Unexpected Gifts (33 page)

I had to close my eyes while we sat on our suitcases. The main hall at Ellis Island was too ghastly to face. All around us hung the consistent din of babies crying, boots slowly shuffling, the thud of suitcases being repositioned on the floor, and the ubiquitous unidentifiable languages.

For all my intelligence and education, I could not understand a word that the officials were saying. I watched their facial expressions, recalling my father's parting words, “Remember, the rest of the world nods when we would shake our heads, and they shake their heads when we would nod,” but that knowledge didn't really help. I was useless.

It also didn't help to have my young daughter be our interpreter. When did she learn English so well? The more she helped us, the angrier I became.

At one point I did make an attempt. “I, Andrei Balakov, I—I, Andrei Balakov.” The official's sneer was not kind, and after mispronouncing Sofia, barked some words to Adriana. But what was he saying? How dare Adriana take over for me. Really, that was too much!

And what were those doctors doing? Doctors, indeed! What a group of imbeciles!

I had had enough. I had to take charge. I thrust my hand out in a halt position then, ducking under the vast metal railings, herded my family to a different waiting area, where, since Eugenia still refused to talk to me, I felt as if I were on my own.

Suddenly, I noticed a man sitting on a bench across the aisle, staring at us. “How impertinent,” I muttered. Yet, within a few minutes, Mr. Sussman turned out to be quite a find, and I realized just how fortunate I was to have a place to live and a new, exciting job.

Downtown Detroit had none of the beauty of Sofia, but it was fascinating nonetheless. Here, automobiles were everywhere. There were plenty of horse-drawn wagons too, of course, but there was a far, far greater abundance of these combustible engines than I thought possible. While Mr. Sussman and Adriana blathered on, I stopped to listen to the noise belching out of all those motorcars, the engines rattling and sputtering as their owners steered through traffic, gleefully dodging pedestrians. It was invigorating.

Mr. Sussman led us past Heigelman's Drug Store, Sternbaum's Master Tailor, Rosenglatt's Fine Food, and into the decrepit number 43 Hastings Street, before trudging up a dark moldy staircase to the third floor. While our guide chattered nonstop, Tony was whining like an injured pup in Eugenia's arms, Adriana looked smug as the major translator, and as for me, I remained as silent as a ghost.

We stood just inside our front door, observing our new quarters. What filth! All the way to America for this? I suddenly pictured our fresh apartment in Sofia, with its little clean fireplace, floors that shined, and freshly painted white walls covered with our own decorations.

Later, as we unpacked our meager things, I softened. Perhaps this was a good place after all. Eugenia might feel more comfortable amongst so many of her own people, but when I turned to her not meeting my eyes, I noticed her face had lost some of its beauty.

Bright and early Monday morning, Mr. Sussman appeared at our front door to take me with him to the Ford Motor Company. His collar was freshly starched, his jacket pressed, and although at first I didn't have the heart to tell him he had a blotch of dried blood on his neck from a sloppy shave, I ended up pointing at it and he smiled and nodded. Remember, a nod means yes, a shake of the head means no.

I contemplated waking Adriana out of a deep slumber to help translate, but thought better of it. I could surely handle whatever situation I was put into. After all, between my intelligence and my credentials there would undoubtedly be some sort of management position I could dovetail into nicely. They would soon see how fortunate they were to have me.

Mr. Sussman set our accelerated gait, one building signage blurring into the next, and although I was keeping up with him, for some reason there was one sign that made me pause. I stopped to copy down the words so Adriana could later translate:
In Detroit, Life is Worth Living!

Approaching the three-story brick factory, we saw completed Model T bodies jiggling down a wide wooden belt, set at a forty-five degree angle. As soon as each body reached the bottom, several workers bolted it onto a chassis. Then, the completed car was driven off somewhere. I would learn later that this quick test ride before being delivered to various Ford showrooms around town was considered vital, both for safety and for publicity.

Inside, Sussman produced our applications and my medical transcript from Sofia University. “See? My friend Andrei Balakov, medical school. Very intelligent.”

The man laughed. “Well, here in America, if his English ain't good, he'll be on the floor like everyone else. Understand?”

Sussman gulped and nodded.

What was happening? Shouldn't the man be impressed with my credentials? Why did he sound angry? Was Sussman ruining this for me?

The man stood up, handed Sussman back our papers, and tossed out through his teeth, “Welcome to Ford, fellas. Come with me and I'll show you your stations.”

Come—I understood come.

The noise was deafening. Walking through one enormous factory room after another, I could feel my body vibrating, my ears pounding. Even if I could speak English it would be pointless. Nothing could be heard over this cacophony of noise. And the grime! Every surface, every employee was coated with a layer of black dust that sifted up into my nose.

