Commerce High School - Commerce Yearbook (Cleveland, OH)

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Suddenly the cry of a child rang through the night air. They stopped and stood stock still with fear of the possible consequences. A hurried attempt was made to quiet the child, when some had recovered their fortitude, but to no avail, for the woman carrying the child had fallen and in consequence the child was seriously hurt. Then, to save himself from suspicion, even though it might serve to make matters worse for the emigrants, the sentinel, by shooting into the air, aroused the other guards. The poor people fled hither and thither in terror, dropping their packs and bundles so as not to be retarded by them. “Philip,” cried the voice we had previously heard, and which belonged to Mrs. Petrowsky, “do not allow yourself to be separated fiom me.” But too late; they had been parted by the panic-stricken crowd in the twinkling of an eye. “My God!” she cried, looking all around her. “My only son. Philip! Philip! He does not answer. Philip! Where are you? Oh, my only son is lost. My cup of sorrow is full to the brim. My husband murdered and now my son separated from me. Philip! Philip!” But she cried in vain. Philip did not answer. Suddenly she perceived that the soldiers were close upon her. She ran frantically, crying out for her son. Suddenly she felt a heavy hand laid upon her. She turned. A soldier held her tightly. She struggled and cried frantically. “Let me go. Let me go. I want my son. He is lost. Let me seek him. Oh, please let me just find him and I will return to you.” But all to no avail. The soldier did not heed her. $ Two years later, on the lower easterly end of Manhattan Island, one of the five boroughs of New York City, could be seen large numbers of people moving to and fro on both sides of one of the narrow streets. Some of the people rushed along as if their lives depended upon their completing their journey in a given time. Others walked at a more moderate pace, but seemed to have some definite destination, while still others wandered along aimlessly. Among the last class of people was a well built boy about twelve or thirteen years of age, clad in poor Russian clothes, and carrying a violin case. It was our friend Philip. He sauntered along, seemingly without any definite destination, hanging his head as if in deep thought, and moving his lips, making a murmur, which, when he came nearer, could be made out to be a soliloquy. “----- Mother, I wonder where she is. I do not know where I can get any word from or about her. Those villains first deprived me of my father and now they have taken my mother. I will have to depend on myself. What can I do to at least get something to eat. “If I sell my violin, an act which will be very hard for me to do, I will then have nothing, after I have spent the little money that I can get for it.” 104

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 Well, the only thing we can do is to leave Russia,” she continued, after a pause. “Shall we leave Russia? Where shall we go?” cried the astonished Philip, almost with incredulity. “Where everybody goes; to America, the home of freeodm and liberty. » The night was dark and chilly. Neither moon nor stars were shining. The ominous silence was disturbed by the regular tramp, tramp of the sentinel, as he marched to and fro, and later, mingling with it was heard a low murmuring sound coming from afar off. The sounds gradually grew louder and louder, until the low shuffle of many feet became apparent, as in the distance an approaching mass loomed up into view. The mass gradually drew nearer and nearer, until it took on the form of a number of men, women and children, carrying large packs and bundles. They were of the poor Russian type of people, as their dress plainly showed. They were emigrants from Russia who were being smuggled across the boundary into Germany by an agency which makes a regular practice of smuggling people across for a stipulated sum, while to insure success, the agency takes care of the persons all the time until they reach their destination. The people have to be smuggled across, because the Government of Russia does not allow any persons to emigrate from the country unless they have passports. These passports are rarely given, they are often times refused for the slightest reason. The people are, therefore, compelled to sneak across the lines or starve in Russia. This crossing the border is very dangerous as there are many streams, ditches and various other obstructions, and, moreover, they usually steal across at night, as there are soldiers patroling the frontier. A man on horseback stealthily emerged from among these emigrants and, approaching the sentinel, addressed him in Russian. “You have attended to all?” “Yes. If all goes well, and, above all, no noise is made, you can be able to pass easily, was the answer. “That is well,” and the man pushed a bill into the soldier’s hand, the denomination of which it was impossible to discern, but the satisfied smile of the soldier gave warrant of a good sized bill.' When thus fully assured of the outcome of the undertaking, the man returned to the emigrants with a smile almost of glee. As he came within hearing distance of the dark mass, a well-known voice, but very low, asked, “How far are we from the German border?” “This is the last sentinel,” was the answer, “and if all goes well, we shall probably be able to get across in half an hour.” They walked along silently, springing over any ditches or other obstacles that happened to be in their way, sometimes stumbling, sometimes falling, conscious of their danger, yet unconscious of their immediate fate. 103

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He thought and thought and did not get any further than when he started. Suddenly he heard somebody playing. He looked around and saw, not a few steps away, a man playing on a violin. When the man finished some pennies dropped from the windows above him. The player picked them up and went some distance further and repeated his action. “I have it. Why can not I do this? I can make a little money and after I have saved up a few dollars I can think of something better to do,” cried Philip. He then attempted to answer his own question by action, and he was rewarded with ten cents, after playing some melodies, among which we can be sure was his father’s favorite piece. “Collar buttons, candles, hair pins, combs.” The crier was a woman carrying a basket heavily loaded with the before mentioned wares. The poor woman was Mrs. Petrowsky, but how changed! Her beautiful hair was entirely white; her eyes had grown deeply sunken. The look of anguish stamped on her features gave full evidence of the miseries through which she had passed during the last five years. Her husband, in a sense, murdered; her only son snatched from her care; her very life made a burden by the oppressors, who had not been content with the suffering they had caused her to endure, but had not even allowed her the trifling privilege of departing in peace from her native land that had long became loath-some to her. The expression in her face, as she walked along, seemed to show that she had hardly any care for her life, but supported herself on her meager earnings only because it was a mechanical instinct. As she walked slowly along, crying out her wares in a sad voice, she suddenly stopped, listened, moved on a few steps, and stopped again, as if an electro-magnet was drawing her to itself, and the circuit alternately was made qnd then broken. What was it she was listening to? The beautiful strains of a violin came smoothly and gracefully through the air and fell lightly upon the ear arranging themselves into a beautiful and passionate melody. It was the favorite piece of Mr. Petrowsky. Then, as if the current had been turned on with a double fold volume of electricity, giving the magnet renewed power, she was drawn into the small court from whence the melody was issuing. She looked up as if to ascertain the cause of the irresistible drawing power and saw before her a handsome boy manipulating his violin. When he finished he looked up, their eyes met, they closely scrutinized each other. A look of recognition passed over their faces, then one of doubt and then again of recognition. “Philip! My son!” “Mother!” HERMAN KAPLAN, 1912. 105