It’S All About a Name

By Bernice Berger Miller

Sixteen-year-old Juri arrived alone at Ellis Island from Russia. His father sent him for a temporary period, eager for his son to escape the coming war in 1914. Juri, no different from the many other immigrants, spoke no English. All he had was a brown bag that contained a few pictures and a change of clothes. He also had himself. In his jacket pocket was a folded piece of paper with the scrawled name and address of a cousin living in Connecticut. Maybe it wasnt a cousin at all. But the name on the paper gave him a sense of grounding. A name gives all things an identification. And to a person, a name gives an identity.

Juri rarely followed anyones instructions but his own. From an early age, he exercised his independence, which usually put him at odds with those around him. It was a trait that was strong in the generations before him. History or not, independence made him comfortable. Notwithstanding this trait, Juri followed the instructions scrawled on the piece of paper in his pocket. He knocked on the door of the family in Connecticut, and that was where he started his America journey.

It took him from Connecticut to Paterson, New Jersey, where he drove a bakery truck and found two loves: a textile mill and the beautiful auburn-haired Sadie Cohn. To gain approval to marry Sadie, the oldest daughter of Adolph and Anna Cohn, he promised to work in the Cohns clothing store. Adolph Cohn, an immigrant himself but of a much longer standing, was the first to introduce him to the derogatory term green horn.

Juri, whose name had already been arbitrarily changed to Joseph at Ellis Island, started his textile manufacturing company when he left the store job. He knew that he did not break his promise to Mr. Cohn about working there. He had said he would work there, but he never said for how long. This green horn, never one to bother about such insignificant slights, took his wife and newborn daughter and moved on. Remaining true to himself, he moved his textile business from Paterson until the labor union there threatened to make decisions for him. That was anathema to him.

As he moved his business and little family many times, building his character and his Joseph Berger reputation, he reached out to the only family he knewSadies many sisters. They became the fodder he needed to develop his own family that was to replace the Russian family he thought he had lost.

His name, Joseph Berger, signifying his strong and independent character, journeyed many miles and many years to surface wonderfully, like the sun emerging from behind a cloud. And the way it surfaced was, indeed, wonderful.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546222460

Bernice Berger Miller

Bernice Berger Miller, author of ITS ALL ABOUT A NAME, has written works in several genres. She has written childrens stories, poetry, short stories, and selections for private purposes. As a building contractor, she has built 3 and 4 bedroom condominium apartments. She has traveled extensively visiting many countries worldwide, and she is a partner in the antique and collectible business. And when she is relaxing, she writes, reads, and goes to football games. And when the game is an Away Game, she watches it on TV. Shes been a season ticket holder for 35 years. Her time with her children, grandchildren, and great grandchild (Jackson) is the best of everything she enjoys. She earned her B.S. degree from Columbia University and her Ph.D from the University of Florida. Her grandchildren run most of their school reports through her, and they pay her by walking her through the internet and computer carefully and gingerly because they know shes a kindergartner in those areas. Its a perfect give and take relationship. She loves it best when shes the giver.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

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H e never let go of the scuffed brown leather bag that held all his meager belongings. He sat stiffly on the hard wooden bench that ran along the boat’s inside wall. He would have stretched to watch the towering Liberty figure slide from view, but it would have meant releasing his bag. The crowd pressed in on him. It threatened to separate him from his bag. It contained all he had of home.

It was 1914 and Juri’s knowledge of English began as he shuffled off the boat that brought him and countless others to Ellis Island. The languages he heard was a cacophony of Polish, Russian, Rumanian, Italian, Yiddish, German, all scrambled together that formed a murky cloud of noise. The mixture of guttural, sing-songy, throat-clearing sounds brushed abrasively against each other. Single words and phrases were familiar to him. Polish and Russian, his Mother tongue, of course, washed comfortably over him. But they vanished too quickly as the crowd pushed on. He lined up behind a huddled group of immigrants.

When he inched ahead to the beginning of the line, he faced a man wearing a black cap with a black visor. The man held a black pen and was marking everyone’s name in a large black ledger that held a stack of white paper. The paper was already covered with a long list of names. The man was seated on a tall stool behind a tall table. From his perch he looked down on the young immigrant with a look that seemed menacing, but Juri looked up at him with a courageous stare.

