Why Can't We Get Along?: The Pieces Always Fit

By Ross E. Eichberg

Rick and Trina were ordinary children of Jewish immigrant families in extraordinary times. They came of age while the world burned, first in the Depression and then in the Second World War. Rick endured cruelty from his mother and brother allegedly because of his stammer, and then was drafted into the Army. Trina was bullied for being fat, and her father required her to drop out of college to return to the family farm to take care of her mother. They found each after the War, fell in love, and stayed happily married for almost sixty five years.

"Why Can't We Get Along? The Pieces Always Fit" is the story of a successful marriage with "successful" written in small letters. Neither Rick nor Trina won a Nobel Prize or appeared on the cover of "Time" Magazine; they were "just" part of the American middle class. Their accomplishments and their stories were taken for granted by their own children, Karen and Sandra. And those daughters just could not understand why their father, who was liked by many, was despised by his own mother, brother, and son-in-law.

After Rick's death, the daughters prepare for the estate sale in their parents' house and reminisce over some of the many stories their parents told and retold, spanning several generations. They look for clues in the stories to understand why three of the people who should have been closest to their father hated him so much. They "connect the dots" separated by generations to deduce why their family followed its particular path and come to terms with some of the Jew/Gentile and Black/White paradigms. They grapple with the social currents of the twentieth century that continue to shape perspective and touch their family in the twenty-first century: race, ethnicity, sibling rivalry, and abusive family relationships.

Karen and Sandra eventually discover their parents' secrets. The story is a time capsule, preserving the tales their parents had repeated endlessly but which were largely discounted or ignored. It reminds us that we never know why protagonists and antagonists do what they do until we understand their perspective. And it is perspective that explains why intelligent witnesses to the same event may arrive at opposite conclusions.

The conflicts in the story span decades and, true to life, some of them get resolved and some of them do not. The mortality of the protagonists calls into question whether the conflicts were worth the aggravation. "Why Can't We Get Along? The Pieces Always Fit" is part "The Greatest Generation," part "Chesapeake," and part "how to deal with all the characters in one's life". Readers will want to call their parents and tell them "I love you"…or…"I'm sorry"… or both.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667815893

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Why Can’t We Get Along? The Pieces Always Fit

© 2021 Ross E. Eichberg

All rights reserved. This book or any portion there of may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Why Can’t We Get Along? The Pieces Always Fit. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information contact Spinnaker Holdings, LLC, 1923 Love Point Road, Stevensville, Maryland 21666.

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-66781-588-6

eBook ISBN: 978-1-66781-589-3

Cover design by: Ross E. Eichberg

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

Printed in the United States of America

To Mom and Dad

...and their family

All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

― Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

Table of Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1 THE EXODUS

CHAPTER 2 KARL AND DEBORAH

CHAPTER 3 FREDERICK’S EARLY YEARS

INTERMEZZO

CHAPTER 4 FIRST VISIT TO THE BAY

CHAPTER 5 STANDING UP TO BULLIES

INTERMEZZO

CHAPTER 6 DEBORAH

INTERMEZZO

CHAPTER 7 MCKINLEY TECH

CHAPTER 8 WAR COMES

INTERMEZZO

CHAPTER 9 FREDERICK AT WAR (PART I)

INTERMEZZO

CHAPTER 10 FREDERICK AT WAR (PART II)

INTERMEZZO

CHAPTER 11 ROAD TRIP TO THE EASTERN SHORE

CHAPTER 12 THE EASTERN SHORE

CHAPTER 13 AN EVENING IN OXFORD

CHAPTER 14 OCEAN CITY

INTERMEZZO

CHAPTER 15 THE UNIVERSITY OF MARYLAND (PART 1)

INTERMEZZO

CHAPTER 16 THE UNIVERSITY OF MARYLAND (PART II)

CHAPTER 17 MINNIE AND SAMUEL

CHAPTER 18 RICK VISITS LAKEWOOD (Part I)

