Page 116 - The Legacy of Abraham Rothstein - text

Escape to New York
tears of gladness, to be able to help me get away. The rest was made
up by the people I worked for who booked my passage through the
Cunard line in Liverpool, which was in competition with the
Hamburg lines in Germany, as well as cheap fourth-class rail travel
through Europe. My whole trip cost less than a hundred dollars from
Warsaw to New York—which is very cheap. I left with two rubles in
my pocket; after almost five weeks on trains, spending time in
Rotterdam and Liverpool, and seven days on a boat, I still had a few
cents when I arrived in the free land.
Of the five uncles and aunts who lived on the same property of
my grandfather, none were on friendly terms with my family. Only
one uncle, Berl, was entrusted with the secret. I went with him to the
saloon across the highway, where he bought me a drink. He also
bought one for the policeman who happened to be there, a Russian
with a big beard named Yas. He knew my uncle—and every other
Jew in town—and he wished me luck, telling me I would make a fine
soldier. Late in the evening, Berl’s son Leiser drove me in his brichka
to Warsaw to the rendezvous with the smugglers, where others were
waiting to go to America. The heart-breaking feeling of severing the
family ties, and the fear of being detected, agitated my soul to a
feverish condition and left me speechless until we arrived at the
house of Mr. Wolff.
My father was waiting for me there, as were the partners of Mr.
Wolff. They instructed me where to buy the railroad tickets and how
to act—to be calm and simple, and not show anxiety or fear, because
the station was always full of army men and gendarmes. The clothes I
had on were of the type the religious Jews wore, long coat, high
boots, and a cap with a visor. I threw away the Russian boots and put
on the Western style shoes my father had bought me that day. Mr.
Wolff gave me a short coat in the European style, and at the last
minute, when I was saying goodbye to the gathering, he grabbed my
cap off my head, took off his own derby hat, and stuck it on me. I
must have looked like a caricature in my long overcoat and being
twenty-one years old without ever having used a razor on my face—
according to the custom of our religion. My cheeks were covered in
fuzz, but who had time to worry about that when danger lurked all
around in that railroad station?

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