Chapter: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20
A Russian Chronicle
The Tale of Michael L. Zlatovsky
Chapter 18
The Berengaria-we traveled in the steerage
From then on, danger hung over me like the sword of Damocles. My hesitation ended, and I decided to leave for the States as quickly as possible. It was forbidden at that time to leave the country unless on a governmental errand, but in my case there was a loophole. Under the peace treaty with Poland, there was to be a mutual voluntary exchange of citizens from both countries. Since I had a passport from Vladimir--which was now conceded to Poland where I once had a practice--I could go to this country and from there to the States.
I went to see the Polish consul and showed him my passport. Then my name was included on the list of persons to be exchanged. He could not give me a definite date, but he promised to inform me as soon as the first train was ready to leave. “You are now,” he added, “under the protection of the mighty, free Poland.” I could have sworn that he winked at me. The consul, in contrast to most of the Polish officials, was really a very decent man who may have resented the new Polish regime under the dictatorship of Pilsudski and his cohorts.
There was now no objection from my wife, and I informed my family in the States about my decision. It was arranged that they would send me my ship's passage and also a railroad ticket through the immigration office in Poland known as the “Hias.” After the Bolshevik revolution broke, the American Congress, fearing an influx of undesirables, reduced the Russian quota to a bare minimum. However, rabbis and doctors were exempt from the quota. This was an inducement to haste, lest a change in policy be made. Indeed, shortly after my arrival in the States, the law was amended, and privilege concerning doctors was revoked.
There were many matters of importance to settle before leaving. Foremost was the disposal of our belongings, which included an expensive grand piano and a good-sized library. There was not much demand for these expensive items in hungry Leningrad, and these were not the kinds of things speculators cared to handle. There was no point in selling for the valueless Bolshevik currency. The piano netted me 510 rubles in gold pieces, and the library went for 410. The rest of the furniture was partly used for fuel or given away to my son's music teacher. A postal savings book in the name of my son, containing a few hundred rubles, was torn up. The same fate befell my liberty bonds. I did not know how much value the gold pieces had in Poland, and it was extremely dangerous to carry them on me. If found in my possession at the border, where searches were made, I would be detained and, most likely, imprisoned.
I had a friend in the village, a Polish Jew who operated a small industrial plant, and in my doctor’s capacity, I cared for his employees. I told him of my predicament, revealing the secret of the gold pieces. He was stranded in Leningrad and had the same trouble I had one time; he could not send any money to his family in Warsaw. The following scheme was worked out. I was to give him the money; in turn, he would give me a very valuable ruby to give to his wife in Warsaw.
She would see it and would give me Polish currency comparable to the gold pieces' value. He also gave me a letter in which, without revealing the arrangement, told her to see me through at all costs. It seemed a good idea to me, since it was easier to conceal a ruby than gold pieces, and the consequences--if the ruby were found on me--would not be so severe. For, although by no means encouraged, there was no law prohibiting the possession of jewelry.
This arranged and with my mind relieved, I took up the study of English. It was nothing new to me because all my life, with the exception of the medical course, I had been a self-taught man without teacher or guidance. I went to a bookstore, and all I could find was an Anglo-Russian dictionary and Mark Twain’s A Connecticut Yankee at King Arthur's Round Table, which was a bad choice for a beginner. I began to read it with the help of the dictionary. My knowledge of Latin helped me some. What I failed to realize was that words in English are not pronounced the way they are spelled.
Thus, I did not know that a knife is really “nife,” and that psalm is simply “sam.” I could not grasp the difference between “t” and “th.” A “w” was like a “v” to me. (The pronunciation of these letters plagues me even now.) It was like the experience of my brother, Harry, aged 11, who, on his way to the States, was detained for a few days in Liverpool. There he went to the post office to get a postcard. Placing a coin before the clerk, he said, “Please, Un-i-ted Sta-tes pos-tal card.” The clerk called some of the fellows over and had him repeat the words, upon which they all burst into laughter. I cannot visualize Englishmen laughing, but he assured me that they did laugh uproariously.
