The nine of us travelled to Bucharest by coach. It was cheaper and more convenient than taking the train, considering the size of our family and the large amount of luggage. Before we got to Bucharest, my parents warned us not to talk to strangers nor accept any food or candy from them. Ugly, frightening rumours were circulating that anti-semitic bigots were passing poisoned candy to Jewish children.
We reached Bucharest with no problems. After a short visit with relatives, we said farewell to Roumania and boarded the train for Rotterdam.
The train was very slow, stopping frequently, but this made it all the more exciting for us children. At every stop hawkers appeared, carrying trays of frothing mugs, and shouting "Bragga recce!" (cold beer). They would run along beside the train and hand their beer through the windows, since passengers were not allowed out. The people would enjoy their drink and wave as the train pulled out. At the next stop other men would go through the train to retrieve the empty steins and collect the money.
Finally we arrived in Rotterdam, where railroad people escorted us to a hostel. The people who ran it were very warm, kind and helpful to us. We hoped the people we were to meet on the rest of the journey would be the same.
After we were settled in, we were allowed to roam Rotterdam at will. The city was big, noisy and foreign to us, and a little frightening. My first impression of Rotterdam was the clatter of horses on cobblestone streets. I thought the electric streetcars were very interesting, especially when they climbed up a steep hill. A peg would rise from between the tracks at the bottom of the hill, hook onto a car, and help pull it up the grade.
We took in the sights of Rotterdam for only a few days while awaiting the arrival of our ship to America, the S.S. Umbria of the Cunard Line. Then, as soon as it docked, we were hustled to the port, onto the ship, and down to our quarters. There was a great deal of confusion as we, and everyone else, tried to locate our baggage, food and clothes. All our belongings had to go with us to our quarters. We were still getting organized when the ship cast off.
After a short trip the Umbria stopped briefly at Liverpool, where we were allowed off the ship for fresh air. We roamed around the port under escort and watched men loading a great deal of freight onto the ship. We also saw many passengers coming on board, most of them immigrants like us. Finally, amid much tooting and shouting, we were on our way to America.
Our family cubicle, along with those of the other families, was below deck in what was called "steerage", but to me "sewage" would have been more appropriate. We were imprisoned far below water level and were seldom allowed on deck. Our area was very crowded. All nine of us shared one tiny cubicle, and slept in tiers.
There was very little ventilation, so the air was usually stuffy. To make matters worse, the whole place was permeated with a powerful-smelling disinfectant. Rather than disinfect anything, however, it only served to mask the bad odors with one more horrible smell. Drinking water was scarce. Washroom facilities were inadequate, and sanitation was so lacking that many of us were ill almost the entire trip. And none of us could bathe for two weeks.
In short, crossing the Atlantic was a harsh experience. Since the ship was fully loaded, the steerage portholes were under water, and we couldn't see anything through them. Occasionally when the ship listed badly to one side, there would be a flash of light and the horizon would appear. However, we were too sick to appreciate the view; it never lasted long anyway.
After many days at sea - I believe it was 12 to 14 days of anxiety, discomfort and apprehension - we heard a great racket of grinding, groaning and bumping beneath the ship. We could hear sirens tooting and people shouting; then with a sudden jerk, the ship stopped. We didn't know where we were, nor what was happening. But then men came clattering down the stairs and shouted, "NEW YORK EVERYBODY ON DECK!"
Ah! Daylight, fresh air and a cooling breeze! It was the first time we had been allowed on deck for any length of time, and we all felt relief.
Then we caught sight of the skyline of New York and the Statue of Liberty. What excitement! We all knew part of the inscription at the base of that statue by heart, having learned about it in the Old Country:
Give me your tired, your poor,
your huddled masses yearning to be free.
All the immigrants gathered on the top deck with papers in hand, preparatory to disembarking. My father waited amidst the crowd, with my mother and the rest of us beside him. We stood with eyes straining in wonder at the marvelous sights around us--the bright sun rising over New York's skyline, the bustling traffic on shore. It was a picture I'll never forget.
When father saw the Statue of Liberty, with tears in his eyes he cried out, "Look! The Statue of Liberty! Just as we all read about it. There it is!" He pointed with the hand that held our papers. And at that moment a gust of wind came and ripped the papers from his hand, sweeping them into the water!
We were cast into shock. It happened so quickly there wasn't anything anyone could do. Father just stood there, pale and shaking, unable to move or speak--the picture of despair. All our precious papers, our identifications, our tickets, our money, all was lost. It was the family's first crisis in the new land.
Landing without adequate documents proved to be a serious problem. To our anguish we were separated from the others upon disembarking, and were shunted off to a fenced-in area. First we were interviewed by an official who spoke Roumanian. Then we were examined by health officers and more officials. Doctors poked and prodded us, checked our eyes for signs of trachoma, thumped our chests and asked all sorts of questions. They examined us for leprosy, VD, scabies and parasites. Some of our examiners were courteous; others were rough, uncaring and officious. But all of them worried us.
