Christine was unaccustomed to crying.
It never did her any good, anyway. Her short life was already characterized by loss. Tears were inefficient. She would not be shedding any today.
A hand grasped hers, and she glanced up. Her older sister, Kata, stood by her side. They gazed at each other for a moment, Kata giving her a sly smile meant only for teenagers and their younger sisters. Even at eight, Christine understood the two competing messages in that expression. “No nonsense,” it said. Also, and less obvious, “I’ve got you.” She shifted her weight, trying to find steadiness somewhere on the new dirt.
Their brother Jakob stood on Christine’s other side, stoic. Only eleven, he considered himself to be the man of the family now (a self assigned, but serious role). He tipped his chin, hiding his uncertainty behind the facade of a brave face.
Their mother, Eva, stood before them, grasping the arm of the children’s grandmother (Margaretha) and inspecting them all. Kata was pristine, as always. Jakob, only trembling a little. And of course, the smallest of them stood quietly–Christine. Eva stepped forward and knelt, thumbing a bit of dust from Christine’s chin and straightening her scarf.
“We must be brave, daughter. Yes?” She said.
Christine nodded dutifully. She did not look back.
Behind them a train roared once more, announcing departure in fifteen minutes. Behind them was the path to home. Behind them were tracks laid by pain.
The road to get here was impossibly long.
A century before, Christine’s ancestors responded to a simple invitation made by Catherine the Great. Russia had conquered the eastern lands. They wanted to modernize, and were in need of a people to populate. The German peasants were desperate enough to do it, and the agreement was attractive beyond belief. No restrictions on religion, or language. No heavy taxes on crops. No required military service. They could take their entire selves and form communities near the Black Sea, functioning on a concept entirely foreign to the Russian Empire.
Freedom. Maybe even flourishing, if they were lucky.
That was the promise, anyway.
The fruits of this decision were decades long. The Black Sea Germans thrived in their villages. They raised cattle, chickens and sheep. They lived on wheat crops and grain, trading amongst themselves for what they needed. They taught their children in familiar dialects, and strolled down dirt roads to their Lutheran churches. They baptized and married and lived as they pleased.
Two things happened in succession that changed everything. Catherine the Great died. Then, many years later, her son and successor, Paul I, also died.
Christine’s ancestors operated in pockets, keeping to themselves and rarely interacting with their Slavic neighbors. The exceptions they built their lives around also meant tension between villagers. It was no secret to any of them that tension would wind tighter as the years passed, especially as Russian oppression began to grow in the northern villages. By the time a new emperor took control of Russia, new beliefs did too. Now there were two major people groups, each with their own set of problems, each convinced the other was to blame.
At one time, Christine’s family was welcome. Now, they were not.
Every restriction was revoked. Children were forced into Russian schools. Military service began calling in full force. Instability was inevitable, which resulted in everything that could tear a family apart. Churches burned. Crops failed. Men were called to Siberia in efforts to explore and reclaim the area. Christine’s grandfather became one of the early casualties, lost to typhoid. Her father followed soon after, shortly before she was born.
Christine was unaccustomed to crying. Tears could not grow wheat, or mend politics, or raise the dead.
The family had a single chance at escape. Christine’s Uncle Thomas lived in America. He agreed to sponsor them.
That’s what brought them all here, to the port.
Kata’s hand tightened around Christine’s as a ship horn sounded. Eva nodded to all of them as she turned, her mother-in-law firmly on her elbow. Christine knelt to pick up her carpet bag, the handles enormous and awkward in her left hand.
They boarded the S.S. Columbia slowly and painstakingly, crowded behind hundreds like them on the lower deck. Jakob let out a low whistle behind her, taking in the passengers boarding the upper deck. Unlike the layers of fabric wrapped around their shoulders, these passengers passed by in finery: corsets, satin, pocketwatches, and hats that could rival any Easter service. Kata had one (and only one) such dress that was sold over a year ago, the money worth far more to them than the gown itself. The same went for Jakob’s suit.
After an hour of slow shuffling, shifting of bags from one hand to the other, hands searching for each other and feet that were just beginning to ache, the five of them landed in their quarters. The room was large, hosting hundreds of bunks bolted close together. Eva pointed the children to their bunk quickly, giving firm instructions on where to keep their things. Kata and Christine would share the bottom bunk, with Jakob on top. Eva and her Margaretha would take the bunk next to them. It was only after stuffing her carpet bag beneath the bed and sitting deftly on the thin mattress that Christine finally took a breath, observing her surroundings.