INTERMEZZO

CHAPTER 19 RICK VISITS LAKEWOOD (PART II)

CHAPTER 20 RICK AND TRINA GET MARRIED

CHAPTER 21 THE HONEYMOON

CHAPTER 22 SANDRA

INTERMEZZO

CHAPTER 23 RICK AND HIS BROTHER DONALD

CHAPTER 24 NEW CAREER IN THE PRIVATE SECTOR

CHAPTER 25 PROTEST IN ANNAPOLIS

CHAPTER 26 STEPHEN LEVITT (Part I)

CHAPTER 27 RICK AND THE FLANDERS

CHAPTER 28 RICK THE RESTAURANTEUR

CHAPTER 29 RICK AND HIS DAUGHTERS

CHAPTER 30 UNCLE DON

INTERMEZZO

CHAPTER 31 THE CAPTAIN DADDY

INTERMEZZO

CHAPTER 32 STEPHEN LEVITT (Part II)

INTERMEZZO

CHAPTER 33 TRINA AND GRANNY (PART I)

INTERMEZZO

CHAPTER 34 TRINA AND GRANNY (PART II)

INTERMEZZO

CHAPTER 35 THE ADOLESCENT YEARS

CHAPTER 36 RICK’S PARENTS PASS AWAY (PART I)

INTERMEZZO

CHAPTER 37 RICK’S PARENTS PASS AWAY (PART II)

INTERMEZZO

CHAPTER 38 RICK ADVISES HIS DAUGHTER ABOUT MARRIAGE

CHAPTER 39 RICK AND TRINA MEET DENNY’S PARENTS

CHAPTER 40 SAILING

CHAPTER 41 RICK AND TRINA, KAREN AND DENNY (PART I)

INTERMEZZO

CHAPTER 42 RICK AND TRINA, KAREN AND DENNY (PART II)

INTERMEZZO

CHAPTER 43 GLOBAL-COM

INTERMEZZO

CHAPTER 44 RICK’S RETIREMENT FROM GLOBAL-COM

INTERMEZZO

CHAPTER 45 A GOLDEN WEDDING ANNIVERSARY

INTERMEZZO

CHAPTER 46 KAREN’S VISIT WITH UNCLE DON

INTERMEZZO

CHAPTER 47 A VISIT WITH A BRANCH OF THE FAMILY TREE

INTERMEZZO

CHAPTER 48 RICK AND TRINA, KAREN AND BRIAN

INTERMEZZO

CHAPTER 49 HOSPICE AND THE LONG SLIDE HOME

CHAPTER 50 AFTER THE MIRACLE

CHAPTER 51 THE LAST DAY

INTERMEZZO

CHAPTER 52 RICK’S FUNERAL

CHAPTER 53 RICK’S EULOGY, IN HIS OWN WORDS

CHAPTER 54 DON’S SURPRISE

CHAPTER 55 DEBORAH’S LETTER

CHAPTER 56 RICK

CHAPTER 57 TRINA: THE YEARS ALONE

CHAPTER 58 TRINA’S FUNERAL

AFTERWARD

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Writing my first novel was a bit like falling in love. It began with lofty visions of what might be accomplished, quickly became mired in the details, and eventually was consummated only with endless work and healthy doses of passion for the project.

I would like to thank several people who took the time to read portions of various drafts and provide honest and helpful editorial advice:

Andi Dameron was a fountain of creative inspiration.

Professor Robert W. Emerson recommended picking a single genre and sticking with it, as well as providing substantive support.

Dr. Adam Weinstein helped the narrator find his voice.

Dani Bree Bialek, FACHE’s suggestions helped organize almost sixty chapters into a coherent story with a consistent flow.

Tami Drzuba was relentless in ferreting out typographical and other errors.

Jordan Weinstock provided constant encouragement.

Dr. Eric Bernstein gave me a copy of another author’s work in the same genre as an example of how I might approach or improve my project.

Professor Philip Robinson urged me to channel my inner Hemingway.

