'An Old and New World'

By Bernard G. Richards

Chapter 4

IN our darkest days of want and privation, my zaide would describe the situation in the words of the Psalmist who speaks of the time when "the waters have come up to my soul." At such times nevertheless, he was always counting on some unexpected turn of events, some piece of business - a little commission on a sale, perhaps -- that would tide us over the immediate crisis. He would call it a sposob, using a Slavic term unknown to me; something would turn up. Again he would invoke the Psalmist and say, I lift mine eyes unto the mountains and ask whence comes my help." The awaited help from heaven became mystically associated with a far-off land where, as Israel Zangwill was to say so many years later, God was "making the American."

Our destiny gradually became interwoven with the distant and nebulous United States, as one member of our family after another, without any knowledge or equipment, ventured forth, crossing unknown and frightening seas, to put his hands to the fashioning of a new life. First my father and eldest brother Leibe (hereafter, Louis) entered upon the long journey after exciting preparations and tearful, choking goodbyes. Then my Uncle Zadick (hereafter, Simon) broke off a fragile engagement arranged by a shadchen, or marriage broker, while on a visit to Verbelova, the home of the bride-to-be; this town being, conveniently close to the German frontier, he crossed the border and made his way to the seaport of Bremen, notifying his parents by letter of his fateful decision.

If not my father, at least Uncle Zadick and other kinsmen and townsmen began to establish themselves, and reports of incipient prosperity were encouraging to future prospectors. The lure of America later was felt even in the attractive port city of Libau, where my Uncle Israel was employed by a firm of sugar merchants. Being pressed by creditors for debts incurred to assist a friend, he left for America, after a "business trip" to Keidan, which in reality enabled him to take leave of his aged father and mother, who, being aware of another, more personal, source of his unhappiness, tearfully encouraged their favorite son to go and try his fortune in the New World.

It was about a year after this occurrence that my father wrote to my mother, this time quite definitely, about sending us schifskarten , or steamship tickets, and money as well, so that we could come to the United States. Shortly afterward, Isaac the letter-carrier appeared at my grandfather's house looking more ominous than usual; he produced a bulky envelope with letter and draft (or onweiszung ), schifskarten, and railroad tickets bearing pictures of ships and trains. Thus suddenly a vague, transient hope was transformed into a vivid reality. The receipt of the ultimate letter from America, containing steamship and railroad tickets, money for traveling expenses, and many instructions, was the signal for a bustle of preparations and arrangements, with sad thoughts of the approaching final departure clouding the happy excitement.

But there was too much to do to leave much time for reflection. There were clothes to be bought, and made, for my mother and three children; there was food to be dried and baked and made durable against the prohibitions imposed by the observance of kashruth on the journey; and there was so much packing to be done -- clothes and bedclothes, huge pillows and featherbeds, and even some cherished copper and brass cooking and other utensils, and ... a samovar! How could people in America get along without a samovar? All these objects were enclosed in various containers: canvas bags, baskets and boxes, and above all, one gigantic wicker-work trunk, with cover and lock and an enormous capacity for holding things, as well as for giving trouble to all those who tried to handle it.

FINALLY one morning the big boid, or van, a conveyance on the order of the old covered wagon, hitched up to two horses, stood laden and waiting in front of my grandfather's house, ready for one of its periodic trips between Keidan and Kovno. Prolonged and sorrowful leavetaking marked the last sad and hectic hours of that morning; my grandmother's usual restraint forsook her and she wept copiously over the heads of her departing grandchildren, whom she surely did not expect ever to see again. Mingled with the resounding farewells from many neighbors and friends as well as members of the family were admonitions, guiding instructions, advice for the journey, and regards to kinsmen in America -- all of whom were presumably living in the narrow confines of one street in a single city.

But where was our dear old zaide all this while? Was our persistent, ardent, and most devoted grandfather going to let us leave with merely an embrace and a few endearing words? Not he! He insisted upon accompanying us at least part of the way to guard us against mishaps. Was there not an old custom of beleiten -- accompanying the traveler part of the way to give support to his venture? In his best coat and cap, his boots freshly polished, he took his place beside us in the wagon, as if he too were journeying to America. Our relations and neighbors watched and waved as the crude, creaking homemade tallyho rumbled off -- not toward the north, the end of town, in the direction of the railroad station, but toward the south, through- the long Smilga Gas and the big square which was the market place, and across the long bridge, the Sabbath-day promenade of the elite, passing through, the section colloquially known as "the other side of the water," and on to the open country and the highroads.

The long and tedious trip to Kovno took all day and the greater part of the night. Huddled up against our mother, and surrounded by our bags and bundles, we children -- and our grandfather, who sat on a bench in front of us -- slept fitfully while the rickety, rattling wagon lumbered on, every now and then jolting us into full wakefulness. In Kovno, where we had our first glimpse of a larger city, with wider streets and a few tall brick buildings, we had some refreshments and rested for a few hours in a krechma, or wayside inn. Then, either in accordance with previous instruction or on newly received advice, we embarked around noon on a sort of excursion and passenger boat that plied the river Neimen from Kovno to Yurberik, where we were to undertake the perilous adventure of crossing the frontier between Russia and Germany.

