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ON THE WAY TO AMERICA
The quota for immigrants from Russia was hardly touched and since Vytautas was born in Minsk, we were among the first to receive a visa. Asked for birth certificates we claimed to have left them in Lithuania and, as was the case of many refugees, submitted certificates issued by the Refugee Organization and based on other documents. Instead of a marriage certificate we showed our daughter's birth certificate in which the parents were listed as husband and wife.
After passing that stage we were transferred to a smaller camp in Munich proper, and there endured another long wait. Imprisoned by visions of America we walked for hours around the fenced-in yard with others, all waiting for their affidavits to arrive. There Guodele started to walk. We could leave camp and go to town but seldom did, as with the baby we could not go far. Most families with small children preferred to be by themselves while others played cards or chess or discussed politics endlessly.
A Lithuanian in his fifties, born in America, had come to Lithuania for a visit before the war and got stuck there for the duration. Finally on his way to Chicago, he felt obliged to instruct everybody as to what to expect in America. True, he would say walking beside you, you must work hard in America. But success depends on being more clever than your boss for he will take advantage of you. And if it is not the boss then it's your fellow worker who will try to get your job and push you out. We could not imagine ourselves working with such a dire outlook.
Later that summer my sister and brother came to camp with their children to see us off to America. The reunion was not very cheerful— all homeless, we were still on the move, merely crossing paths. Brother was planning to go to Australia and sister to America; eventually both made it to the U.S. Our futures across oceans, no news of our parents or brother in Lithuania, we promised to stay in touch.
At the end of September our affidavits arrived and a large group of us were put on the train to Bremen, the port city where a ship would be waiting for us. There we were placed in another camp, this time the men separated from their families. I was assigned to a room with six Polish women with small children. A grandmother ruled the room and from the start she took me under her care. She made sure that I got both the upper and lower bunk beds in a corner of the room and hung a blanket to separate me from the rest. She spoke to me in Russian and from time to time came for a chat which improved my Russian considerably. She told me that all the women in the room had lost their husbands in the war. Having relatives in America, they had formed a group and moved to the American sector in hope of securing passage. And here they were, waiting for the ship already.
In this camp the general atmosphere was different. After wandering from place to place for so long, the thought that we were only a train ride away from the ship to America uplifted everyone's spirit. A steady exchange of smiles among strangers, our heads held up proudly, we were no longer flotsam shuffled from camp to camp by currents of international events but winners ready to collect our dreams. Endurance had paid off. Personally we did not nurture high hopes or harbor great expectations, only a deep hunger to start living again. The sweet notion that our future was to be soon in our own hands made us almost deliriously impatient to turn up our sleeves and start working.
Our lives reduced to waiting, in Bremen we lived from day to day. Every afternoon Vytautas came to visit us and with our daughter on his shoulders walked round and round the corridors as did everyone else. It gave me time to do the wash and be by myself for a while. Thus a month went by and then another. Ships came and left but ours did not arrive until after the New Year's.
Before Christmas rumors started circulating that smallpox was spreading in camp and families with a sick child were being sequestered until the epidemic ended. The grandmother suggested that our children be inoculated, but where and how? One of the women in the room was a doctor and she said that if we could find a grownup who had had smallpox, a small injection of his blood would render a child immune to the disease. Vytautas was a willing candidate, and it was arranged for the children in our room to be taken to a local doctor who agreed to perform the procedure. We sneaked out of camp, had it done, and paid the doctor a pack of cigarettes per child.
On January 3, 1947, before boarding the train to Bremenhaven, every child was examined. Found clear of smallpox our group was finally off to the harbor a distance away from town. In Bremenhaven the train stopped next to an empty concrete pier that stretched far into the sea. We disembarked and, seeing no ship in sight, reluctant to move, stayed put. When armed soldiers appeared and prodded us to go ahead, a wave of terror swept through all—stories of people being led to their death flashed through everybody's mind. But the line did move and after walking a long stretch out to sea, it stopped. Still no ship in sight. But when we saw people looking over the pier's edge, we too looked down and there, far below, was anchored SS Ernie Pyle, a military transport vessel used during the war. Told to leave the carry-on baggage on the dock, everyone climbed down a stepladder, cheering and smiling, landing straight on the deck. Soldiers handed our luggage down the ladder by hand, piece by piece. The men were to stay at stern below, the women and children in cabins outfitted with double bunk beds on both sides, a narrow passage between them.
After settling in the upper bunk, child and mother assigned to one bed, Guodele and I took off to explore the ship. We found the bathrooms, the dining room with tables already set, and ran into Vytautas looking for us. We were showing him our cabin when he drew our attention to the porthole—the ship was in motion already.
For the next few days the sea was calm. We had three meals a day and with engines pounding underfoot we were on the way. Only imagine, next stop—America.
It was too cold to go on deck. On the fourth day the ship started rolling, the ocean seen through the porthole rising mountain high, the ship then slipping down into a watery precipice only to rise again. Few people showed up for meals. Women in the cabin were seasick and so was I but staying in bed made it worse. Keeping up with Guodele who walked the corridors like an old pro did me good. When the chairs in the dining room were chained together no food was served for a week. Baby bottles were filled in the kitchen and those able to come and get it were offered a sandwich. Compared to the passengers who disembarked on stretchers, our family did well. On board we received a telegram from our brother-in-law, saying that he would be meeting us in the harbor. The last few days at sea were calm and regular meals restored everyone's spirit.
On January 16 loudspeakers announced that we were entering the harbor of New York. Together with everyone else we grabbed our coats and ran to the deck to see the Statue of Liberty. At first sight the crowd swooned, fingers pointing, some cheering, some weeping, strangers hugging, a few falling to their knees. And a sight it was—proudly holding the torch high, Miss Liberty was truly welcoming us, the poor, the forgotten, the displaced. The ship slipped past Ellis Island and headed straight for the New York dock, horn blasting full throttle to announce our arrival. Eyes were now fixed on the city skyline. A seagull shrieked overhead and faces lost in some personal reverie awakened instantly—we made it, we have arrived. Vytautas, Guodele in his arms, pressed my hand. Tears spilling over my cheeks, I hugged them both.
America, here we come!
New Mexico, 2010
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