The ship, a steamer of 7,000 tons, carried 1,100 passengers. Hardly any had ever seen the sea before. For fourteen days the ship danced on the waves. Most of the passengers found this hard to endure. The blue of the sea or its beauty, so celebrated by the poets, was little in evidence. The water looked gray, mean, and hostile.

And then a day came when land was sighted. The passengers felt like the sailors on Columbus ships. When the cry of “Land!” rang out, sickness was forgotten, the weak became strong, and new hope arose.

Several hours later one found oneself on board an immigrants’ train that was crossing the northern and middle-western part of the United States at a not excessive speed and depositing the newcomers at every station.

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Just look at the cows!” cried one man. “

Horns, exactly like ours.”

“What did you think, American cows wore high hats?”

The train rolled through cities where on all sides you saw wash hanging out to dry on long clothes-lines. It was as if the Americans had put on a show of fresh laundry in honor of the newcomers and future citizens.

The journey from Boston to Chicago lasted sixty hours, with the number of passengers diminishing steadily. Finally, my journey ended. In Chicago, relatives took me to a house near Humboldt Park. At ten in the morning I found myself in a warm and pleasant room, with a storm raging outside and snowflakes whirling at the windows. I thought of my fellow-travelers. I was sure that someone had exclaimed, “Just look, snowflakes exactly like the ones at home!”

The news of a greenhorn’s arrival spread through the whole house. Neighbors came running in to greet the newcomer. One of the neighbors who came in was a man of fifty who had been in the United States over thirty years. He pushed the many guests aside, went straight to the newcomer, and said: “Just let me talk to the greenhorn. Nobody else around here has as much experience of this country as I have and nobody else has traveled around as much.”

Turning to the newcomer, he said, “How do you do, greenhorn? Before you do anything else, notice one thing: America is not Europe. I can still see Europe as though I’d left it only yesterday—little houses with thatched roofs, little kerosene lamps, sometimes only candles, and sometimes not even that. A person could spit wherever he pleased, and white bread was only for holidays. Yes sir, believe me, that’s the way it was. But what’s the use of telling you that, you come from there.

“You’ll be amazed at what you see here. Over there you only kept your pants up with suspenders. Belts like we have here were unknown. You had to put your shirt on over your head. You had long under-drawers with strings hanging down behind. And wide shoes.

“Yes sir, that’s the way it was. But I lost my greenness very soon. There are many people who stay green forever.”

The attempts of the other guests to halt this flood of talk were of no avail. He was so filled with-his mission, with his desire to smooth the newcomer’s path in America, that nothing could stop him. The others had to give up. Most of them soon departed, leaving him alone in the room with the newcomer. And now the lesson really began:

“With you in Europe everything has a lot of serious difficulties connected with it. You can’t make a light without matches. But here, believe it or not—do you see this button?”

“I do.”

“What is a button like that used for?”

“I don’t know.”

“Of course, how should a European greenhorn know? Do you see this lamp here? Take a good look at it. Does it have any sort of wick? Do you see any kerosene? Does it stink? Not at all. Press this button, don’t be afraid. Nothing will happen. In America everything is safe. Press like this, straight in. Look at the lamp. What do you say now? Did you ever see such a light before? It’s too bad it’s not night time. Just a moment—Bessie, will you draw the curtain over the window? Now, what do you think of that light? Without matches, without kerosene, without even touching the lamp itself. Press the button again. Do you see me? I don’t see you either. Black as night. So, greenhorn!

“Let’s go into the kitchen for a moment. Remember the way it was at home? I ask you whether you remember, when as a matter of fact you’ve just come from there. Of course you remember. You had to bring water from the well in buckets. And there would be a big barrel in the kitchen to pour the water into—for cooking, dishwashing, drinking, everything. Where do you see a barrel here? Have you yet seen a well in America? Believe me, I’ve been here more than thirty years and I haven’t seen a well yet. They’re needless. Who uses them? Do you see this brass faucet in the wall? Turn it, don’t be afraid. Everything is safe in America. What do you think of that? Water comes out of the wall. And not only here, but in every house, in every apartment—the same thing. Water comes out of the wall. Cold water from one side, hot water from the other. Yes sir. And they drink seltzer here out of bottles, all flavors.

“And look here. What’s that? A stove—correct. But where do you see wood or coal? Nothing of the sort. You don’t have to split wood here the way you do in Europe, and blow till you’re out of breath. Just press the button and it lights. You can make it larger, you can make it smaller. You can put milk on to boil when you want to do any cooking, and you can go away without fear of having it boil over. And where does it all come from? Out of that hole. Here you just put a quarter in and the quarter makes it bum. That’s America. Money takes care of everything. All you need is quarters, and then everything comes by itself.

“And who do you think discovered all this—the buttons that make light, the faucets that give water without stopping if you need it, the boxes with quarters that give gas, all America with its English language and the dollars you have to work so hard for? Yes sir. That Columbus was a genius, a real American even if he was born in the old country.”

