Bubbe's Place: Stories

Mary Di Lange

Mama, Papa... there's an Italian lady buried here in the Koshovaters' plots. How could that be? Her name is Mary Dilanga."

Mama and Papa started laughing, repeating, "Mary Dilanga! Oy! Mary Dilanga!" When they finally stopped to catch their breaths, they croaked,

"Think in Yiddish, narishe kopf, foolish head."

At first I was perplexed. Then it dawned on me. I had the accent wrong.

"Mary, di langa" is Yiddish! It means "Mary the long one," or "long, tall Mary."

"Was this our Mary?" I asked. " Aunt Yette's girlfriend from the Philly sweatshops? "If so, why wasn't she buried in Philadelphia?

No one from Philadelphia visits here. No wonder there aren't any stones on her grave marker."

Papa answered, "Think about her life. If she had been able to choose a plot in the emeser, true, Koshovato, she would be buried in Ukraine."

They each placed a stone on Mary's marker, and moved on. But I remained, thinking about Mary. She had been my height, five foot five. Her contemporaries averaged five foot. Four eleven was not unusual. If you were five foot two you were tall. No wonder her nicknames were di lange, the tall one, and dilange lockshen, the long noodle.

I knew some of Mary's story. When I was in my early twenties (this would be in the nineteen-fifties) I loved to hear my parents and their chaverim, friends, tell stories about immigrating to the U.S. in the years before and after the first World War. Because of this interest, I invited Mary to join me for lunch and spend the afternoon talking with me. I wanted to hear her story, and now, years later, standing by her grave, I recalled our conversation.

They should have been a big family but the Angel of Death visited them often. Five children died. Three survived. Two, older boys, were in America. In the hovel in Koshovato Mary, the last child, remained with her parents. When Mary was eleven the Angel of Death, disguised this time as the flu, took the parents.

Now Mary was alone in the hut. When the news reached America, her brothers wrote immediately. Herschel, who had been sending his parents money, wrote that Mary should not worry. He would continue sending money. Jacob said he would soon mail a ship's carta, so that she could join him in the goldene medina, the golden land, America, where dreams really came true. How did eleven year old Mary survive? Koshovato had no orphanage. She had no uncle or aunt to turn to.

She had no nadn, dowry, and no khosen, bridegroom. Mary fell into a profound depression. Years later, she still had no words to describe her feelings. She believed she had stopped living: she lay there, not moving, not eating. Only her tears continued to flow. Where did this river come from? She couldn't remember drinking anything. She had no idea how long this sorrow continued. Hours? Days? Two frail old bubbes, grandmothers, rescued her. They had rachmones, pity, for the child. Although they were too poor to feed or clothe Mary fully, they sat with her and coaxed her to speak. They hugged and comforted her. As she returned to life, they encouraged her to decide what to do.

Mary's mother had brought in extra money by making kerchiefs to sell on market days. The bubbes urged Mary to continue in her mother's trade. Sometimes they helped her with the sewing. The bubbes raised Mary's hopes and drove away the depression; they reminded her that she was not alone. In Koshovato she had them; in America, her brothers.

Less than one year later, though, the money stopped coming from America. Jacob wrote to tell her that Herschel had died suddenly. He went on to assure her that he had not forgotten her and would soon send the carta.

The ticket and a letter of instructions arrived on her thirteenth birthday. Jacob advised her to sell the family hut and use the proceeds to travel to Riga, Latvia, to the offices of the Homeric Line. When she gave them the carta, the officials would put her on a boat bound for New York, America.

Mary got very little money from the sale of her hut. The two old women hugged and blessed her. They had a present for her, too. They had been saving feathers for Mary's dowry. Still, they reasoned, she could use the feathers in America, too. With feathers you stuff a mattress, make a quilt, pillows. America might well be as cold as Koshovato. Mary promised the two bubbes to use their feathers for her marriage bed. The women had packed the feathers in a bintle, a bundle or bale, for the long voyage.