Then came the epoch of the books. While I made progress in the study of English--or so I thought--I felt that it was not enough to study English medical textbooks in order to prepare for the examination I would have to pass once in the States. In Russian texts, medical and pharmacological terminology is cited in Latin. In the States, it is anglicized. This being the case, I felt it necessary to carry with me my Russian medical books, which, even after the elimination of the less important ones, filled an enormously heavy, big box. It was a burden, but the worst of it was that the books had to be presented for censorship; otherwise they would be confiscated at the border.
This started me on a trip to an office some three miles away from the “village.” I got hold of a little sled, put the box on it, and dragged it to the designated place. It was the middle of March, and the snow was slushy. It was very hard going even with the help of my ten-year-old boy who at some places pushed the sled from behind. I was prudent--or one might call it unscrupulous--enough to take two cans of American condensed milk with me, with the idea of mollifying the person in charge, since no one could resist such a temptation. It all depended on the approach.
The censor proved to be a harassed, middle-aged woman. She looked at the formidable array of books and told me to leave them at the office for a few days for her inspection. This was what I had expected and feared. I put the cans unobtrusively in a place where she could see them. This did the trick. In order to save face, she leafed hurriedly through a book on anatomy and asked if all these books were medical ones. I assured her that this was the case, although actually there were eight volumes of Chekov and two of Pushkin.
It was all in accordance with the governing principle, “Lie at all times,” which currently prevailed. I closed the box, and she affixed a seal while her eyes were fixed on the cans. I had won the first round. I then had to drag the box to another office for registration, and then to a third for no visible reason except for the affixing of another seal called the controlling one. It was a most exhausting experience. The funny part of it was that, having studied the English textbooks, I never used any of these Russian ones.
At about the same time that I arrived in the States, there came another Jewish doctor from Moscow. His experience had been even worse than mine, probably because he either did not have condensed milk or else he did not get the idea. He always talked about the useless books with venom and denounced himself as a fool.
After having accomplished all this, I had nothing else to do except to wait anxiously in our empty apartment for a call from the Polish consulate. It came, if I remember correctly, on the first of April 1922. The train was supposed to leave at midday, but actually it arrived in the small hours of the next morning. Luckily, the station was not crowded, as the train was to carry only expatriates. Two distinct groups could be discerned. One of them consisted of Poles. They formed the aristocracy who were going to their fatherland. Among them were the dour hospital chief and his family. When he faced me, he stared at me with a blank expression as if he had never met me, and he quickly averted his eyes for fear that I would familiarly approach him.
In our group were a few Jewish families and some Russians who were in the same position as myself, having formerly lived in Poland and for some reason not caring to remain in Russia. All of us in this group were uninvited and unwanted. Among the Russians was a handsome man, tall and powerful, who looked like a tramp. Nobody came to see him at parting. He had no baggage. His pants were too short for his size, and the shabby leather jacket was badly in need of repair. My wife, with her usual thoughtfulness and sympathy for the underdog, befriended him, and we shared our meager food with him. In turn, he was very helpful and took a tremendous liking toward my little daughter. He carried her in his arms, sang for her in a pleasant baritone and drew some comic pictures for her. He apparently was an educated man who had seen better times, but, guided by the Russian proverb, “Words are silver; silence is gold,” he never talked about his past or his prospects for the future. This was especially justified in those turbulent times. We called him Ivan and let it go at that.
In our rush to the train in the semi-darkness, he immediately got hold of the box, which I could not even lift, let alone carry. He put it in a car and at once went back for the rest of the luggage. The car we settled in was a regulation cattle car with some not-too-clean bunks for sleeping. No Polish traveler was in the car, and we had enough room for stretching and moving around. One of the Jewish passengers produced a little tin stove commonly known as a “bourjoike.” Ivan got hold of some wood, which he split with a pocketknife. Another passenger brought in some water, still another produced two candles, which were lighted and fastened to a board. Our contribution was some real tea and a few saccharin tablets. We had a little heat, some light, and tea to warm us. Shortly before the train moved, some Polish fellow opened the door with the apparent intent of settling there, but upon beholding the faces of the passengers, he promptly jumped out as if bitten by a scorpion. One of the Russians burst out with a most degrading remark about his mother, which was seconded by nearly all men present.