Bob Brams was inspirational for getting his book published first, thereby proving it can be done.

Geoffrey Davis provided perhaps the most helpful advice of all: Trim the fat, he said. Measure twice, cut once.

And, most of all, I would like to thank Paula Eichberg for her unending support for me in general and for this book in particular.

To each of these dear friends and family, thank you.

Ross E. Eichberg

December 2021

PROLOGUE

Have you scheduled the estate sale people yet? Karen asked her sister, Sandra, as they walked through their parents’ now-vacant house.

No, not yet, she sighed. Between getting Mom to her various medical appointments, managing Peter’s office and running my own life, plus helping Samantha with her two toddlers, I just haven’t gotten to it yet, she said somewhat tersely.

Want me to do it? Karen volunteered.

"No, a deal is a deal. You handle the sale of their house, and I’ll handle everything else," she said with emphasis. Big sisters never outgrow their willingness to impose guilt.

Karen knew she had the easier lift in that bargain, so she didn’t press her sister to do anything regarding getting their parents’ affairs in order since Dad had died a few weeks earlier. My God, she thought. We haven’t even interred his ashes yet. Aren’t we supposed to bury the dead in a few days instead of a few weeks? She was partially indignant that the funeral hadn’t happened yet, and partially ashamed that she hadn’t helped get it organized. Therefore, she changed the subject.

Do you really think anybody will buy all this stuff? Karen asked as she surveyed her parents’ family room with its mid-century furniture, the tchotchkes, the basket of hotel keys, the model of the nose-cone of a Mercury rocket, the little white dog formed from a pipe-cleaner, the dozens of Reader’s Digest Condensed Books and long out-of-date Encyclopedia Britannica volumes in the bookshelves, the signed copy of Kon-tiki, the large brown cabinet housing a vintage stereo hi-fi turntable, and the somewhat disturbing oil paintings of sad-faced clowns on the walls.

Oh yeah, Sandra replied. First the neighbors will come on Thursday for a ‘pre-opening’ look. Then the estate sale ghouls will come early Friday and scoop up the furniture, and then on Saturday the estate sale admin people will start marking things down and by Sunday whatever is left will be half off. And whatever’s left at the end we give to Goodwill. She gave out a sad little laugh, Yeah, all this stuff will go.

Samantha wants the piano? Karen asked about the brown Story & Clark upright piano both she and her sister learned to play on over a half century before. Samantha was Sandra’s daughter. Typical of their parents’ choices, the piano wasn’t top-of-the-line, like a Steinway, but definitely competent and attractive and rendered its service quite respectably. Of course, the piano was still in like new condition, a testament to their mother’s insistence that it be respected as if it was gold.

She does…but she doesn’t want to pay to have it moved, so I guess we’ll sell it. You don’t want it either, right? she asked.

No, no place for it in my house, Karen said a bit wistfully. She had a lot of memories in that old piano. She recalled pumping out King of the Road and The Beautiful Blue Danube on it. Sandra was the better pianist, though, and she could still muster a decent turn of Tchaikovsky’s Waltz of the Flowers. Let’s walk around and see what each of us wants to hold back for ourselves."

It’s so weird being here without Mom and Dad, Sandra observed.

God, yeah. No TV blaring at ear-bleeding decibels.

No scrambled eggs with cottage cheese and strange condiments cooking on the stove, Sandra laughed, joining into the spirit.

No Mom doing her back exercises on the floor.

No Mom worrying about God knows what.

No Dad retelling his stories for the umpteenth time.

How many of those stories do you think were true? Sandra wondered aloud, suddenly stopping the volley.

Honestly, Karen paused, I believe every single one, Karen said.

"Oh, you are a good daughter. Peter¹ thought Dad was full of crap sometimes."

