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Date: Friday, the Nineteenth Day of April 1912
Place: Boarding House, West Side of Manhattan
Time: Morning

There was a knock at the door not long after sunrise.

It wasn’t loud. Just a quiet rapping—two short, one long. Momma stood from the chair where she’d been darning Anneliese’s borrowed stockings and went to answer it.

A man stood in the hallway with a satchel and a clipboard. His coat was worn at the cuffs, and his collar had a smudge of ink on it, but he smiled kindly and removed his cap when he saw us.

“Good morning, ma’am. I’m Mr. Feldman,” he said, in accented English. “From the Hebrew Sheltering and Immigrant Aid Society. I believe your name is Mrs. Morgenstern?”

“Yes,” Momma said. Her voice was polite, careful. “Please come in.”

He stepped inside and glanced briefly around the room before motioning to the chair. Momma offered it, and then stood, folded hands resting at her waist.

“I know this is not an easy time,” Mr. Feldman said gently, opening a leather folder. “But we’re doing everything we can to help families reconnect. You mentioned on your intake form that you were supposed to stay with relatives?”

“Yes,” Momma replied, nodding. “My husband had a cousin near Chicago. I believe his name was Isaac Morgenstern. But my husband… he—” She hesitated, and I saw her throat tighten. “He is not with us now. And I don’t know where Isaac lives.”

Mr. Feldman nodded, writing the name carefully in neat Hebrew script beside its Roman spelling.

“Do you know what kind of work he did? Was he a tailor, perhaps? Or maybe in the garment trade?”

“Something with shoes,” Momma said slowly. “He repaired boots, I think. He wrote once to my husband from a shop on Milwaukee Avenue.”

“That helps,” Mr. Feldman said, brightening slightly. “That’s a busy Jewish district in Chicago. Many families from Galicia and Pomerania are there. I’ll send a telegram to one of our contacts—Rabbi Weisman at the Maxwell Street Settlement House. He keeps track of families like yours.”

He paused, lowering his voice slightly.

“If your husband had Isaac’s full address written down, there’s a chance it’s listed with the steamship company as part of your original ticket. We can try to retrieve that.”

“Thank You,” Momma said quietly, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “I—I don’t know how to repay this.”

“There is no repayment, Mrs. Morgenstern,” he said. “This is what we are here to do.”

He stood to leave, gave me a kind glance, and then tipped his cap once more before stepping back into the hallway.

Momma stood there for a long time after the door closed.

I didn’t say anything. I just picked up Lucie from the bed and held her against my chest.

Outside, the city kept moving.

But in that small, still room, something else had started:
hope.

Later in the Morning Boarding House, – West Side of Manhattan

I was sitting near the window, trying to write Papa’s name in the fog on the glass, when the door creaked open again. But this time, it wasn’t an adult. It was a girl.

About my age—maybe a year older, maybe not. She had tight brown curls under a knit cap and cheeks that were red from the wind. Her shoes were scuffed, and she held a tin lunch pail in one hand and a folded paper in the other.

She looked at me, then at Anneliese still curled on the bed, and finally at Momma, who was finishing the last of the mending.

“Excuse me,” the girl said. Her accent sounded like she’d lived here a while—but her vowels still bent a little in the old way. “I live downstairs with my mother and brothers. We brought some rolls up for the new families. My name’s Minnie. Minnie Baum.”

Momma smiled gently and stood. “That’s very kind, Minnie. Thank you.”

Minnie stepped closer and handed over the bundle—wrapped in a clean dishcloth, still warm. She glanced at me.

“Are you from the ship?” she asked.

I didn’t answer right away. Just nodded.

She sat down on the floor across from me, crossing her legs like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I heard someone say the captain went down with it. That true?”

I blinked. “I don’t know. I didn’t see him.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “I never been on a ship. But I saw a drowned rat once after the river flooded near the Gansevoort Market. You’re braver than me.”

That made me smile—just a little.

“I’m not brave,” I said.

“Sure you are. You’re here, ain’t you?”

Anneliese stirred on the bed and opened her eyes, blinking at the light. She looked at the girl on our floor and whispered, “Who’s that?”

“This is Minnie,” I said. “She brought rolls.”

Minnie grinned. “And if you’re good, I’ll show you the dumbwaiter downstairs. My little brother got stuck in it once. Mama still makes fun of him.”

Anneliese giggled sleepily.

For a few minutes, the heaviness in the room lifted. Not all the way. But just enough.

Just enough to feel like the world might have more than just sorrow in it.

A few minutes after four in the afternoon – Boarding House Courtyard

There was a narrow courtyard behind the building, mostly dirt and broken cobblestones, but it was enough. Enough for running. Enough for laughter.

Minnie had gone downstairs for something and came back pulling two younger boys behind her—her brothers, she said, though they didn’t look much like her. One had jam on his face. The other had a shoelace tied around his head like a crown.

“We don’t got a ball,” Minnie said, “but we can play plumpsack. Or something close to it.”

“You know Plumpsack?” I asked, surprised.

“Not really. A girl from Hamburg used to live here and taught us. But we forgot half of it.”

I looked at Anneliese. Her eyes lit up. We hadn’t played Plumpsack since Großmöllen. Since the churchyard in spring.

“I remember the song,” she said.

So we showed them. We held hands and made a circle. Minnie’s brothers didn’t know the words, but they didn’t care.

Anneliese began to sing softly:

Dreht euch nicht um, der Plumpsack geht um…
Wer sich umdreht oder lacht…
We moved in a slow circle. My feet skidded a little on the stones, but it felt good. Familiar. Like something we hadn’t lost.

One person walked behind us, holding a folded rag to drop behind someone’s back—the “Plumpsack.” Minnie played first. She dropped it behind me and ran. I chased her laughing, barely missing her as she dove into my spot.

