Immigrant's Journal - Fiction Piece
By Eric Shapiro - for Jewish Literature Class with Steve Stern - Spring 2010 (posted 3/12/2010)
Draft Version and a work in progress - to be completed!
Entry #1
For over one hundred years, my family has been plagued by a terrible curse handed down through the generations. At times, I will admit, I have considered ending my life over it, but some force, perhaps the hand of God or some masochistic Dybbuk, has implored me to remain. Nevertheless, my life, like those of all the male members of my family, has been nothing but hardship and misery.
But this has not always been so. In the distant past, we Goldschtettles were renowned throughout the Pale of Settlement for our nearly unparalleled knowledge of the Torah and the Talmud. But no more. And it’s all thanks to my great, great, great uncle Mordechai, may the worms crap on his bones. If he hadn’t stolen that God-forsaken chicken from that God-forsaken old hag on Pothole Street, I’d be reading Talmud at the Eastern Wall of our town’s splendid synagogue rather than venting my woes into this journal.
If only I wasn’t such a born scholar, if only I were like that fool Gimple, so that I could live my life without comprehending the enormity of my punishment. But alas, my brain is as sharp as cracked matza, certainly the best our little village has to offer. Alas, we have been unable to make use of our talents for one reason and one reason only. For 105 agonizing years, not a single male Goldschtetle has sprouted a single hair from his chin (although my Aunt Esther, may she rest in peace, managed to grow one down to the ground).
Woe! Woe! I remember with scathing clarity the torment I endured as a young boy in the Yeshiva. “Where is your beard, smooth chin? What kind of Jew are you? How can you study God’s word with not a hair on your chin?”
For too long have I lived a life of anonymity. For too long have I trimmed the beards of my goats wishing I had one of my own. I realize now that I have only one chance for happiness, one opportunity to make use of my astounding intellectual capacity and restore honor to my family. America! Where the streets are paved with gold and they make false beards as convincing as Uncle Mershi’s fake leather shoes. America! Perhaps if I sell everything I have, then I can afford a ticket.
Entry #2
You cannot imagine the elation I felt when at long last I acquired the funds to buy passage to America. But it was not without sacrifice. Even after I sold all of my books, furniture and animals, I was still short. My wife, may her grave cave in, told me that I was a fool, that I should stay in Poland where I belonged. Feh! I knew that I was destined for great things, that I could not possibly achieve my full potential among the rabble of my village.
It was with this in mind that I decided to marry my daughter to the milkman Lazar Shmuel. For years the old man had asked for her hand in marriage and for years I refused. He was the oldest man in our village (he was 65!) and dumb as a stillborn gefilte fish. I wanted to marry my daughter to a scholar, not a man who traded in dairy. But over the years he had saved up a modest sum of money for a dowry; a dowry that I had turned down before, but gladly accepted for the sake of purchasing my ticket to America.
My daughter, convinced I would not send for her and her mother, invoked all manner of curses upon me. She told me that she would rather die than marry Lazar. I tried to make her see reason. I pointed out to her that she was already 28 years old, and marriage offers didn’t come often to such a poor family (and for one with her looks, although of course I said no such thing). Alas, she spat on me and prayed that I would die a beggar in the streets of America.
My wife, always materialistic and not content to temporarily part with some of her belongings for the sake of a better life, threatened to kill herself or worse, get her inlaws involved. I gave her a speech about how I would ache for her while we were apart, but truthfully I cared little. I had been forced to accept her hand in marriage by my father, who had been desperate to be rid of me after I attacked him with the same worn strap that he had used to beat me senseless with as a whimpering child. Plus, I’m quite convinced she had an eye for Reb Isaac. How she lit up whenever she saw him with his piles of books, suspiciously gripped under his arms when he could well have used a bag. I would find a better woman over there, a beautiful, obedient American breed worthy of me, as restitution for my family’s humiliation along with.
