Anything Is Possible: A Child's Journey to America and Hope

By Barbara Stock

Sara's family isn't safe. In Russia in 1909, the country's leaders encourage soldiers and even neighbors to attack and exploit Jewish people—people like Sara and her family. They leave their home country for a new life in America, but will they find the peace they're looking for?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543947472

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All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieved system, or transmitted without express written permission from the author. This excludes brief quotations used only for the purpose of review.

For information regarding permission to reprint material from this book, please contact the author through www.bookbaby.com

This novel is based on true family stories. Descriptions of all people not members of the family are purely fictional and any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.

Print ISBN: 978-1-54394-746-5

eBook ISBN: 978-1-54394-747-2

DEDICATION

To my grandchildren---Matthew, Lauren, Eliana,

Mayah, Sammy, Max and Samson

And all other unborn grandchildren

and great-grandchildren

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Fears and Tears

Chapter 2: The First Good-bye

Chapter 3: Good-bye For Real

Chapter 4: A New Beginning

Chapter 5: The First New World

Chapter 6: Rolling with the Waves

Chapter 7: The Thieves

Chapter 8: Wonderings

Chapter 9: Our Family Story

Chapter 10: America! America!

Chapter 11: Welcome to America

Chapter 12: America, Day One

Chapter 13: One Awful After Another

Chapter 14: Finally, A Yiddish Playmate

Chapter 15: Fresh Air

Chapter 16: So Much to Learn

Chapter 17: Neverland

Chapter 18: Pass The Hot Potato Forward

Chapter 19: Miscellaneous

Chapter 20: Anticipation

Chapter 21: One Foot in America

Chapter 22: Holidays and Happy News

Chapter 23: Becoming American

Chapter 24: Independence

Chapter 25: Too Much Independence

Chapter 26: Awful is Truly Awful

Chapter 27: Grief

Chapter 28: The Same is Not the Same

Chapter 29: Resilience

Chapter 30: Another New Beginning

EPILOGUE: What happened to these people?

GLOSSARY: FROM YIDDISH TO ENGLISH

PHOTO LIST

BIBLIOGRAPHY

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book would never have been written if a very young Lauren had not innocently asked, What’s our family story? The question led me on a long journey to uncover the answer.

Like many immigrant families, mine did not speak of the Old Country. Although my Grandmother (Leba/Libby) and Aunt Sarah lived with us, I never once heard them speak of their friends, family and lives in Eastern Europe. The memories must have been too painful to mention. We lived in the present and planned for the future.

Only after they both died did I even think to ask my mother, Hilda Marmins Morris, what she knew and remembered of their early years. I’m grateful that she lived to be 96, ever alert. She was happy to answer every question I asked. We engaged in hours and hours of conversations, exploring details of our family story. My mother knew about the ship travels and the early years in America but she had heard very few stories of the Old Country. This book comes from those conversations and from additional research into public records. It’s based in truth—and my imagination spun from the truth.

I had never written a children’s story let alone a book. As luck would have it, I received an ad in the mail that invited me to enroll with the Institute of Children’s Literature. Victoria Sherrow was my very encouraging instructor as I drafted and redrafted the manuscript.

My husband Mort Kozil was particularly supportive. He is perhaps the only person I know who stayed awake through the night reading the entire manuscript in one sitting.

This book would never have reached publication without the loving help of my son Michael who not only edited draft after draft but conceptualized the art, photos and format and pushed me to publish this.

Matt Idler, editor supreme, provided answers, advice and a reassuring voice to guide me through the publication process.

Thanks to everyone along the way who helped me believe in myself and know without a doubt that in America anything is possible.

Chapter 1

Fears and Tears

Chapter 1

FEARS AND TEARS

Sara, you’re so lucky you’re going to America tomorrow, my truly best friend Nettie says, reaching over and squeezing my hand. We’re sitting on her stoop, dressed in our warmest wool coats, hats and mittens, sticking out our tongues to catch snowflakes. It is December, 1909. We live in Slonim, a town in Russia, a place not safe for us. We’re leaving tomorrow. We’re Jewish.

I know I’m lucky, I say. Everyone wants to leave. But Nettie, I wish you were coming with me. I wish you were moving right next door, just the way we’ve always been.

Soon, Nettie says. I know Papa will send us the money for tickets any day now.

I’m sure, I say, squeezing Nettie’s mittened hand real tight because I’m not sure at all.