Mary left Koshovato dragging this bintle of feathers, and carrying a small cloth bag that held her few kopecks, fewer clothes, and some food. She planned to walk to Kiev, nearly a hundred miles distant. Along the way, farmers and peddlers took pity on the tall, scrawny girl. They gave her rides, and sometimes fed her, too. She slept in the fields beside the road, clutching her bag, her head resting against her bale of feathers.

In Kiev she turned to the Jewish community for assistance. They took her to the train and helped her buy a ticket to Riga. They also gave her a large basket of kosher food to sustain her on her trip to Riga. In Riga representatives of the various ship lines met the train. The Homeric agent helped Mary get safely to the port and their office. Mary's luck, this time, was good. A boat was sailing the next morning and the agent allowed Mary to board that day. From Riga it crossed the Baltic Sea and North Sea to London.

In London, Mary joined all the other female immigrants in a room lined with wooden benches and equipped with small baskets. After disrobing completely, and putting their clothes in each basket, male guards subjected each woman and girl, one by one, to a thorough delousing of her body and clothes. Nothing was explained! Mary was an innocent, modest girl. Here she was treated like an animal. After she had redressed, some older, more worldly women explained what had happened. But no one explained where she was going next. She was just herded aboard a train that took her to a seaport on the western coast of England. Here she boarded a second ship that would take her across the Atlantic to New York.

Life on the boat was not pleasant for the poorer passengers. It may have been a delightful cruise for first class passengers, but Mary travelled in steerage. Steerage class was the cheapest passage. Its passengers occupied the lowest and most crowded quarters belowdecks, near the motors that drove the big ship across the ocean. Day and night, the noise and vibrations of the engines hammered in their heads. The sounds and smells of retching, seasick passengers penetrated everywhere.

"It wasn't like the ships in the Hollywood movies," Mary told me. "On my ship the poor did not go on deck to sing and dance! They were too sick. Also, they were allowed only on a small section."

However, in steerage Mary befriended a family of three. The mother, Klava, had two children. Her daughter Helen was Mary's age and her son Manuel was a year or two older. Klava treated Mary like a third child. When food was distributed, Klava made sure Mary got something to eat. Mary slept with Klava and Helen. The two girls became fast friends. Until then Mary had never realized how starved she was for the companionship of a girl her own age. I have told you that Mary had a treasure-her bale of feathers. Manuel had a treasure, too. He had a violin. The three young people would seek out a quiet place on the steerage portion of the deck where Manuel could play his violin while the two girls talked. For Mary the trip across the rough North Atlantic became bearable, even pleasant, because of her new companions.

She was thrilled to discover the Goldmanns were also travelling to Philadelphia. They exchanged addresses and promised to meet again. They had no idea how large Philadelphia was. Mary, Helen and Manuel all came from little villages. At last they were in Ellis Island, with its long lines and intimidating officials. These officials questioned and inspected each immigrant. They were seaeching for the unacceptable ones. If a person was mentally handicapped, or had glaucoma, or G-d forbid was an anarchist-back she or he went to Europe! No one met Mary. She had her brother's Philadelphia address, but no money left.

The officials insisted she needed a train ticket to Philadelphia plus $2.50, or else she would be sent back to Europe. The ticket to Philadelphia proved she would not be a charitable burden to New York City. The $2.50 would cover room and board for at least one week. In those days there was no social work network to help people like Mary. But there were volunteers who tried to assist the confused and the lost. One of these volunteers contacted Mary's brother Jacob. He sent a train ticket, $2.50, and a promise to meet Mary's train when it arrived in Philadelphia. On the train platform in Philadelphia people rushed this way and that way. No one looked familiar; no one called her name. Soon the platform was almost empty. A portly gentleman approaches Mary. He doesn't look familiar, doesn't even look Jewish. He has no beard, and isn't wearing ritual fringes. But he speaks to her in Yiddish! He must be her brother! He says he is. Mary doesn't remember him but when he hugs her she relaxes completely, thinking, Home safe at last. He laughs at her bale of feathers and suggests they dump them.

When he sees Mary's agitation, he says,. "Forget it. It's just that-feathers are so old-fashioned, so Koshovato...Come with me. We'll sit for a moment in the cafe. We will have coffee and talk."