I was dismayed to find that I would have to travel all the way to Antwerp, Belgium to get a boat. Fortunately, Leizer’s dowry was enough to pay for a cramped carriage ride to get me there. For years, I had dreamed of escaping my confinement in the Polish pale of settlement, all identical fields and ignorant peasants, to travel Europe and visit foreign synagogues and meet some exotic city Jews. I thought that perhaps they would be more open-minded, willing to overlook my lack of facial hair and respect me for my intelligence.
However, when I arrived in Belgium, all I could think about was reaching America. I had always scoffed at the stories of streets paved with gold and endless opportunity, but now that I was headed to the far-off land, I desperately wanted to believe such things were true. We Goldschtettles always possessed skeptical minds. Some of the postcards I found in the marketplace during my layover in Antwerp fed into such fantasies.
I was captivated by pictures of buildings that reached into the sky and beautiful people wandering the street in all manner of decadent apparel. Women wore what appeared to be animals on their heads and men dressed in dashing suits composed of splendid materials. Atop their heads were extravagant hats, the like of which I had never before seen. I knew that such immodest things would be off limits to a Jew of my stature, but nevertheless I looked forward to merely setting my eyes on such people and things, so that I may soak them in and expand my limited view of the world.
The postcard images danced through my mind as I followed the throngs of fellow departers to the harbor. An employee of the Red Star Line, the ocean line that I was using, led me to my ship. It was called the Greenland and it was so large that I anticipated plenty of living space for my journey. My optimism was short-lived, as groups of passenger arrived over the course of several hours. When we were finally allowed on the boat, it was apparent that I would be living in prison conditions. But it would be worth it when I arrived in America to start my new life.
Entry #3
As the days wore on, my enthusiasm quickly evaporated. Several factors contributed to my malaise. First, I discovered that I possessed what one of my fellow passengers referred to as sickness of the seas, or something to that effect. Thus, I was mostly confined to below the deck, where my vomit flowed slightly less freely. At first, I was dismayed to be separated from my fellow voyagers. Before leaving, I had anticipated befriending kindred souls, intellectuals fed up with the lack of opportunity in Europe and eager to meet others like themselves.
Oh, how I was mistaken. My fellow passengers were even more simple-minded, boring and licentious than the peasants I was accustomed to associating with at home. They indulged in all manner of trivial activities, playing games with cards and drinking themselves stupid with gin they had somehow smuggled on board. To think, I had expected to make friends on the way over, friends with connections.
With my rush to leave my old life behind I always managed to shove the fact that I will have nowhere to live and no source of work when I got there. Surely being acquainted with some fellow Jews would be prudent. And what is life without companionship? No fellow learned men with which to argue Talmud. A family for the Shabbas? To sit around the dinner table and commiserate about our lives over a steaming pot roast and latkes?
My long, solitary journey caused me to consider my wife and daughter. As much as I had tired of their company back home, I began to desperately crave their companionship. I took to spending my time alone in a corner, practicing the prayers I had learned from my pilfered Hagadah. Brushing up on such things would be sure to come in handy in America. But I must admit, with some shame, that even God’s words are not enough to keep stave off the boredom that burns at my mind like an ulcer. If I don’t find something to do I am afraid I shall be quite mad by the time I reach America. If only my wife and daughter were here.
Entry #4: Arrival
I was the only one who stayed below deck when the Greenland pulled into the harbor. Hunched against the wall, simmering with a long-fermenting resentment, invoking curses upon everyone and everything, I was fully prepared to stay onboard the ship and starve myself to death. The long months of doing nothing but praying had taken quite a toll on my mind. I was far from rational.