No, I really don’t think so, Karen continued. "Liars, exaggerators, bullshit artists…they’re all the same in that their stories vary with each telling. ‘They offered me this much money, no, that much money…I travelled to Timbuktu, or was it Katmandu…I got a purple heart for gallantry, or was it a Silver Star?...’. The bullshit boys always change their story. Dad was different. His stories were always the same. Like he was telling you about it from his heart. ‘So help me,’ he would say while holding up his right hand as if under oath, and then launch into another rendition of exactly the same spiel he had told us a thousand times before. So, it wasn’t that the stories were bullshit, it’s just that we tuned them out after the nth telling as if they were bullshit."

Well, you have to admit he would exaggerate, said Sandra. Like how he would talk to his neighbor, General Sullivan, like he was a peer. Dad was a private in the war!

My dear sister, you have just revealed our father’s gift. His self-confidence, his grit, his ability to walk with generals when he was raised in the Depression by immigrant parents who hated him. And how he had a pretty successful life in spite of his shitty upbringing. It’s really amazing when you think about it. And our relative success is a credit to him and to Mom.

I guess you’re right, she conceded, but the thought vanished as quickly as it came. Let’s go through the house and see what mementos we want to keep. The funeral is tomorrow, in Oxford of all places, and I’d like to get this over with. Why he wanted to be buried in Oxford I still don’t understand. And I’ve got to go back to Poolesville tonight to pick up Mom from the home.

Well, while we’re here, let’s have a look at Mom and Dad’s old photo albums, said Karen, as she and Sandra sunk into the old leather sofa in the family room. The beauty of a thirty-five year old foam sofa is that you sink into it and can’t get out; not that you would want to get out, because it’s so comfortable. So Karen and Sandra flipped pages of the old photo albums, and the faded old Kodak pictures verily came alive for them.

Oh my God, Sandra said. There’s Dad’s parents on their wedding day in, oh my God, 1924! She paused. Why isn’t anyone smiling? she wondered.

People of that generation just didn’t smile for pictures. It’s weird. I don’t think people smiled in pictures til much later.

Why was that, do you think?

I think they were afraid, Karen said.

Of what?

No one had any money, and if you were smiling, people might think you had some money and they might come after you for it.

Get out of here, Sandra said.

"Think about it. The world was entirely different. These people, or three of our four grandparents anyway, weren’t even born in America. They grew up before World War I even started (not World War II, mind you, but World War I). The Great Depression wouldn’t start for another ten or fifteen years after they got married. Most people didn’t even have a car; and most lived on farms. TV hadn’t even been invented. Flying on an airplane was something of a stunt; no one even heard of Lindbergh yet. Women couldn’t vote. It was unconstitutional to buy wine, beer or booze anywhere. There was no such thing as antibiotics, much less health insurance. Hundreds of thousands of people still alive in this country had been born into slavery before the Civil War. It was an unbelievably…primitive and chaotic world our grandparents came of age in. Not smiling? My God, they must have been terrified that the Cossacks were coming after them."

Well, I don’t see any Cossacks in these wedding pictures; we never really got to know our grandparents, except Granny, Sandra said. She paused as she stared at her grandparents’ sober visages in their wedding photo and speculated on something that had never occurred to her before. How did our grandparents even come to this country, anyway?

---

1 Sandra’s husband

CHAPTER 1

THE EXODUS

In 1924, the Mayflower Hotel was the newest, largest, and most beautiful hotel in Washington, DC. Located just a few blocks from the White House, it was close to the center of the nation’s power. It had 657 exquisitely finished rooms and boasted a huge lobby with innumerable crystal chandeliers, plush oriental rugs over Italian marble floors, imposing columns, two white tablecloth dining rooms, and a platoon of bellmen and porters to serve hotel guests’ every need. The elevator operators wore natty uniforms with white gloves. Every guest room had carved wooden furniture from Europe, fine art on the walls, and of course a private bathroom. A cellist or pianist would entertain every evening in each dining room. The Mayflower was designed and operated to be the place to stay in Washington.

