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    From Plotzk to Boston - An Immigrant's Story
    From Plotzk to Boston - An Immigrant's Story
    From Plotzk to Boston - An Immigrant's Story
    Ebook79 pages1 hour

    From Plotzk to Boston - An Immigrant's Story

    By Mary Antin

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    About this ebook

    Written from the authors own personal experiences of her journey from Polotsk, Russia to Boston, USA in  1894 at the age of 11. This early works, published in  1899, is a fascinating look at American history and immigration. Mary Antin's vivid description of all she and her dear ones went through, enables us to see almost with our own eyes how the invasion of America appears to the impecunious invader. It is thus "a human document" of considerable value, as well as a promissory note of future performance..... Many of the earliest books, particularly those dating back to the 1900's and before, are now extremely scarce and increasingly expensive. We are republishing these classic works in affordable, high quality, modern editions, using the original text and artwork.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRead Books Ltd.
    Release dateAug 31, 2018
    ISBN9781528781435
    From Plotzk to Boston - An Immigrant's Story
    Author

    Mary Antin

    Mary Antin (1881-1949) was a writer and activist whose work reflected the American immigrant experience. Born in the Russian Empire but raised in the U.S., Antin was a bright child whose exceptional writing quickly impressed her teachers. In 1899, she published her first book, From Plotzk to Boston, which was an early detailing of her emigration story. She was then encouraged to write an autobiography, which became The Promised Land, her most popular and acclaimed work.

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      Book preview

      From Plotzk to Boston - An Immigrant's Story - Mary Antin

      1.png

      FROM PLOTZK TO BOSTON

      BY

      MARY ANTIN

      WITH A FOREWORD BY

      ISRAEL ZANGWILL

      First published in 1899

      This edition published by Read Books Ltd.

      Copyright © 2017 Read Books Ltd.

      This book is copyright and may not be

      reproduced or copied in any way without

      the express permission of the publisher in writing

      British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

      A catalogue record for this book is available

      from the British Library

      DEDICATED TO

      HATTIE L. HECHT

      WITH THE LOVE AND GRATITUDE

      OF THE AUTHOR

      Contents

      THE MAKING OF A PATRIOT: MARY ANTIN

      FOREWORD

      PREFATORY

      FROM PLOTZK TO BOSTON.

      THE MAKING OF A PATRIOT:

      MARY ANTIN

      From

      Heroines of Service by Mary Lyon

      Published In 1921

      Where is the true man's fatherland?

      Is it where he by chance is born?

      Doth not the yearning spirit scorn

      In such scant borders to be spanned?

      O yes! his fatherland must be

      As the blue heaven wide and free!

      James Russell Lowell.

      THE MAKING OF A PATRIOT

      YOU  know the story of The Man without a Country—the man who lost his country through his own fault. Can you imagine what it would mean to be a child without a country—to have no flag, no heroes, no true native land to which you belong as you belong to your family, and which in turn belongs to you? How would it seem to grow up without the feeling that you have a big country, a true fatherland to protect your home and your friends; to build schools for you; to give you parks and playgrounds, and clean, beautiful streets; to fight disease and many dangers on land and water for you?—This is the story of a little girl who was born in a land where she had no chance for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Far from being a true fatherland, her country was like the cruel stepmother of the old tales.

      It was strange that one could be born in a   country and yet have no right to live there! Little Maryashe (or Mashke, as she was called, because she was too tiny a girl for a big-sounding name) soon learned that the Russia where she was born was not her own country. It seemed that the Russians did not love her people, or want them to live in their big land. And yet there they were! Truly it was a strange world.

      Why is Father afraid of the police? asked little Mashke. He has done nothing wrong.

      My child, the trouble is that we can do nothing right! cried her mother, wringing her hands. Everything is wrong with us. We have no rights, nothing that we dare to call our own.

      It seemed that Mashke's people had to live in a special part of the country called the Pale of Settlement. It was against the law to go outside the Pale no matter how hard it was to make a living where many people of the same manner of life were herded together, no matter how much you longed to try your fortune in a new place. It was not a free land, this Polotzk where she had been born. It was a prison   with iron laws that shut people away from any chance for happy living.

      It is hard to live in a cage, be it large or small. Like a wild bird, the free human spirit beats its wings against any bars.

      Why, Mother, why is it that we must not go outside the Pale? asked Mashke.

      Because the Czar and those others who have the power to make the laws do not love our people; they hate us and all our ways, was the reply.

      But why do they hate us, Mother? persisted the child with big, earnest eyes.

      Because we are different; because we can never think like them and be like them. Their big Russia is not yet big enough to give people of another sort a chance to live and be happy in their own way.

      Even in crowded Polotzk, though, with police spying on every side, there were happy days. There were the beautiful Friday afternoons when Mashke's father and mother came home early from the store to put off every sign of the work-a-day world and make ready for the Sabbath. The children were allowed to wear their   holiday clothes and new shoes. They stepped about happily while their mother hid the great store keys and the money bag under her featherbed, and the grandmother sealed the oven and cleared every trace of work from the kitchen.

      How Mashke loved the time of candle prayer! As she looked at the pure flame of her candle the light shone in her face and in her heart. Then she looked at the work-worn faces of her mother and grandmother. All the lines of care and trouble were smoothed away in the soft light. They had escaped from the prison of this unfriendly land with its hard laws and its hateful Pale. They were living in the dim but glorious Past, when their father's fathers had been a free nation in a land of their own.

      But Mashke could not escape from the prison in that way. She was young and glad to be alive. Her candle shone for light and life to-day and to-morrow and to-morrow! There were no bars that could shut away her free spirit from the light.

      How glad she was for life and sunlight on the peaceful Sabbath afternoons when, holding to her father's hand, she walked beyond the   city streets along the riverside to the place where in blossoming orchards birds sang of the joyful life of the air, and where in newly plowed fields peasants sang the song of planting-time and the fruitful earth. Her heart leaped as she felt herself a part of the life that flowed through all things—river, air, earth, trees, birds, and happy, toiling people.

      It seemed to Mashke that most of her days were passed in wondering—wondering about the strange world in which she found herself, and its strange ways. Of course she played as the children about her did, with her rag doll and her jacks made of the knuckle bones of sheep; and she learned to dance to the most spirited tune that could be coaxed from the teeth of a comb covered with a bit of paper. In winter she loved to climb in the bare sledge, which when not actively engaged in hauling wood could give a wonderful joy-ride to a

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