“Oh?” said Frederick.
The man nodded. “My mother’s great-uncle moved there in 1837. Now the family owns a fleet of steamboats. They haul iron ore and pine lumber down the Missouri River from the Ozark forests. My cousin runs the business now.”
“You’re going there to join him?”
The man shook his head. “I’m headed for Georgia. But they say Missouri is a fine place. My cousin is always looking for good workers for the boats. He likes Germans. Says Americans are lazy.”
Soon afterward my grandfather lay down next to Jette, clutching a scrap of paper on which he had scrawled the name and address of the stranger’s cousin—the man who owned the boating operation and who liked hardworking Germans. He was too excited to sleep.
Frederick finally had the plan he had longed for.
Over breakfast he explained his idea to Jette. When they arrived in New Orleans, they would take a train north. The shipping business was in Rocheport, a town halfway between Kansas City and St. Louis. It did not appear on Frederick’s map, but he was able to guess within the width of a thumbprint where it might be. When they arrived, Frederick would present himself for employment. They would settle down. The baby would come. Then they would see.
N
ow Frederick and Jette were impatient to arrive, their imaginations racing toward the future. Boredom became their greatest enemy. There was little to fill the changeless days as the ship crawled westward across the ocean.
The first-class passengers kept to themselves, never venturing outside the refined splendor of the upper decks. Jette and Frederick sometimes crept up the stairs and stood at the engraved-glass doors of the first-class dining room. The aroma of linseed oil and brass polish mingled with delicious smells coming from the kitchen. Jette gazed through the doors at the glittering spectacle within. Ornate chandeliers cast clusters of light across the room. The table settings were exquisite, glimmering arrangements of silver and crystal. Frederick, meanwhile, read that day’s menu, his stomach rumbling in wistful appreciation. He spent every meal swearing that he would never eat herring again.
Halfway through the morning of the thirteenth day, a cheer went up at the stern of the boat. A gull had been spotted, the first sign that landfall was close. Frederick gazed up at the solitary bird as it swooped and dived overhead, and the tedium of the journey was instantly forgotten. That evening, a pencil of shadow appeared on the horizon. People gathered at the rail and stared at the distant shoreline in silence. America, at last.
By the following morning, the land had disappeared. Frederick and Jette stared in disbelief at the empty sea. Later they learned that the land they had seen the previous evening was the east coast of Florida; during the course of the night the
Copernicus
had circumvented the panhandle and was now steaming northwest across the Gulf of Mexico toward the southern coast of Louisiana.
The two days that followed were an agony. After that brief glimpse of land, passengers now anxiously scanned the horizon. When, early one morning, a thin line of trees finally appeared, Jette did not take her eyes off it, in case it disappeared again. The ship continued to track the coastline, but still America kept its distance, shimmering in the haze of the southern sun. Finally three pilot boats appeared, and the great bow of the
Copernicus
turned north and began its final journey into dock at New Orleans. As the ship approached the port, it was hailed on all sides by a chorus of bells and horns from the fishing boats that dotted the bay. To Frederick and Jette, it was the most beautiful music in the world.
It was the sound of their future.
FOUR
The ship’s arrival at the dock prompted a flurry of activity. Frederick and Jette stood on the deck and gazed down at the troop of men who ran to and fro, securing ropes and erecting gangplanks, shouting to each other in a strange language. Jette’s fingers curled around her husband’s arm.
“Look at them,” she whispered.
The Negroes’ dark muscles gleamed in the afternoon sun. Some laughed and joked as they hauled cargo along the gangplank and onto the quay. Others whistled and sang. Frederick thought of the grim-faced men at Bremen who had silently loaded the same cargo two weeks earlier. His heart ballooned. What sort of country can this be, he wondered, when even the hardest jobs are performed with such joy?
When Frederick and Jette arrived onshore, there was a fresh battery of inspections and interviews. Frederick entered his name and occupation in a large ledger and signed his name with an exuberant flourish.
A few years ago, on a trip to New Orleans, I went to the Louisiana Historical Society and found the book my grandfather signed. Its heavy covers were sheathed in decades-old dust, its spine a mosaic of fragmented leather. The paper was ocher-stiff beneath my fingers, and pungent with the smell of creeping decay. And there it was:
frederick meisenheimer, angestellte
. Clerk. Next to it, the date: June 5, 1904. Page upon page of faded signatures preceded this entry, and page upon page followed. Our story was just a single line in this vast narrative of hope. Every family had begun their journey here before spreading out in waves across the country, on the crest of their immigrant dreams.
Frederick’s signature was utterly unreadable, a defiant, optimistic scrawl. I traced a finger across the faded ink.