I overheard my fellow passengers talking about a gigantic metal woman dressed in green with a halo of spikes around her head, holding aloft some kind of candle. I thought that perhaps they were as mad as I. Nevertheless, they’re excitement managed to rouse me from my stupor. As I climbed above the deck for the first time in a week, a warm breeze greeted my face, raising my spirits a bit. According to my estimation, it was only early Spring, but it felt like summer. As I made my way to the bow, of the boat, crewmembers and passengers glanced at me with looks of surprised, as if I were a piece of furniture that had magically come to life.
The coastline was a sight to behold, so much so that I did not notice the little speck in the distance that was Ellis Island. Just as in the post card, I could vaguely make out the shapes of tall building and various flashing lights. As we made our way closer, I took in the details of Ellis Island. I caught sight of a building that resembled a fort, with four spires encircling a roof with a large glass window.
When I got off the boat, I was ceased by a final bout of seasickness. The contents of my stomach, stale bread and some green vegetable, spilled out onto the dock. An employee caught site me at just that moment and told me to report my sickness in the upcoming medical inspection. He led me to a building called the Ellis Island Immigrant Hospital. I was then subjected to what they called an “examination.” My examiner was an impatient doctor in an odd uniform. As I made my way up the stairs to see him, I staggered slightly, still dizzy from my seasickness. This earned me a suspicious look from my guide. He exchanged a few incomprehensible words in English with the doctor and left me to be examined.
It was not pleasant. The doctor used a buttonhook to check my eyes and placed a cold metal plate on my chest. He then marked my chest with what I later learned was called chalk and I was directed to a building a short distance away. There I was forced to live for days. During that time I was given further examinations. Evidently they suspected I suffered from a contagious illness. They refused to believe I had merely been seasick.
When I was finally released from the hospital, I took a ferry to the island of Manhattan.
Entry #5: My New Home
I used the remaining money from my daughter’s dowry to purchase an apartment on Orchard Street. It is on the bottom floor of a nondescript tenement building that looks similar to every other one on the street. I have only been in America for three weeks and already I have accidentally passed by it several times. My “apartment” is but a single cramped room. I spend as little time inside as possible so as not to go insane. I am told that a family lived here before they were evicted. I do not see how this is possible, although the smells of unfamiliar bodies attest to the fact that it was recently inhabited.
I live next door to a middle-aged Italian couple. At first they seemed like pleasant enough neighbors, despite being goys. The man bowed politely to me upon on our first meeting and his wife graced me with a pleasant smile. Alas, I have grown to hate them, not because they have done me any direct harm, but because they are so loud! I must listen to them argue in their belligerent, rude-sounding tongue at all hours of the day and night. The walls are so paper thin that it is as if I was in the room with them. I have not yet applied for a job at the local synagogue; rather, I am in the process of brushing up on my prayers and rehearsing my most impressive arguments on Talmud, sometimes in the mirror. But oh how it is difficult to study over the noise.
Speaking of the mirror, yesterday as I was practicing, I saw something quite astounding and wonderful. Barely noticeable, but present nonetheless, was one wisp of hair on my chin. May God be praised! He has sent me a sign. It is too early to say for sure, but perhaps, far away from home, the curse has finally been lifted. At long last, if God permits, I shall assume my proper roll as a scholar of high esteem! When I went outside for a long walk shortly after my new discovery, all of the Lower East side must have seen the spring in my step. They must have known that a great man was in their presence. On Grand street, a vender even offered to sell me a great big bowler hat. He must have assumed from my proud demeanor that I could afford.
I am confident enough now that I shall apply for a job at a local synagogue come tomorrow morning.
Entry #6: Rejection
I applied for positions at several synagogues and I was rejected by every single one. Despite my rapidly growing beard, I was rejected based on a lack of experience in Talmud studies. Perhaps I should have lied to the Rabbis who interviewed me, told them I was an established scholar from back home. But, for some reason, I could not bring myself to lie. It is almost as if my soul is unwilling to accept that America is not the wonderful place I heard about in stories, even though I suspected this was the case long ago. The myth of endless opportunity is a powerful one indeed.