It was a pleasant sail on this simple, ferrylike boat, despite the many excited people on board -- emigrants like ourselves and other travelers jostling with the pleasure-seeking excursionists, loud-spoken Lithuanian-, Polish-, Russian-, and Yiddish-speaking travelers, producing a babble, if not a Babel, of tongues. Our zaide found some consolation at the refreshment counter on the boat, which, he said, served very good beer.

After landing at Yurberik we rested again at a china, or tea house. That evening we were to be taken across the frontier, a clandestine affair that required the darkness of the night; arrangements had been made with the traveling agent, who was presumably also the van driver, and had perhaps one or two additional sidelines. Before entering upon the tribulations of crossing the border, we faced the ordeal of parting from our beloved grandfather, and all our tears and loving embraces allayed only slightly the painful wrench of leaving him behind. Zaide , after paying for our lunches and all our immediate needs, insisted upon giving my mother all the money left in his purse, outside of 3 gulden (about 45 cents), for fear that we might run short. We could not deter him, and we left not only disconsolate but very much worried as to how he would ever get home from that strange city, a trip requiring at least 10 rubles, without money.

We boarded a diligence, a more substantial and larger equipage of the covered-wagon type, but built in a curious way with a loose and partly collapsible bottom, the strange purpose of which we were, to our dismay and sorrow, to learn much later. This boid was driven by a tall, formidable, red-bearded fuhrman, or driver, who held his whip as if it were not only a threat to the horse but a menace as well to the foreign land we were about to enter. His assistant was a beardless and nimble little man who acted as if he was there to offset the gruffness of his boss and to supply politeness to the passengers. His chief task, for a consideration beyond the traveling fare, was to negotiate with the authorities at the frontier, that is, to hand out bribes in both the Russian and the German language - or with no spoken words at all. I have no notion of what legal status, if any, we possessed as we left our native land. Under the reign of the Czar -- which in this respect anticipated a much later regime -- the people, especially the minority groups, had very few rights, certainly not the right of emigration. Once a Russian citizen, always Russian citizen, in the eyes of the law -- for better or for worse, usually the latter. Therefore prospective emigrants were subjected to all kinds of regulations and impositions. The easiest way to gain exit from the country was to grease the palms of officialdom. Right now we were dealing with a breed of go-betweens, carriers of human contraband, who made the most of their opportunity -- and not only by charging high fees for bringing people over the boundaries from Russia to Germany.

While driving toward the fearsome grenetz , or frontier, the team repeatedly broke down. Each time, part of the floor of the carriage would fall out and passengers would be thrown pell-mell to all sides and against one another, while satchels, packages, and bags fell through the open spaces of the yawning bottom of the wagon. Frightened and shocked, the unhappy travelers would raise an outcry but the driver would quickly warn them of the danger of making noise in this forbidden zone, He would curse his evil fate, his horses, and his assistant, attributing all the trouble to them, and would send the assistant back along the road to search for the missing pieces of luggage. The passengers too would climb out to grope and search and scour the roadside brush and ravines for their missing belongings. The assistant would return with perhaps one or two objects recovered and report that most of the pieces of luggage were nowhere to be found. The boss driver's scraping of the ground with the butt of his whip in utter darkness would prove equally fruitless.

Stealthy accomplices in the rear, probably driving another wagon or truck, certainly did much better; no doubt they located every parcel or bag that fell out of the wagon. But there was no time for further reproaches and complaints; the driver of our vehicle insisted that we were losing precious time and that we would run into danger if we delayed any longer. So the missing planks would be hurriedly put back -- not too firmly however! --in the floor of the wagon, and, all of us weary wanderers having climbed into our seats, the journey would be continued, until the next collapse. For the incident repeated itself three or four times during that night, so that the diabolical inventors of the sliding wagon bottom, base despoilers of the poor and the helpless, could complete their harvest of booty. When we reached the frontier, the business between our contractor and the officers in charge was conducted in whispers during a few minutes' stop. If the long-talked-of and awesome grenetz was something to see or to marvel at, it was too dark for us to observe any sign of it.

Fully worn out and half asleep, we finally arrived at the German city of Tilsit, where, after some time spent in searching and inquiring, we were given shelter in a hostel for emigrants en route provided by a Jewish aid committee. From a window in this lodging house my brother and sister and a I watched the imposing maneuvers of a regiment of the Kaiser's soldiers, fascinated by their sparkling regalia and brassy attire, so much more ornate than the accouterments of the Czar's military we had been used to watching at home. Little did we dream what this display augured for the world in ensuing years.

