Bridge to America, page 12
The boys in class looked disappointed but I went on, "That Cossack's hat saved my brother's life. You can even ask him."
"But why didn't the police arrest the Cossacks?"
"There were no police," I explained.
"No police?!" They couldn't imagine it.
"Then why didn't they get the sheriff?" asked another boy.
"What's a sheriff?" I asked. And immediately I knew I shouldn't have.
"What's a sheriff?" the boy snorted. And they all started laughing. "Phil doesn't know what a sheriff is!"
As always, I tried laughing, too. I was back to feeling like Yusig again and wishing my same old wish. If only I'd been born here. If only I knew the important things like sheriffs and not stupid things like Cossacks, which no one believed anyway. Then they'd have nothing to laugh at.
"Quiet!" said my teacher sternly. "Phil has been here less than a year. There's still a lot he doesn't know. But there's also a lot he does know." Her voice grew quiet and firm. "He knows what it's like to be hungry and afraid for his life."
I certainly didn't think that was anything worth knowing. But it did get the class to quit laughing. "We can all learn from each other," she went on. "Thank you, Phil, for telling us about your family's life in Poland."
On the playground that day, a group of boys from my class crowded around me. "What a story!" "You made it up, didn't you?" "How did you think of all that?"
"I don't know," I said, letting them believe what they wanted.
I wished I had made it up. I wished none of it were true or, at least, that I could forget everything—wipe it blank like Miss Fiebiger did with her blackboard at the end of the day.
I imagined a big eraser wiping away the whole shtetl from inside my head—making it all disappear. Blank. Then if any teacher ever asked me again, I could truthfully say, "I don't remember anything."
The only thing that made my day easier was when Pekka raised his hand and said his new bad word to Miss Fiebiger. I laughed louder than anyone. Miss Fiebiger gave me a stern look. But I kept laughing.
She raised her eyebrow at me. "Please stay after school, Phil."
CHAPTER 35
I hoped Miss Fiebiger wasn't angry with me. Maybe I'd been a little too loud. But was laughing such a terrible thing? She surprised me, though, with something totally different. "I'm sorry the class didn't believe you today, Phil."
"Oh, that's OK," I said, relieved.
"I guess it's hard for them to imagine such a different life," she went on.
"I guess so." I nodded. "Back in the shtetl, I never imagined a life like this."
"Your life was very hard back there," she said softly. "I don't know how you survived."
"People helped us," I said, wishing I could just go home and be done with the shtetl.
But she nodded for me to go on and looked truly interested. So I told her about Ana and the old mittens and socks she used to give us and the small silver cross that saved our lives. Then I found myself telling all about Beryl and his bakery and how he'd kept us from starving.
"What extraordinary people!" she said.
"Yes," I agreed. "But the Cossacks killed Ana and her whole family."
"Oh..." Her fingers flew to her lips. "I'm terribly sorry."
"Beryl is still there, though," I added.
She gazed at me. "Just imagine if he could see you now. He'd be so proud of you." She patted my shoulder.
I nodded. But I thought to myself, I'm not so sure he'd be proud of me. I do know, though, that he wouldn't recognize me. Miss Fiebiger doesn't know how different I looked back then—shaggy hair, raggedy old clothes. And not only that, I was different. Since coming here, I really had changed. Everything had. But I couldn't possibly explain all that to her.
I walked home slowly, needing time to think.
Here, the children would laugh if I told them that our Sabbath soup from Beryl was our one good meal a week. They'd snort and say, "That wasn't a meal! That was just soup, silly!" But I knew the truth. It had saved our lives.
Everything about that life was so different from this one. I only knew one thing for sure: Fivel did not belong here.
Yet, as if disagreeing, my heder teacher's parting words came sharply back at me, Fivel ... don't ever forget who you are. I could almost feel that stick of his threatening my head.
"I'm not Fivel anymore," I said out loud. "And I don't want to be either." Again, I wiped the whole shtetl from my head with that big eraser. All blank.
"I'm home," I called as I walked through the front door.
