After about nine months in Bad Wörishofen, the doctors determined that I was no longer contagious. I returned to Landsberg, where my parents were finalizing the paperwork that would enable us to join my aunt Elka, who had emigrated to the United States just a few months after arriving at the DP camp in Leipzig.
My best friend, Clara, and her father didn’t have a relative like my Aunt Elka to sponsor them for emigration to America but were instead heading to Israel.
Clara hugged and kissed me on the day we left for Bremerhaven in Northern Germany for the voyage to New York. As a farewell gift, she gave me a box of matzah.
“Don’t forget”, she said. “You will be celebrating Passover on the ship”.
We hugged once more and never saw each other again.
Chapter Eighteen. New York, New York
Lashed by thick hawsers to the moorings in Bremerhaven, the ship towered above me. I felt a flutter of excitement in my stomach at the dockside. What an adventure, I thought. We were leaving everything behind to start afresh. A new school, new language and new friends all awaited. This boat was the beginning of the next chapter of my life. I was eleven and a half years old.
The vessel was called the General R.M. Blatchford, but to us and everyone else mounting the steep covered gangplank on March 26, 1950, it was a Ship to Freedom. I was number 263 on the passenger manifest. Mama and Papa were assigned the two numbers before me. There must have been about 1,000 exhausted and emotionally drained refugees on board, each with their own dream and plan for life in America.
Although the General Blatchford was only five years old, she had clearly seen better days. This was no luxury transatlantic cruise liner. Rust patches scarred her paintwork. The interior was austere, commensurate with a vessel designed to carry 3,500 American troops across the ocean to the front lines of Europe. The soldiers who sailed before us must have been hellishly cramped, because even though the ship was only a third full, the cabins were overcrowded. The conditions evoked memories of confinement in the ghetto, but I quickly banished those thoughts because I recognized the difference in the two situations.
At first, we made good progress and the sea was relatively calm. After a day or so, we entered the English Channel and were able to see the White Cliffs of Dover off to starboard. But as we left England behind and entered Atlantic waters, the voyage took a turn for the worse. Buffeted by strong winds and tall waves, the General Blatchford lurched unpredictably, pitching up and down and from side to side. An epidemic of seasickness engulfed the vessel. Even veteran crew members were throwing up. It was impossible to keep your footing on the floors of cabins, corridors and restrooms that had been transformed into foul-smelling skid pads. Motion sickness was contagious. The sight or sound of someone hurling triggered a similar reaction from those nearby.
Mama was violently ill as the ship was tossed around like a toy. Her head hurt. The claustrophobia of the cabin and stench of vomit were unbearable. We moved our mattresses topside onto the deck, where small groups of passengers huddled together, trying to keep upright. When the wind subsided and balance was easier, animated Yiddish reverberated around the deck as people shared stories from the war. Everyone had been touched by tragedy. Muffled sobs were lost in the wind as Holocaust survivors found themselves overcome by memories. Although we were dampened by the spume and lacerated by the wind, the air was fresh and so much better than inside the cabin. Mama didn’t seem to notice the difference, though. She gripped her mattress beneath the blankets. Her headaches intensified and she barely ate. I was convinced she would die if I left her. Throughout the entire crossing, I remained by her side.
“You take such good care of your mother”, observed a woman sitting nearby on a mattress with her husband and their beautiful young daughter.
“She saved my life”, I replied, rather defensively.
“I couldn’t save my two boys or their father”, she replied. “But I met my husband in a DP camp, and as we both lost our families, we are determined to start again”, she said, pointing to the girl, who must have been born after the war and about three years old.
Will it never end? I wondered. This constant reminder of the past.
I was still tending to Mama as we approached New York.
“We’re almost there”, said Papa. “Go to the bow and take a look at the Statue of Liberty. It’s a sight you’ll never forget. I’ll look after Mama”.
I was stunned by the size of the monument and how Lady Liberty’s eyes seemed to follow us as we steamed slowly by. Our teachers in Landsberg had prepared us all with photos, but I was completely enchanted by her sheer magnitude and the serenity of her face. Years later, when I read her inscription, I appreciated our welcome even more.
There and then, I resolved to do good on this earth. I had no idea how, but I promised to leave the world better than I found it. The pledge I made when I was eleven years old has influenced my relationships, my profession and my entire life.
After the turbulence of the Atlantic, the flat calm of New York Bay came as a relief to Mama, and she had rallied a little by the time we disembarked. We were greeted at the pier by a representative of the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society, proffering coffee and doughnuts.
The woman from Immigrant Aid was under the impression we were heading to Massachusetts.
“More travel?” Mama exclaimed. “Never again, and I don’t care about Boston, wherever that is”.
The woman checked her clipboard and vanished. She returned with an official-looking man who spoke Yiddish, telling us we had to leave New York. Rain began falling, but Mama refused to budge from her perch on her suitcase. Her determination paid off. Along with other refugees, we were taken to temporary accommodation in a hotel in Manhattan.
It was April 4, 1950, the fourth day of Passover. I was still clutching Clara’s unopened box of matzah and found myself thinking back to that Passover in Starachowice when freedom was nothing but a fantasy. Here and now, though, the promise of freedom was real, and at the hotel, we joined several other families to celebrate Passover and liberty.
The next morning, and every following day, we stepped out of the hotel on the Upper East Side and explored Manhattan. We were overawed by the scale of New York and its vitality. The skyscrapers made me feel physically small, but I was infected by the energy of the people. After so many years of being constrained by barbed wire, watchtowers, gun muzzles and German shepherds, it was unbelievably liberating to be able to walk down any main avenue or side street of our choosing. I remember us suddenly finding ourselves in front of the Empire State Building, then the tallest structure in the world, and being completely mesmerized. It seemed to touch the clouds.
Papa relished playing the tour guide, pointing out parks, cinemas, restaurants and other landmarks. He couldn’t pass a street musician without stopping to enjoy the performance. It was as if he was rediscovering the joy of live music. The excitement of finding something new around every corner distracted me from tired legs and aching feet. Sometimes we visited Aunt Elka and Uncle Monyak, who were living in Upper Manhattan.
More often than not, Mama felt unwell and stayed behind in the hotel. But the walks I took with Papa weren’t just sightseeing excursions. Wherever we went, Papa was always seeking job opportunities.