

And what an adventure it was to walk the three versts into town, leaving a trail of perfume from the wild-flower posies we carried to our city friends!

But these things did not last.

The mill changed hands, and the new owner put a protégé of his own in my father's place.

So, after a short breathing spell, we were driven back into the swamp of growing poverty and trouble.

The next year or so my father spent in a restless and fruitless search for a permanent position.

My mother had another serious illness, and his own health remained precarious.

What he earned did not more than half pay the bills in the end, though we were living very humbly now.

Polotzk seemed to reject him, and no other place invited him.

Just at this time occurred one of the periodic anti-Semitic movements whereby government officials were wont to clear the forbidden cities of Jews, whom, in the intervals of slack administration of the law, they allowed to maintain an illegal residence in places outside the Pale, on payment of enormous bribes and at the cost of nameless risks and indignities.

It was a little before Passover that the cry of the hunted thrilled the Jewish world with the familiar fear.

The wholesale expulsion of Jews from Moscow and its surrounding district at cruelly short notice was the name of this latest disaster.

Where would the doom strike next?

The Jews who lived illegally without the Pale turned their possessions into cash and slept in their clothes, ready for immediate flight.

Those who lived in the comparative security of the Pale trembled for their brothers and sisters without, and opened wide their doors to afford the fugitives refuge.

And hundreds of fugitives, preceded by a wail of distress, flocked into the open district, bringing their trouble where trouble was never absent, mingling their tears with the tears that never dried.

The open cities becoming thus suddenly crowded, every man's chance of making a living was diminished in proportion to the number of additional competitors.

Hardship, acute distress, ruin for many: thus spread the disaster, ring beyond ring, from the stone thrown by a despotic official into the ever-full river of Jewish persecution.

Passover was celebrated in tears that year.

In the story of the Exodus we would have read a chapter of current history, only for us there was no deliverer and no promised land.

But what said some of us at the end of the long service?

Not "May we be next year in Jerusalem," but "Next year--in America!"

So there was our promised land, and many faces were turned towards the West.

And if the waters of the Atlantic did not part for them, the wanderers rode its bitter flood by a miracle as great as any the rod of Moses ever wrought.

My father was carried away by the westward movement, glad of his own deliverance, but sore at heart for us whom he left behind.

It was the last chance for all of us.

We were so far reduced in circumstances that he had to travel with borrowed money to a German port, whence he was forwarded to Boston, with a host of others, at the expense of an emigrant aid society.

I was about ten years old when my father emigrated.

I was used to his going away from home, and "America" did not mean much more to me than "Kherson," or "Odessa," or any other names of distant places.

I

understood vaguely, from the gravity with which his plans were discussed, and from references to ships, societies, and other unfamiliar things, that this enterprise was different from previous ones; but my excitement and emotion on the morning of my father's departure were mainly vicarious.

I know the day when "America" as a world entirely unlike Polotzk lodged in my brain, to become the centre of all my dreams and speculations.

Well I know the day.

I was in bed, sharing the measles with some of the other children.

Mother brought us a thick letter from father, written just before boarding the ship.

The letter was full of excitement.

There was something in it besides the description of travel, something besides the pictures of crowds of people, of foreign cities, of a ship ready to put out to sea.

My father was travelling at the expense of a charitable organization, without means of his own, without plans, to a strange world where he had no friends; and yet he wrote with the confidence of a well-equipped soldier going into battle.

The rhetoric is mine.

Father simply wrote that the emigration committee was taking good care of everybody, that the weather was fine, and the ship comfortable.

But I heard something, as we read the letter together in the darkened room, that was more than the words seemed to say.

There was an elation, a hint of triumph, such as had never been in my father's letters before.

I cannot tell how I knew it.

I felt a stirring, a straining in my father's letter.

It was there, even though my mother stumbled over strange words, even though she cried, as women will when somebody is going away.

My father was inspired by a vision.

He saw something--he promised us something.

It was this "America."

