After Bread: A Story of Polish Emigrant Life
"On the waves of the wide ocean rode the German steamer Blucher on its passage from Hamburg to New York..."
From: 1855 C.E. To: 1897 C.E.
Location: Battery Park, New York City, New York
Note: This article has been excerpted from a larger work in the public domain and shared here due to its historical value. It may contain outdated ideas and language that do not reflect TOTA’s opinions and beliefs.
From After Bread: A Story of Polish Emigrant Life to America by Henryk Sienkiewicz, 1897.
On the waves of the wide ocean rode the German steamer Blucher on its passage from Hamburg to New York.
It had been on its way four days. Two days ago it had passed the green coast of Ireland and reached the broad Atlantic. From the deck, as far as the eye could reach, could be seen the gray and green surface, plowed up in furrows and hollows, rocking heavily, foaming in places, in the distance more dark, where the water joined the sky in a white, cloudy mist.
The reflection from the clouds fell sometimes upon the water, and upon this pearly background was drawn with sharp outlines the figure of the steamer. The ship, with its bow pointing to the west, climbed to the crest of the billows, and then, as if going to drown itself, sank in the trough of the sea; sometimes it disappeared from view, sometimes it was lifted so high on the top of the waves that part of its keel could be seen — still pressed steadily- onward. The waves rolled toward it, and it rushed toward the waves and cut them with its prow. Behind it chased, like a gigantic snake, a wide strip of foaming water; several sea-gulls followed in its wake, circling in the air with their wild cries.
The wind was fresh; and the vessel proceeded under half -steam with all its sails set. The weather promised to become finer. In places, between the broken clouds, could be seen patches of blue, constantly changing form. Since the Blucher had left the port of Hamburg it had encountered strong winds, but no storms. The winds were westerly, but at times they ceased; then the sails flapped and fluttered, to be shortly filled out like the breast of the swan. The sailors, in their blue woolen sweaters, dragged the rope of the lower yard, as they monotonously cried "Yo-hoy! yo-hoy!" bending and straightening themselves, keeping time with the song; and their cries mingled with the boatswain's whistle and the puffing of the funnel.
To enjoy the fine weather the passengers had come out on the deck. In the stern of the ship could be observed the black overcoats and hats of the cabin passengers; in the forward part was a motley crowd of emigrants from the steerage. Some of them sat on benches, smoking short pipes, some were lying down,others were leaning against the rail, looking into the water.
There were several women with children in their arms and tin platters fastened to their belts; several young men promenaded from the bow to the bridge, trying to keep their equilibrium with poor success. They sang "Wo ist das deutsche Vaterland!" and, perhaps, they thought that they would never see their "Vaterland" again; but, notwithstanding this, they did not seem downcast.
Among this crowd were two who were most sad and who kept apart from the others: an old man and a maiden. They did not understand German and felt very lonely among strangers. They were Polish peasants.
The man's name was Lorenz Toporek, and the girl, Mary, was his daughter. They were coming to America, and had just now, for the first time, plucked up courage to venture upon deck. Upon their faces, pale from seasickness, was painted fear, mingled with curiosity. With timid eyes they looked upon their fellow-passengers, the sailors, the ship, the huge smokestack, puffing violently, the formidable waves, throwing spray on the deck, and they dared not speak.
With one hand Lorenz held the rail, and with the other he held on his head his old-fashioned four-cornered cap, so that the wind would not blow it off; and Mary stood close by her father, and as often as the ship lurched from side to side she grasped him, exclaiming faintly from fear. Shortly the old man broke the silence:
"Mary."
"What is it, father?"
"Do you see?"
"I do."
"Do you marvel?"
"I do indeed."
…Lorenz Toporek pondered. Why was he going to America, and how did it happen? Six months ago, last summer, his cow broke into a neighbor's clover, and they seized and took it to the pound. The farmer who did this wanted three rubles damages; Lorenz did not want to pay.
They went to law; the suit was prolonged; the farmer not only wanted damages, but also costs for the cow’s keep, and the costs grew every day. Lorenz was obstinate, thought this was unfair, and did not wish to part with his money. He spent a large amount on the lawsuit, and it dragged and dragged. The costs constantly grew larger, and at last Lorenz was defeated.
He owed for his cow a large amount, and because he now had no money to pay it, they took his horse and arrested him for resisting the officer. Toporek struggled to get out of his difficulty. It needed both his horse and his own labor to harvest his crop. He was late in housing his grain; the rains fell and it sprouted in the sheaves, and he saw that, for the small damage of his cow, his crops were ruined, his property was scattered, and for the coming winter starvation stared them in the face.