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After these words my teacher took me by the right hand and led me out of the kitchen into another room.

“This,” he said, “is the dining-room. Look out of the window. Do you see all that snow? Do you hear the storm howling? On days like this in Europe you wrap yourself in a sheepskin, fill the oven full of wood, and still can’t warm yourself up. Do you feel cold here? No sir. Even if you said so, I wouldn’t believe you. And where does it all come from? Steam heat. They keep a fire going in the cellar and up here, on the second floor, it’s warm. Now what do you say? Nothing, I should think so. But that isn’t anything, yet.

“Look to the right. What’s hanging on the wall there? Take a good look at it. Don’t be afraid. Everything is safe in America. Don’t take it down. If you take it down, someone you don’t see will immediately say, ‘Operator.’ And then you have to say a name and a number into this hole. And then you hear another voice say, ‘Hello, Mister or Missus—whatever the man or woman’s name is—speaking.’ Back home when you want to talk to someone you have to send somebody to ask him over or you have to be kind enough, in case of storm or rain, to go and see him yourself. Here it can rain and storm as much as it wants to, snow can pile up over your knees and up to the windows. But if I want to talk to somebody living on another street, all I have to do is pick up this tube here. The operator immediately answers and I tell her a number, and a -voice answers me from that other street. And we talk to each other, I tell you, just the way you and I are talking now. The only difference is that you first say hello.”

I had listened patiently until now to the explanation of all these technological achievements and submitted without a murmur to the lesson. I had been rendered speechless by hearing that Columbus had discovered the electric light, the gas meter, plumbing, America, and the English language. But when it came to the telephone I felt compelled to express doubt. I permitted myself to interrupt.

“Listen to me, dear friend,” I said to him. “I’ve believed everything you’ve said. You’ve proved to me that whatever you say is so. But that you can hear from one house to another in the middle of this storm and all the noise in the streets—no, I don’t believe that. You might just as well try to convince me that ice can be made in the summertime. I am a greenhorn, it is true, but still I haven’t lost my mind.”

These words made him excited. “Unfortunately I can’t prove it about the ice just now. But even so, a time will come for that. In the summer, when it’s so hot you sweat water from yourself like the faucet in the wall, then I’ll show you what America can do. We can make ice here on the hottest day the way we couldn’t even make it back home in the heaviest frost.

“As for the telephone, you’ll see that today. Not today, right now. Yes sir. We’re near Humboldt Park here. From here to Blue Island it’s two miles, maybe more. Yes sir. Back home when the cantor used to sing in synagogue you could hear his strong voice for a quarter of a mile at the most. But I’ll show you that you can hear from Blue Island to here better than from the kitchen to the dining-room. And you don’t have to strain yourself at all. You talk as if to the wall and you hear it as if it were a human voice. Wait a minute, I’ll show it to you right away.”

The man disappeared. Two minutes later he returned with his wife, whom he had fetched from her kitchen. He had his overcoat and rubbers on.

His wife cried, “Are you crazy? In this storm and snow? You can prove it to him in the afternoon.”

“No, what Sam says has to be proved immediately. Let a greenhorn see what Columbus could do.”

Then he turned to me: “Listen, when you hear it ringing, run over and pick up the receiver—this tube—with your left hand. Put it to your left ear and with your mouth say into this hole here, ‘Hello!’ And then—but I don’t want to tell you in advance. You’ll hear it for yourself.”

Then he turned to his wife: “The greenhorn won’t know how to handle it. As soon as the phone rings you come in and show him how. But let him pick up the receiver, not you. And make sure he says hello the right way.”

With these words the man disappeared -into the storm and snow.

While we waited, his wife ran from one neighbor to another and told them how the greenhorn was being Americanized. “Come over,” she said to them, “you’ll have a nice show.” The room was soon filled and everything was tense with expectation.

_____________

After about half an hour the telephone rang. The wife was taken by surprise. She pulled me by the hand, but in her surprise she cried “hello!” into the telephone herself. But then she handed the receiver over to me, saying, “Say hello loud.”

I did as I had been told. From the other side I heard the familiar voice: “Do you hear me, greenhorn?”

I answered, “No.”

The voice got louder. “Do you hear me, greenhorn?”

“No.”

The voice became so loud that I felt a violent pain in my ear.

“No,” I answered.

The man began to despair. His voice took on a hoarse undertone. The words were always the same: “Do you hear me, greenhorn?” And my answer was always the same: “No.”

Half an hour later the man returned, snow-covered and tired but with a smile on his lips.

“I admit it was stupid of me,” he said. “How could I expect a greenhorn to learn and grasp in the very first day what I myself only learned gradually in the course of years? Don’t be afraid, greenhorn, take it easy and you’ll get used to things here, your greenness will wear off. You mustn’t lose patience.”