The smell was the first thing she noticed, with ammonia and soap stinging her nose. Next was the noise–German parents tersely instructing their children, with some bits of French, Norwegian, and English thrown in between as other families settled in. It was overwhelming, with only pieces of sentences that Christine could understand mixed with softer, unintelligible lilts coming from mothers holding babies and high-pitched laughter coming from children scattered throughout the quarters. A group of men grasping cards sat on boxes in the corner, some of them smoking cigars. She did not like how one of them was looking at Kata.
The room was large and full, and still filling. It was soon becoming clear just how crowded together they would be. Soon they would depart, with one last blast from the horn.
It was the swaying that was the most difficult to get used to. Christine spent her entire life on dry land, with no concept of what waves or currents felt like on her feet. For the first three days, the family spent much of their time on the lower deck–firstly marveling at the sun on the water, then heaving over the side of it. There was absolutely no making it to the cramped bathroom at the end of the hall, full to the brim with other passengers grasping sinks and toilet bowls. It didn’t take long for the smell to change from ammonia and soap to sour bile. The noise was not much better. Eva spent much of her time alternating between patting backs, stroking hair, and running to the side of the ship herself.
Their third night brought the family some reprieve. Christine began to learn how to balance herself, leaning into the swaying and grasping Kata’s arm for the rest.
The morning of the fourth day, the winds changed.
It was subtle, at first. The air turned suddenly cool. Christine slowly noticed it as she stood on the lower deck that morning with her family. Kata had wandered down the deck, near the stern. Mist began to fleck Christine’s cheeks, leaving tiny beads of water on the hair escaping from her headscarf. She tucked the strands back in, noticing the cold wet on her fingertips. A half hour passed and the wind picked up, flapping the edges of her clothing. Jakob grasped the edges of his coat to keep it in place. Eva’s mouth tightened the tiniest amount, and suddenly she turned, shepherding all of them inside.
The storm came slowly, then all at once. Jakob and Christine sat huddled on the bottom bunk, eyes shining with trepidation. Kata had not returned yet, and every minute that ticked by felt like an eternity. Eva patted their knees, assuring them of Kata’s return. After five minutes, she offered them a quick smile, and turned to find her. Christine cried out in protest, the loudest sound she had made in weeks. Her grandmother reached for her fingers, clucking and shushing her, murmuring in German. Jakob curled an arm around her. Where was her sister?
Water sloshed impossibly high against the port holes, with such force Christine feared the glass would break. The ship began to roll, then pitched up and down. By the force pressing against her chest, then her back, Christine had to imagine the waves must be enormous. The wind began to scream, causing the metal of the ship to groan. Children began to cry, clutching their mothers. Men began to pray, holding small books of scripture to their chests. Fear reached its way up Christine’s backbone, lacing between her shoulders. Had they doomed themselves by agreeing to this trip? She shivered, and leaned into her brother.
The minutes ticked by, gripped in the coldness of passing time. Each time a watch made its complete circle around the face, Christine grew more hopeless. Neither her mother nor her sister had returned. What if she was on the deck? What if the first wave hit her unexpectedly, pulling her over? Christine scrunched her eyes shut, trying not to shudder. She felt like she had lived one hundred years in those moments.
Suddenly, the door to the room burst open, Eva ushering Kata inside with an arm around her. They were shaken, but dry, heading straight for the bunk. Christine let out the breath she did not know she was holding. Jakob’s arm relaxed. Kata scooted in next to them.
The storm raged for the entirety of that day, with the winds hissing and waves tossing them like rag dolls. The children clutched the legs of the bunk beds, anchoring themselves so they wouldn’t be thrown to the floor. Their grandmother leaned into an adjacent wall with Eva nearby, pressing a hand to the wall behind her. It took all of their energy to remain upright, and seasickness threatened to make it’s violent return at every sway of the ship. Christine was terrified, refusing to cry, grateful that they were together while also wondering if this entire trip was a mistake. She had overheard stories before of ships sinking in the middle of the Atlantic, caught in storms just like this one.
Maybe what was waiting for them was worse. Maybe they should have stayed home.