Having been previously a fairly well-to-do farmer, he became despondent and began to drink. At the inn he met a German, who pretended to be a "flax-buyer, but who was in reality an emigrant steamship agent. This German expatiated on the wonders and marvels of America. He promised him for nothing more land than the largest farm in Lipintse — together with woods and pasture lands, so that the peasant's eyes beamed with anticipation. He believed, yet doubted, but the Jewish milk-merchant, who accompanied the German, said that the American government gave to everybody as much land as they could use. The Jew had been so informed by his nephew.
The German exhibited a larger roll of money than the peasant, or even the landlord, had ever seen before. They tempted the peasant till they secured him. Why should he remain here? But for the damages that he had sustained through his cow he could have kept a helper. Will he go to rack and ruin? Will he take a staff in his hand and sing, like the beggars under the church, "Holy heavenly Lady, angelic, praise be to thee?" This he could not do. He struck hands with the German, had a mass said to St. Michael, took his daughter — and lo! he was coming to America.
The journey was not as pleasant as he expected. In Hamburg they robbed him of the greater part of his money; on the ship he was crowded with the rest of the steerage passengers. The rolling of the ship and the vast expanse of the ocean frightened him. No one could understand him, nor he any one. He was bundled around like baggage; they pushed him aside like the stone by the wayside; the Germans made fun of him. At dinner-time, when they all pressed with their tin pans to the cook, who was distributing food, they pushed him to the end of the line, so that sometimes he did not get enough to eat, and was hungry.
On the steamer he felt strange, lonely, and sad. He felt that no one cared for him except God. In the presence of his daughter he tried to look cheerful, cocked his cap on one side, called her attention to everything new, marvelled himself, but trusted in nothing. At moments he was apprehensive that perhaps these "heathen," as he called his fellow-travelers, would cast him into the sea or command him to change his religion, or to sign some paper, perhaps, even a "cyrograf!" — to sell his soul to the devil.
The steamer went forward day and night over the unfathomable sea — shook, groaned, and churned the water into foam, breathed as a dragon, and at night emitted a long tail of fiery sparks, so that it seemed to him like some suspicious and uncanny force. These childish fears, although he did not confess them, oppressed his heart; for this Polish peasant, torn from his native nest, was truly a helpless child, and verily under the care of God alone.
His head and heart could not contain all that he saw and felt; so it was not strange that as he was sitting on the coil of rope his head was bent under his burden of heavy trouble and uncertainty. The sea-breezes sang in his ears and kept repeating, “Lipintse! Lipintse!" Sometimes it whistled like a Polish flute. The sun spoke to him: “How do you do, Lorenz? I was in Lipintse." But the screw of the propeller churned the water more violently and the smokestack sent forth great clouds of smoke, and these two were like some evil spirits who carried him farther and farther from Lipintse…
The night was falling blind and still. Suddenly, among the stillness from the far-off horizon, came the echoes of mysterious voices. They were like the heavy breathing of approaching giants. At times it seemed as if some one called from the darkness, and from a distance came a chorus of voices, immeasurably sad and mournful, as if repining and lamenting. These calls seemed to come from the boundless infinitude of the gray night.
The sailors, hearing the murmuring of these voices, say that it is the god of storm calling the winds from hell...
The storm raged forty-eight hours, then it abated. Mary and Lorenz felt encouraged to venture on deck again; but when they saw the immense waves rolling yet, dark and angry, the huge mountains of water approaching the ship, and the gulfs beneath, they again thought that only a divine hand, or some other power not human, could save them from those depths.
At last it cleared up. Day after day passed, and they could see only water and water without end, sometimes green, sometimes blue, merging into the sky. Upon that sky there frequently floated small, bright clouds, which reddened at evening, and laid themselves down to sleep in the far west. The ship chased them on the water. Lorenz, indeed, thought that perhaps the sea would never end, but took courage and decided to ask.
Once, taking off his cap and bowing low to a passing sailor, he said:
"Your honor, will we soon arrive?"
For a wonder, the sailor did not burst out laughing, but stood and listened. On his weather-beaten face could be seen an expression, as if he was recalling the past, and was struggling to see it clearly. Then, speaking in German, he said:
"Was?"
"Will we soon arrive, your honor?"
"Two days, two days," said the sailor in Polish, with difficulty, at the same time holding up two fingers.
"I humbly thank you."
"Where do you come from?"
"From Lipintse."
"Was ist das Lipintse?"