As part of the price of their tickets, the steamer company had booked each passenger one night’s stay in a hotel immediately opposite the docks. That evening Frederick and Jette ate at the hotel restaurant. In the middle of the room stood a table groaning with food. There were hams dotted with cloves; thick, dark slabs of Creole pork; vast platters of fried chicken; piles of shrimp the size of a child’s fist and coated in fiery red sauce; and ribs, more ribs than you could imagine, glistening sweet and brown. There were huge ears of corn, shining with butter; potatoes, fried and boiled; buckets of green beans; and, at the center of the table, a huge, bubbling pot of jambalaya. There was a hill of white rolls, so fresh that they spilled steam, and plates of fresh fruit—oranges, bananas, mangoes, thickly sliced pineapples, plums. Jette and Frederick piled their plates high and then went back for more. They were silent as they ate, every mouthful a new eruption of strange flavors. Their lips tingled with the kiss of spice.
When the meal was over, Jette let out a small moan, equal parts distress and satisfaction. “I’ve never eaten so much in my life,” she said. “I need to lie down.”
Frederick looked around him. Some passengers were still eating, blinking in astonishment as they chewed. His first night in America! He sat at the bar and drank a glass of cold beer and thought about the new world waiting for him outside the hotel. His fellow passengers had begun to sing again, but this time he did not join in. He pushed his empty glass across the counter and stepped out onto the street.
It was murderously humid, even though the sun had long since gone down. Frederick stood for a moment on the street corner. He caught the sharp aroma of fresh tar from the nearby docks, then the sweet scent of bougainvillea, drifting by on a languid breeze. He planted his hat firmly on his head and set off down the street, away from the water: into America.
Frederick must have been quite a sight. He had not shaved for two weeks, and his ginger beard was even wilder than usual. He still wore his velvet suit, which by now was filthy and crumpled. Trams shuttled past him, bells clanking loudly as they sailed up the wide street, clouds of gravel dust floating in their wake. On the sides of the tall brick buildings were paintings of giant bars of chocolate and bottles of milk. Beneath the pale glow of the streetlamps, the sidewalks teemed with life. Couples walked past arm in arm, their heads close together. Sharply dressed men prowled, their hats pulled down over their eyes. Packs of thin-limbed Negro children scuttled by in the shadows. Frederick felt their hungry eyes upon him. As he walked on, the cobbled streets narrowed. The windows of upstairs apartments were flung open to the night and the warm air was punctuated by raucous laughter and angry shouts. Women leaned out of their kitchen windows and gossiped to their neighbors across the street. He listened to snatches of their crackling, high-pitched conversations, not understanding a word.
After an hour or so, Frederick sat down on a bench and rested. He was thirsty, and hot. He wiped his brow and thought about returning to the hotel. Just then, the sound of a cornet floated through the air. This was not the sort of dry fugue that echoed through Hanover concert halls. The instrument had been unshackled: it spiraled upward, a whirlwind of graceful elision and complex melody. The music streaked into the night, every note dripping with joy. He stood up and followed the sound.
Halfway down a nearby side street stood a building lit up like a beacon, bathing the sidewalk in its warm glow. A sign hung over the door:
chez benny’s
. The music spilled out of open windows. As he approached, Frederick could hear other instruments—clarinets, a trombone, a banjo. He peered inside and saw a large room crammed with people, some at small tables, some standing, others dancing. At the far end of the room, six musicians stood on a stage. The cornet player was at their center, his eyes tightly closed as he blew his horn. Staccato flurries of notes ripped into the night, ragging the up-tempo tune. Behind him the other men were swinging in a sweet, scorching counterpoint of rhythm and harmony. The cornet player bent his knees like a boxer as he delivered each new blistering line of attack. Hot glissandos shimmered in the air, tearing up the joint.
After a moment, Frederick became aware that a tall black man was watching him from the front door of the club. He took a step toward Frederick and said something. Frederick shook his head in apology.
“No English,” he mumbled.
The Negro said something else—which, to his astonishment, Frederick understood. It took him a moment to register why: the man was speaking French.
“We’re full,” he said, his accent fragrant with the echo of elsewhere.
“Who is that?” asked Frederick in French, pointing through the window.
“You can’t come in. We’re full.”
“But I just want—”
“Are you blind?” said the man angrily. “This club is for blacks.”
Frederick blinked in surprise. He turned and looked again at the audience.
“You can’t come in,” said the man again.
“I’ve never heard such music before,” said Frederick. He looked back at the stage. One of the clarinet players was soloing now, a wailing chorus of glee. “Who is that cornet player?”
The Negro slowly extended his index finger, pushed the rim of his hat upward, and then pointed through the window. The cornet player stood at the side of the stage, his instrument tucked under his arm. He was clapping his hands and stamping his foot in time to the music. “That,” said the man, “is Buddy Bolden.”
Some time later, Frederick retraced his steps to the hotel, the sound of the strange music still echoing through his head. It was like nothing he had ever heard before—chaotic and loud, but full of hope and life. A perfect new music for his new country.