And "America" became my dream.

While it was nothing new for my father to go far from home in search of his fortune, the circumstances in which he left us were unlike anything we had experienced before.

We had absolutely no reliable source of income, no settled home, no immediate prospects.

We hardly knew where we belonged in the simple scheme of our society.

My mother, as a bread-winner, had nothing like her former success.

Her health was permanently impaired, her place in the business world had long been filled by others, and there was no capital to start her anew.

Her brothers did what they could for her.

They were well-to-do, but they all had large families, with marriageable daughters and sons to be bought out of military service.

The allowance they made her was generous compared to their means,--affection and duty could do no more,--but there were four of us growing children, and my mother was obliged to make every effort within her power to piece out her income.

How quickly we came down from a large establishment, with servants and retainers, and a place among the best in Polotzk, to a single room hired by the week, and the humblest associations, and the averted heads of former friends!

But oftenest it was my mother who turned away her head.

She took to using the side streets to avoid the pitiful eyes of the kind, and the scornful eyes of the haughty.

Both were turned on her as she trudged from store to store, and from house to house, peddling tea or other ware; and both were hard to bear.

Many a winter morning she arose in the dark, to tramp three or four miles in the gripping cold, through the dragging snow, with a pound of tea for a distant customer; and her profit was perhaps twenty kopecks.

Many a time she fell on the ice, as she climbed the steep bank on the far side of the Dvina, a heavy basket on each arm.

More than once she fainted at the doors of her customers, ashamed to knock as suppliant where she had used to be received as an honored guest.

I hope the angels did not have to count the tears that fell on her frost-bitten, aching hands as she counted her bitter earnings at night.

And who took care of us children while my mother tramped the streets with her basket?

Why, who but Fetchke?

Who but the little housewife of twelve?

Sure of our safety was my mother with Fetchke to watch; sure of our comfort with Fetchke to cook the soup and divide the scrap of meat and remember the next meal.

Joseph was in heder all day; the baby was a quiet little thing; Mashke was no worse than usual.

But still there was plenty to do, with order to keep in a crowded room, and the washing, and the mending.

And Fetchke did it all.

She went to the river with the women to wash the clothes, and tucked up her dress and stood bare-legged in the water, like the rest of them, and beat and rubbed with all her might, till our miserable rags gleamed white again.

And I?

I usually had a cold, or a cough, or something to disable me;

and I never had any talent for housework.

If I swept and sanded the floor, polished the samovar, and ran errands, I was doing much.

I

minded the baby, who did not need much minding.

I was willing enough, I suppose, but the hard things were done without my help.

Not that I mean to belittle the part that I played in our reduced domestic economy.

Indeed, I am very particular to get all the credit due me.

I always remind my sister Deborah, who was the baby of those humble days, that it was I who pierced her ears.

Earrings were a requisite part of a girl's toilet.

Even a beggar girl must have earrings, were they only loops of thread with glass beads.

I heard my mother bemoan the baby because she had not time to pierce her ears.

Promptly I armed myself with a coarse needle and a spool of thread, and towed Deborah out into the woodshed.

The operation was entirely successful, though the baby was entirely ungrateful.

And I am proud to this day of the unflinching manner in which I did what I conceived to be my duty.

If Deborah chooses to go with ungarnished ears, it is her affair; my conscience is free of all reproach.

[Illustration: WINTER SCENE ON THE DVINA] I had a direct way in everything.

I rushed right in--I spoke right out.

My mother sent me sometimes to deliver a package of tea, and I was proud to help in business.

One day I went across the Dvina and far up "the other side."

It was a good-sized expedition for me to make alone, and I was not a little pleased with myself when I delivered my package, safe and intact, into the hands of my customer.

But the storekeeper was not pleased at all.

She sniffed and sniffed, she pinched the tea, she shook it all out on the counter.

"_Na_, take it back," she said in disgust; "this is not the tea I always buy.

It's a poorer quality."

I knew the woman was mistaken.