Mary, who had come forward when they were speaking, blushed deeply, and lifting her eyes bashfully, said in a modest voice:
"We are from Poznan."
The sailor looked musingly at a brass nail in the rail; then he looked at the girl, on her bright flaxen hair, and one could have seen by his bronzed face that he was affected. Shortly he said gravely:
"I am from Dantzic — I understand Polish — I am Kaszub — your bruder, but that was long ago. Jetzt bin ich Deutsch."
After he had said that he turned his back, and lifting the end of a rope, cried out, sailor-fashion "Yo-hoy!"and began pulling on it.
From that time, whenever he saw Lorenz or Mary he smiled at them in a friendly manner. They were very glad that they had found one kindly soul on this German ship, and that their journey would soon be over.
The next morning when they went on the deck a strange sight met their eyes. They saw something floating on the water, and when they came nearer they saw it was a large, red barrel, rocking gently on the waves; in the distance, reaching out, were a number of others. The sea and air were veiled in a slight mist; they looked mild and silvery, the surface was smooth and still, and as far as the eye could reach could be observed more barrels. There were great quantities of sea-gulls following the ship with their cries. There was unusual commotion on the deck. The sailors had changed their clothes, some of them washed the deck, and others polished the brass work. From the mast they hung a flag, and from the stern another.
All the passengers seemed cheerful and animated, and every one came on deck. Some brought up their baggage and began to strap it.
Seeing all this confusion Mary said: "Now we shall certainly reach the land."
They became more cheerful. Then in the west could be discerned Sandy Hook, then an island with a building on it, and then, in the distance, something like dense, fog-like clouds or smoke, stretched on the water, indistinct, far, mixed, formless. At this sight a great babel of voices arose; they all pointed with their fingers; the ship whistled shrilly as if from joy.
"What is that?" inquired Lorenz.
"New York," answered Kaszub, who was standing near by.
Then the mist and smoke lifted and disappeared, and in the background, as the ship was cutting through the silvery water, could be seen the outlines of houses, roofs and chimneys; the church steeples and high buildings were painted more clearly against the blue. In the lower part of the city could be seen forests of masts, from which floated thousands of vari-colored flags, which swayed in the breeze like flowers upon the meadow.
The ship came nearer and nearer — the beautiful city arose as if from the water. Lorenz, who was filled with astonishment and joy, took off his cap, opened wide his mouth and looked, then said to his daughter:
"Mary."
"Well?"
"Do you see it?"
"I do."
"Do you marvel?"
"I do marvel."
Lorenz not only wondered, but he coveted. Seeing the green shores on both sides of the bay, the darker green of the uplands, the cultivated lawns and grounds, he spoke again:
"Bless the Lord! If they would give me land near the city, with that meadow, it would be nearer to the market, and I could drive the cow and hogs to the fair. There must be multitudes of people here. In Poland I was a peasant, but here I shall be a large land-owner."
At this moment the long stretches of Staten Island spread out before him in all its beauty. Lorenz, seeing groves of trees, said again:
"l shall bow low to the government officer, shall speak deftly to him and ask him for about eighty acres of these woods for my ‘inheritance.' In the morning I will send my hired man into the city with the wood. Glory to the Highest! for I now see that my German did not cheat me."
Mary also was dreaming of "inheritance," and she did not know why a song that the bridesmaids sing to the grooms in Lipintse came into her head. In this song the maidens tell the young men that all they possess is their tasseled caps and embroidered coats. Perhaps she intends to sing such a song to poor John, when he arrives — when she will be rich.
Meanwhile the quarantine tug had arrived. Four or five people came on board. Then came another boat from the city, bringing agents from hotels and boarding-houses, guides, money-changers and railroad agents. Then arose a great clamor; they pushed and jostled among the passengers. Lorenz and Mary were caught in this vortex and knew not what to do.
Kaszub, the friendly sailor, helped the old man to change his money; he obtained forty-seven dollars in silver for all that he had. Before this had ended the ship came so close to the city that they could see not only the houses, but even the people at Battery Park; then it passed near a number of vessels, large and small, and at last reached the wharf and glided into a narrow dock.
Their journey was ended.
The passengers began to swarm from the ship, like bees from a hive; they crowded the narrow gangway and collected in groups on the dock: first-class, then second, and at last the steerage passengers loaded with their luggage. When Lorenz and Mary, pushed by the crowd, reached the exit, there Kaszub met them and squeezing Lorenz's hand said:
"Bruder, I wish you good luck, and to you, miss, God help you."