All is relative, and when compared with my fateful trip to the Ukraine, this car was deluxe and the company most enjoyable. The train moved at a snail's pace; stops were frequent and of undetermined length. We were in no great hurry and were rather glad of the stopovers because it gave us a chance to perform some functions not recommended for public viewing. In connection with this, there occurred a tragicomic incident. Two middle-aged women were too slow to return to the train, and it started moving. We were greatly upset and worried about their fate. However, so slow was the train, and it “rested” so frequently, that when it stopped at the next station some eight miles away, the women were already waiting for it in the station.
The talk in the car revolved mostly around the border search, which was supposed to be very strict with painstaking personal and luggage scrutiny. The farther we moved, the more we worried because of the ruby we had in our possession. My wife had an idea that seemed to be foolproof. We had a pot with us for my daughter's use. It was in a linen cover. In the seam of this cover, my wife put the ruby. It was rather inconceivable that they would look for valuables in such a spot. My wife was confident, but I had some doubts. It was again my resourceful wife who solved the problem in a most unusual way by devising another means of concealment. When we were near the border, she looked at the “tramp” and said, “Ivan, I see your jacket is torn. Give it to me and I will fix it.” This he did, and without attracting anybody's attention, she sewed the ruby into the lining. Her confidence in our friend, the tramp, was great.
The train stopped at the border town of Baranovick, and the searchers came. There was really not much to it. They inspected our papers, but no personal search was made. They glanced at the box that was protected by the seals, and when I told them that it contained medical books, one of them remarked in a rather friendly way, “There are certainly a lot of books to study in order to become a doctor.” They took off the lid of the samovar and shook it, and that was all. The same procedure was followed with regard to other persons in the car. However, one of our fellow travelers, a taciturn and prosperous looking Jew, for whom they were apparently on the lookout, was taken off the train and never returned.
After the search was over, we left the car and stayed in the open until the search ended. It lasted about three hours. We re-entered the car, and when the train began to move, I noticed with horror that the tramp was missing. While I was terrified, my wife was calm. With her innate common sense and unshakeable faith in the tramp, she figured out that he must have been late and jumped into the first car he could reach. This was the case. At the next stop he reappeared. I felt much better. After a time, my wife remarked, looking at Ivan, “I see that I did not do a good job on your jacket because I was in a hurry. Give it back to me, and I will try to do better this time.” Ivan submissively surrendered the jacket to my wife's care, and she retrieved the ruby. Whether the tramp suspected something or not, I will never know.
Soon we were in Poland. The Polish emigrants were met with great pomp. A band played the national anthem; there was singing and dancing; wine and choice foods were served. We, the pariahs, were herded into an enclosure partly occupied by a big ugly barracks. The barracks were locked, and we squatted on the ground watching the reunion with heavy hearts.
The Poles are noted for their gallantry. They kiss the hands of the ladies; they tip their hats to gentlemen. The very language, because of the abundance of sibilants, seems to be caressing. The lowly English “please” translated into Polish becomes “pselse pseprosle.” The gallantry is limited to the nobles, known as the “shlachta.” The common people are treated with contempt; the Jews and Russians with hatred. While we lay on the ground, some dainty lady would pass and murmur, “Dirty Jews,” or, more often, “Russian scum.” The men were less cautious and would kick some forlorn Russian and curse him and all of us for no reason at all.