The glitterati of Washington stayed at the Mayflower over the decades. In its opening year, a dozen heads of states and captains of industry visiting President Coolidge stayed there. Congressmen from all forty-eight states were on the guest rolls from time to time. A young baseball player named George Herman (Babe) Ruth, a recent trade from Boston, would hold court there whenever the Yankees were in town for playing against the Washington Senators and their pitching ace Walter Johnson; Ruth’s teammates stayed at less expensive hotels closer to the ballpark.

Regular Americans could also stay at the Mayflower, but probably only for special occasions since the nightly tariff was a good deal more than the typical hotels in Washington. Two of the regular Americans to visit the Mayflower were Karl Schmidt and his new bride, Deborah, who came to the Mayflower on their honeymoon in 1924. They were the paternal grandparents of Karen and Sandra.

Karl was born in Germany and emigrated to America as a child in 1903 along with his parents, Johanna and Leopold, and one brother Lukas. Johanna and Leopold had dreamed of coming to America for years. America! Where no one cared if you weren’t born a Hapsburg or a Guggenheim, so long as you worked hard and made your own way. America! Where the country wasn’t surrounded by neighbors who seemed to invade (or be invaded by) other neighbors every generation. America! Where the government stayed out of people’s business, like how they worshipped God or what they might say about current events.

Leopold and Johanna worked their shoe business in Germany and saved their money for passage to America. They also worked their network of friends and family who were already in America, patiently waiting for the fifty to sixty days necessary for letters to be exchanged between the Old World and the New by mail. And they worked themselves to find the courage to leave their native country and begin a new life in a New World where most people did not speak German and they themselves did not speak English (except what they taught themselves in preparation for the trip).

There was not a lot of discussion between Leopold and Johanna as to whether to make the trip, even though it was the single most important decision of their lives. Only Fathers made these kinds of decisions, and the rest of the family was expected to follow. All the Schmidt’s furniture and assets were sold to raise money for the trip. A few trunks of personal belongings would come with them, and each family member would carry two suitcases, even their young sons Lukas (age 10) and Karl (8).

In May of 1903, the Schmidt clan boarded the SS Vaderland of the Red Star Line wearing their finest clothes, all black of course, in the Port of Antwerp in Holland.² They paused by the gangplank for a family photo, one of those black and white photos where everyone looks as dour as if they were attending a funeral. Little Karl remembered walking up the gangplank onto the boat, and enjoying the trip. Both Karl and Lukas were mesmerized by the sights from aboard the ship. His family had a small but nice cabin with a window. The passage took about fourteen days, and the family walked endlessly around the boat to exercise and enjoy the view of the sea. They even saw a few icebergs, but the ship’s captain, a former Prussian naval officer, prudently gave them a wide berth by sailing a more southerly, but longer, route. The Red Star Line enjoyed an excellent reputation for safety, and he wasn’t about to compromise by motoring through an ice field.

The Schmidts met many other Germans emigrating as well, and conversed about their destinations: New York. Philadelphia. Chicago. Baltimore. Boston. Though their destinations were different, they were really all the same: America!

About 2.5 million migrants came to the New World on Red Star Line vessels between 1873 and 1935, including such celebrities as Albert Einstein and Irving Berlin. The Vaderland was typical of the Red Star Line vessels: it was about 600 feet long and could hold up to one thousand one hundred passengers. The several hundred first class passengers had cabins of relative luxury; the cabins of the two hundred second class passengers, meh. And the six hundred fifty third class passengers lived like animals in the bottom of the ship; their quarters were known as steerage. The third class passengers had to undergo rigorous health checks to make sure they were not carrying typhoid fever, cholera or trachoma, and were forced to undergo de-licing treatment. Any migrant suspected of carrying those diseases at Ellis Island would be returned to Europe at the expense of the Red Star Line.

To be clear, the Schmidts were second class passengers.

Leopold spent the two weeks on board planning his next moves: establishing a business, making connections, finding a safe and affordable home for his family. At dinner he would scribble notes on napkins to remind himself of things to do in his business once he reached America. The days flew by with all of his mental preparations, but he always made time, just before dinner, to promenade around the ship with his family. How beautiful, they allowed, as they surveyed the ocean vista with their characteristic German reserve. Next time we make this trip, we will travel first class! Leopold promised. Karl, Lukas, stay with us, he scolded as his young sons tried to explore the boat on their own.