I was acquainted with my mother's several grades of tea.

So I spoke up manfully.

"Oh, no," I said; "this is the tea my mother always sends you.

There is no worse tea."

Nothing in my life ever hurt me more than that woman's answer to my argument.

She laughed--she simply laughed.

But I understood, even before she controlled herself sufficiently to make verbal remarks, that I had spoken like a fool, had lost my mother a customer.

I had only spoken the truth, but I had not expressed it diplomatically.

That was no way to make business.

I felt very sore to be returning home with the tea still in my hand, but I forgot my trouble in watching a summer storm gather up the river.

The few passengers who took the boat with me looked scared as the sky darkened, and the boatman grasped his oars very soberly.

It took my breath away to see the signs, but I liked it; and I was much disappointed to get home dry.

When my mother heard of my misadventure she laughed, too; but that was different, and I was able to laugh with her.

This is the way I helped in the housekeeping and in business.

I hope it does not appear as if I did not take our situation to heart, for I did--in my own fashion.

It was plain, even to an idle dreamer like me, that we were living on the charity of our friends, and barely living at that.

It was plain, from my father's letters, that he was scarcely able to support himself in America, and that there was no immediate prospect of our joining him.

I realized it all, but I considered it temporary, and I found plenty of comfort in writing long letters to my father--real, original letters this time, not copies of Reb' Isaiah's model--letters which my father treasured for years.

As an instance of what I mean by my own fashion of taking trouble to heart, I recall the day when our household effects were attached for a debt.

We had plenty of debts, but the stern creditor who set the law on us this time was none of ours.

The claim was against a family to whom my mother sublet two of our three rooms, furnished with her own things.

The police officers, who swooped down upon us without warning, as was their habit, asked no questions and paid no heed to explanations.

They affixed a seal to every lame chair and cracked pitcher in the place; aye, to every faded petticoat found hanging in the wardrobe.

These goods, comprising all our possessions and all our tenant's, would presently be removed, to be sold at auction, for the benefit of the creditor.

Lame chairs and faded petticoats, when they are the last one has, have a vital value in the owner's eyes.

My mother moved about, weeping distractedly, all the while the officers were in the house.

The frightened children cried.

Our neighbors gathered to bemoan our misfortune.

And over everything was the peculiar dread which only Jews in Russia feel when agents of the Government invade their homes.

The fear of the moment was in my heart, as in every other heart there.

It was a horrid, oppressive fear.

I retired to a quiet corner to grapple with it.

I was not given to weeping, but I must think things out in words.

I repeated to myself that the trouble was all about money.

Somebody wanted money from our tenant, who had none to give.

Our furniture was going to be sold to make this money.

It was a mistake, but then the officers would not believe my mother.

Still, it was only about money.

Nobody was dead, nobody was ill.

It was all about _money_.

Why, there was plenty of money in Polotzk!

My own uncle had many times as much as the creditor claimed.

He could buy all our things back, or somebody else could.

What did it matter?

It was only _money_, and money was got by working, and we were all willing to work.

There was nothing gone, nothing lost, as when somebody died.

This furniture could be moved from place to place, and so could money be moved, and nothing was lost out of the world by the transfer.

_That_ was all.

If anybody-- Why, what do I see at the window?

Breine Malke, our next-door neighbor, is--yes, she is smuggling something out of the window!

If she is caught--!

Oh, I must help!

Breine Malke beckons.

She wants me to do something.

I see--I understand.

I must stand in the doorway, to obstruct the view of the officers, who are all engaged in the next room just now.

I move readily to my post, but I cannot resist my curiosity.

I must look over my shoulder a last time, to see what it is Breine Malke wants to smuggle out.

I can scarcely stifle my laughter.

Of all our earthly goods, our neighbor has chosen for salvation a dented bandbox containing a moth-eaten bonnet from my mother's happier days!

And I laugh not only from amusement but also from lightness of heart.