The highly perched man asked him what his name was. Juri cocked his head, smiled, and managed a quizzical little boy look. The man shrugged his shoulders, muttered, Again, and gestured to someone who was roving around the crowded room. The interpreter came over and asked him in Russian what his name was, how old he was, and where he came from.

Confidently, Juri pulled a paper out of his pocket, showed it to the interpreter and answered in Russian in a strong voice. He said his name was Juri Nisanilevich Berger that he was sixteen years old and that he was from Bialystock, Russia.

After the translation the man in the imposing black cap raised his eyebrows, peered at the ceiling, and mumbled to the interpreter, What’s this ‘Nisanilevich’?

I think it’s from the Yiddish month of Nisan. About the time of our April. Who knows? Maybe the kid was born in Nisan.

The perched man in the black cap shrugged his shoulders again, poised his pen on the next line, and wrote, Joseph Berger.

CHAPTER 2

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M any years before in the mid 1870’s Yaakov Nisanilevich and his older brother, Herschel, were working in the open fields. Although Jews were not allowed to own land, their father was permitted this special privilege because he had been a distinguished soldier in the Polish army. He was, then, rewarded with a dispensation of the rule.

While the brothers worked, three policemen approached them and ripped the haying tools from their hands. In the ensuing fight, one of the men viciously hit Herschel in the chest with a scythe. Herschel staggered back and fell to the ground. Another one of the attackers came after him and took aim to strike him. Herschel felt a hammer lying beside him. Instinctively he grabbed the hammer and hit the attacker in the head.

The other two ran from the field leaving their comrade bleeding on the ground. The brothers ran across the field, found the dirt path, and never stopped running until they reached the outer skirts of the nearest village. Bialystok.

They stopped at a low, long building and peered in the window. A loud clumping rhythmic noise came from the building and leaked out of the dirty windows. Wide looms held silky threads attached to wooden shuttles that rushed back and forth. As the shuttles reached one end of the loom, a thump announced a return trip to the other end of the loom and, thus, another thump.

Several men moved among the looms adjusting the mechanism that controlled the tension of the spidery filaments. If a single thread broke from an overtight tension, the worker would stop the loom, re-thread the silk, and start the loom again. It was a tricky maneuver as the worker had to time the stopping and threading and starting of the loom so as not to be caught between its rhythm.

Yaakov was fascinated by the mysterious mill that he had never seen before. Whether the return trips of the shuttles or the workers’ concentration or the hum and thumps of the looms or everything together mesmerized him, he could not tell, but he did not hear the approach of a tall robust man that stopped and stood behind him and his brother.

You boys look like you’d like a plate of soup and a loaf of bread.

Instantly imagining the bloody policeman they had left for dead, Yaakov and Herschel whipped around and faced instead a gentleman whose pants were tied at the waist with a length of silk.

Have you ever been in a silk mill? asked the tall man.

The question floated suspended above their heads as their lives had, till then, been in the field with wheat and scythes and a garden of slowly growing vegetables, especially potatoes. No mills, especially no silk.

The older man turned and strode toward the large doors of the mill. He paused and motioned to the two boys to follow him. He shoved the doors open with his foot and the harsh thumping exploded into thunderous noise. Herschel suppressed his initial response to cover his ears. Yaakov felt no such urge. The sudden explosions invigorated him and he felt his heart beat to the rhythm. The man led them to one of the powerful looms and placed his hands on the side of the frame. A smile lightened his face. His expression invited the boys to do the same. Yaakov touched the frame. Herschel hesitated for a moment. The man smiled and said, It’s safe. You’re safe. He looked up and hailed one of the men walking between the looms. They had a brief conversation that ended in a warm handshake.

Come, he said to the boys. You must be hungry.

He walked out of the mill and continued in a confident stroll toward the brick house that sat just a few yards away from the mill. They entered the house and stepped into a kitchen that smelled like home. A lady wearing a white cotton apron stood at the stove stirring the contents in an iron pot. She turned and smiled and reached up into the nearby cupboard. She placed four large bowls on the table along with accompanying spoons. The man greeted her, placing a tender kiss on her cheek. She smiled and gesturing to the table with a sweep of her hand she said, Sit. Sit. And just like home, the woman who ruled the home, ruled the kitchen. They sat.