"God repay you," they both answered, but there was no time for further speech. The crowd pushed them forward on the gangway to the large inclosure.
The customs officer with his silver shield pinched and prodded their bundles, said "All right," and pointed to the doorway. They went out and found themselves on the streets.
"Father, what shall we do now?" asked Mary.
"We should wait here. The German said that a government officer will come and ask for us."
So they stood, leaning against the wall, waiting for him, with the noise of the great unknown city surrounding them. They had never seen anything like it before. The streets ran straight and wide, with crowds of people upon them, like at fair time in Poland; in the middle were street cars and on the sides wagons, carriages and omnibuses. Around them they heard a strange kind of speech; the workmen and drivers cried out to each other. Often some black people with short woolly hair would pass them. Seeing them, Lorenz and Mary devoutly crossed themselves.
This city appeared strange, full of din and noise, whistles, the rattling of wagons, and the cries and shouts of the people. Everybody went so quickly that they looked as if they were either chasing, or trying to escape from, somebody, and besides, what an ant-hill of people, what strange faces — some dark, some bronzed, some olive. There they stood near the docks, where ships were loading and unloading, where it was very crowded and busy; the wagons rattled, the trucks groaned, and the noise reminded them of a sawmill.
In this way passed an hour — another — and they still stood by the wall, waiting for the officer.
A strange sight they presented to the large city of New York — this Polish peasant, with his long grayish hair and four-cornered lambskin cap, and this maiden from Lipintse, dressed in a dark-blue cotton dress, and strings of beads around her neck.
Yet people passed them without looking at them. New faces or strange dresses do not surprise New Yorkers.
Another hour passed; the sky became overcast; rain and sleet began to fall; a cold moist wind came from the water.
They still stood, waiting for the officer.
The peasant nature is patient; but somehow uneasiness began to creep into their souls.
They had felt lonely on the ship among strangers, and on the wide watery wastes sick and fearful. They had prayed to God that he would lead them, as lost children, through the dangers of the sea. They had thought that as soon as they landed their woes would be ended. Now they had arrived, were in the midst of this great city, but in this city with its noise and din they suddenly felt that they were still more lonely and afraid than they had been on the steamer.
The officer had not arrived. What would they do if he should never come, if the German had deceived them?
At this thought their poor peasant hearts quaked with fear. What would they do? Simply — perish.
Meanwhile the wind blew through their clothing and the rain beat on their faces.
"Mary, are you cold?" inquired Lorenz.
"I am, father," replied she.
Another hour was tolled by the city clock. It was getting dusky. The crowds were becoming thinner, and the dock laborers were leaving; the lamps on the streets were lighted, and a great sea of light flooded the city. Gradually Battery Park became deserted. The Emigrant Office was closed.
They stood waiting for the officer.
At last night had fallen and the docks became silent. From time to time the black funnels of the ferryboats sent forth clouds of sparks, which went out in the darkness, and the waves splashed against the stone embankment. Sometimes was heard the song of a drunken sailor, returning to his ship; the lamp lights began to flicker in the mist. They waited.
Even if they concluded not to wait, where could they go? what could they do? where could they turn, and where could they lay their weary heads? The cold pierced them sharply, and hunger gnawed at their vitals. If they had only a roof above their heads, for they were wet to the skin! Ah! the officer did not come — he would not come, for such an officer did not exist. The German was a steamship ticket agent, who received commissions from his sales, and cared for nothing more.
Lorenz felt that his feet were getting numb, that some great weight pressed upon him, as if the wrath of God hung over him.
He waited patiently as only a peasant can. The voice of his daughter, shivering from the cold, awoke him, as if from a dream.
"Father."
"Still. No mercy for us."
"Let us return to Lipintse."
"Don't be foolish."
"My God! my God!" silently whispered Mary.
Lorenz was overcome with grief.
"My poor child! If God only had mercy on thee!"
But she did not hear. Leaning her head against the wall, she closed her eyes and fell into an uneasy, feverish sleep; and in her dreams she seemed to see and hear, pictured as in a frame, Lipintse and the sound of her John's voice, singing mockingly:
"What a fine lady! What a fine lady! Thy trousseau is only a garland of daisies."
The first light of day fell upon the water, upon the masts, and upon the Emigrant building.
In this gray light could be seen two figures, sleeping by the wall, with blue, pale faces, covered with snow and motionless, as if dead. But in their book of woe only the first leaves were turned.
Sienkiewicz, Henryk. After Bread: A Story of Polish Emigrant Life to America. R.F. Fenno, 1897.
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