Throughout the troubled drive to reach German soil, and the ensuing trip on the hard-rattling trains through Germany to the seaport at Bremen, we were anxiously wondering how our dear grandfather, whom we had left behind, practically penniless in a strange city, ever got home to Keidan. We learned only much later of the adventures that befell him. After accompanying us on the eventful trip from Keidan to Yurberik and parting from us in the latter city, our zaide went to the shul, or synagogue. Following the evening prayer, there was the usual exchange of greetings, the special "Sholom aleichem (Peace to thee)" welcome extended to one who was obviously a stranger in town. The customary question addressed in such instance -- "Fun vanent kumt a Yid? (where do you hail from?)" -- led to a lengthy conversation with a man who had relatives in Keidan and therefore invited my grandfather to be his guest for the night.

On learning that he wished to pay his respects to a distant kinsman in Taverik, a town at close range within the province, his host arranged with a friend who was traveling that way on business to give my grandfather a lift in his brizke , or buggy. Arrived in Taverik, my zaide rested in a tavern -- those three gulden went further than himself -- and then walked some distance out of town to the home of his cousin.

This was no ordinary house, nor was the owner an ordinary person. Reb Yosche Zundel -- the rarely used family name eludes my memory -- was one of the few remaining Jewish land owning magnates of Lithuania. His nmanin , or estate, a family inheritance, covered about a thousand acres, and he lived like a lord of the manor in a grand mansion surrounded by beautiful grounds, including gardens, orchards, and a lake. In the spirit of the ancient patriarch Abraham, who according to legend built his house with many doors so as to make himself more readily accessible to travelers and strangers passing by, there was always open house in this sumptuous domicile.

A special dining room was set up which at all hours served food to visitors and travelers, strangers and friends, and here many itinerant petitioners and beggars came seeking victuals and alms. Before the visit of which I am writing, and long afterward, our zaide told us innumerable stories of the fabulous wealth and generous benefactions of Yosche Zundel and his progenitors.

When my grandfather arrived at the estate and made himself known to a secretary or valet, he was at once provided with a place of rest and offered refreshment. Later Reb Zundel himself appeared. In after days my grandfather would often tell us what an imposing figure he made, with his large head and round, black beard. Sitting tall and erect on a magnificent white mare, a young colt trailing behind, the country squire at once proceeded to greet all waiting visitors, guests, and supplicants, as well as persons who had come on various business errands having to do with his granaries, lumbering, and farm produce. On being told of the arrival of Reb Yakov Herz Sirk from Keidan, Reb Zundel invited my grandfather into his kabinet, or private office. The two men talked at length, tracing the long and complicated family relationship between them and exchanging reminiscences. Reb Zundel invited my grandfather to stay overnight, or a few days, but Zaide said he had to rectum as soon as possible. So the next day he deputed. Reb Zundel in the course of the farewell asked Reb Yankel Herz, indirectly but quite clearly, if he could help him in any way. My zaide , swelling with pride in the reestablished relationship with the great man, thanked his host profusely, and with the ancient hauteur of the Sirk family operating in full force, assured him that he was in no need of any assistance. He had merely stopped on his way, he said, after seeing his daughter and grandchildren off to America, to pay his respects to his cousin and to renew a cherished old relationship.

My zaide was driven to the town of Taverik, where he arrived very happy and full of self-confidence, though he now had only 20 kopeks in his pocket.

Casting anxiety to the winds, and entrusting his destiny to a benign Providence, my grandfather entered a krechma in Taverik, and ordered a glass of beer. At a table nearby sat two men, one quite elderly, the other in early middle age, apparently belonging to the schlachtzi , or class of Polish noblemen. They were drinking and talking convivially in the easy-going manner of the most leisurely of the leisure class. My zaide , with his uncanny memory for faces and voices, thought he had recognized a resemblance between the younger man and Count Stanislav Siebetzky, a large landowner with an estate just outside Keidan, whom he knew as he knew so many other notables. He stepped up to their table and, with due apology for the interruption, asked the younger Pole if he was not somehow related to Count Siebetzky of Keidan.

The Pole jumped up from his seat in great excitement. "Boze moy (My God!)" he exclaimed, "you know my Uncle Stanislov?" Whereupon my grandfather, invited to join the schlachtzi at their table, told of his cordial relations with the great Pan, and imparted to the nephew all he knew about the nobleman's agricultural enterprises and public activities. With the restricted means of communication of those days, uncle and nephew had not been in touch for years, and the first-hand news now conveyed was unexpected and welcome.

After this chalice meeting, there was nothing too good for Pan Sirk, the visitor from Keidan. He was wined and dined and given comfortable quarters in the same inn for the night. He was asked to deliver to Count Stanislov not only a letter and personal greetings but also a gift of a handsome imported pipe. And he was forced to accept for himself a little present of 20 rubles -- ostensibly to go toward his traveling expenses.

So my zaide got home not only with ease, but with comfort. The delivery of the letter, greetings, and gift certainly enhanced my grandfather's relations with the great Pan. This led to some new business dealings, with increased commissions, and at least for a time, a better outlook for daily subsistence. This I believe should also be credited to America.