Finally, after hour upon hour passed, the winds stilled. The water crashing against the portholes made gentler and gentler swipes, until they finally stopped. Stars began to dot the sky outside, reflecting off of the calmer waters. Christine released her grip on the bunk and leaned back, slumping straight into Kata. She didn’t realize how close together they had actually been.
“Where were you?” Christine mustered.
“I couldn’t find you,” Kata whispered.
Her sister began to tell her then, what had happened. She’d wandered toward the end of the boat, exploring the deck and watching the crowds of people around her. She didn’t realize how rough the sea was turning until waves began to slip off the sides of the ship. As the wind started to blow, she realized she was separated from the family. Her siblings were no longer in her sights, she had no idea if their mother was close by. She had searched for them, calling desperately, checking passengers hustling past her and looking underneath every corner she came across. One of the crew jerked her inside and pushed her toward the stairs, assuring her loudly that her family was most certainly in the bunk room. Kata stumbled, falling against the wall. In the chaos, she lost her sense of direction. Eva found her frantically searching the hallway at least a half an hour later.
The sisters gazed at each other, Christine’s face full of anguish and Kata’s full of manufactured calm. Kata patted her, nodding that everything was alright.
“We should not have done this,” Christine whispered. “I want to go home.”
Kata paused, looking for words that would not scare her little sister. Home meant starvation. It meant violence. Home did not exist any more.
“We are going home, Christine. A new home. Our whole family will be there waiting,” Kata responded, finally.
They would spend two more days on the ship. Thankfully, the remainder of the trip proved uneventful, save for a man who grabbed for Kata’s skirts as she passed by (quickly humbled by a nearby crew member) and an exciting game of jacks with the girl in the bunk catty corner from them.
On the seventh day, Eva shook the three children awake. Her eyes were warm, a small twinkle settling near each iris. She looked toward Margaretha, nodded with a knowing look, and beckoned them all to come outside to the deck.
They gathered near the port of the ship, and Eva pointed outward. Christine squinted, searching for what her mother was pointing at. The water shimmered with the sunrise, mirroring flecks of gold and purple. There was a new noise this time, far off and echoing. It was seagulls, honking and flapping in their mischief. Christine put a small hand to her forehead, shading in attempt to see what Eva was pointing at. Then, there–slowly coming into focus, something green, and tall. A statue: crowned and composed, holding a torch. They were here, at Ellis Island.
Christine dropped her hand, unsure of what to feel. Eva told them of their family’s kindness–how they also grew wheat and grain, alongside things like corn and something called soybeans. There would be cattle and horses, and others like them who spoke their German dialects and made their German dishes. They would also learn new things: a new school, new friends, even a new language. Christine shrank from the memory. Eva talked up this place, but it wouldn’t have the things Christine wanted most. Something pulled at her, blooming an ache in her heart. She turned from the statue, looking instead to the ocean behind her. Her throat tightened, a new sensation forming in her chest.
Christine was only eight, but she was a girl conflicted nonetheless. She knew there was no choice but to leave. She was told stories of Uncle Thomas’ friendliness, his wife’s calm, and the fun that his children had together. This new country may be great. It wasn’t what she loved. It did not have her house, or her hillsides, or her salt air, or her father. It wasn’t home. How could it ever belong to her?
As she gazed back at the ocean receding, someone knelt beside her. She turned, looking into the knowing eyes of Kata. Her sister paused, cocking her head and studying her. She reached into her pocket…and pulled out a handkerchief.
She leaned forward, softly dabbing the tear trailing Christine’s face.
In fact, my great grandmother would make a place for herself. She outsmarted neighborhood bullies, learned fluent English, and eventually landed in a town apartment in Illinois. She’d become a stenographer, then a nurse’s aid, then meet her husband through her best friend Mary (a story for another day). She would seek naturalization at the age of twenty. She’d have big opinions, raise a family, and keep her German language until the day she died (at the ripe age of 85). There are remnants of them all, still here: an applesauce cake recipe, a square jawline, learning Carol of The Bells on the piano, a sense of humor known for the area they came from. Her mother, Eva, would be counted as the bravest among us. While she had access to a life saving sponsorship often not available to other immigrants at the time, she still made the choice to go.
There’s no telling where we’d be without her.
Quite possibly, still somewhere near Odessa, Ukraine. Just north of the Black Sea.
