HARALAMBIE GEORGE CICMA Autobiographie Part V

A Vlach’s Life in His time

PART V NEW YORK CITY

We were subjected to a severe inspection and intensive interrogation at the immigration office; everyone was trembling, afraid that they would be rejected. We were sent through a gate, where two physicians examined us, paying special attention to our eyes, another person there made an “X” on our backs. We were then given a card which had our destination on it. They separated us into groups according to the city we intended to go to, I was unable to read the card and, as most of the people in my group were crying, I was certain that I had been rejected. Rather than make the trip back, I was determined to drown myself—not so much because I dreaded returning to Bucharest or to school at Constantinople, but because I was such a miserable sailor—the prospect of another trip was worse than the thought of death!

My attention was attracted to the officials who were working there, one in particular fascinated me, he was continually chewing. I looked at the clock, it was nearly noon and I thought that he was eating his dinner but, when he continued to chew for more than an hour, I began to wonder what kind of people lived in America—eating all day long. I had seen people chew tobacco and snuff but I realized that when this was done, the chewer must occasionally spit, these Americans did not, so it could not be that! This had taken my mind off my troubles and soon a uniformed official came and called my name.

“Present,” I answered.

“What is your whole name?” He looked at me sternly, the query was in French.

“Haralambie George Cicma.”

“Do you speak Greek, Romanian or French?”

“I speak all these languages fluently,” I replied, speaking in French. He took me into an office and said, in Greek, “Sit down here and wait for me.”

I sat there until five o’clock and he came periodically to speak to me, each time using a different language. I was terrified and didn’t dare disobey him or leave the room. At last he came in and, laughing, asked in Romanian, “Don’t you remember me?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

“I am Pandu Talabacu, I work as an interpreter here.  I knew you in Macedonia when you were a boy.”

“What are you going to do with me now?”

Tonight I will take you into the city to meet your friend Vergil Pappahagi.  You are all through here but I thought I’d have a little fun with you until my day was done and we could leave.”

We left, and after meeting Pappahagi, we went to a restaurant which was run by a Macedonian – this was the usual meeting place for all the Macedonians in New York City.   I met several other young men who had known my family.  After supper they took me for a tour of the city, I only remember, definitely, that we visited several barrooms! They were surprised and disappointed that I would not join them in drinking anything except orange juice or gingerale; this tour lasted from seven in the evening to well after two-thirty in the morning.  We went to Vergilio’s living quarters, there was but one bed and he shared it with me.

Unfortunately, the next morning he found that he was loaded with pediculi! He requested his friend at the restaurant to have a new, complete outfit sent over for me and asked that I be taken to a public bath house so that I would be able to get completely cleaned up. I was also taken to a barber for a haircut and shave, after this procedure I seemed fairly cleaner of the little devils, but there were still a few left in the bed clothes and it was about a week before we were completely rid of them.

Vergilio worked as a waiter in one of the larger, good hotels, he made excellent wages but all that he earned during the day, he spent each night. It puzzled me that these men could spend their nights drinking until the wee hours of the morning and still be able to work the next day. My compatriots in New York thought I was here only for a visit, so they decided to show me everything in as short a time as possible. We went to shows, museums, restaurants, cafes and everything imaginable; this continued for three nights. Finally I could stand it no more, I was exhausted! I told them as tactfully as possible that I was sorry but I had no more time to waste. They asked me what I meant—wasn’t I having a good time?

I explained all the events which had precipitated my decision to come to America, they sympathized with my misfortunes and said that they would help me as much as they could. I told them that I wanted to  secure a job as soon as possible.

They were astonished—one of the financially secure Cicmas needing a job, but told me not to be in a hurry as it was exceedingly difficult for a person who did not know the English language to get a decent job.

They continued, in spite of my protests, to take me various places, spending their money in an effort to cheer me up and make me forget all that had occurred. My happiest hours in New York were spent in the Library, I would stay there all day while they were working, browsing among the books in the quiet, peaceful atmosphere. My friends would come home from work and immediately set out to take me on another “tour of the city”. This was not my idea of living, I had come to America to get a job, save a little money and then continue my education; with these resolutions so firmly in my mind, all the pleasures they offered me meant nothing.

