Letters from Rifka: Letters 9–21

“My uncle drove a cart,” I said, jabbering nervously as he walked me through the streets of Antwerp.

And I shall know some savor of elation
Amidst the cares, the woes, and the vexation...
—Pushkin

And I shall know some savor of elation
Amidst the cares, the woes, and the vexation...
—Pushkin

And I shall know some savor of elation
Amidst the cares, the woes, and the vexation...
—Pushkin

And I shall know some savor of elation
Amidst the cares, the woes, and the vexation...
—Pushkin

I ache to smell the kindled Sabbath candles and to hear Papa and Mama’s voices raised in prayer. Just to hold them and be held by them once more. I miss them so much.

She looks very much like the HIAS lady in Warsaw: little and energetic, with an unruly silver bun on top of her head.

We numbered many in the ship,
Some spread the sails, some pulled, together,
The mighty oars; ’twas placid weather.

There are dances at night and the passengers whirl about on the parquet floor.

The ocean is so big; everywhere you look in every direction swells this dark, billowing water.

I lowered my eyes for modesty’s sake, but I couldn’t help the smile that tugged at my lips, Tovah.

I chant the songs I loved of yore,
And on the sunned and rocky shore
I dry my robes, all wet and clinging.

Our ship, which seemed so large and safe when first I boarded, barely survived the fury of this storm.
The tempest started during the night while we slept.

I had dreams of pogroms, of cossacks on their horses, snapping whips at me, pointing rifles.

The ship plummeted from beneath me and I hit my head on the metal rail.

I see Bubbe Ruth at the rear of the long house, huddled beside her little stove, sipping tea from the samovar.

They are holding me, detaining me on Ellis Island, at the hospital for contagious diseases. They won’t let me go to Mama and Papa.

Someone found an interpreter for me. I answered their questions, I read from a book to prove I am not a simpleton, but they kept delaying my approval.

My path is bleak—before me stretch my morrows:
A tossing sea, foreboding toil and sorrows.

My path is bleak—before me stretch my morrows:
A tossing sea, foreboding toil and sorrows.

“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Ilya,” he answered. His voice came out thin and high and frail.

I’m lean and shaven, but alive;
...And there is hope that I may thrive.
—Pushkin

Saul was dressed like a dandy. He wore knickers and a stiff shirt. A cap sat cocked on his head.

“Smarty,” he said. He lifted his hand to tousle my hair, something he used to do when I had blond curls, back in Russia.

They say ill things of the last days of Autumn:
But I, friend reader, not a one will hear;
Her quiet beauty touches me as surely
As does a wistful child, to no one dear....
—Pushkin

Oh, mournful season that delights the eyes,
Your farewell beauty captivates my spirit.

I love the pomp of Nature’s fading dyes,
The forests, garmented in gold and purple,
The rush of noisy wind, and the pale skies
Half-hidden by the clouds in darkling billows,
And the rare sun-ray and the early frost,
And threats of grizzled Winter, heard and lost
—Pushkin

This heart its leave of you has taken;
Accept, my distant dear, love’s close,
As does the wife death leaves forsaken,
As does the exile's comrade, shaken
And mute, who clasps him once, and goes.
—Pushkin

Ilya’s uncle cowered under the giant shadow of my family. When Nurse Bowen passed him, his hair lifted off his high forehead in the little breeze that she made.

Mr. Fargate lifted the stamp, the deportation stamp.