THREE
As quickly as they could, Frederick and Jette made their way to Andreas’s apartment above the pharmacy. It was the only safe place in the city they could think of. They did not dare return to Frederick’s room—for all they knew the theft had already been discovered and the police were there, waiting for him. Jette lay back on the small bed, exhausted. Frederick looked at her and his heart ballooned. “America,” he whispered, this time in wonderment.
They made a plan. Andreas would leave early the next morning and find a carriage to take them to Bremen, seventy miles to the north. Frederick and Jette would remain hidden until it was time to leave. There would be no time for good-byes.
Jette had packed a few things before she fled her parents’ home, but Frederick had nothing. When he performed he always wore a dark green velvet suit. It was not the best outfit in which to flit unnoticed from the country. As it was, he had no choice but to venture forth on the greatest adventure of his life dressed for another bravura performance.
At first light, Andreas slipped out of the apartment clutching some of Jette’s stolen money. Frederick and Jette watched dawn break over the Hanover rooftops for the last time.
Andreas arranged for a carriage to meet them in a nearby market square. At the appointed time, they cautiously made their way through the busy stalls, avoiding eye contact with strangers. Vendors called out encouragement to the shuffling lines of shoppers. A flock of pigeons congregated at one corner of the square, squabbling with each other. Frederick would remember these details for the rest of his life.
The carriage was waiting for them. Jette hugged Andreas warmly and climbed inside without a backward glance. Frederick wrapped his friend in a giant hug and clung on to him. Finally Andreas wriggled free.
“You have to go,” he said.
“I like it here,” said Frederick sadly. “This is my home.”
“And you’ll be back one day,” said Andreas. “But go now. Off with you both.”
Frederick nodded, and climbed up into the carriage. Jette’s solitary suitcase sat between them. They looked out the window in silence as they passed through Hanover’s northern districts, and wondered if they would ever see the city again.
They arrived at the docks in Bremen late in the afternoon. In front of the quay, families stood by small mountains of luggage, hugging each other, smiling through tears, joining the hymn of a thousand farewells. By the edge of the dock sat pallets of tarpaulin-covered cargo. An army of laborers heaved sacks up a gangplank. Beyond this seething mass of activity, a ship waited, huge and serene, its vast chimney stack coughing thick smoke into the air.
Frederick approached the ticket booth clutching a fistful of notes. He pointed to the waiting ship. “Are there still tickets available for that ship?” he asked.
The clerk nodded. “We have some for the third-class cabin.”
“And it’s headed for New York?”
“The
Copernicus
? No sir. It’s going south. New Orleans, Louisiana.”
Frederick frowned. “That’s in America? The United States?”
“Of course,” answered the clerk.
Frederick was doubtful. “I’ve never heard of it.”
Jette squeezed his arm. “New York, New Orleans, what’s the difference? They’re both New. That’s good enough.”
And just like that, our family’s destiny took an abrupt turn.
Clutching their tickets, Frederick and Jette joined a line for physical examination and vaccination. They waited silently with the other chattering passengers, a quiet island of regret in that cheerful sea of hope. The rest of the day was spent in the cold shadow of the ship, a slow procession of interviews and inspections. Papers were scrutinized, questions asked, precious stamps administered. Finally they were allowed to climb up the embarkation walkway onto the
Copernicus
. The rails that ran the length of the ship were decorated with colorful bunting that snapped against the cold wind tearing in off the North Sea. As Frederick turned to look at the crowd that remained on the quay, he felt the faintest rolling beneath his feet.
The third-class cabin was deep in the belly of the ship. It was a huge windowless dormitory, with no beds or walls. At the door a steward handed them two blankets and told them to find a place to sleep. Around them children wailed, mothers comforted and admonished, men argued with each other, staking out territory for the two-week voyage ahead. They found a spot at the far end of the room. Frederick fashioned a makeshift bed out of the blankets and they lay down and held each other close. Neither of them spoke. It was too late for words.