"Fivel!" Ma greeted me from the kitchen. That name made a sour taste in my mouth—immigrant, foreigner. "You're home late," she went on in Yiddish. "Hurry and get ready for Shabbos dinner."
"I will. But please, Ma, call me Phil." I knew I shouldn't make a fuss about it—especially right before Shabbos. But somehow, I couldn't stop myself. "We're in America now. And that's my name."
Ma gave a not-this-again look and wiped her hands on her apron. "To me you're still Fivel."
Pa gave me a raised eyebrow so I let it be. He was home from the farm. It was always good to have him with us. I went over and gave him a big hug.
We all gathered around the dinner table. In my head, I called each of us by our American names: Helen, Eva, Ruth, Ben, and me, Phil.
We need these names, I reasoned with Ma in my head. We're not in the shtetl anymore.
I looked at the table all set for Shabbos. So different from back there. Plenty of food—a real feast. Then I caught myself. At school, the children would laugh at me for saying that. "Phil doesn't know what a feast is. Ha, ha, ha."
For them, this was just another meal.
How could the same food be two such different things?
For the first time in a long time, I thought back to how I used to gaze into the Sabbath candle flames and imagine Pa's face. He'd been so far away back then—impossibly far.
Now I leaned over and hugged him extra hard. "Git Shabbos, Pa."
He hugged me back. "Git Shabbos, Fivel, my boy."
"Phil," I reminded him.
Pa ruffled my hair. "Phil, Fivel." He shrugged. "What difference does it make?"
"A lot," I told him. "I want to be Phil, a real American. Not Fivel from the shtetl." And I said Fivel and shtetl almost as if they were bad words.
A shadow of displeasure crossed Ma's face. But she calmly lit the candles and sang the Shabbos blessings.
I didn't want to think about the shtetl. It made me all mixed up inside. Until today, I hadn't even thought much about Beryl. And back there I'd promised to think of him every day. He had looked so pleased when I'd told him that.
But I'd been busy becoming American. I didn't have time. Now a terrible thought came to me. What if somehow, when I'd been erasing everything, I'd erased Beryl's face? That's all I had of him—a picture in my head. What if it was gone?
I gazed into the candle flames, closed my eyes, and got that same floating feeling I used to get with Pa. Beryl, I want to see you. But just as I feared, his face was gone.
Please, Beryl. I tried again. Please. But still nothing. I must've really erased him.
I squeezed my eyes tighter. Beryl, I need to see you. I don't want to forget you. And suddenly, there he was—just as always—with kindness filling his whole face. His smile seemed to say, Your new haircut and new clothes don't fool me one bit. You're still my Fivel.
My Fivel. That's just what he'd say, too. Not Phil. I suddenly realized, never Phil.
Quickly, before I lost the picture, I wrapped my arms around him. Git Shabbos, Beryl. And I thought to myself maybe right now he's thinking of me. I opened my eyes.
Ma gave me a rare, tender look almost as if she'd seen me hugging him right inside my head. "Git Shabbos, Fivel," she said. And strangely, it didn't bother me. In fact, though I can't explain why, being called Fivel suddenly seemed awfully important.
"Git Shabbos, Ma." I patted her hand, but it was more like sorry or maybe even thank you. I took a piece of Shabbos bread and ate slowly.
Now my heder teacher's words made real sense. Don't ever forget who you are. But who was I? Phil or Fivel? It was all too confusing. I only knew one thing for sure. There was a great big ocean in between those two names. And no bridge.
But, as if disagreeing, the bridge to America popped into my head—just the way it used to back in the shtetl. I could see it as clearly as Beryl's face. My own bridge. And there I was walking on it. It made no sense, but somehow it did make sense. I could imagine myself walking back and forth across that bridge my whole life.
Maybe that's who I was. A boy with two worlds inside and a bridge that no one else could see.
The next day at school, boys on the playground were teasing Pekka again. "Pekka, Pekka." They made clucking sounds.
Later, when they'd finally left him alone, I went up to him.