For I have succeeded in reducing our catastrophe to its simplest terms, and I find that it is only a trifle, and no matter of life and death.

I could not help it.

That was the way it looked to me.

I am sure I made as serious efforts as anybody to prepare myself for life in America on the lines indicated in my father's letters.

In America, he wrote, it was no disgrace to work at a trade.

Workmen and capitalists were equal.

The employer addressed the employee as _you_, not, familiarly, as _thou_.

The cobbler and the teacher had the same title, "Mister."

And all the children, boys and girls, Jews and Gentiles, went to school!

Education would be ours for the asking, and economic independence also, as soon as we were prepared.

He wanted Fetchke and me to be taught some trade; so my sister was apprenticed to a dressmaker and I to a milliner.

Fetchke, of course, was successful, and I, of course, was not.

My sister managed to learn her trade, although most of the time at the dressmaker's she had to spend in sweeping, running errands, and minding the babies; the usual occupations of the apprentice in any trade.

But I--I had to be taken away from the milliner's after a couple of months.

I did try, honestly.

With all my eyes I watched my mistress build up a chimney pot of straw and things.

I ripped up old bonnets with enthusiasm.

I picked up everybody's spools and thimbles, and other far-rolling objects.

I did just as I was told, for I was determined to become a famous milliner, since America honored the workman so.

But most of the time I was sent away on errands--to the market to buy soup greens, to the corner store to get change, and all over town with bandboxes half as round again as I. It was winter, and I was not very well dressed.

I froze; I coughed; my mistress said I was not of much use to her.

So my mother kept me at home, and my career as a milliner was blighted.

This was during our last year in Russia, when I was between twelve and thirteen years of age.

I was old enough to be ashamed of my failures, but I did not have much time to think about them, because my Uncle Solomon took me with him to Vitebsk.

It was not my first visit to that city.

A few years before I had spent some days there, in the care of my father's cousin Rachel, who journeyed periodically to the capital of the province to replenish her stock of spools and combs and like small wares, by the sale of which she was slowly earning her dowry.

On that first occasion, Cousin Rachel, who had developed in business that dual conscience, one for her Jewish neighbors and one for the Gentiles, decided to carry me without a ticket.

I was so small, though of an age to pay half-fare, that it was not difficult.

I remember her simple stratagem from beginning to end.

When we approached the ticket office she whispered to me to stoop a little, and I stooped.

The ticket agent passed me.

In the car she bade me curl up in the seat, and I curled up.

She threw a shawl over me and bade me pretend to sleep, and I pretended to sleep.

I heard the conductor collect the tickets.

I knew when he was looking at me.

I heard him ask my age and I heard Cousin Rachel lie about it.

I was allowed to sit up when the conductor was gone, and I sat up and looked out of the window and saw everything, and was perfectly, perfectly happy.

I was fond of my cousin, and I smiled at her in perfect understanding and admiration of her cleverness in beating the railroad company.

I knew then, as I know now, beyond a doubt, that my Uncle David's daughter was an honorable woman.

With the righteous she dealt squarely; with the unjust, as best she could.

She was in duty bound to make all the money she could, for money was her only protection in the midst of the enemy.

Every kopeck she earned or saved was a scale in her coat of armor.

We learned this code early in life, in Polotzk; so I was pleased with the success of our ruse on this occasion, though I should have been horrified if I had seen Cousin Rachel cheat a Jew.

We made our headquarters in that part of Vitebsk where my father's numerous cousins and aunts lived, in more or less poverty, or at most in the humblest comfort; but I was taken to my Uncle Solomon's to spend the Sabbath.

I remember a long walk, through magnificent avenues and past splendid shops and houses and gardens.

Vitebsk was a metropolis beside provincial Polotzk; and I was very small, even without stooping.

Uncle Solomon lived in the better part of the city, and I found his place very attractive.

Still, after a night's sleep, I was ready for further travel and adventures, and I set out, without a word to anybody, to retrace my steps clear across the city.