Some hours later, a delegation from the “Hias” came to see us. The barracks were opened, and we were fed. We were quarantined for five days. We had to give up our clothes for disinfection, and the ones who did not have a change of clothing were given some coarse robes, often dirtier than the clothes they had given for disinfection. We went through a steam bath, and some of the women had their hair cut. All treatments given were rough and as often as not were accompanied by the inevitable “dirty Jew” or “Russian scum.” When the attendant in charge tried to cut my daughter's hair, my wife became frantic. Others intervened; the “tramp” took a threatening position, and her hair was saved. We left the “inferno” barracks after two days due to the interceding of the Hias delegate, and we parted with the “tramp” in a most cordial way. Whoever he was and whatever his past, he was a good man and a faithful friend, never to be forgotten.
We went for rest to a local hotel. There occurred a little incident that was of interest to me because it verified a story characteristic of the Jew-Pole relationship. The widely circulated story was this: During the Polish rebellion against the Russians, a Polish warrior took refuge in a Jewish home and was hidden under the bed. The Russians came for a search, and the Jew managed to put them off. The fugitive stuck his head out from under the bed and, seeing that all was clear, hollered, “Yid,” (“Dredze” in Polish) “your hat off!” I always considered this story as mythical, but from what happened to me in the town of Baranocick, I came to believe its authenticity. I went to see a notary to certify some papers, and my boy went with me. As soon as we stepped over the threshold, the notary, a little in-significant man, exclaimed furiously, “Yid, your hat off!” meaning my boy who had on a little sailor hat. I already had mine in my hands.
After two days' rest, we went to Vladimir. I needed some official papers for my visa. I also wanted to find out what had become of my furniture and household goods, the care of which I had entrusted to a friend who was a furniture dealer. I was pleasantly surprised to find that he had sold my furniture for whatever he could get, and he handed me some Polish currency, which I greatly needed. I asked him and others about conditions under the German occupation that had lasted about three years. The Germans, I was told, were strict and arrogant, but they did not molest the people unless they disobeyed the rules. For all requisitions, they paid a fair price. They improved the sanitary conditions of the town by coercing the population to drain the swamps, some of which were in the center of town, to pave the streets, and to build a decent public bathhouse. The German doctors took care of the sick and, by improving the water supply, to some degree eradicated dysentery and other diseases caused by contaminated water.
(In the year 1932, the sons of these Germans, and possibly some of these very same Germans, entered Vladimir on the Jewish Day of Atonement. The first thing they did was to surround the synagogue, put gasoline on it, and set it on fire. Hundreds of men, women, and children perished in the fire; and the few escapees were shot. The rest were exterminated in the regular Nazi way.)
However, to continue my story, from Vladimir we went directly to Warsaw. This city (now a pile of rubble*) had been known as the little Paris. It is, or rather was, a very beautiful city even if it did not measure up to Paris--the queen of all European cities. The main thoroughfare, Jerusalem Avenue, was something like the Nevsky Prospect of Leningrad. At the end of it was the Satov Garden. Wide roads were lined with native and imported trees and with an abundance of monuments--something like the famous “Unter den Linden” of Berlin which was apparently copied. At the entrance there was a sign: “Dogs and old-fashioned Jews not allowed.” It stumped me for a while. I knew for sure that I was not a dog, but the term “old-fashioned” was somewhat vague. It reminded me of the story about Drumbadge, the chief of police in the city of Yalta, a city forbidden to the Jews. It goes like this:
A Jew was seen running in the street with nobody in pursuit of him. “Why are you running wild?” asked another Jew. “But,” said the runner, “did you not read Drumbadge’s last order that all camels must be castrated? I know,” he added, “that I am not a camel, but suppose they castrate me and then make me prove that I am not a camel?”
After some hesitation, I entered with my son, and nobody molested us. It was after this that I visited the Warsaw Ghetto, and the meaning of “old-fashioned” became clear to me. In Warsaw, there were women wearing wigs and men with flying ear-locks, dressed in long “kaftans” and fur hats of special design called strimels.” They looked medieval. Poland was the next of the Chassidim who differed in their beliefs and in their way of life from the Jews of Russia where the Haskala movement had taken root. The Chassidim were not influenced by the Haskala modernizing movement and clung with tenacity to their traditions.