Most disappointing of all my rejections was at the Bialystoker Synagogue on Hester Street. The synagogue, I learned upon entering, was established by Jews from my very own town of Bialystok back in Poland (I have still not yet been here long enough to refer to it as “the old country"). I thought for sure, upon noticing several familiar faces, that my application would be well received. How wrong I was.
The Rabbi and the learned men in attendance laughed at me. Called me “smooth chin” just like they had when I was a boy. They made fun of my few new wisps of hair that I had been so proud of. When their fits of laughter finally subsided, they saw fit to offer me a job as what essentially amounted to a maid. If I worked diligently, they said, perhaps I could have access to their library at night. I responded to their insult accordingly. I would not scrub toilets for the right to study Talmud. With my brains, I was as entitled as they to do so. Angry as I had ever been in my life, I declared that I would find a position at a different synagogue and become a scholar of such renown that they would not be able to leave their apartments without hearing my name. Again, they laughed uproariously.
Unfortunately, I was no more successful at other synagogues than I was at Bialystoker. Although some of the less religious ones, which I applied to as a last resort, did not scoff at my lack of a beard. It was my lack of experience that disqualified me. I knew Torah and Talmud well for someone who learned off of the books he could either steal or find for sale cheap. Still, my knowledge paled in comparison to those who had full access to such texts in Yeshiva. Teaching at a chader is not an option, considering how impatient I am with children. All I can do now is pray for God to grant me a livelihood.
Entry #7: Employment
My prayers have been answered, to an extent. I received a letter from my wife informing me of a distant relation of hers, a successful businessman, who may be able to help me find employment. If only she had told me of this before, but then again she never wanted me to leave Poland in the first place. She must have not wanted to give me encouragement. But now, according to her letter, she wants me to pay for her passage to America. With our daughter married she has decided that she cannot live alone and craves my company. She also says she is sick of the old country and wants to start a new life. I knew she would change her mind. Is the man not always right?
Perhaps I will send for her, perhaps not. But I cannot afford to ignore her advice. I will seek out her relation. Even though my end goal is to make a career of studying Talmud, my supply of money is dwindling and I need to pay rent. When I make lots of money, then surely I will have plenty of time to study Torah and Talmud.
Entry #8: Not Quite the American Dream
I approached my wife’s relation, Aaron Salmon, at his place of occupation, a small sweatshop that manufactures belts. It turns out he is not the successful businessman that my wife spoke of, but only a superintendent of the business, which is owned by another. He referred me to his boss, who is clearly a Jew in name only. Never have I seen such an American-looking Jew, bowler hat and all. He told me that there were currently no positions available, but, if I were willing, he would provide me with the name of a friend of his who sold umbrellas. Hardly ideal, but did I have any choice? I accepted his offer, using the last of my daughter’s dowry to pay his friend for the umbrellas. I will begin working tomorrow.
Entry #9: The Umbrella Salesman
For two years I have sold umbrellas, as well as various odds and ends on Grand Street, barely making enough money to live. I have spent every second of my precious spare time studying Talmud occasionally, in a synagogue when the Rabbis are in a charitable mood. They are clearly impressed by my determination, even if they still snicker at me behind my back.
My beard is slowly but surely growing larger, as if to mirror my growing confidence in America. Selling merchandise is hardly what I dreamed of in coming here, but I have learned to take some satisfaction in making sales. Still, my ultimate goal is to become a renowned scholar and to do my part in restoring some semblance of Godliness to the Jews here, many of whom are secular and go to synagogue only on the high holidays.
All the extra money I have goes into buying books, in English, Yiddish and Hebrew, from street vendors and saving up for my wife’s passage. If I am lucky, in another two years I will have enough to buy her ticket. I have not met any glamorous American women here like I hoped and even her company is better than none at all. I have several acquaintances in the men who congregate at cafés to discuss intellectual matters, but mostly I keep to myself. If I am to take advantage of the opportunity in America, then there is time for little else but working jobs that are beneath me, just like in Bialystok.