The rumble of the steam turbines reverberated through the floor, and a low blast from the ship’s horn echoed through the vessel. Outside, the crowds began to cheer as the
Copernicus
made its way out of Bremen harbor. Frederick closed his eyes. He would not go up for a final farewell. He did not want to say good-bye.
An hour later, however, Frederick was standing on the deck, his hands gripping the ship’s rail. He struggled to marshal his heaving insides as he watched the shoreline recede. A squadron of seagulls swooped and dived in the ship’s wake, chorusing good-bye, good-bye, good-bye. He turned his face into the wind and felt the tang of sea salt in his nostrils.
Night was closing in. As they pushed out into the open sea, a heavy fog descended. The
Copernicus
slowed to a crawl, and then stopped completely. Somewhere high above him, the ship’s horn began to echo long, mournful honks into the darkness. The fog assumed a ghostly luminescence as it lingered off the bows, just out of reach.
Frederick stared out into the nothingness. When a large swell rose underneath the hull, he vomited noisily onto his shoes.
By the time the fog had lifted, the last lights of the shoreline had disappeared. His home had quietly faded out of sight, without fanfare. The
Copernicus
shuddered as its engines cranked into life again.
My grandparents’ journey finally began, full steam ahead.
T
hat evening Frederick lay awake, listening to the low thrum of the ship’s turbines as Jette slept. The night was punctuated by the bruising sounds of heavy machinery, a ceaseless chorus of clanks and bangs. From time to time a child’s cry echoed through the huge room, followed by a mother’s anxious hushing. Every small movement of the ship caused a fresh noxious spill in Frederick’s stomach. Waves of unhappiness crashed over him, his insides a riot of nausea and regret.
Jette, in contrast, slept peacefully. The following morning she left Frederick shivering beneath his blanket and went to look for the dining room. There she ate a hearty breakfast of barley soup, herring, and brown bread. The rhythmic swells that were causing Frederick such distress soothed the baby inside her like a giant rocking hand. She spent much of the day walking from one end of the ship to the other, gazing out at the water. After so many months of hiding her condition from the world, the child inside her was no longer a guilty secret. She began to speak with the other passengers. Everyone had a story to tell. Some were following friends and family across the ocean. Others had been promised jobs. A few were following a dream. But they all had the name of a strange-sounding town on their lips, and Jette envied them the luxury of a final destination to whisper like a prayer. She longed to know where her own journey would end.
Frederick remained in the cabin and battled his seasickness. By the morning of the second day, his condition had improved enough for him to stagger out onto the deck. The first thing he saw were huge cliffs to the north, dazzling white, rising out of the sea: The
Copernicus
was near Dover. Frederick gazed longingly at the land in the distance, wishing for solid ground beneath his feet.
“We’ve missed you,” said Jette with a smile, patting her belly.
“I realized something while I was downstairs,” said Frederick. “We’re
free
, Jette.”
She smiled. “Free as birds.”
“So let’s get married.”
“Well, of course,” she laughed. “Once we get to America and find—”
“No.” Frederick took her hands in his. “I’ve wanted to marry you since the moment I first saw you,” he said. “And I don’t want to wait anymore.”
Jette put her arms around him and kissed him softly on the cheek.
That evening, Frederick and Jette were ushered into the plush quarters of the ship’s captain, Herbert P. Farrelly, the first American either of them had ever met. The room was thickly carpeted and elegantly furnished. Polished brass fittings shone warmly in the muted gaslight. The captain had just returned from his evening meal, and his breath smelled faintly of wine. He looked benignly at the young couple as the chief purser explained their request. Jette and Frederick held hands and smiled anxiously at him, not understanding a word.
The captain took an old Bible out of a drawer and began reading from a card that had been inserted at the back of the book. Prompted by the purser, each of them hesitantly said, “I do.” The first words of English that either had ever spoken would bind them together for the rest of their lives.
In five minutes, it was over. The captain sat down at his desk and filled out a form with his heavy fountain pen. Frederick and Jette signed at the bottom, followed by the captain and the purser. Herbert P. Farrelly handed the certificate to Frederick, and shook his hand. He bowed deeply toward Jette and kissed her hand.