"You need an American name," I told him, just as my Uncle Ralph had told me. "From now on, you'll be Peter." I grinned, hoping for a big smile back.
But he shook his head, ragged blond hair falling in his eyes. "No. I'm Pekka—like my pa and his pa. Not Peter. It's, it's not..." He struggled to explain. "It's not right." His face turned flat and lonely. "They're dead."
"Oh," I said, not knowing what else to say. Suddenly I really wanted to do something for him. "Well..." I tried again, "next time the boys teach you a bad word, I'll give you a wink—like this." I showed him. "Then you'll know not to use it in class."
Pekka pushed the hair out of his eyes and smiled. "Thanks."
"That's OK," I told him. I could almost feel Beryl beaming at me, even from a world away. "I know what it's like," I added. "I'm an immigrant, too."
* * *
AUTHOR'S NOTE
I was inspired to write Bridge to America after hearing Phil Myzel share rich and lively details of his remarkable life with my older daughter Laurel's sixth-grade Sunday School class in the fall of 1997. Although Phil is now a white-haired man, I could easily imagine him as a young boy. He still has a spring to his step, a mischievous sense of humor, and a vibrant, youthful spirit.
Now in his early nineties (he's really not sure how old he is and insists that he's still young), Phil continues to be active in the Duluth community. He's a retired newspaper photographer, reporter, and businessman. He worked his way from selling newspapers on the street corner to office boy and on up at the Duluth News Tribune. He's also a devoted family man with two daughters and three grandchildren. His beloved wife of 67 years, Pearl, passed away in 2002.
Phil regularly attends Torah study and services at Temple Israel and also sings in Temple Choir. For many years, he has blown the shofar (ceremonial ram's horn) for the High Holidays.
I interviewed him extensively as I worked on this book. Although this story has been fictionalized, all of it is based on Phil Myzel's life. Most of the events did happen. Beryl, Ana, Tomas, Mira, Yusig, the shoemaker, and the heder teacher are all based on real people.
This photo was taken in the shtetl, with the family wearing borrowed clothes. Top row, left to right: Hannah, Fivel, Ma. Bottom row, left to right: Benyomin, Rifka, Kvola.
Occasionally, I had to "glue" some facts together with some fiction. And at times, I stretched or altered a fact for the sake of the story. For instance, there was actually a rich man who wanted to take Fivel. But he wasn't mean like the man in the story. He just wanted to help Ma because he saw how hard she was struggling. But Fivel's mother did firmly refuse to give him up. As in the story, Ma's daughter Rifka was living with Pa's parents. Fivel knew nothing about Rifka until they were reunited before their trip to America. It was after about seven years that Pa sent his family money, but it was not sent in a picture frame. The money was hidden in the bottom of a Quaker Oats cereal box. It was actually a neighbor lady who received her husband's photo in a wooden frame. She was so enraged that she threw it into the fire only to discover that there was money hidden underneath, bursting into flames.
Fivel (left) and Benyomin reunited with their father, Laib Isaac Myzel, in America.
Kvola was beaten for stealing a piece of white bread. And Beryl the baker did save many lives by adding extra food to many families' Sabbath soup pots. Fivel's neighbor Ana did give Fivel's family a small silver cross for their door—which saved their lives. Sadly Ana's entire family was killed. Benyomin's life was saved by a Cossack's hat. Fivel was actually almost thrown overboard halfway to the United States. And he did make up his own birthday once he arrived.
Phil in Duluth in his early twenties
Ma often told Fivel that he should grow up to be like Beryl with a big heart. Phil never saw Beryl again but he still remembers his kind face and gets tears in his eyes when he recounts the food Beryl put into all their soup pots. Phil himself has a big heart and does his best to include everyone.
When he was a young boy in the Duluth Public Schools, the other children did tease Phil and didn't believe his stories of life in the shtetl. There was no other immigrant, such as Pekka, in his class. Phil was the only one who got teased for being an immigrant. Back then, without much exposure to people from other countries and cultures, his classmates found his stories too strange to be true.