Several years ago, our papas left Russia for America. My papa is a carpenter and he’s been working very hard. Every few weeks he sends us a letter and money. Nettie’s papa is a peddler. At first he sent letters but he hasn’t written letters for a long time----no letters, no money.

Let’s run, Nettie says. I know she wants to change the subject. Nettie is a really fast runner. I have to run hard to keep up. We chase and jump to catch snowflakes.

Stop! Stop! finally I shout. I’m out of breath. I sit on her stoop. Nettie keeps running for a while longer. She can run forever.

Actually, I should be faster because I’m three days older and taller but Nettie’s thinner and more agile. Once she even caught a butterfly in her fingers. She has the longest, most delicate fingers and they are quick like little sprinters. And even with short legs, Nettie climbs trees—not very lady-like but a lot of fun.

Slowly Nettie drops to the stoop. It’s been too quiet, Nettie says thoughtfully. Something’s bound to happen soon. Mama says it’s getting worse since Russia lost the war against Japan. The soldiers don’t have enough to eat. Mama heard they’re robbing the farmers.

The farmers? Why would the soldiers rob the farmers? They’re not Jewish. I ask.

Jewish families are not allowed to own land so they can’t be farmers.

Mama says when they’re hungry, people will steal from anyone. I hope they don’t steal from us, Nettie says. I don’t like feeling afraid.

Oh Nettie, I’m scared just thinking of you here without us, I say. She nods. We both feel safer with each other close by. Our mamas have grown especially close since our papas left for America. Every Friday Nettie and I help our mamas bake the special Shabbas chalas. Often we eat dinner together. Sharing makes the food go further and feels cozier.

You just get through tonight so you can leave in the morning, Nettie says. We’ll be fine. Mama and I are really good hiders.

I shudder to hear her words. Our life here is scary. We live next to the army barracks. Some nights the soldiers get drunk, barge into houses and beat Jewish families, even mothers and little children. When the soldiers and peasants sing rowdy songs, Mama hides us in the cellar or quickly under a pile of heavy blankets in the corner. So far we’ve been fortunate. The soldiers have not entered our house. Nobody is fortunate forever, Mama says. That’s one reason we’re leaving tomorrow.

Now I jump up. Nettie, run with me, I say. Nothing tastes as delicious as snowflakes melting on my tongue. Run faster, run. I run as fast as Nettie, even faster, as if I can outrun all my bad thoughts. I don’t want to leave Nettie but I don’t want to stay. I just want to run and catch snowflakes, forever.

Sarala, your mama calls for you, Nettie’s pudgy mama comes bustling out of my house. She calls me Sarala, my family nickname showing that she loves me. She is like family to us.

Slowly I walk home, kicking the snow, thinking of our conversation. What if the starving soldiers come tonight to steal our food and kill us? I must stay up all night to warn Mama.

Inside our house no one questions that we must leave. For weeks Mama has been packing, determined to take everything we own. I’d be happy to buy everything new but Mama says we don’t have a money bush so we must pack as much as possible. We’ve packed one trunk with our bedding and feather pillows, dishes, wooden chopping bowl, brass mortar and pestle, and best pots and pans. Essentials. The second trunk is the problem. Mama doesn’t want to leave anything behind.

As soon as I enter, Mama hands me her rolling pin and says, Squish! Mama thinks I can push down the lace tablecloths the way we push dough for pies. I push but not hard enough to flatten all the cloths.

Mama, you can crochet more in America, I say, exasperated. It’s not possible to fit everything.

"This one Bubbe made. I must take it," Mama says, quiet and calm. Usually I believe Mama but not today.

Mama, I plead, you must stop this packing.

But Mama doesn’t stop. When she wants something, she doesn’t think no. This time Mama takes out the valuables and lays them aside.

Sit, sit, Sarala, Mama says. You, too, Abe and Meyer, come and sit to flatten all the cloths so we have room for the candlesticks.

My younger brothers shuffle to the trunk, groaning. I groan with them. I’m the oldest and I should set a good example but I, too, am tired of all this packing. For days we’ve been sitting on the trunk, trying to stuff in every last one of our belongings, packing and unpacking, working to close the trunk. I push my soft tushy down hard. Mama hands me baby Hymie, only a few weeks old, for a little extra weight.