After what seemed like a very long time, we were moved to a park-like place called Castle Garden. It was quite comfortable compared to the crowded conditions aboard the ship. And it was to be our home for several days while the immigration authorities got in touch with Harry in Winnipeg.
The building in which we were confined was a large circular converted shed, and was much like a hostel except for the recreation area. This was sectioned off, to segregate various racial and ethnic groups. My brothers and I spent a lot of time staring through the fence, and we saw many strange-looking people. For example, it was the first time we'd ever seen Chinese, wearing their quilted clothing, with their long braided hair trailing down their backs. Many were engaged in animated conversation, in their strange (to us) sing-song manner. Others, though, just stared back at us.
We saw Hindus for the first time, too - tall, bearded men wearing turbans, which made them look quite frightening to us. We saw black men, and wondered if they were dark all over. We watched everything and everybody with the never-ending curiosity of children.
One day a group of city people came with baskets of fresh fruit for the immigrants. Most of the fruit in our basket was familiar, including oranges, which were a real treat since we normally got oranges only when we were sick. There were apples, too, and plums. Right on top were four strange, boat-shaped yellow fruits we'd never seen before. My father was distrustful and told us, "Don't eat them!" as he went off to find out what they were.
We were torn between caution and curiosity. "Are you going to eat it?" one child would ask, and the rest of us would act brave and reply, "Of course I'm going to eat it." But no one did until Father returned and instructed us to peel off the smooth tough skin. Inside, the fruit was soft, and of a strange but delicious flavour. It was my first banana!
Now and then we were visited by members of some local immigrants' aid society. They were very kind and comforting to us, and spoke to my parents in Yiddish, much to their delight. These visits, along with Harry's letters from Winnipeg, helped considerably to ease the pain and fear of being confined in a strange place.
Finally, after a week at Castle Garden, we received the tickets, money (about $25) and documents we needed from Harry. We left by train for Montreal, where we were examined by more officials, then allowed to entrain for Winnipeg.
We travelled on what was called an immigrant train, or boat train. Unfortunately, we found it no more comfortable than steerage aboard the Umbria. Our family of nine was assigned a section consisting of two bench seats facing each other, with a hinged shelf above them. The seats were just wooden slats, hard and uncomfortable. Conditions were cramped, especially since we had to squeeze all our food and much of our luggage in with us. The hinged shelf was meant for use as a bunk; some of the smaller children tried to sleep up there. They found it too hot, though, so we put baggage up there instead.
The Colonial car in which we rode was crowded and stuffy. Since it was still early spring and cool outside, we were not allowed to open the windows. Most men in our car hadn't bathed in weeks and the air stank, although I must confess we weren't much better. Adding to our discomfort was the constant wailing of babies and the fidgeting of small children.
Our coach was lit by big railroad lanterns hanging from the ceiling, and heated by a potbelly stove at one end. Every morning and evening the brakeman came to fuel the fire and take away ashes. In the evenings he also refilled the lanterns with kerosene and lit them. Nobody ever cleaned the car, though, or even swept the floor. Considering we had to prepare and eat all our meals in those dirty conditions, it's lucky no one got sick.
As I said earlier, my father was a deeply religious man, and unpleasant or inconvenient circumstances could not alter that. Every morning he was the first to rise. He would nudge Jack and Abe, the oldest boys, and have them follow him to the vestibule between the train cars. There, amid the rattling and rolling, they would put on the "tflin" and "tallis" (prayer shawl) and pray. Afterwards my father always wore the serene expression of a man whose duty had been done.
For the most part, there was not much to do on the train. We were generally too tired from our long journey to enjoy the scenery; most of the time we just stared listlessly out the windows.
The "newsy" was often the only person on the train with whom a traveller could converse as most were recent immigrants. He was almost always friendly, kind and helpful, and he invariably was a reliable source of information about a traveller's destination, hotel accommodations, chances for a job, things to avoid, things to look for, and so on.
True, they weren't all angels. Some did take advantage of the gullible, but the majority of news butchers, as they were often called, were honest. Many remembered what it was like to be a stranger arriving in a strange land, and they treated travellers with sympathy.
The only real pleasure we had was when the train stopped at a station to take on fuel and water. It was the one chance we had to get some fresh air, so most of us went out to the platform and stretched our legs. If there was a store nearby my father and many of the other men would rush over to buy fresh fruit, if there was any, bread, candy bars and other supplies. The shopkeepers must have been used to immigrant trains, for they had little trouble understanding the pantomimed requests. Sometimes these operations took longer than they should have, but our conductor was a kind man and often held up the train until the men completed their purchases.
As I recall, the only other times we saw the conductor was when he walked through the train calling the name of the next stop. Since the names meant nothing to us we paid little attention.
But when he finally stepped into our car and cried, "WINNIPEG NEXT STOP!" we perked up like magic. Our long journey was almost over!
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