Portraits (5 page)

He found a room in a flophouse on the Bowery for twenty-five cents a night. Shedding his wet clothes, he collapsed on the iron cot.

In the morning, when he opened his eyes to the bleak winter day, his mouth was dry and his stomach empty, but he could not find the energy to get up. He looked around at the human debris that lay as listlessly as he. For some, he suspected, this was their natural habitat. Suddenly, the oppressive sight gave him the energy to get up, to get on with his new life.

Getting out of bed, he began to dress. As he put on his trousers he instinctively felt for the small wad of money, but it was no longer in his pocket. Frantically, he looked under the iron cot and found that his duffel bag had been stolen. In a rage he screamed out, “You goddamn bastards, who stole my money!” The men barely lifted their heads. “I’ll kill you if you don’t give me back my money.” No one responded. He looked at the man next to him, then grabbed him by the throat. “I’ll kill you! You stole my money.” The frightened man mumbled something in intoxicated incoherence. For the first time, Jacob realized he spoke in a language no one seemed to understand. Breathing hard in fury, he let the man drop. Thank God they hadn’t stolen his coat. Putting it on, he bolted from the room.

The streets were covered with a white blanket of snow and ice so slick it was almost impossible for him to walk. Shivering, he huddled in a doorway, not knowing what to do. Everything was gone. The money, his immigration papers…All he had was the tattered, faded, old letter Esther had written to her parents so long ago and a picture of Lotte in his innerpocket. He took it out and looked at it. It’s all right, Lotte, they won’t beat me. I’ve come this far…It’s a hard lesson,
no one
will ever do it to me again. Putting the picture back into his pocket, he sat rubbing his hands together for warmth. Spending his energy in anger would not return his loss, so he turned his thoughts to more immediate things. How was he going to eat today, and where would he sleep tonight? He was so deep in his thoughts he did not notice that he was under the scrutiny of a burly uniformed figure.

“What are you doing here, me boy?” asked the suspicious Irish cop.

Jacob looked up into the cold red face, shook his head and gestured that he could not understand.

“Ah, so you’re one of those ignorant Poles or Kikes? Naw, can’t be a Sheenie. Too blond and blue-eyed for that…don’t have a hooked nose.”

Jacob was at the point of utter frustration; he didn’t understand a word the man was saying, nor could he make himself understood. He tried to gesture that his money had been stolen. Abruptly, Jacob was pulled up under the armpits and shoved against the wall. The man in the heavy navy-blue overcoat with the shiny brass buttons moved his hands up and down Jacob’s body. He went through Jacob’s pockets but all he found was the picture of Lotte and the letter from Esther. Looking at the picture for a moment, he put it back. In bewilderment, Jacob watched the lips move. “So you’ve no papers. I’ve seen the likes of you, thinkin’ it’s so easy jumping ship. Well, boyo, you’re gonna be learnin’ different.” He took out a set of handcuffs and clasped them on Jacob’s wrists.

Jacob realized now that the officer thought he was a criminal, but his protests fell on uncomprehending ears as the officer led him to the police station.

He waited on a hard bench for a very long time. Finally he found himself standing before another man who was sitting at a desk. “What’s your name?” he asked, staring at Jacob.

Jacob shook his head mutely.

“I asked, what’s your name?”

Jacob held out his hands and shrugged in utter helplessness.

“So you don’t understand a word, is it now. There ought to be a law makin’ you foreigners speak English. O’Toole,” the man called out.

“Ya, chief.”

“Take this one, hold him and call the immigration department. He ain’t got no papers.”

Jacob was taken away and put in a cold damp detention hall. He sat frightened, wondering what his crime was and what the penalty would be. He wasn’t alone. The room was full of men who had jumped ship. Italians, Poles, Russians…

At four o’clock in the afternoon, Jacob was led once again down a long hall and shoved into a room. His heart quickened when he heard the door behind him shut. He stood at attention and watched two men—one an immigration officer, the other an interpreter—sitting at a desk thumbing through a sheaf of papers.

Jacob looked from one to the other, increasingly alarmed as he waited for them to break the silence. My God, what was going to happen to him? When he was finally summoned to the desk, it seemed he’d been standing for hours. He came forward without hesitation.