Aha! Abe, the genius, has a new plan: he tucks in the candlesticks and wine cups among the cloths and then stands on the top of the trunk. Meyer follows. Abey is eight, a rectangle, solid and strong. He stands straight like a measuring stick, as if he’s someone important. Meyer is two years younger, a long slight line, wobbling, holding tight to Abe to keep his balance.

Stand still, Mama says. Do not bounce.

Hurray! we shout. With all our weight, the trunk closes. Mama, celebrate, I say but Mama already is tackling the suitcases. We leave her alone.

Usually I love everything about Mama—her soft round body, perfect for cuddling. Her blue grey eyes that mysteriously turn green on foggy days. Her long, dark silky black hair sliding down her back, almost to her waist—perfect for braiding. Outside the house Mama keeps her head covered with a babushka or a shaytl. Inside the house Mama lets me braid her hair and twist it into a bun. Mama is known in our village as shana. Usually Mama plays with us but for the past few weeks she’s been strange. She doesn’t look soft and beautiful. She makes lists, shakes her head and makes more lists. Her tone is sharp, not soft as usual. We have work to do, Mama says over and over. I don’t like this new mama. My real mama feels far away.

Abe, Meyer, come, Mama calls with an edge in her voice .Why is she calling Abe? Usually Mama doesn’t ask much of him. He doesn’t cooperate. He questions and argues and tires Mama. So why is she calling him now?

Abey’s outside, Mama, Meyer says.

"Outside? Without asking? Oy!" She throws her heavy woolen cape over her shoulders and runs to the doorway, calling him.

"Oy, such a mazik, Mama grumbles. Always where he shouldn’t be, doing what he shouldn’t do. Where is that child?"

Meyer and I rush to the door to look, too. Darkness comes early in winter. The sky is already misty grey. Abe is nowhere. We call, Abey, Abey.

Here I am! he shouts as he scrambles down from the roof. His thick dark hair tumbles over his face. He’s gone out without a hat.

Mama does not believe in spanking. She just glares, which is worse.

But Mama, Abe says, I want to see our whole village. To remember.

A memory? I’ll give you a memory, Mama grumbles, moving to the suitcases. Now try on these clothes. You grow so fast, you’ve probably outgrown them and I won’t have to pack so much.

I don’t like when Mama gets mad at Abe. When she’s angry with Abe, she’s angry with all of us. Fortunately, from down the path I hear the deep voice of Yosl, the book peddler, calling out through his thick, dark beard. Books for women and sacred books for men, he shouts, pulling his wooden cart through the ruts in the snow.

Mama, Mama, stop the packing, I beg. Yosl is here.

For Yosl, Mama always stops. She takes a deep breath and wipes her hands on her apron. Abe and Meyer are not so interested but quickly Mama and I put on our coats and rush outside. Yosl knows us well. Whenever he comes, if he has something we haven’t read, Mama finds the coins for a book.

Oh please, I pray, have a new book for me to take to America.

Yosl keeps the books separated. Boys must read Hebrew prayer books and holy books. Girls may read Yiddish storybooks which are much more interesting. I’m happy I’m a girl.

Yosl, we leave tomorrow for America, I say, excited to have important news.

"Oy, Sara, so many people leave, he sighs. I will miss you and your Mama. Then Yosl takes two books from the back of his cart, one for Mama and one for me. May you be safe on your journey, he says. In America, may you read a thousand books."

A thousand books? Do you think they have so many books in America? I ask.

More, even more, Yosl laughs. In America, they have millions of books—more than we can imagine. And perhaps, in America, Sara, you will write your own book. Don’t open this one until you are on the ship, he says, handing me a maroon cloth covered book.

Mama hands Yosl some coins but he shakes his head and refuses. Oh, Yosl, I cry. We’ve been so busy packing and repacking, I didn’t even think that I won’t see you again. I watch his stooped body, his long ragged brown wool coat trailing behind him, plodding down the road, pushing his wagon of books. I’ve known him forever and ever. I’ll never see him again. This picture I’ll stamp in my memory. Usually Mama doesn’t cry but when we are back in the house, I notice tears in Mama’s eyes, too.

Chapter 2

The First Good-bye

Chapter 2

THE FIRST GOOD-BYE

While Abe and Meyer grunt and groan trying on their clothes, while Mama studies them in each outfit, while they’re all so very busy, I run next door to play one last time with Nettie.

"Sarala, I have something for