Jette did not stir as he climbed into bed beside her. The fresh linen felt cool on his skin, the bed wonderfully wide and soft. Frederick stared into the darkness, listening to his wife’s calm breathing. Any lingering homesickness had been eradicated by his first excursion onto the streets of America. Everything he’d seen had been unimaginably different from the dry, dour streets of Hanover, and to his surprise he was not sorry in the slightest. He was smitten by the beguiling otherness of it all.
And so began my grandfather’s rapturous love affair with America—an affair that would continue until the day he died.
T
he following morning, after another gargantuan meal in the hotel dining room, Frederick made inquiries about trains heading north. The station was not far away. They set off up Canal Street, their single suitcase beneath Frederick’s arm.
A crowd of people was milling about outside the station entrance. Jette waited while Frederick went inside to buy tickets. As he strode across the concourse, he realized that something was wrong. People were moving too slowly. There was none of the suppressed delirium of time-tabled existence. His pace slowed as he noticed that there were no trains waiting at any of the platforms.
“Hey!”
He turned in the direction of the shout, and saw the tall man from outside Chez Benny’s striding toward him. His hat had been replaced by a cap in turquoise and red livery. He looked more friendly in the daylight. Indeed, he was smiling.
“I remember you!” he said, his French muddied by his curious accent. “You’re the Buddy Bolden fan,
non
?”
Frederick nodded. “Buddy Bolden, yes.” He gestured around him. “Where are all the trains?” he asked.
“There
are
no trains. There’s been flooding upriver. The Mississippi burst its banks near Greenville.”
“But we can’t wait,” said Frederick. “My wife and I have to get to St. Louis as soon as possible.” He turned and pointed to where Jette stood. Her swollen stomach was unmistakable.
The man nodded slowly. “Can you wait here?” He sauntered back the way he had come and disappeared behind a door. Moments later he reappeared, a newspaper tucked beneath his arm. He unfolded it as he approached, his eyes scanning an inside page. Finally he gave a grunt. His long finger rested on an advertisement.
SAINT LOUIS AND NEW ORLEANS PACKET COMPANY
LEAVES ON MONDAY, 6TH INST. AT 5 P.M.
FOR ST. LOUIS, CAIRO, MEMPHIS AND ALL INTERMEDIATE POINTS
THE FINE PASSENGER STEAMER GREAT REPUBLIC,
W. B. DONALDSON, MASTER, WILL LEAVE AS ABOVE.
FOR FREIGHT OR PASSAGE. APPLY ON BOARD,
OR TO C. G. RUMBLE, AGENT, 87 NATCHEZ STREET
F
rederick scanned the page. “I’m sorry,” he said. “My English—”
“This is for a journey upriver, all the way to St. Louis.”
“Upriver? You’re talking about a
ship
?”
The man nodded. “It leaves this afternoon.”
Frederick’s shoulders slumped. “There’s no other way of getting to St. Louis?”
“You could hire a carriage. But it would cost more and take longer.”
There was a long pause.
“What is your name?” said Frederick.
“Everyone calls me Lomax.”
“Well, Monsieur Lomax, come and meet my wife.”
W
ith no trains to deal with, Lomax took them to the booking agent on Natchez Street. There he spoke to the man behind the desk while Frederick and Jette stood nearby and watched the clerk’s face twitch with suspicion. Lomax kept pointing in their direction. Finally, he returned to where Frederick was standing and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “He wants to speak to you himself,” he said.
“But why?” asked Frederick. “I won’t be able to—”
“He won’t sell a white person’s ticket to a black man.” Lomax saw the astonishment on Frederick’s face. “You really have just arrived, haven’t you?” he said.
A while later, tickets finally purchased, the three of them walked down to the wharf. The sickly sweet smell of rotting bananas mingled with the aroma of fresh bread from a nearby bakery. They stood on the edge of the quay, looking up at the ship. After the oceangoing bulk of the
Copernicus
, the
Great Republic
seemed like a toy. Its exterior gleamed with fresh paint, and the ironwork was embellished with delicate filigree. Two thin chimneys rose into the sky, each topped by a dark corona of iron oak leaves. At the stern sat a huge wheel, the lower portion of which was submerged in the water.
“Fine vessel,” said Lomax.
“Thank you for all your help,” said Frederick.
Lomax shrugged. “I didn’t have anything better to do. Besides,” he added, “you liked Buddy Bolden.”
The two men smiled at each other.
“Good luck to you,” said Lomax.
“Good luck to
you
,” said Frederick.
Lomax shook Frederick’s hand and tipped his cap to Jette. “Thank you,” he replied, “but I think you’re going to need it more.” Then he stuck his hands deep in his pockets and strolled away down the quay, whistling as he went.