Pearl and Phil Myzel on their fiftieth wedding anniversary
Now, years later, I hope that readers will not only believe his story but will think of Fivel when they meet a new immigrant or when they hear about children in some part of the world who are struggling to survive in a war-torn country. Phil says that he was very much like any of the starving children in rags seen on the TV news. Each one has a story worth hearing that is different and remarkable in its own way.
* * *
HISTORICAL AFTERWORD
Poland, the country where Fivel spent his early life, has been occupied and controlled by surrounding countries at various times in its history. During Fivel's youth, Poland was controlled by three different countries at three different times. Fivel was born some time between 1911 and 1913. Russia controlled Poland until 1914 and had controlled it ever since 1795. Between 1914 and 1918, during World War I, the Germans occupied and controlled Poland. Fivel remembers that the Germans brought sacks of beans and other dried food to his shtetl, which helped keep the people from starving. He was probably about five years old at that time.
In 1918 the Germans were defeated and Poland gained independence. A Polish government was established. However, the government was very weak and Russia, which was in a civil war, hoped to regain power over it. At that time, Fivel was probably about six years old.
In 1920, when the story begins, the shtetl where Fivel lived was within Polish borders. The city of Vilna was the closest city to Fivel's shtetl. At that time, Vilna was part of Poland. However, it should be noted that Vilna (which is presently called Vilnius) is now part of Lithuania, which became an independent country in 1991. Vilnius is actually the capital of Lithuania.
When the story takes place, most Jews in Poland weren't fully accepted as Polish citizens. Legally Jews in Poland were citizens, but they suffered a lot of discrimination. "True" Polish citizens were Catholic and were native Polish speakers. Fivel's native language was Yiddish, the language of Jews in Eastern Europe. He also knew Polish (and some Russian). But since he was Jewish, not Catholic, he, like most Polish Jews, was treated as a second-class citizen.
At that time in history, Jews in some parts of Eastern Europe were told where they could and couldn't live. Most Jews lived in little shtetls and were very poor. (Fivel's family was particularly poor.) Although Jewish boys in the shtetl went to heder and studied the Torah (the Five Books of Moses) and learned to read and write Hebrew, most were not educated in other subjects. They were too poor to afford a higher education. Most Polish peasants were also very poor and were totally illiterate. At that time, Poland was a very poor country.
Meanwhile, in Russia in 1918, there was a civil war going on. The Red Russians (communist Russians) were fighting against the White Russians (those supporting the establishment). Both were trying to gain power over Russia and also over Poland.
Fivel's shtetl (which doesn't exist anymore) was located on a main road called Ragotke Road. The Red army and the White army were both trying to gain control of that road and also of the large bridge nearby, which would give them access to other parts of Poland. That's why so much fighting took place in and near Fivel's shtetl.
What about the Cossacks? The Cossacks were groups of Russian people who banded together and became fierce and brutal soldiers. Since they were so fierce, the White Russian army paid them to fight for them. During 1920 (when the story begins) many battles occurred near Fivel's shtetl. The Red Russians, the White Russians, the Poles, and the Lithuanians were all fighting for control of that area. Sometimes Cossacks fought for the White army. Sometimes the Cossacks changed loyalties (if they were paid to do so) and fought for the Red army. During that time, thousands of Jews were killed by the Cossacks and by the White army in terrible pogroms or massacres. Although most pogroms were in the Ukraine, there were some in Poland where Fivel lived.
It's no wonder that Jews were leaving for America—a place of religious and economic freedom—where people, no matter what their religious or economic background, could become citizens, work to improve their economic status, and enjoy all the rights and privileges of citizenship. The United States was, and still is, considered the land of opportunity for people from all over the world who want to share the freedoms that United States citizens enjoy.
* * *
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I wish I could acknowledge all the people who have helped me with this book. However, there have been so many children and adults who have shown an interest, encouraged me, and cheered me on during the seven years that I've worked on it that I couldn't possibly name them all, although I am grateful to all of them. There are some, however, I must name.