“You’re fast for a girl in boots,” she teased, out of breath.

We kept playing, over and over, the words drifting between German and English, the circle growing faster each time.

The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the yard. And for a little while, it didn’t matter where we were.

We were girls. Just girls. Playing.

Evening – Boarding House Kitchen

The smell of something cooking drifted up the stairs long before anyone called us down. It wasn’t fancy—just onions and something warm and stewed—but it pulled at my stomach like a rope. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until then.

Minnie came tapping at our door.

“Soup’s on,” she said with a grin. “Mrs. Brenner says to bring your own spoon if you’ve got one.”

We didn’t.

But when we reached the kitchen, she handed us extras from a chipped tin pail near the stove.

The kitchen was narrow, with low ceilings and oil lamps hanging from the rafters. The table was long and worn, its surface covered with mismatched bowls and cups, some already filled, others waiting. A few of the older women were already seated, heads bent in silent prayer. A toddler in a knitted cap banged his spoon against the bench.

Mrs. Brenner, the landlady, stood behind the stove ladling soup into bowls from a massive iron pot. She had strong arms, a handkerchief tied around her hair, and an apron smudged with flour.

“It’s barley tonight,” she said, nodding us toward the end of the table. “And rye bread if you’re lucky.”

Momma thanked her and settled us at the bench. Minnie squeezed in beside Anneliese, already halfway through her first piece of bread. Ruth and Eugenie sat with Mrs. Abbott at the opposite corner, whispering quietly to each other.

The soup was thin, but hot. Bits of carrot, potato, and barley floated in cloudy broth, and the bread—though hard around the edges—was still soft enough to chew.

It wasn’t home.

But it was food.
And it was enough.

Momma didn’t speak much during dinner. She sat beside me, slowly working through her bowl, her eyes distant but calm. I watched her hands. They didn’t shake.

“Do you think Papa had dinner the night before?” I whispered suddenly.

Anneliese looked up from her spoon. Momma didn’t answer right away.

Then she said, “I hope so. I hope it was something warm.”

We all sat quiet for a moment after that. Even Minnie.

Then someone down the table laughed—an old man telling a story in Yiddish that made another woman slap the table. For a moment, the kitchen filled with warmth. Not just from the soup or the fire, but from voices, from company, from something that felt a little like life again.

Afterward, we helped stack bowls in a washbasin and wipe down the table. Minnie showed Anneliese how to fold a napkin into a rabbit. Momma thanked Mrs. Brenner again and tucked the leftover crusts into a cloth for tomorrow.

We didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

But tonight—we had soup.
We had bread.
We had each other.

After the dishes were washed and the benches cleared, a soft hush settled over the house. A woman down the hall lit two candles on a tin plate, her head bowed as she whispered the blessing in Hebrew. The flames flickered gently, dancing in the draft.

Momma paused at the door as we passed, nodding quietly to the woman. She didn’t light candles of her own—we didn’t have any. But when we returned to our room, she pulled out the scarf from her coat pocket and draped it across the small table like a cloth.

Then she whispered the blessings by heart—no match, no flame. Just the words.

Baruch atah Adonai…
Her voice didn’t waver.

Anneliese stood beside her. I watched from the chair, still hugging my knees.

No challah. No wine.
But the words were enough.

And somehow, even in this strange house, with borrowed clothes and unfamiliar voices through the walls, it felt like a piece of home had followed us here.

I looked outside the sky had gone dark. Lamps flickered in the hallway, their golden glow stretching in thin lines beneath the door. The building creaked gently as it settled in for the night.

We didn’t undress fully—just loosened our laces and pulled on extra layers from the drawer. The air had grown colder again. The walls here never held heat for long.

Anneliese sat on the bed. Momma gently unpinned her hair and brushed it back with her fingers.

“She was brave tonight,” I said softly.

“She was,” Momma answered. “So were you.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I didn’t feel brave. I felt like a puddle—spilled out and spread too thin.

Momma helped Anneliese lie down and drew the Red Cross blanket up to her chin. Then she kissed her forehead and said, softly, in German:
“Schlaf gut, mein Herz.”
(Sleep well, my heart.)

I watched from the chair, arms wrapped around my knees. My eyes burned, but not from tiredness.

Momma turned to me. “Do you want to lie down?”

“Not yet,” I said.

She didn’t push.

Instead, she stepped into the hallway for a moment. I heard soft footsteps, the creak of a floorboard, then hushed voices just outside the door.

It was Momma. And Mrs. Abbott.

I leaned slightly, the way children do when they’re pretending not to listen.

“She keeps asking about him,” Mrs. Abbott murmured. “Your oldest—Josephine. You must be strong for them both.”

“I try,” Momma whispered back. “But I feel like if I stop moving—if I let myself cry—it won’t stop.”

A pause. Then Momma added, “I keep thinking about his hands. How cold they must’ve been. I should’ve held them tighter.”

Mrs. Abbott didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice was broken but steady.

“My girls don’t speak of their father anymore. But I think about him each night. I imagine him holding the railing. Looking for us.”

They fell quiet then.

I turned my face to the wall and closed my eyes tight.

Not because I was tired.
But because I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

I didn’t hear the rest of their conversation. Or maybe I did, but I don’t remember.

At some point, Momma came back into the room. She didn’t say anything. She just placed a folded shawl over my shoulders and kissed the top of my head before sitting on the edge of the bed beside Anneliese.

I stayed in the chair a little longer, hugging my knees, staring at the crack in the wallpaper.

I used to think that once we made it to America, everything would be better. That surviving meant we’d be safe. That stepping off the ship meant the worst was over.

But now I knew the truth.

Surviving isn’t the end of the story.

It’s just the part where you start carrying it with you.