B.
When we wake up in the morning, the whole sky is covered. The ocean is working up a rage. The waves are heaving higher than the ship, tossing Prince Albert like a wood chip or a toy. The sailors run around like poisoned mice. The stewards are hanging on to the railings. The passengers cling to the walls, barely able to walk. Suddenly the rain comes pouring down. Claps of thunder follow one after the other. God is riding forth on His chariot — and on Yom Kippur! Lightning bolts briefly light up the dark, overcast sky. The Prince Albert creaks, sways side to side, up and down, and the rain beats.
What is this — another flood? Didn’t God vow to Noah that there’d be no more floods on earth?
“It’s the parting of the waters, like the Red Sea,” says my brother Elyahu, and his friend Pinni mutters, “Yes, it’s the parting of the Red Sea”—the first time these two agree. We’re going to pass through between the waves. The words “parting of the Red Sea” catch on. Whenever someone looks at the ocean, he agrees that that’s what it is. Then he runs off to the side railing and hangs over, emptying his stomach down to his mother’s milk, and we see him no more. Who could think of praying or of Yom Kippur? In a daze, we even forget where in the world we are.
C.
In our family, the first to break down is Bruche. She screams that she’s dying! Then she curses my brother Elyahu for talking her into going to America. America is like Siberia, she says, worse than Siberia — Siberia is paradise compared to America! My mother sticks up for her son and chides Bruche, saying we have to withstand everything because it’s all God’s doing. For instance, it’s written in the Bible. . But she can’t go any further because she suddenly feels nauseated. Looking at her, Teibl also feels nauseated.
Pinni has to put in his usual barbs: “These women are a skit, a comedy!” He shoves his hands into his pants pockets and pushes his cap to the side. “Fools! Idiots! Who cares if the ocean storms and the ship rocks? An intelligent person can figure out what to do. When the ship rocks this way, I bend that way. When the ship rocks the other way, I bend this way. It’s called balancing.”
Bending this way and that, Pinni shows us “balancing.” It makes even my brother Elyahu sick to his stomach, and both of them have to give up whatever’s inside them, as do the rest of the passengers. They’re barely able to drag themselves back to their bunks, where they fall like sheaves of wheat onto their beds. And that’s when the real hell of the parting of the Red Sea begins.
D.
I and my friend Mendl hold out longer than all the rest. Mendl met another emigrant, an “old sea dog,” who had traveled back and forth to America three times, so he knew how to cure seasickness. He tells us his remedy: stay up on the deck and look out toward the horizon, not at the ocean. It’s like you imagine you’re in a sled on the snow, not riding a horse. But the old sea dog ends up lying stretched out on his bunk, while Mendl and I get so soaked from the rain, you could wring us out like a dishrag. We can’t even find our bunks on our own. Someone has to lead us there by the hand.
E.
How long does the parting of the Red Sea last? A day or two, maybe three, I’m not sure. I only know one thing — when we wake up, it’s a joy to be alive. The sky is as clear as pure gold, and the water is like a mirror. The Prince Albert is moving along, fast and trim, slicing through the water, splashing, frothing, and spraying. The passengers come to life. They all come up, young and old, into the warm, lovely, bright world. Someone says we’ll soon be able to see land. I and my friend Mendl are the first to tell everyone the good news. From a distance it looks like a speck, a yellowish splotch, but it grows larger and wider. We can make out many tall-masted ships in the distance. All our troubles are quickly forgotten. The passengers dress up in their holiday best. The women pretty themselves up. My brother Elyahu combs his beard. Bruche and Teibl put on their shawls. My mother puts on her Shabbes silk kerchief. I and Mendl don’t have anything special to put on, nor is there enough time — we’re about to approach the shores of America. Eyes are shining, and people feel elated, just as the Jews must have felt after passing through the real parting of the Red Sea. We want to sing.
F.
“Hello to you, Columbus! We greet you, land of the free! Oh, golden, happy land!”
So our friend Pinni salutes the new land. He actually removes his cap, bends down, and bows his head. Since he’s nearsighted, he doesn’t notice a sweaty, ruddy-faced sailor running toward him, and they collide head on. The tip of Pinni’s nose strikes the sailor between the eyes — but luckily the sailor’s a good-hearted sort. He examines our Pinni’s bruised nose, smiles, and mumbles something under his mustache. It must be some curse in an American language.
G.
Suddenly there’s chaos. Third-class passengers are asked to please go back to their places. First they’re asked politely, then angrily. Whoever doesn’t hurry down gets shoved from behind by a sailor or a steward. They close the doors and hang iron locks on them. Young and old; men, women, and children; Christians, Turks, gypsies — we’re all crammed in together. It’s suffocating. We can only see through the portholes what’s going on outside. We’ve never felt so miserable, like prisoners. “Why? Why are they doing this?” my friend Mendl complains, his eyes burning with fury.
H.
It turns out we’ve arrived in America. Now what? The first- and second-class passengers have left the ship by going down a long ladder with about a hundred steps. And how about us? We’re also in America!
“They shouldn’t treat us this way!” a Jewish tailor from Heissen cries. He’s all dressed up, wearing fancy spectacles. He’s not a bad fellow but he’s a bit of a pest, thinks highly of himself, and contradicts everyone. As soon as he hears what you have to say, he says the opposite. He and our friend Pinni have already gone at it. My brother Elyahu could barely separate them. Pinni had insulted him by calling him names — seamstress, tailor-man, pants-sewer — and asking him how many remnants he’d stolen.
Now that we’re all locked up together, the Heissen tailor speaks up in Hebrew: “What are we? Who are we? We are like cattle. But even cattle have to be given consideration.”
Pinni attacks him. He says that’s not a good comparison. If you’re talking about America, he says in his elegant language, as is his way, you have to wash your hands first. He can’t bear to hear a bad word about America.
The Heissen tailor says he isn’t speaking well or badly of America. He’s only saying that everything is good and fine and nice but not for us. They won’t be letting us out so soon.
Pinni loses his temper. “What then will they do with us? Pickle us?” he shouts.
“They won’t pickle us,” the Heissen tailor says with spite and pleasure in his voice. “They’ll take us to a place called Ellis Island. There they’ll lock us up like calves in stalls until our friends and family remind themselves to come get us.”
Pinni leaps up. “Just listen to this man! All this tailor-man knows is bad news. He’s not so old, but he’s very clever! We all know about Castle Garden, I mean Ellis Island, but I’ve never heard anyone say that Ellis Island rounds people up like cattle.”
Pinni grows more excited. He moves closer to the Heissen tailor as if threatening him.
The tailor backs off, a bit frightened. “Take it easy! Look at him — you’d think I’d stolen his coat! I said a bad thing about his America, but that’s not allowed. Well, when we’re all a few hours older, we’ll be wiser.”