They walked silently back to the cabin and lay side by side beneath their blankets.
“I’m sorry, Jette,” whispered Frederick.
“What for?”
“This probably isn’t the wedding night you dreamed of.”
She poked him in the chest. “What makes you think I ever dreamed of my wedding night?”
“Didn’t you?”
“Never. I always told myself I would never get married.” She paused. “But then I met you.”
“All the same. We’ve got no cake, no guests, no fancy band.” Frederick plucked at his blanket. “Not even a proper bed.”
Jette looked at the man she adored, unable to speak. There was a dark stain on the lapel of his suit where he had spilled his soup at lunch. The collar of his shirt was grubby with days of sweat and worry.
“Oh, Frederick,” she whispered.
For the rest of that night, my grandparents clung to each other fiercely, still dressed in the clothes they had been married in. After so much sacrifice, neither was willing to let go of what they had left.
When they awoke the next morning, the newlyweds were ravenously hungry. After breakfast they stood alone at the rail of the ship and gazed at the sea. By now the
Copernicus
was forging into the Atlantic, striking out toward the limitless horizon. There was nothing to interrupt the vastness of the ocean, save for the occasional ship that would appear for an hour or so on the horizon before slipping out of sight again, off the edge of the world.
Jette introduced Frederick to the acquaintances she had met. They held hands and said “my husband,” and “my wife,” over and over again, wide-eyed with wonder at the sound of the words.
Finally, they began to talk of America. One man had a large map of the country, and after much badgering Frederick persuaded him to sell it. At every opportunity he would bend low over the creased paper, murmuring the strange names of the towns beneath his fingers. He learned to recognize each state. He relished the chaotic topography of the eastern provinces, and saw hopeful poetry in the vast asymmetries to the west, a draftsman’s pen taming the wild country by sharp-edged constructs.
After the fourth day most of the passengers had found their sea legs, and a variety of entertainments were put on in the dining room after supper. Jette usually returned to her makeshift bed to rest, exhausted by the baby’s kicking, but Frederick remained with his fellow passengers. There was an old piano, and it was often pushed into service. Frederick sang whenever he could. Another passenger, a young man from Potsdam, was sailing to America to seek his fortune as an opera singer. Together they breezed through arias and songs, always concluding their performance with a duet from
The Pearl Fishers
that brought down the house. The evenings usually ended with the whole room joined in a chorus of German folk songs. Frederick often led the singing, conducting the swaying crowd with one hand and waving his tankard aloft with the other. They sang rousing marches, maudlin songs of love, and sentimental ballads about the land they had left behind. The words rose up to the ceiling, joyful and elegiac.
Frederick quizzed people about their travel plans, seeking advice. He was gripped by anxiety every time he gazed at his beloved map. America was simply too huge to be contemplated in the abstract. He needed a destination, something to unshackle him from all that limitless hope. One evening he fell into conversation with a man who was traveling with his wife and four daughters. He was heading west to join his brother, who had left Westphalia five years earlier and now owned an orange grove in California, near the Mexican border.
“My brother has struggled a great deal,” said the man, shaking his head. “The soil is not like in Germany. Too dry.” He rubbed his fingers together and watched an imaginary clump of mud disappear into thin air. “Do you farm?”
Frederick shook his head. “But I’ll try anything.”
“I’ve heard there is a state with wonderful, rich soil. You can grow anything on it. There are many prosperous farmers there. Also they make excellent wine.”
Frederick laughed. “I like it already. Where is this?”
The man leaned back in his chair. “It’s called Missouri,” he said. Within moments Frederick’s map was spread out on the table, and they peered at the oddly contoured state. Three of its boundaries were arrow-straight, but the eastern edge was prescribed by the meandering course of the Mississippi River, defiantly uneven in contrast to the man-made order imposed to the north, south, and west. In the southeast corner, a blocky promontory of land extended into Arkansas and Tennessee. It looked like the heel of a boot that had been dug stubbornly into the ground.
Another man approached and peered at the map. “There are many Germans in Missouri,” he said.