LITMIR.BIZ

       Sitta’s (Mutti’s) identity card

      “Name?” asks the uniformed man looking at Papa.

      “Meinhardt,” answers my father.

      “Milton” says the official and my father becomes an American.

      “Name?” asks the uniformed man pointing at Mutti.

      “Sitta,” answers my mother.

      “Sara” says the tall, uniformed immigration official.

      Mutti rants and cries. Under the Nazis, each German identity card assigned to Jewish men was stamped “Israel” and each document identifying Jewish women was stamped “Sara.” Israel and Sara were middle names assigned to all Jews and used as a pejorative. All German Jewish women were forced to use the same name, Sara. Mutti shouts that she might as well go to the concentration camp if she is to be renamed “Sara.” There is no consoling her. The official, a minor bureaucrat with no intent to do harm, writes “Sitta” in his book and on Mutti’s immigration papers. And so, Sitta, the most anti-German in the family, the one who argued for years that we should escape, the one who wants most to be American and who already speaks a little English, Sitta, retains her German identity.

       IX. THREE TO A BED

      ALTHOUGH WE’VE BEEN BRANDED with official American names, we’re still lost German Jews in a warehouse of other confused immigrants and refugees. Everyone speaks English to us. Mutti, who studied French and English in high school, translates the signs and whatever she overhears. Many of the words are not part of her classroom vocabulary, but she guides us efficiently. We move from table to table until we come to the immigration-paper checker. Mutti shows our papers and answers questions.

      The clerk waves us to another desk and we move on. I’m afraid to lose Mutti and Papa in the milling crowd but I can’t hold on to either of them. My left hand holds my little suitcase and under my right arm I squeeze my new toy truck. Mutti walks too fast. Even Papa can hardly keep up and people push between my parents. My tired legs leave me trailing behind. “Papa, Papa,” I shout. No one waits.

      We arrive at yet another desk where we show a certificate and a letter from our sponsor to a uniformed official. The letter is written in English. Mutti translated the letter for us while we were still on the boat. She explained that the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society, the HIAS, helped find American Jews who would be willing to sponsor European Jews desperate to enter the United States. The HIAS matches the sponsor with a refugee family. Mutti said that our sponsor promised the United States government that if we couldn’t support ourselves, he would guarantee our expenses until we could afford to live on our own. Papa added that he must be a very kind man because he trusts us sight unseen.

      The official reads the letter quickly. I don’t really understand what a sponsor does, but clearly, we can’t escape Hitler unless we have an American sponsor who promises that we will not be a burden to the land of milk and honey.

      “Yes,” says the uniformed man. “Your sponsor’s name is right here in the record book. He’s a doctor.”

      Mutti whispers in German, “He must be a rich doctor.”

      “You’re good to go,” says the official.

      “Go where?” asks Mutti.

      The man points to a gate.

      “But where will we go?” Mutti whines.

      The man points again. “Exit,” he says.

      The gate sign says “Exit.” Mutti can translate that. Mutti explains to Papa in German that she doesn’t know where to go in the biggest city in the world. Where will we sleep and eat? But the man at the desk is already talking to another family. We walk through the exit gate, step out of the line of pushing people and stand still. Like most refugees, we did not arrive with riches. In addition to her suitcase, Mutti carries a small briefcase filled with IMPORTANT PAPERS and I’m responsible for my most treasured possession, a toy American army truck.

      “Da, da,” shouts Papa suddenly. “There, There.” He rushes to a man with a sign that even I can read: “Amram Familie.” Papa starts chatting in German with the man. The stranger understands every word. He speaks our language and tells Papa not to worry.

      “I’m from the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society, the HIAS,” he says. “I’ve come to help you settle into New York City.” He tells us his name, but I can’t remember it. He speaks German perfectly. Papa even uses some Yiddish phrases with our guide. He must be Jewish. Mutti refuses to learn Yiddish. She claims that “only Polacks and boors speak Yiddish.” I don’t think that Papa is in either of those categories but his Yiddish is pretty good.

      We walk a little way to a trolley that doesn’t say, “Juden Verboten.” The HIAS man pays the fare for all of us. He finds a seat for himself and points to empty benches. We sit. When he stands up, we stand up. We follow him off the trolley, down a busy street. I smell meat. A Frankfurter stand. I look up and sound out the words “Hot” and “Dog” but I don’t know what they mean. I move closer to the little cart to smell the sausage and the mustard. Yum. I move on and look into a shop window where dresses are displayed on statues that look like women. One woman is naked and a man is dressing her. Another shop shows men’s clothing on statues. I stop when I see a shop that displays oranges and apples and potatoes in large boxes. More food than I’ve ever seen in one store. I’m a puppy that sniffs at every tree. Suddenly the HIAS man is stroking my hair. He’s come back for me.

      “Do you want something?”

      I’m tongue-tied. I put down my suitcase and point to a green fruit thinking that it’s a new kind of misshapen apple—an American apple.

      The HIAS man pays. “I’ll hold this until we sit down. Then you can eat it.”

      We walk down steps into an underground train station. I’ve never been in a tunnel and certainly not one with noisy trains. I’m terrified and need to hold on to someone. The HIAS man sees my predicament and offers to carry my truck. I hand him my suitcase instead and grab Mutti’s skirt. The man pays our fare and explains that we will have to learn how to use the subway—but not right now. Mutti remarks that she has once been on an U Bahn in Berlin.

      When we’re seated, the HIAS man hands me the fruit. Mutti says, “Say thank you.”

      I’m still tongue-tied. I bite into the fruit expecting a tart apple taste. It’s sweet. Sweeter than any fruit I’ve ever tasted. I can almost smell the sugar. America is wonderful. I can’t control the tears. The HIAS man rushes over to ask if I don’t like my treat. He reaches to take it away. I protect the fruit and continue to cry. Finally I make myself whisper my appreciation, “Danke schoen.” I take another bite.

      We follow the man off the subway, up the steps to the street. He points to a waste basket and encourages me to throw the core away. I do and Mutti rushes over to wipe my hand and my mouth with her handkerchief. She reaches for the right hand but I refuse to let go of the truck. I stick my lower lip way out

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