Draft Version and a work in progress - to be completed!
Entry #1
For over one hundred years, my family has been plagued by a terrible curse handed down through the generations. At times, I will admit, I have considered ending my life over it, but some force, perhaps the hand of God or some masochistic Dybbuk, has implored me to remain. Nevertheless, my life, like those of all the male members of my family, has been nothing but hardship and misery.
But this has not always been so. In the distant past, we Goldschtettles were renowned throughout the Pale of Settlement for our nearly unparalleled knowledge of the Torah and the Talmud. But no more. And it’s all thanks to my great, great, great uncle Mordechai, may the worms crap on his bones. If he hadn’t stolen that God-forsaken chicken from that God-forsaken old hag on Pothole Street, I’d be reading Talmud at the Eastern Wall of our town’s splendid synagogue rather than venting my woes into this journal.
If only I wasn’t such a born scholar, if only I were like that fool Gimple, so that I could live my life without comprehending the enormity of my punishment. But alas, my brain is as sharp as cracked matza, certainly the best our little village has to offer. Alas, we have been unable to make use of our talents for one reason and one reason only. For 105 agonizing years, not a single male Goldschtetle has sprouted a single hair from his chin (although my Aunt Esther, may she rest in peace, managed to grow one down to the ground).
Woe! Woe! I remember with scathing clarity the torment I endured as a young boy in the Yeshiva. “Where is your beard, smooth chin? What kind of Jew are you? How can you study God’s word with not a hair on your chin?”
For too long have I lived a life of anonymity. For too long have I trimmed the beards of my goats wishing I had one of my own. I realize now that I have only one chance for happiness, one opportunity to make use of my astounding intellectual capacity and restore honor to my family. America! Where the streets are paved with gold and they make false beards as convincing as Uncle Mershi’s fake leather shoes. America! Perhaps if I sell everything I have, then I can afford a ticket.
Entry #2
You cannot imagine the elation I felt when at long last I acquired the funds to buy passage to America. But it was not without sacrifice. Even after I sold all of my books, furniture and animals, I was still short. My wife, may her grave cave in, told me that I was a fool, that I should stay in Poland where I belonged. Feh! I knew that I was destined for great things, that I could not possibly achieve my full potential among the rabble of my village.
It was with this in mind that I decided to marry my daughter to the milkman Lazar Shmuel. For years the old man had asked for her hand in marriage and for years I refused. He was the oldest man in our village (he was 65!) and dumb as a stillborn gefilte fish. I wanted to marry my daughter to a scholar, not a man who traded in dairy. But over the years he had saved up a modest sum of money for a dowry; a dowry that I had turned down before, but gladly accepted for the sake of purchasing my ticket to America.
My daughter, convinced I would not send for her and her mother, invoked all manner of curses upon me. She told me that she would rather die than marry Lazar. I tried to make her see reason. I pointed out to her that she was already 28 years old, and marriage offers didn’t come often to such a poor family (and for one with her looks, although of course I said no such thing). Alas, she spat on me and prayed that I would die a beggar in the streets of America.
My wife, always materialistic and not content to temporarily part with some of her belongings for the sake of a better life, threatened to kill herself or worse, get her inlaws involved. I gave her a speech about how I would ache for her while we were apart, but truthfully I cared little. I had been forced to accept her hand in marriage by my father, who had been desperate to be rid of me after I attacked him with the same worn strap that he had used to beat me senseless with as a whimpering child. Plus, I’m quite convinced she had an eye for Reb Isaac. How she lit up whenever she saw him with his piles of books, suspiciously gripped under his arms when he could well have used a bag. I would find a better woman over there, a beautiful, obedient American breed worthy of me, as restitution for my family’s humiliation along with.