The interpreter handed Jacob a large chart, on which was written boldly: “I am Polish, I am Russian, I am Greek, I am…When Jacob’s eyes lit on the sentence he almost went limp with relief. Shaking his head in disbelief, his blue eyes soberly fixed on the interpreter, he said,
“Ya, ich bin Deutsch.”
The interrogation began in German.

“Where did you come from?”

“Frankfurt.”

“What is your name?”

“Jacob Sandsonitsky.”

“But that isn’t a German name.”

“No, I am a Jew.”

“Tell me how you got here.”

Jacob began the story of his departure from Hamburg, how he had paid for his passage by working, ending finally with the theft of his money and his stolen papers. Jacob trembled as the questioning continued.

When had he left Frankfurt and arrived in Hamburg? He had very little difficulty remembering that month; it had been after the picnic on that beautiful late summer afternoon in August. But the thought was cut short by the urgent need to respond. His answer was August 18, 1907. Why had he remained that long in Hamburg and how had he sustained himself? The answer was that the ship was being repaired and outfitted for the voyage, so he had worked as a deckhand and stevedore. The questioning continued. What, then, was the departure date of the ship from Hamburg? November 22. And its arrival? December 10. Did he have any family here?

This was the only time Jacob hesitated, but the answer could be crucial. He did not know what his crime was, but now he understood they suspected he was here illegally. Quickly, he dismissed the pledge he had made not to seek out his mother. He answered, “Yes, I have a mother, a sister and a little brother here.”

“Where are they living and what is the address?”

This time Jacob faltered. As he took out the old letter from his pocket and handed it to the interpreter, he prayed his mother would be living in the same place. He swallowed hard as the pain in his chest stabbed like a knife. At this moment, his trust in God was all he had left. He prayed the truth would redeem him, as he began to recount the events that had brought him to this moment. His mother was poor and had been widowed when he was a young boy. She had come to America without him, leaving him with his grandparents in Frankfurt. Only in this one instance had he lied. Quickly, he continued. After their death, he had moved from place to place, and somehow he and his mother had lost touch.

Did he know if she was still alive?

Was she alive? Jacob wondered. The question evoked a torrent of guilt. Although he was certain she had never loved him, the idea she could be dead was something he found impossible to face. In that brief moment, his mind darted back to a yellow, waxen face, a still body, closed eyes, coins,
Yis-gad-dal v’yis-kad-dash
…He wanted to put his hands over his ears to stop the sound of the mournful chant. “No,” he said shakily, “she’s alive, I know she’s alive. I’ll find her.”

The interrogation was concluded. He was told that he would be detained until all the facts were checked out and that he would be notified. He was then taken from the room and led to a darkened cell.

As the days passed, he seesawed between feeling completely and helplessly abandoned and feeling a hard, angry core of bitterness. A lot had happened in his young life, but at least he had always been free. The confinement, the stench and the overcrowding were torturing him. For two weeks, the old nightmares of death returned to plague him, and one afternoon he was just falling into yet another troubled sleep when he was jolted awake. “Jacob S-a-n-d-s-o…” Jacob did not understand English, but he knew his name.

Quickly, he got up off the cold cement floor and answered,
“Ja, das ist mein Name,
Jacob.”

The guard motioned for him to follow. He was ushered into the office he’d left fifteen days ago, with the same men present. Jacob, however, scarcely looked like the same boy. His hair was dirty and unkempt, his stubble was now a beard, and his trousers hung loosely from his body…he had lost at least ten pounds. He looked ten years older. It took all the strength he had to stand as the men continued with their paperwork. At long last, the interpreter handed him a paper to sign. He explained that everything had checked out and that Jacob could remain in the country temporarily. He was given a list of instructions; he had to find immediate employment, locate his mother, and report to immigrations in two weeks, at which time determination would be made as to whether he could stay in the country permanently. Were there any questions? Since he had no money, Jacob asked where he could sleep tonight.

For the first time, almost unwillingly, the interpreter really looked at Jacob. The man hated his job, despised the world for what it did to a handsome young boy like this one. Hell, he was no boy. Two weeks ago, maybe. But there was no illusion left in those clear blue eyes.