Immediately upon our arrival, I went to see the family of my friend and delivered the troublesome ruby. They were more than glad to see me and were very pleasant. They paid me in accordance with instructions and promised more if need be. They took us for a tour of the city and found temporary quarters for us. At the Hias office, I was told that it would take some weeks before formalities would be settled and our visa issued. It was now full Spring, hot in the city, and our temporary quarters were not too comfortable. At the advice of our friends, we went to a summer resort not far from the city, and there we settled for the time being until informed by the Hias that our visa was ready.
Pleasant as it was at the resort, I became fidgety after a time and went to the city with the intention of visiting the consulate to see how matters stood. I found a seat in the crowded suburban train while a number of people were left standing. Nearby stood an elderly Jewish woman seemingly in distress, and I gave her my seat. This act of charity aroused indignation among the Poles. Murmurs were heard about the dirty Yids and the Russian Bolsheviks who tried to dominate their country. A fierce-looking young man in a student's uniform approached us and hissed, “Either you Yids leave the car or I will throw you out.” From the expression on his face, it was clear that he meant it. (Such incidents really happened, as I was later told.) The woman relinquished her seat, and we went to another car and remained standing although there were some vacant seats.
There the sobbing woman told me that she was going to the hospital to see her student son who was severely beaten because he refused to sit in the enclosure reserved for Jewish students. She also told me that the resort we lived in was exclusively Jewish; there were no mixed resorts in Poland. Such was the “free” Poland--just a little worse than Russia under the Tsar where the Jews had been barred from the universities by the order of the administration but once there, freely mixed with the Russian students. At the University of Kiev, a Jewish medical student had held the office of “Starasta”--a representative of the student body--for two years.
It was the end of June when my visa came and we left for our destination. A representative of the Hias, a very pleasant and efficient medical student, was assigned to our train. The first step was Berlin. We were taken to a synagogue in a Berlin suburb populated mostly by so-called Eastern Jews. The place was dirty, noisy, and crowded, and we had to wait there 12 hours. With the permission of the guide--and it was an exception to the rule--we went to see the city. With us was also a Jewish woman doctor who had joined us in Warsaw. We rented a cart drawn by two horses, and the driver took us to “Unter den Linden,” the pride of the Berliners. It was a beautiful street, the center of which consisted of a double avenue lined with lime trees. All along the street were numerous monuments, mostly of kings in their military glory. At the end of it were the royal palace (the“Schloss”), the Reichstag, and the Art Gallery, which we entered to inspect the paintings. It was less impressive than the Hermitage in Leningrad. In the main, I found at least the center of the city spotlessly clean, solid, and somewhat gloomy.
Next stop was the ancient city of Cologne. The main attraction of this city was the famous Gothic cathedral. It is built in the form of a cross. The two towers with the grand portal in the middle are, according to the guidebook, 520 feet high, and it is considered to be the finest and largest Gothic cathedral in Europe.
In contrast to gloomy Berlin, Paris--our next stop--was a city of light and gaiety. Most of the houses in the center of the city (we did not have time for the suburbs) were lightly colored and made of stone. Most impressive was the Palace of Concord with its numerous statues, an Egyptian obelisk, and magnificent fountains. We visited the House of Invalids, the main attraction of which is the tomb of Napoleon. We went to the Eiffel Tower and were taken to the upper platform from where we had a wide view of the city. Looking down, my little daughter said, “Why, the people here are ‘karlikm’” (midgets), and so they really looked.
In Paris, we parted with our pleasant guide and went to Cherbourg, the place of embarkment. There we were quarantined for five days. However, we were allowed to live wherever we liked and went every day for bathing and medical inspection. It was nothing like accursed Poland. We boarded the Berangharia, one of the finest ships at that time, as steerage passengers. It was July 1, 1922.
* Date: In the 1940s