Touched by Fire by Irene N.Watts

can barely speak, must answer. When it is Essie’s turn, they ask her name, her age, and her favorite color. She is very shy. Fanny clasps the child’s hand tightly. I hold my breath, remembering Yuri’s silence. It does not take much to be turned down. Fanny strokes the small girl’s cheek, and though Essie speaks in a whisper, it is good enough, and they are passed.
    Now it is my turn. The inspector asks me, “What is your name?”
    “Miriam Markov, sir.”
    “How old are you?”
    “I am fourteen years old.”
    “Can you read and write?”
    I nod. My mouth has gone dry. I manage, “Yes, sir.”
    “Read this sentence.” The inspector points to some words on a board.
    I read them.
    “Now, write your name.”
    I do so, hoping this is the last question.
    “Who paid for your ticket?” he asks.
    “My father,” I answer.
    “Why are you traveling alone?”
    “My little sister is unwell. When she is stronger, she and my mother will come to America.” I think it is better not to mention Yuri.
    “Where are you staying in America?”
    I show the inspector the piece of paper with Papa’s address on it.
    “Do you have a job to go to?”
    “No, sir.”
    “What kind of work can you do?”
    “I can keep house for my father. I can cook, and I know how to sew.”
    “Are you bringing any money to America?”
    “I have a little, enough for food and to help with the rent for a short while. I do not know how much it is in American money, sir.”
    The inspector seems satisfied and admits me to America. No more questions! I can go downstairs. Now I would like to run, but this once, I slow down and descend the stairs with my head held high, like an American lady.
    Suddenly I am afraid. Thousands of people are here, lining up, with or without luggage. Voices shout, people cry. There is no sign of Papa. I look for Rosie everywhere. At last, I see my friend beside a tall man with black curly hair. He carries Rosie’s luggage. A woman, his wife I think, tugs at his arm. I wave, calling Rosie’s name. She turns, says something to the man, pulls away from him, and runs over to me.
    “Miriam, I wanted them to wait to meet you, for you to meet Bruno,
mio fratello
, my brother, but Clara says they have to get back. I will find you, Miriam – I have your address. Thank you for everything!” We hug each other. A shrill voice, through the pandemonium of cries, shouts, and sobs, calls out, “Rosina,
pronto!
” Poor Rosie, her sister-in-law does sound strict. We wave good-bye.
    I wait.
Where would Papa look for me?
I go to the baggage room and pick up my luggage. Outside the great hall, there is a ticket office, and people come and go. Ferries load and unload passengers. Friends and relatives look for eachother. Some, as I am, are alone, hoping to see one longed for, familiar face. I notice Essie being lifted high in the air by her papa.
Where is mine?
    I walk up and down, looking for Papa. On the steps outside the building are men offering help and advice, just as in Hamburg. I remember Mama’s warnings.
Do they think I’m so innocent?
A man wearing a blue cap, which has H.I.A.S . embroidered on it, comes up to me.
    He speaks in Yiddish. “Is someone meeting you, miss? Do you have an address to go to?”
    I want to shout for help, but instead I answer in English. “Yes, go away, please,” I say. “My father is coming.”
    Then I hear his dear, remembered voice, “Miriam, Miriam, you are here.” His arms embrace me, but I see only the face of a stranger!
    I scream, “Let me go! I am waiting for my papa.” When I dare to look up into his eyes, I see they are Papa’s eyes. This time my scream is with happiness! “I did not know you, Papa. Where is your beard?” If Mama were here, she would say he looks like a crazy man.
    “I shaved it off,” Papa says, “so that I will look more like an American. You have grown so tall. Where has my little Miriam gone?” He hugs me again, then looks over my shoulder, searching for