The first couple of rooms were filled with drive train assembly lines, the large, metal chains hoisting and lowering engines onto chasses. The next couple of rooms were only for women building spark plugs by hand, their backs hunched over in awkward positions that foreshadowed major arthritis at too young an age. Each person had their own job to do, no one moved an inch from their assigned spot.

The next series of rooms housed men and women covered in filth and jammed up against waist-high hardware bins of bolts, nuts, lock washers, and machine screws. Where in the world was I was going to be placed? I kept looking over at Sussman for clues, but he seemed as puzzled as I.

Entering yet another room, our guide paused. “Here. You work here.”

We had stopped at an area where everyone was standing close to giant metal machines.

“You men are going to stay next to the punch-press operators. Someone will help you.”

What was he talking about?

He screamed something to a nearby employee who immediately left his station and started showing Sussman how to pull the levers. Our escort rushed off and I was left empty-handed, surrounded by stamping machines pounding sheet metal into unusual shapes. But after several minutes of watching Sussman operate one of the machines, I became bored and surveyed the entire chamber. The men's faces remained passive, and as I watched those metal blades hammering all around us, one word stayed lodged in my brain. Accident.

I refused to talk to my family that night. Two grunts and Eugenia stopped asking me questions, signaling the children to leave their papa alone to wash his hands for the fifth time. By the following evening, it was only three times and at least I could talk. But then there was Adriana.

“Papa, my new school is wonderful. My teacher tells me that I will be fluent in no time at all. Isn't that grand?”

Why was Eugenia smiling so damn much?

I ignored her, turning instead to Tony sitting on my right, and winked.

Adriana stared at me, her mouth open, one eye growing moist. As she rose up from her chair to leave, I helped myself to another plate of
Shopska Salata.

Within three months, I was constantly daydreaming about Bulgaria while I worked. I kept seeing the luscious rose valleys that Eugenia and I had visited in our early days together, the colors, the smells that heightened our passion, anesthetized our insecurities. I pictured her flawless skin, her loveliness, untouched by sadness or exhaustion. She was…

It wasn't a human sound; jarring, eerie, slicing through the factory din. Around me people were running every which way, yelling like crazed men, almost as loudly as the screams coming from the man whose fingers were dangling off his right hand. I suddenly flashed on the blood of that poor girl on the bed so long ago. How bright this blood seemed compared to the dark, crusty crimson left on those hotel sheets. I stared at the stamping machine's blades dripping blood like a medieval sword's edge as Borislav came to mind, backing out of that room. Without warning, I surged into a fury. How dare he be so self-protective! How dare he wasn't punished along with me.

That fury galvanized me into action. I charged over to the injured man already in shock, grabbed a nearby oil rag, twisted it around the man's arm as a tourniquet, and laying him gently onto the floor, propped his arm up on my knee to lessen the blood flow to his damaged hand.

As the employee was carried away on a stretcher, men kept appearing around me, patting me on the back, using mystery words that sounded congratulatory, and as filthy and degrading as my surroundings were, I felt better than I had in a long, long time.

“Mr. Balakov, please repeat the sentence.”

“I—I lif—lif on—on Detroit.” Titters rippled throughout the classroom.

“In, Mr. Balakov.
IN! IN! IN!

“I lif
IN
Detroit
ON
Hastings Street!” The English teacher was not amused.

The classroom where Ford mandated our English lessons was usually filled to capacity, with mostly male workers dressed in their one suit, starched collars, and grimy hands and fingernails. I was up front with the true beginners, Sussman further back with the intermediate group. But one month in, I noticed no matter the temperature, no matter the school material, no matter how hard I tried, I was sure to raise the ire of our teacher.

He preached practicing the new language with our family, but I couldn't face Adriana. How dare she be so agile in this area! Eugenia was hopeless, so Tony became my sounding board, particularly when I brought him with me to buy something from Hudson's Detroit Store for Men.

“Tony, remember, you are how you dress.”

“Say that in English, Papa. You need to practice.”

“Tony, re—re…”

“Remember.”

“Re—mem—ber…”

“You are how you dress!”

“You is…”

“Are, not is!”

“You are what…”

“How, Papa, how.”

I was exhausted. “No more English now. Let's look at what we might find in the store. I need good quality clothes for when I walk through Belle Isle.”

Sometimes, I would return to our apartment to find Eugenia with her pinched look, the Mezuzah on our front door taken down, no Menorah on the credenza, all inflammatory reminders of her Judaism to my anti-Semitic boss. Just Ford's psychologists there for a visit as they examined every inch of our home.

“Tell me, Mr. Balakov,” one of the psychologists said one particular day, wiping the surface of our kitchen table with her gloved finger, “how is the English coming along, eh?”

“Goot—goot.”

“Can't you say more than goot? That's what you say every time!”

Of course Adriana had to step in. “He's learning, although for some reason, he's not doing as well as some of the others. But we're here to help him,” she said, smiling at the visitors.