I was dismayed to find that I would have to travel all the way to Antwerp, Belgium to get a boat. Fortunately, Leizer’s dowry was enough to pay for a cramped carriage ride to get me there. For years, I had dreamed of escaping my confinement in the Polish pale of settlement, all identical fields and ignorant peasants, to travel Europe and visit foreign synagogues and meet some exotic city Jews. I thought that perhaps they would be more open-minded, willing to overlook my lack of facial hair and respect me for my intelligence.
However, when I arrived in Belgium, all I could think about was reaching America. I had always scoffed at the stories of streets paved with gold and endless opportunity, but now that I was headed to the far-off land, I desperately wanted to believe such things were true. We Goldschtettles always possessed skeptical minds. Some of the postcards I found in the marketplace during my layover in Antwerp fed into such fantasies.
I was captivated by pictures of buildings that reached into the sky and beautiful people wandering the street in all manner of decadent apparel. Women wore what appeared to be animals on their heads and men dressed in dashing suits composed of splendid materials. Atop their heads were extravagant hats, the like of which I had never before seen. I knew that such immodest things would be off limits to a Jew of my stature, but nevertheless I looked forward to merely setting my eyes on such people and things, so that I may soak them in and expand my limited view of the world.
The postcard images danced through my mind as I followed the throngs of fellow departers to the harbor. An employee of the Red Star Line, the ocean line that I was using, led me to my ship. It was called the Greenland and it was so large that I anticipated plenty of living space for my journey. My optimism was short-lived, as groups of passenger arrived over the course of several hours. When we were finally allowed on the boat, it was apparent that I would be living in prison conditions. But it would be worth it when I arrived in America to start my new life.
Entry #3
As the days wore on, my enthusiasm quickly evaporated. Several factors contributed to my malaise. First, I discovered that I possessed what one of my fellow passengers referred to as sickness of the seas, or something to that effect. Thus, I was mostly confined to below the deck, where my vomit flowed slightly less freely. At first, I was dismayed to be separated from my fellow voyagers. Before leaving, I had anticipated befriending kindred souls, intellectuals fed up with the lack of opportunity in Europe and eager to meet others like themselves.
Oh, how I was mistaken. My fellow passengers were even more simple-minded, boring and licentious than the peasants I was accustomed to associating with at home. They indulged in all manner of trivial activities, playing games with cards and drinking themselves stupid with gin they had somehow smuggled on board. To think, I had expected to make friends on the way over, friends with connections.
With my rush to leave my old life behind I always managed to shove the fact that I will have nowhere to live and no source of work when I got there. Surely being acquainted with some fellow Jews would be prudent. And what is life without companionship? No fellow learned men with which to argue Talmud. A family for the Shabbas? To sit around the dinner table and commiserate about our lives over a steaming pot roast and latkes?
My long, solitary journey caused me to consider my wife and daughter. As much as I had tired of their company back home, I began to desperately crave their companionship. I took to spending my time alone in a corner, practicing the prayers I had learned from my pilfered Hagadah. Brushing up on such things would be sure to come in handy in America. But I must admit, with some shame, that even God’s words are not enough to keep stave off the boredom that burns at my mind like an ulcer. If I don’t find something to do I am afraid I shall be quite mad by the time I reach America. If only my wife and daughter were here.
Entry #4: Arrival
I was the only one who stayed below deck when the Greenland pulled into the harbor. Hunched against the wall, simmering with a long-fermenting resentment, invoking curses upon everyone and everything, I was fully prepared to stay onboard the ship and starve myself to death. The long months of doing nothing but praying had taken quite a toll on my mind. I was far from rational.
I overheard my fellow passengers talking about a gigantic metal woman dressed in green with a halo of spikes around her head, holding aloft some kind of candle. I thought that perhaps they were as mad as I. Nevertheless, they’re excitement managed to rouse me from my stupor. As I climbed above the deck for the first time in a week, a warm breeze greeted my face, raising my spirits a bit. According to my estimation, it was only early Spring, but it felt like summer. As I made my way to the bow, of the boat, crewmembers and passengers glanced at me with looks of surprised, as if I were a piece of furniture that had magically come to life.