He doesn't ask about her trip or her feelings. He does all the talking. "I am sorry...my wife is not well and couldn't come with me to meet you. She is a difficult, a nervous, woman. We really don't have room for a guest, especially a guest who will stay more than one night. So I thought it would be best if I got you a place of your own. This way you will go to your own place, and be at home.

"Your room...eh...it is with a nice family...the Kaufmans. They had an extra room, small, with a window. It will be your own. You don't have to share a bed. And they will feed you kosher, too. I already paid Mrs. Kaufman for your first week, $2.25. That's a good deal for a room with a window and kosher board. I have more good news. I have a job for you. You will start work tomorrow morning. You did sewing in der alter heym, in the old place, so I got you a job sewing in a factory! You can earn a lot of money. Soon you will be rich! See...here in America, you'll be an independent woman. When you get paid be sure to give the first $2.25 to Mrs. Kaufman.

"I'll take you there now. Remember, be up and dressed early tomorrow. I will come for you and take you to meet the Boss. Then at the end of the day I will meet you and bring you back to Mrs. Kaufman and your very own room.

"Good, let's go now. My wife will be angry if I am away too long. Besides, you must be tired."

As he promised, Jacob came early the next morning to show Mary how to get to her job. He told her to count the streets so she wouldn't get lost. "Go down the steps. Turn right. Cross three streets. Turn left. Cross four streets. Turn left again. Go to the big building, the one with boards over the windows. Climb four flights of stairs, and you are there. "

At the end of the work day he was there to help her count streets and turns to her new home. At the door he gave her a quick hug, then hurried home to his wife. There was no invitation to meet his wife or to enter his home. If she couldn't even visit him, why had her brother sent for her? By the end of the first week in the factory, Mary's fingertips looked like raw hamburger. The wounds on her child's fingers came from pushing the needle through the heavy gabardine material used in men's suits. She told me, she lived in terror of getting blood on the gabardine. Soiling the material would have cost her the job. As for getting rich...ecch. Her work was piecework. So as soon as Mary was able to reach her quota consistently, the boss raised the rate! She always made the minimum wage, not a penny more.

At the end of the work day, Mary was always very tired. One evening she trudged home, anticipating the chance to lie down and relax in her bed. Instead, she had a rude surprise. There, in a neat bundle by the curb, were all her worldly possessions! The Kaufmans had been evicted. They were gone, pphht, just like that. And where could Mary go in the dark? What should she do? Life had been Mary's school. It had taught her that tears solved nothing. Therefore she sat on her bintle of feathers and thought. She couldn't return to Koshovato. No ship's ticket. She couldn't go to her brother. Di shvegerin, sister-in-law, had no rachmones, pity. Who else was there? She thought of her friends, the Goldmann family, from steerage. Slowly, Mary whispered their names and recited their address. That was strange. She had remembered their address. It must be an omen. She pulled herself up and started out to find the Goldmanns. Now, Mary was exhausted from the day's stresses and her long search through Philadelphia streets. So she climbed the steps to the Goldmanns' front door with immense weariness.

At the top she hesitated for a moment, then declared, "The answer is in G-d's hands. Voos vet zein, vet zein, what will be, will be." Then she rang the bell for the Goldmanns' flat. Mary heard slow, heavy steps. Someone was peering through the window. Mary couldn't see who it was. And then the door was flung open.

Klava swallowed Mary in a big bear hug! Klava was crying and screaming, "Children, come quickly! Our Mary is here! Mary is here!" No one asked for her story. No explanations were needed. (Although she gave them later). The Goldmanns just made room for Mary in their tiny apartment and big hearts. So, after years of loneliness, Mary had found a family that loved and respected her.

Still...it is strange. Klava, Helen and Manuel are all buried in Philadelphia. But Mary is buried in a plot in the Koshovater Beneficial Association Cemetery in Brooklyn, New York. It makes me wonder. Did Mary's dream of family really come true?

I put a stone on her grave marker and moved on.