I had been in New York for a full week before I discovered the where- abouts of a young man from my own home town who had been in America for several years, his name was John Poliso and he now owned a cafe. My friend, the restaurant-keeper, told me about John and then phoned him about me. John was happy to learn that I was in America and that we would have an opportunity to renew our acquaintanceship; it was arranged to have him come to see me the following night. We had a long conversation during which I told him that I was in this country for good now and really needed a job and hoped to get one soon. This, although I was ignorant of the tact, pleased him immensely as in the old country my family had been in the highest social strata while his was low, mostly servants.

Naturally, I asked him if he knew where I would get a job and accepted eagerly when he replied that he would be glad to give me work in his cafe. I told Vergilio about my good fortune, but he was not as enthusiastic as I had expected; he knew what it was like to work for one’s own countrymen. He tried to discourage me but when I insisted, he told me to try it and find out for myself.  Vergilio took me to the cafe and privately asked John to do the best he could to be courteous and kind to me as I had already been through so many personal tragedies. I completely trusted John and did believe that he wished to help me, I could not understand why Vergilio should worry.

John put me to work in the cellar, peeling potatoes, once in a while he would call me and have me tap a barrel of beer for him, these were piled in another part of the stinking cellar. Noon came and I was perspiring freely—I was not accustomed to this type of labor, especially in an airless, odorous basement. I was so thirsty that I did not know what to do, at last I summoned sufficient courage to walk upstairs and ask John where I could get a drink of water. He laughed, gave me a dirty look then swore at me in English, he drew a glass of beer and told me to quench my thirst with that. I refused and he became angrier and shouted that it would spoil his business to have people around who drank water—I must learn to drink beer or leave. After lunch, which consisted of leftovers for most of the help (I was fortunate enough to have made friends with the German cook, who understood what a hard man John was, and he gave me a good meal), John called me up from the cellars to mop the floors. He then ordered me to wash the windows, my day finally ended and I was glad to return to my room.

I was completely perplexed by John’s actions, I came to the conclusion that I must be a very clumsy worker and I determined to be patient, to do the work well and then I was certain he would let me go on to better jobs.

Vergilio didn’t say much but I am sure he could read my bitter disappointment in my face. I returned to work at eight-thirty the next day and I said “Good morning” to John but he didn’t answer; he instructed me in a surly tone to clean the windows, mop the floors in a hurry, then go to the kitchen to help the cook prepare the vegetables, and then wash the dishes! I did my best but I was unaccustomed to such work and, long before noon, I was hot, uncomfortable and exhausted. After lunch John took me up to the bar and began to instruct me in the art of serving drinks; an art which he now elaborated upon, to my utter disillusionment.

He told me to watch the customers and, as soon as they showed signs of being drunk, to short change them; when they had become very drunk and had spent all their money, I was to throw them out. I tried to argue that I did not believe in doing such things but he told me to shut up and do as I was told or else go look for another job. I was astonished to see how mean he could be but I controlled myself and said nothing more.

I tried hard not to cheat anyone but John sat nearby and watched me as closely as a hen watches her chickens, on several occasions he pushed me aside and made change himself, short of course. I sat down and tried to think about my problem. I needed the job but did I need it enough to compromise my own personal principles? I threw his filthy apron in his face and walked out without even stopping to ask for my pay.

I went back to the hotel and waited for Vergilio, who found me in tears as he tried to tell me that he had warned me but there was little he could say to console me.

After breakfast the following morning I went for a walk and looked at all the stores near the hotel. I went to my friend’s restaurant and asked him to teach me to ask for work in the English language. He told me to say “Give me a job,” I repeated this over and over until I had memorized the few, but so important, words and then I set out to find my own employment.

I walked into a few business places and said, “Give me a job,” when they asked what I could do or what kind of work I wanted, I was lost—I had no more words!

Now I was truly discouraged, I finally realized how difficult it would be to get a job until I had removed the language barrier. I could not work for an American as I could not understand him, I could not work for my countryman as he was too cruel and vindictive; but above all, I could not return to my native land to face ridicule, heartache and, even death.

What was I to do? I could not, without money, go to school to learn English and in order to get money it was necessary to have some kind of a job. I had neither nor did I have any prospect of obtaining them.

Vergilio and his friends decided, after much consideration and debate, that New York City was not a good place for me to become acquainted with the living and working conditions of America. They finally chose Biddeford, Maine as my new home.