As the ship passed the Statute of Liberty, most of the thousands of first and second class passengers were on deck (or in line to be on deck), anxious to disembark. The third class passengers were required to wait until the other passengers had left before being allowed to come on deck. An observer couldn’t help but notice: the Americans on board were chattering away, looking north toward Manhattan and pointing out the familiar buildings on the skyline. The immigrants, in contrast, were gazing at the fairly recently erected Statute of Liberty in absolute awe and silence. Many were weeping. Leopold, who had a photographic memory, gathered his wife and sons, pointed at the Statue of Liberty and recited the words that he had memorized especially for this moment:

Gib mir deine müden, deine armen, deine umarmten massen die sich danach sehnen frei zu atmen, den elenden müll deines reisenden ufers. Schicke diese, die obdachlosen, mir verwehrt: Ich hebe meine lampe neben die goldene tür.³

Karl and Lukas looked at him blankly. And then Leopold, realizing that his literary references were lost on his children, added:

Diese worte wurden von der tochter jüdischer einwanderer geschrieben. Mögen unsere worte und taten ebenso würdig sein wie ihre.⁴

More blank stares from his kids. Papa, Lukas asked, what are you talking about?"

Leopold sighed, as he sat down on a crate and drew his sons toward him. This is very hard to explain, and even harder for you to understand. We are leaving Germany, of course. But more than that, we are leaving Europe behind. Although we have had a happy life in Germany, I believe we will be far more safe, and more prosperous, and more happy, in our new home in America.

Why, Papa?

Leopold sighed again. Europe is a dangerous place, especially for Jewish people. Just a few years ago, a captain in the French army was wrongly accused of treason against the French government for selling military secrets to the Germans. Many people thought that he was framed for treason….

What does… framed for treason mean? interrupted Karl.

"’Treason’ means a crime against the government, and ‘framed’ means he didn’t really do it, but some people said he did it just because he was Jewish."

So, what happened to him, and what does that have to do with us? asked Karl.

There was a trial, and the truth came out that Captain Dreyfus was really a good man, and did not commit treason at all. But lots of people throughout Europe (the goyim" or non-Jews) wanted to believe that he did commit treason because they want everyone to believe that Jews are bad."

"Why in the world would the goyim in Europe want others to believe that Jews are bad?" both Karl and Lukas asked.

That’s really a hard question, but part of the answer is that God teaches us that the Jews are His chosen people, chosen to serve Him and follow His commandments. That makes some people angry that Jews were chosen by God, and they were not. So they blame Jews for a lot of problems in the world, even though the Jews did not create those problems.

Do people in America believe that the Jews are bad?

Leopold smiled. From everything I hear, the Americans are more concerned about making money than making trouble for the Jews. When you start school in Baltimore soon, you’ll learn that several of the American presidents, like Washington (who was the first and greatest president) and Grant (who was a great army general) and Teddy Roosevelt (the current president) have spoken up for the Jews. And the American Constitution (that’s their most important law) says that there cannot be any laws made against anyone because of their religion. Maybe not everyone in America likes Jews, but I’ll tell you what: you boys are going to grow up to be good Americans as well as good Jews, and no one will have any reason to make up lies about you like that Captain Dreyfus.

I’m going to be a good American and a good Jew, Lukas announced.

Karl laughed. Me too.

Then Leopold relaxed and said, ok, boys, let’s get off this boat and get to America!