The coastline was a sight to behold, so much so that I did not notice the little speck in the distance that was Ellis Island. Just as in the post card, I could vaguely make out the shapes of tall building and various flashing lights. As we made our way closer, I took in the details of Ellis Island. I caught sight of a building that resembled a fort, with four spires encircling a roof with a large glass window.
When I got off the boat, I was ceased by a final bout of seasickness. The contents of my stomach, stale bread and some green vegetable, spilled out onto the dock. An employee caught site me at just that moment and told me to report my sickness in the upcoming medical inspection. He led me to a building called the Ellis Island Immigrant Hospital. I was then subjected to what they called an “examination.” My examiner was an impatient doctor in an odd uniform. As I made my way up the stairs to see him, I staggered slightly, still dizzy from my seasickness. This earned me a suspicious look from my guide. He exchanged a few incomprehensible words in English with the doctor and left me to be examined.
It was not pleasant. The doctor used a buttonhook to check my eyes and placed a cold metal plate on my chest. He then marked my chest with what I later learned was called chalk and I was directed to a building a short distance away. There I was forced to live for days. During that time I was given further examinations. Evidently they suspected I suffered from a contagious illness. They refused to believe I had merely been seasick.
When I was finally released from the hospital, I took a ferry to the island of Manhattan.
Entry #5: My New Home
I used the remaining money from my daughter’s dowry to purchase an apartment on Orchard Street. It is on the bottom floor of a nondescript tenement building that looks similar to every other one on the street. I have only been in America for three weeks and already I have accidentally passed by it several times. My “apartment” is but a single cramped room. I spend as little time inside as possible so as not to go insane. I am told that a family lived here before they were evicted. I do not see how this is possible, although the smells of unfamiliar bodies attest to the fact that it was recently inhabited.
I live next door to a middle-aged Italian couple. At first they seemed like pleasant enough neighbors, despite being goys. The man bowed politely to me upon on our first meeting and his wife graced me with a pleasant smile. Alas, I have grown to hate them, not because they have done me any direct harm, but because they are so loud! I must listen to them argue in their belligerent, rude-sounding tongue at all hours of the day and night. The walls are so paper thin that it is as if I was in the room with them. I have not yet applied for a job at the local synagogue; rather, I am in the process of brushing up on my prayers and rehearsing my most impressive arguments on Talmud, sometimes in the mirror. But oh how it is difficult to study over the noise.
Speaking of the mirror, yesterday as I was practicing, I saw something quite astounding and wonderful. Barely noticeable, but present nonetheless, was one wisp of hair on my chin. May God be praised! He has sent me a sign. It is too early to say for sure, but perhaps, far away from home, the curse has finally been lifted. At long last, if God permits, I shall assume my proper roll as a scholar of high esteem! When I went outside for a long walk shortly after my new discovery, all of the Lower East side must have seen the spring in my step. They must have known that a great man was in their presence. On Grand street, a vender even offered to sell me a great big bowler hat. He must have assumed from my proud demeanor that I could afford.
I am confident enough now that I shall apply for a job at a local synagogue come tomorrow morning.
Entry #6: Rejection
I applied for positions at several synagogues and I was rejected by every single one. Despite my rapidly growing beard, I was rejected based on a lack of experience in Talmud studies. Perhaps I should have lied to the Rabbis who interviewed me, told them I was an established scholar from back home. But, for some reason, I could not bring myself to lie. It is almost as if my soul is unwilling to accept that America is not the wonderful place I heard about in stories, even though I suspected this was the case long ago. The myth of endless opportunity is a powerful one indeed.
