In 1923, our family left Russia in the middle of a snowstorm.
"We are on our way to the ocean," said my father. "There is a
big boat there that will take us to America. But first, we
will spend a few days in a nice, warm room in a place called
a hotel."
I was four years old at the time. I do not remember this
journey to the sea but often heard my parents and my
grandmother speak of it.
My father carried me; my mother carried my two-year-old
sister Miriam, and my fifty-five-year-old grandmother carried
my baby brother Yosef. We finally reached the hotel, were
given a room and the adults began to unpack, so to speak, the
three well-wrapped children.
Suddenly, my grandmother let out a scream. The baby was not
in his blanket! My mother has often told of this moment. She
says my father was a streak of lightning. He grabbed his
coat, slapped on his boots and flew out the door. The deep
snow showed our footprints. He found the baby safe and sound,
and still fast asleep.
The boat we were waiting for was very late in coming. Our
uncles in America were very angry because of the unexpected
delay which so increased the expense of the trip. You see,
they were paying for our journey, our hotel stay, and they
were aware that even when we reached our destination in their
city of Rochester in upstate New York, we would still be
dependent on them.
Many weeks passed before the Polania arrived to take
on all the passengers eagerly awaiting it. We and many others
were housed in steerage. Luckily, we took some food with us.
We were given very little to eat but something nice
happened.
While we were still in Russia, when I was about 2 1/2, my
Russian uncle would lift me onto the table and he taught me
to sing and dance.
So there I was in steerage on the Polonia, singing and
dancing to while away the time. Some sailor must have told
the captain about me and I was asked to come to the upper
deck to sing and dance on the stage. That I remember! They
gave me a wonderful gift -- a huge bag of oranges. It was the
only fresh food we had on that trip.
We reached New York harbor on July 3rd in the middle of the
night. I remember the look of all those buildings full of
light. "Look at all those candles!" I marveled. I had never
seen electric lights before...
All was well until the next day, which was July 4th. My
mother was very frightened by the firecrackers being shot
off. Poor Mama thought a war had erupted until some nice
people explained that this was merely the way America
celebrated its freedom and independence.
[Ed. We hope Mrs. Perlman has more of her fascinating stories
lined up for us, as she promised. I just wanted to note that
singing certainly runs in the family and I, personally, have
my own memoir of her eighteen-year-old son, today ra'm
in Yeshivas Ohr Somayach, gracing our Shabbos table when he
first came to study in Eretz Yisroel.
Rabbi Mordechai was our Shabbos guest and from the very
beginning of the meal, he boomed out zemiros and other
songs in the most beautiful, powerful voice I have ever
heard, yes, even since then! And nonstop throughout the meal.
He did not tire -- nor did we -- but seemed to gather
strength from one song to the next!
Today, Rabbi Perlman is the Ohr Somayach baal tefila
for the Yomim Noroim and we have had the honor to have him
sing the Boruch Habo at most of our children's
weddings. May his songs find favor above as they do
below!]