The way was twice as long as on the preceding day, perhaps because such small feet set the pace, perhaps because I lingered as long as I pleased at the shop windows.

At some corners, too, I had to stop and study my route.

I do not think I was frightened at all, though I imagine my back was very straight and my head very high all the way;

for I was well aware that I was out on an adventure.

I did not speak to any one till I reached my Aunt Leah's; and then I hardly had a chance to speak, I was so much hugged and laughed over and cried over, and questioned and cross-questioned, without anybody waiting to hear my answers.

I had meant to surprise Cousin Rachel, and I had frightened her.

When she had come to Uncle Solomon's to take me back, she found the house in an uproar, everybody frightened at my disappearance.

The neighborhood was searched, and at last messengers were sent to Aunt Leah's. The messengers in their haste quite overlooked me.

It was their fault if they took a short cut unknown to me.

I was all the time faithfully steering by the sign of the tobacco shop, and the shop with the jumping-jack in the window, and the garden with the iron fence, and the sentry box opposite a drug store, and all the rest of my landmarks, as carefully entered on my mental chart the day before.

All this I told my scared relatives as soon as they let me, till they were convinced that I was not lost, nor stolen by the gypsies, nor otherwise done away with.

Cousin Rachel was so glad that she would not have to return to Polotzk empty-handed that she would not let anybody scold me.

She made me tell over and over what I had seen on the way, till they all laughed and praised my acuteness for seeing so much more than they had supposed there was to see.

Indeed, I was made a heroine, which was just what I intended to be when I set out on my adventure.

And thus ended most of my unlawful escapades; I was more petted than scolded for my insubordination.

My second journey to Vitebsk, in the company of Uncle Solomon, I remember as well as the first.

I had been up all night, dancing at a wedding, and had gone home only to pick up my small bundle and be picked up, in turn, by my uncle.

I was a little taller now, and had my own ticket, like a real traveller.

It was still early in the morning when the train pulled out of the station, or else it was a misty day.

I know the fields looked soft and gray when we got out into the country, and the trees were blurred.

I

did not want to sleep.

A new day had begun--a new adventure.

I would not miss any of it.

But the last day, so unnaturally prolonged, was entangled in the skirts of the new.

When did yesterday end?

Why was not this new day the same day continued?

I looked up at my uncle, but he was smiling at me in that amused way of his--he always seemed to be amused at me, and he would make me talk and then laugh at me--so I did not ask my question.

Indeed, I could not formulate it, so I kept staring out on the dim country, and thinking, and thinking; and all the while the engine throbbed and lurched, and the wheels ground along, and I was astonished to hear that they were keeping perfectly the time of the last waltz I had danced at the wedding.

I sang it through in my head.

Yes, that was the rhythm.

The engine knew it, the whole machine repeated it, and sent vibrations through my body that were just like the movements of the waltz.

I was so much interested in this discovery that I forgot the problem of the Continuity of Time; and from that day to this, whenever I have heard that waltz,--one of the sweet Danube waltzes,--I have lived through that entire experience; the festive night, the misty morning, the abnormal consciousness of time, as if I had existed forever, without a break; the journey, the dim landscape, and the tune singing itself in my head.

Never can I hear that waltz without the accompaniment of engine wheels grinding rhythmically along speeding tracks.

I remained in Vitebsk about six months.

I do not believe I was ever homesick during all that time.

I was too happy to be homesick.

The life suited me extremely well.

My life in Polotzk had grown meaner and duller, as the family fortunes declined.

For years there had been no lessons, no pleasant excursions, no jolly gatherings with uncles and aunts.

Poverty, shadowed by pride, trampled down our simple ambitions and simpler joys.

I cannot honestly say that I was very sensitive to our losses.

I do not remember suffering because there was no jam on my bread, and no new dress for the holidays.

I do not know whether I was hurt when some of our playmates abandoned us.

I remember myself oftener in the attitude of an onlooker, as on the occasion of the attachment of our furniture, when I went off into a corner to think about it.