Most disappointing of all my rejections was at the Bialystoker Synagogue on Hester Street. The synagogue, I learned upon entering, was established by Jews from my very own town of Bialystok back in Poland (I have still not yet been here long enough to refer to it as “the old country"). I thought for sure, upon noticing several familiar faces, that my application would be well received. How wrong I was.
The Rabbi and the learned men in attendance laughed at me. Called me “smooth chin” just like they had when I was a boy. They made fun of my few new wisps of hair that I had been so proud of. When their fits of laughter finally subsided, they saw fit to offer me a job as what essentially amounted to a maid. If I worked diligently, they said, perhaps I could have access to their library at night. I responded to their insult accordingly. I would not scrub toilets for the right to study Talmud. With my brains, I was as entitled as they to do so. Angry as I had ever been in my life, I declared that I would find a position at a different synagogue and become a scholar of such renown that they would not be able to leave their apartments without hearing my name. Again, they laughed uproariously.
Unfortunately, I was no more successful at other synagogues than I was at Bialystoker. Although some of the less religious ones, which I applied to as a last resort, did not scoff at my lack of a beard. It was my lack of experience that disqualified me. I knew Torah and Talmud well for someone who learned off of the books he could either steal or find for sale cheap. Still, my knowledge paled in comparison to those who had full access to such texts in Yeshiva. Teaching at a chader is not an option, considering how impatient I am with children. All I can do now is pray for God to grant me a livelihood.
Entry #7: Employment
My prayers have been answered, to an extent. I received a letter from my wife informing me of a distant relation of hers, a successful businessman, who may be able to help me find employment. If only she had told me of this before, but then again she never wanted me to leave Poland in the first place. She must have not wanted to give me encouragement. But now, according to her letter, she wants me to pay for her passage to America. With our daughter married she has decided that she cannot live alone and craves my company. She also says she is sick of the old country and wants to start a new life. I knew she would change her mind. Is the man not always right?
Perhaps I will send for her, perhaps not. But I cannot afford to ignore her advice. I will seek out her relation. Even though my end goal is to make a career of studying Talmud, my supply of money is dwindling and I need to pay rent. When I make lots of money, then surely I will have plenty of time to study Torah and Talmud.
Entry #8: Not Quite the American Dream
I approached my wife’s relation, Aaron Salmon, at his place of occupation, a small sweatshop that manufactures belts. It turns out he is not the successful businessman that my wife spoke of, but only a superintendent of the business, which is owned by another. He referred me to his boss, who is clearly a Jew in name only. Never have I seen such an American-looking Jew, bowler hat and all. He told me that there were currently no positions available, but, if I were willing, he would provide me with the name of a friend of his who sold umbrellas. Hardly ideal, but did I have any choice? I accepted his offer, using the last of my daughter’s dowry to pay his friend for the umbrellas. I will begin working tomorrow.
Entry #9: The Umbrella Salesman
For two years I have sold umbrellas, as well as various odds and ends on Grand Street, barely making enough money to live. I have spent every second of my precious spare time studying Talmud occasionally, in a synagogue when the Rabbis are in a charitable mood. They are clearly impressed by my determination, even if they still snicker at me behind my back.
My beard is slowly but surely growing larger, as if to mirror my growing confidence in America. Selling merchandise is hardly what I dreamed of in coming here, but I have learned to take some satisfaction in making sales. Still, my ultimate goal is to become a renowned scholar and to do my part in restoring some semblance of Godliness to the Jews here, many of whom are secular and go to synagogue only on the high holidays.
All the extra money I have goes into buying books, in English, Yiddish and Hebrew, from street vendors and saving up for my wife’s passage. If I am lucky, in another two years I will have enough to buy her ticket. I have not met any glamorous American women here like I hoped and even her company is better than none at all. I have several acquaintances in the men who congregate at cafés to discuss intellectual matters, but mostly I keep to myself. If I am to take advantage of the opportunity in America, then there is time for little else but working jobs that are beneath me, just like in Bialystok.