BIDDEFOFD, MAINE

One of my old grammar school teachers, Sterio Damashoti (another uncle of Maritsa’s), worked in Biddeford as a baker and distributor; my New York friends thought it would be an excellent lesson for me to see someone who had been well educated and respected—in the old country—and who was now doing menial work. “In America, this is quite common,” was the observation of Vergilio. They hoped that I would learn that no matter what social position one might have occupied or what one’s education had been in their native land, it was necessary that a person take whatever work was available her America, the great leveler!

Hotel and restaurant work was distasteful to me, so they advised that I would do well to attempt to get a job in a factory; there I would be able to learn the mechanics of the work easily and would also be able to pick up a little English from my fellow workers. The decision was made, they bought me a ticket and put me on the train. I had no idea how to ask where I was to get off, so I sat there while the train went right through Biddeford; as the train was pulling away, I heard the conductor call out the name of the station, but it was then too late.

Saco, Maine was the next station, I hurried to the conductor and showed him the piece of paper which Vergilio had given me, my destination was written on it. He was very angry and put me off the train at the next stop. I stood on the platform, bewildered, not knowing how or from whom I should ask directions for Biddeford. Shortly after this, I saw a baker and, just by looking at him, I knew he was Greek.

I walked over to him and showed him the paper. He, in turn, recognized me as a Macedonian but he very kindly gave me complete instructions, speaking only Greek, of course. I asked if he knew Sterio Damashoti and he replied that he certainly did, they worked together. He drove me back to Biddeford in the bakery wagon and took me to the combination Poolroom and Shoeshine Parlor where I was to wait for Sterio. This establishment was owned by a first cousin of my aunt, Pericli Cievica, so I felt that I was among relatives and friends.

Sterio finished working at five in the afternoon and arrived at the store, still in his uniform; I did not, at first, recognize him but finally convinced myself that it was really he. He made me welcome and took me to a restaurant where he ate all his meals; here he introduced me to his friends and after supper he took me to his room. He then talked about how much he had suffered in this country and how glad he was to have his present job as a baker! Sterio advised me, “Forget about your past life, the position, the title your uncle held, the education you received; you must now devote your time and life to doing such work as you can get.”

He promised to help me get a job and, the next day, he found a nice room for me in a private home. His best friend and kinsman, Peter Sasamuti, was a person who had helped many foreigners get jobs; he now took me under his wing and, after a few futile tries, he took me to one of the largest cotton mills in the city and had the foreman put me to work. Before I could earn any money, it was necessary for me to learn how to weave; they located a Romanian, Haralambie Belba, one of their employees and told him to teach me this art. It required nearly a month for me to really know how to weave, Mr. Belba was very kind and did his best to teach me as quickly as possible but I was not a very apt pupil as I had never been forced to work with my hands previously—I now knew what “manufactured” meant!

I was in the factory from six in the morning until about six-thirty at night. The balance of my time was spent in my room, trying to learn English. I had procured a French-English guide to the language and on Sundays and holidays I would go to the park with my book and study in the sun and fresh air (I could use it after being cooped up in the factory day after day). I tried to forget the past, working and studying very hard; I also kept away from my friends here as they were always making fun of my studying. I had told them of my intention to earn enough money to go back to school and complete my education.

They thought me exceedingly foolish—although they were always telling the story of Dr. Patajo who, like me, came to this country without friends or money and had managed to work his way through college and medical school and who was now a well respected physician. I often told them that I would someday be like him but they laughed and stated that I didn’t appear to be that kind of man. This was torture for me as I was trying so hard—trying to learn to weave so that I could make money; to learn to speak English so that I could talk with my fellow workers when my apprenticeship was finished; I needed all the encouragement they could give but all I received was insults and jeers.

I was flat broke, all through my training period I had received no remuneration, Sterio paid my room and board bill but could give me no additional money. I could not purchase a summer suit and, in August, I was still wearing my heavy, woolen winter suit. I can assure you that I did not perspire while I was working, I sweated!

A group of Maritsa’s relatives who lived in Manchester, New Hampshire, came that month to enjoy a barbecue with some friends in Biddeford. I was introduced to them; then they saw my clothes, they began to make fun of me-they were all well dressed and I thought that they must be big business executives. It came as a surprise to find that they were only fruit peddlers, shoe shiners, janitors and the like. Elaborate preparations were made for that Sunday picnic, however I was not invited as they all felt that I would contribute nothing toward their festivities, financially or socially. I spent the day in the park, unable to study, unburdening my sorrows by shedding bitter tears at their thoughtlessness and their mercenary tendencies.