***

Like all of the European immigrants of the time, the Schmidt family had to be processed through the immigration office at Ellis Island. The German immigrants from the Vaderland, all thousand of them, filed out of the boat in an orderly fashion, and marched two by two down the gangplank and through the labyrinth of gates and fences at the processing center. The group was eerily quiet and confident. What little speaking there was, was conducted in soft tones in German or broken but well-rehearsed English. The line gradually shortened and Leopold’s family approached the desk manned by an official who himself was the son of Irish immigrants. Leopold spoke for the family to the customs official who confirmed that they would be staying with family, that he had a job lined up, and that he could read and speak a little English. He produced the necessary papers for everyone. The whole process was positively Germanic in its efficiency.

Upon receiving the official stamp from the immigration officer, the Schmidts passed through the turn-styles and formally entered the United States of America, where they were welcomed by family members in New York who had already made the same trip and they promptly headed south, to Baltimore, Maryland, a steel and port town where some cousins had located. The Vaderland promptly set sail again for Europe, soon to be replaced at the Ellis Island dock with yet another Red Star Line vessel, or other ship, full of immigrants. There were thousands of such transits comprising one of history’s great exoduses.

***

Eventually, the SS Petersburg of the Russian Volunteer Fleet, originating in Odessa, Ukraine, pulled into the dock at Ellis Island. The exact date of arrival is lost to memory. Most of the Russian, Slavic or Polish migrants on board did not keep records of such details. This particular vessel probably arrived just after the Schmidt’s trip in 1903. The arrival date wasn’t nearly as important to its passengers as the fact that they were on the boat which proved to be critically important to them and their descendants.

Among the thousand Russian, Slavic and Polish passengers on board, one in particular would play a large role in the life of the future generations of Schmidts. Little Molka Poretzsky, maybe six years old (she was never sure of her birthday or even the year of her birth), was a third class passenger along with her older brother Avraham and older sister Shoshana. They were the children of peasants, and would endure the passage to America in steerage, i.e., in the bottom of the ship where animals and cargo and people without money were transported. Since they were in the bottom of the ship, their living quarters were below the latrines servicing the first and second class passengers, and urine would leak through the ceiling into their hair. This lasted the entirety of their two week voyage.

Third class passengers were fed third class rations; mostly organ meat, soup with a few vegetables, potatoes, and a quart of water per day. All toilet facilities were shared. They were allowed very little fresh air time on deck, so as to not compromise the first and second class passengers. Sometimes the cheapest tickets are the most expensive.

Even under these difficult conditions, Molka was able to pass the time talking to her brother and sister and other children on board. They made the acquaintance of another Ukrainian family, which had a six year old girl, Tatyana, and an eight year old boy, Victor. They all spoke Russian and enjoyed dabbling in English with the help of a Russian-English dictionary.

Noo York.

Noo Jerz-ey.

Hot dog.

Bazeball.

White Houze.

Model T!

They all laughed, as children do, and looked forward to their great American adventure.

Tatyana and Victor’s parents were nervous. The town they left in Ukraine, outside of Kiev, had just been plundered by the Czar’s army, which had encouraged a pogrom or state-inspired riot. They were now doubly committed to their American dream; they literally had nothing to return to back in Ukraine. But they were especially concerned about the splotches on their faces and hacking coughs. If the immigration officers believed their health was not good, they might not be allowed to pass into America.

As the Petersburg approached Ellis Island, most of the thousand passengers assembled on the deck. The Americans pointed excitedly at the familiar buildings of the Manhattan skyline. The immigrants stared at the Statute of Liberty and cried with the joy of the saved. And the poorest immigrants, the ones in steerage, waited their turn for everyone else to disembark first, before they were allowed to come topside and breathe free. Molka, Shoshona and Avraham were in this last group. Molka walked up six sets of staircases to reach the deck, straining to carry her one suitcase which contained all her possessions. She called out in Russian to her brother to slow down and not be separated from her. At the bottom of the last staircase she looked up and saw something she hadn’t seen since the ship had left Odessa: a blue sky. She felt like a fish, swimming upward from the depths to the surface of the sea. Her heart raced as she came closer… and closer… to the sunlight… with… each step…until… she was on… the deck! The fresh air! The sunlight! Could she have arrived? Was it true? Avraham grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the long lines of people waiting to disembark and be processed through Ellis Island.