In German, the man answered, “Go to the Salvation Army. They’ll give you something to eat and a place to sleep.”

“The army?” Jacob asked, confused.

“It’s not a regular army; it’s a Christian charity that helps people.”

“But I’m a Jew.”

“They don’t care what you are.” He wanted to add, because they’re Christians. So was the country, born and created out of the Christian ethic. Oh, what the hell. Perfunctorily, he handed a card to Jacob. “Here’s the address, in English. Show the paper to anyone. They’ll know where it is.”

Jacob looked at it curiously and put it into his pocket. On his way out he said in German, “Thank you.” The man shook his head sadly. Yeah, thanks a lot. You got a lot to be thankful for.

The snows had come and gone. Now the streets were slick and the air raw and cold, but Jacob didn’t care. He was free. God had given him his freedom. He wanted to go to
shul.
A haunting memory came back. Mr. Mendlebaum, his
zayde
and he used to go to…The son of a bitch who had stolen his things should only rot in hell. More than the money, it was the duffel bag that was the greatest loss. The only thing that meant anything to him was in it. His
tallis
and
yarmulkah
, his legacy from his beloved Mr. Mendlebaum.

The next morning, Jacob was told where the Jewish section of the East Side was. The streets were crammed with dirty tenements, but at least here he was among his own people, and to speak his own language was like honey in his mouth. He went to the house where he thought Esther lived and knocked on a door. Apprehensively, an old woman peered out. “Please, lady, I want to ask you a question.”

She squinted at him suspiciously. “So what’s the question?”

“My name is Jacob Sandsonitsky. My mother is Esther.”

“Your mother is Esther?”

“Yes, do you know where she lives?”

Reassured, the woman’s expression softened. “Tell you I can’t, but help you I can. I haven’t seen her in years. She’s a funny lady, you should forgive me, but she never comes to see her old friends. When she lived here, everyone was so good to her.”

Jacob’s mind wandered back in time, to when he had been a bewildered little boy. He couldn’t even remember his mother kissing him when she said good-by. But this was not the time for recriminations. If he was going to remain in America, he had to find her; life had made the decision. “You were saying you could help me find her?” Jacob asked anxiously.

“Yes. Although this is a big place, still people talk. I hear that she owns a restaurant.”

“Where?”

“That I don’t know, but if you’ll go to the wholesale fish market on Fulton Street, I know they’ll be able to tell you.”

Jacob nodded, then asked for the directions. She said if it wasn’t so bitterly cold, she would show him herself. After she wrote out the streets in Yiddish, the old lady felt a sadness as she saw Jacob leave. Such a nice boy. Would he like to come back and visit again? Yes, he would like that very much. When he closed the door behind him, however, both knew he never would.

A
S THE OLD LADY
had predicted, yes, the fish market sold to Esther. Where was the restaurant located? On Canal Street. “Could you write out the directions?” Jacob asked.

“Look, I’m busy. You’ll ask, you’ll find.” The man picked up a crate of fish.

Angrily, Jacob followed him. “Can’t you at least tell me how to get there?”

Putting down the crate, he looked irritably at Jacob. What was he in—the direction business? This was Thursday, the busiest day in the week, and this
momzer
was taking up his time. Reluctantly, the man motioned Jacob toward the entrance, where he would be pointed in the right direction. Then, quickly, the man disappeared into his office, slamming the door shut before Jacob could ask the name of the restaurant.

From time to time, he stopped a passerby. It was always go right, go left—nobody had any time. Jacob plodded along the street, unable to read the signs. It seemed he had walked for miles. Well, if he could find America, he’d find Canal Street.

He walked on and on, stopping at every restaurant he came to. Suddenly his heart pounded in excitement There it was! Esther Sandsonitsky’s Kosher Restaurant. A trembling fear grew in him as he crossed the street. A bell rang as he opened the door and rang again as he closed it. He stood alone among the vacant tables and chairs. There were no customers today.

Soon a woman emerged from the back. Wiping her hands on her white apron, she told him to take any table. Then their eyes met. She was not his mother. His mother was much taller than this woman. His mother was blonde, this woman had gone totally white. And yet…