I finally learned to weave and the foreman gave me a dozen looms to take care of. It was very hard for me to keep all the spools full of thread so that the machinery would cm properly. Several of the other workers helped me out as much as they could but I was so inexperienced that I made twice as much work as necessary out of the job. My first pay envelope contained only three dollars; no matter how hard I worked, I never earned more than five dollars a week. The cloth was passed through a severe inspection and most of what I made was marked “Damaged”; we were not paid for any damaged material, this cloth was actually unfit for use, however, they sold it for nearly as much as they charged for perfect goods.

I worked five weeks and I was certain that the pay for my fifth week would be at least $9.50. I took the envelope from the cashier eagerly and tore it open quickly. It contained only $3.50. I was shocked, it took me a few minutes to realize that it was really such a small sum. I found a Greek friend of mine and rushed, with him as my interpreter, to see my foreman. I demanded an explanation and the foreman showed us a list of goods completed that week and pointed out that most of my work had been marked “Damaged”. He did not offer to show me the rolls of damaged goods, however, I wanted to see them but my interpreter would not convey the message as he didn’t want to get in bad with any of the bosses!

I now realized that these inspectors were merely marking “Damaged” on much of the material produced by those whom they thought too ignorant to kick about it and many bolts of good cloth were so marked. It made me very angry to think that they would make fools of us because we did not know the language.

I was earning so little money that I now began to understand why my countrymen had discouraged my ideas of going to school, I was forced to leave my room and share Sterio’s as my pay was so meager. I ate only the cheapest foods and not too much of that, as a result I soon became ill, so seriously ill that I could not stand at my machines. I had a high temperature and often coughed up blood. Sterio was alarmed and called in a French doctor who lived near-by. He examined me thoroughly and then began to ask Sterio questions; when had I come to this country? Was I in love with someone in the old country? What had I been doing since I came here? The doctor thought my illness was caused by being lonesome and homesick and advised that my only salvation lay in returning to Macedonia.

The doctor left and my friends decided to take up a collection among themselves to obtain sufficient money to pay my fare and expenses back to Macedonia so that my life might be saved. They told me about this plan and I replied that if I was not going to live, I would rather die in peace here! It was, they found, utterly futile to try to dissuade me and so they told the doctor about my decision. He told them that the only other chance for a full recovery was for me to eat great quantities of good food and to be out in the fresh air as much as possible.

Sterio had to start delivering bread at about three-thirty each morning so he would waken me, make me dress warmly and take me with him to help deliver the baked goods; this outing combined with the fact that he now routinely took me with him to eat and made certain that I had a good nourishing diet. This helped build up my constitution and in about four weeks I felt like a new man.

I began to become more accustomed to the new environment and had nearly forgotten my family, past position and my ambitions. I returned to the factory for a short time but contact with this work, the noise, trying to keep up with the speed of the looms and not making enough money to live on, let alone to compensate for the hard work, made me feel discouraged and depressed again.

Sterio and I had an argument a few weeks later, about Maritsa, ostensibly, but I now feel that the poor man was just sick of having to practically support me—a grown man! This quarrel was so serious that I decided to find another place to live and work. In a book which I had brought from Romania, I found a piece of paper on which was written the address of my cousin,  Atha Vaeni, he had been in America for several years and was living in Newport, New Hampshire. Armed with this information, I hurried to the post office the next morning and sent him a letter telling everything that had happened to me in this country and asking if it would be possible for me to come to Newport where he, perhaps, could find a good job for me.

I told Sterio nothing about this. I received a special delivery letter from Cousin Atha telling me to come to Newport at once as I would find many countrymen there and I was almost certain to secure a good job or, at least, agreeable work. He told me also that if I didn’t have sufficient money for the trip I should telegraph him and he would send my fare. I was so elated that I didn’t know which way to turn, I went to the depot and inquired about rates and, fortunately, I had enough cash to make the trip.

I went back to the room and started to pack. Sterio was shocked when I told him that I was leaving, he tried to talk me into staying, telling me that I was just getting started at the factory and that I would never find work in so small a town as Newport.

Nothing could stop me, I considered Biddeford little better than a prison; I had suffered in the factory, I had been forced to listen to a lot of nonsense relative to my desire for an education, they had laughed at my clothes and had left me out of their activities, I had made so little money that I had become ill from malnutrition—I had definitely had more than enough of the city of Biddeford, Maine.

to be continued