She stood as she carved a pungent-smelling loaf of bread into large hunks. She placed them in the wooden bowl that had sat empty on the table. After ladling the soup heavy with meat and potatoes in the waiting bowls, she paused at her husband’s bowl and kissed him lightly on the brow. And then she took her place at the table. Her husband lifted his spoon and using it as a pointer, simply invited the boys to eat.

Thank you, my dear, the man said as he spooned a hefty amount of soup into his mouth and followed it with a piece of dark bread.

Well, boys, and now, tell me your names.

I’m Yaakov Nisanilevich. And this here is my brother Herschel Nisanilevich. Herschel nodded his head in agreement.

Do you live nearby?

Yaakov cleared his throat. In a lowered voice, he said, Not too far. Herschel quietly spooned a portion of his soup into his mouth.

Well, that’s nice. Hmm. Did you like the silk mill? Was it too noisy for you?

Oh, yes. But no. Yaakov felt strong, but Herschel was undecided.

Well, good.

His wife said firmly, They’ve told you their names. I think it would be polite to tell them yours.

The man laughed loudly. Now why didn’t I think of that? I am Mikhael Berger. That’s a short name, I know.

The boys nodded their heads. The name sounded quick and incomplete. They wondered what happened to the rest of his name, but they said nothing.

’Berger’ sounds short to you. Yes? Sometime way, way back, an ancestor of mine must have spent some time in Germany, I guess, and they had short names in those days. He laughed again and so did his wife, and the boys felt they had no choice but to laugh too. So they did. Mikhael spread his hands, palms up, raised his shoulders and said simply, And that’s the whole story. He burst out in a raucous laugh and his wife joined him. The boys felt they had no choice but to laugh too. So they did.

Mikhael, then, indicated his wife with his outstretched hands and said, Now, may I introduce my wife, Olga, creator of his wonderful soup.

Yaakov watched Mikhael’s face during this exchange and noticed that his laughter was always preceded and ended with his left eyebrow’s jumping up and down.

Mr. Berger’s bowl was empty now. His wife brought the pot to the table and spooned in another helping. And with the extra helping, she kissed him on his brow again. Mr. Berger looked at the boys and said, I think that I’ll ask for another helping if my wife finishes the helping with another kiss. All four of them burst into laughter. She offered the boys another helping and they refused.

Mr. Berger then asked, Do you boys have a destination for now and can you manage the noise of the mill and would you like to stay and work in the mill?

Yaakov answered, No yes and yes.

Herschel looked at Yaakov and shrugged his shoulders in agreement.

We have a place for you to sleep and we could certainly feed you. Looking at the boys’ empty bowls, he said, My wife is a very good cook. Yes?

The boys needed no more convincing. Mr. Berger reached his hand to the boys. It’s good then. And they settled in easily at the Berger Mill.

CHAPTER 3

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M rs. Berger showed them to a small area beneath the stairway that led to the second floor. She had brought in warm blankets and pillows to dress the two cots that lined the room. She laid out two sets of her husband’s pants and shirts. They were enormous, and the boys and Mrs. Berger laughed at their clown-like look. Something about the tenderness of Mrs. Berger eased them in this strange house, and the boys crept under the covers, falling into a deep sleep.

The Jewish population in the Bialystok area was small and connected and so it was easy for Mr. Berger to send word to Yaakov and Herschel’s parents to inform them of their boys’ safety and comfort. The parents were lifelong Bialystokers but as farmers they were unfamiliar with Mikhael Berger’s silk mill or even of Berger himself. But they were pleased with the turn of events for the boys who comfortably followed the routine of the house and of work.

Mikhael took charge of showing the boys around the mill and then turned them over to his superintendent to give them their jobs. They carried heavy bolts of rolled silk and loaded them onto wagons pulled by work horses for delivery. It would be a while before workers would be assigned to them to teach them how to thread the warps in the warping room. Then they would be taught to attach the silken threads to the shuttles.

Yaakov and Herschel felt the strong attachment to their looms. Hours would fly by and