A thousand Russians, Ukrainians, Poles and Slavs poured out of the ship. It was as if an ant hill had been opened and the ants spilled toward the processing center. Children wailing, people screaming, all in a dozen different languages. Most wore rags. The peasantry of Eastern Europe had arrived.

We don’t want them! they would hear in the future, just as they heard it in their past.

Don’t we have enough immigrant scum?

America should be for Americans!

No more Pollacks!

No more Jews!

The door at Ellis Island may have been golden, but getting through the door was never easy.

The processing took hours. No computers, of course. No passports. Just thousands of poor people speaking every language but English and carrying their lives in a rucksack and praying to make it through. The lucky and more organized of the bunch had their papers in order, stamped with exit visas from Poland or Ukraine or Russia or wherever they had left their lives behind. And some unlucky ones…no papers…no English…poor health…no one to meet them and plead their case…suffered the unkindest fate of all.

Avraham, Shoshona and Molka stayed close behind Tatyana and Victor and their parents. They had become friendly over the course of the two week trip from Odessa, as they shared the confinement and indignity of steerage with them. They were young, friendly, and ferociously looking forward to beginning their lives in the new world with their mom and dad, who looked more sickly and nervous than ever. The father and mother kept whispering to each other and looking around.

The bureaucrat at the desk, by coincidence the same Irish-American who allowed the Schmidts to pass, could and occasionally would deny access almost by whim. Power allows selections to be made, in Eastern Europe, in Germany, and even in America. A door slammed at the final moment, with only a return voyage and dashed hopes to show for all their sacrifice, awaited the unlucky ones.

As Molka, Shoshona, and Avraham approached the Irishman, they watched in horror as the family in front of them, including Tatyana and Victor, was denied entry. They couldn’t understand what was being spoken, but the Irishman was shaking his head no even as the mother of the family threw herself at his feet and literally begged for mercy, if not for herself mercy then for her family. The Irishman motioned for his flunkies to remove the family, which was accomplished in a most physical and degrading manner. Molka was appalled and terrified as the family was dragged away, back to the ship and a return trip to Odessa.

And then it was their turn. Avraham, Shoshona and Molka reached the front of the line, and was met with a stare from the large, fat and bored Irishman, who looked quizzically at them through his little round glasses. Maybe he was just tired and sad from having dashed the hopes of the previous family. He looked at the three red-haired Russian (Ukrainian…Pollack…whatever, he thought) kids. Papers. What’s your name, young man, he asked Avraham.

My name is Avraham Poretzsky, he said in passable, well-practiced English as he looked the Irishman in the eye. Avraham stiffly handed him their papers, just as he had practiced with his parents.

Look confident, his parents had told him, over and over again. Look him in the eye. Say in English, ‘My name is Avraham Poretzsky’. Just those five words in English. Then five more words: ‘Our uncle will meet us.’ You can do it. They practiced every day for a month with help from an English-speaking neighbor and the Russian-English dictionary.

Avraham Poretzsky…Shoshona Poretzsky…..and…Molka Poretzsky, the clerk read from their papers. Hmmm. Too long. Abie … Poretz… and…Shoshana (I kind of like that name but let’s spell it right, he thought) Poretz, and let me see … Molka, no, that sounds too much like ‘Polka’ (he chuckled to himself) … Minnie… Poretz, he wrote on their papers with a smile. The power to change people’s names made him feel important. Where will you live?

The newly christened Abie snapped to attention and, as if on cue said, Our uncle will meet us.

The clerk paused as he realized that the boy had answered a different question than the one that was asked, and the lives of the Poretzsky children and their descendants hung in the balance. For some reason, the clerk forgot the endless line of immigrants behind them, and his gaze lingered on Abie, Shoshana, and Minnie for a few moments. Abie wondered if perhaps he had said something wrong and a chill went down his back and he froze, unsure of what to say or do. The Irishman contemplated for a bit