We're in America Now. Fred Amram
The right column is printed in Hebrew and the left column shows a German translation. A few black-and-white pictures help stimulate my imagination.
Years later, when my maternal grandmother, my Omi, joins us for her first Seder in the States, she cries throughout the evening, mourning the many who will never again experience a holy day. Omi mourns for two of her daughters, their husbands and her granddaughter, all murdered by the Nazis. She mourns three brothers and a sister and their families, all butchered. She grieves for the dead and she is unable to celebrate this moment of life, this holiday of hope.
Tonight Papa feels festive and positive. He talks about our escape, father, mother and son, via Holland and Belgium and two weeks at sea. It had been a long, trying journey, an exodus out of slavery like that of Moses himself. Now we are celebrating freedom at the Seder table.
Mutti lights two candles and recites the appropriate blessings from memory. We all know the blessings for matzo and wine. In my embarrassed, childish voice, chanting in Hebrew, I recite the four questions asked by the youngest participant at every Seder throughout the world, now and in times long past. I begin, “Why is this night different from all other nights?”
“We were once slaves in Egypt.” Papa reads from the Haggadah.
In another part Papa reads, “You shall remind your son that he was once a slave in Egypt.” He asks me questions about what I remember of Germany and retells stories about our former life, lest I forget.
Every few minutes Mutti jumps up to stir something on the stove. It’s an old stove but Mutti has planned a special Passover dinner. She apologizes for what she believes to be a Spartan meal. “That’s all we can afford.”
Papa assures her that it will be fine. “Much better than any meal we had last year under the Nazis.”
I don’t recognize any of the smells. I’m very hungry.
Mutti has gathered the Passover symbols on a makeshift Seder plate. There is a lamb bone to remind us of the tenth plague—the killing of the Egyptian firstborn. “And the angel of death passed over the homes of the Hebrews.” Somehow Mutti translates that story into, “You, as the firstborn, have a great responsibility.” I’m more afraid of this unknown responsibility than of the angel of death.
Mutti has made charoses, a mixture of apples, nuts, red wine and spices. The charoses represents the mortar the Hebrew slaves were forced to use when they built structures for the Egyptians. Papa and I like the sweetness of the charoses and take several portions—but we only say the blessing once.
Papa tricks me into taking a large bite of the bitter herb that represents the bitterness of slavery. I chomp on the fresh horseradish root and almost immediately begin to cry. Mutti gives me a handkerchief to blow my runny nose and Papa gives me more charoses to cool my mouth. Mutti scolds Papa.
Papa, a small wiry man with a huge baritone voice, sings the prayers in Hebrew as though he were on stage. He sings with all the energy he can muster. This is, for him, a celebration. Five feet one inch tall. Not a millimeter more. Thin and muscular from slave labor in the Tiefbau—enforced road construction. No more than a fourth-grade education. Thirty-nine years old. Papa knows how to celebrate freedom.
Papa sings about Moses and the prophets and about freedom then and now. He sings prayers of gratitude to God in Hebrew and in German. This small man sings with a mighty voice.
“Shhh, shhh,” says my mother. “Shhh, the window is open. The neighbors will hear.”
My father rises from his chair and stretches to his full height. “I’ll sing as loud as I like,” he says in German. “Let them hear. WE’RE IN AMERICA NOW!”
XIII. A REFUGEE AT THE 1939-1940 NEW YORK WORLD’S FAIR
MUTTI’S ENGLISH, learned in high school, and the Wörterbuch, the Langenscheidt Dictionary she bought at a book store, gets us through life. She does the shopping, translates the signs at subway stations and helps Papa with the janitor’s paperwork.
When we move next to the bakery, I transfer to the local school’s kindergarten for the few weeks left in the school year. The change is difficult because a whole new group of children have to learn about my poor English skills and my funny accent.
Each morning Papa goes to work at the bakery. Each evening he brings home some rolls and news of the outside world. Only six months in America, we cannot afford a radio or newspapers. Papa’s co-workers share what news they know. Everyone is talking about the war in Europe. Each day Papa learns more English words from his co-workers. One evening each week Mutti and Papa go to the HIAS for a class where they learn English.
We sit around the dinner table, relishing our soup thickened with inexpensive vegetables from a pushcart on Second Avenue and supplemented by rolls covered with black dots. We always speak German at dinner. In response to my question about the black dots, Mutti explains, “These are called Mohnsamen,” using their German name.
“At the bakery,” Papa explains, “they are called ‘poppy seeds.’” Then he adds his little pun. “Let’s call them ‘Papa seeds.’”
“That’s silly,” says Mutti. I don’t think much of Papa’s puns either, but I like that he’s cheerful. Mutti’s conversation makes me feel that life is hard.
All through dinner, Papa picks up a few black dots from the oilcloth tablecover and swallows them. “Mmmmm, these ‘Papa’ seeds are tasty.”
One day at dinner Papa announces that he has news. In June he will take me to the World’s Fair. “At the bakery everyone is talking about the World’s Fair. During our break we looked at some photos in the Daily News. It looks spectacular and there are buildings from every country. Hardly anyone at work has been there because they can’t afford to go. But my son is going. It will be very educational.”
“My teacher has been to the World’s Fair,” I announce. “She went two times last summer and she tells us about it often. She says they have dangerous rides and food from many countries and people in costumes and …”
“That’s ridiculous,” Mutti grumps as she stands up to clear the table. Papa and I each grab an extra ‘Papa’ seed roll before they are put away. “That’s ridiculous,” Mutti repeats. “We barely have money for clothes. How can we afford entertainment?”
“It’s not entertainment,” Papa says quietly. “We won’t go on any rides and we’ll bring sandwiches from home. It will be educational. My foreman took his children and said they learned about the whole world. Freddy will learn about the whole world too. One day he will even graduate from a university.” Mutti has told me about doctors and lawyers who go to a university to learn stuff most people don’t know. I hate the responsibility Papa is placing on my shoulders, but a trip to the fair sounds exciting. I won’t worry about university just now.
Mutti allows that she had read about the New York World’s Fair when we were still in Germany. She says that big corporations have buildings there with science displays. I ask Mutti to explain the word “science.” She talks about chemistry and engineering using words I’ve never heard before like “Wissenschaft” and “Technik.” Mutti has read that many countries have art exhibitions. Mutti loves art and museums. She keeps reminding us that she is a highly cultured person.
“And Freddy will be highly cultured too.” And with that Papa closes the discussion.
Papa schedules three paid vacation days in late June of 1940, right after school is out. Weather permitting, we will go on Monday. Mutti has no vacation coming so she will have to work. Papa asks his workmates how to get to Flushing Meadows, the site of the fair.
It rains on Monday so we go on Tuesday. Mutti packs a lunch. Papa takes enough money for the subway ride, admission and drinks. He tells Mutti that he refuses to carry a thermos all day. Mutti makes him promise to bring home a few postcards with pictures of the fair.
Every