Prologue

By writing this story, the author’s purpose is to open a small window into the global picture of the struggle of millions of people that left their old country, with the hope of finding a better life. The ordeal of change from the comforts of their surroundings, to going into a new world was akin to changing their skin; it was painful. Yet, either famine, internal warfare, or the threat of extinction by the Nazi, propelled millions of people to leave all their possessions, abandon families and march engulfed by unproven hope, half way around the globe, where there existed a continent that offered a better life. America beckoned.

Each immigrant has his or her own story, and their endings differ. The stories were multiplied by millions of people who individually left Europe, the Middle East and Asia, setting their compass to the west. There was no looking back. No one ever had the desire to return, and those who many years later went back to take a look, came back with tears in their eyes.

This story deals with four generations involved in the one hundred and twenty years covered. Each story is rich in history, traditions, failures and successes, much like a tree which sprouts branches, which in turn sprout more branches. However it is only one tree in the forest of history.

This is a true story. Without doubt, there will be living individuals or their children that will think that some events are not exactly the way they saw or heard from family members. This is not unusual. Every effort has been made to take care of personal sensitivities.

I realize also that many living family members or friends might be disappointed that their achievements were not lauded more extensible. This was not the purpose. My apologies in advance to those who think I wrote too much or two little.

Chapter 1

Silibria Turkey, 1918

Daniel Motola urged his donkey down the road going west, away from the city of Istanbul. Behind him, the tumult of the busiest and most historic city he had ever been to or heard of slowly receded. The images of the Great Palace, the Mesquite, the port with all the big ships, the Galatá Bridge and the Bazaar, were still dancing in his brain. He had awakened before sunrise and was headed home. His monthly purchases of goods for his household and small farm could only be done at the market in the big city. The bazaar was the only place where merchants could barter for goods. It took him two days in each direction, a total of ten miles each way. He felt happy to be away from crowds. The noise level caused by a thousand merchants yelling at the top of their lungs trying to sell their wares, jangled his nerves. Seated next to him was his eldest son Jaim, who always stayed by the cart till his father bartered for supplies. Then, his son loaded the cart and both headed home to the small town of Silibria Turkey, on the Mediterranean Sea.

The incredibly blue sky bothered his eyes; he lowered his hat. A gentle sea breeze kissed his left cheek, refreshing and alleviating the heat of the midday sun. Clouds, as if made of pure white cotton, grew as the day wore on. The smell of spice was in the air; or was it in the cart? He had purchased cinnamon and clove, among other supplies. To his left, the ocean was just like a mirror; the winter gales had passed. To his right the terrain rose to meet the mountains. They wove their way through small farms and greeted each person they met. But for many hours there was pure silence. The land was sparsely cultivated, yet, olive and palm trees were everywhere in sight.

Daniel, a mere five-foot-five, with a well-muscled body, had a tanned face that exuded peace. He smiled, however lately, most of the time he was worried. He mused to himself that he was tired because he was getting old. Actually in that era, at age forty-eight, he was old. The year was 1918 and the hard work of farming, coupled with non existing medical facilities, had taken a toll on his body. His main worry was the anguish caused by wars between Turks, Armenians and Greeks. To make his problems more intense, some of the Turkish people began to side with the Nazis. This made his minority family very uncomfortable. They were of Sephardic extraction, (Jews of Spanish ancestry).

* * *

Four hundred years back King Fernando and Queen Isabella of Spain, decided that the Moors should be expelled and the Jews would have a choice; convert or be expelled. Very few converted and stayed; the rest migrated east. Many went to Italy, some to France, Greece and Bulgaria, but the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire Beyazid II, welcomed the Jewish migration and declared: “The King of Spain does not have a lot of brains. By expulsing the Jews he has impoverished his kingdom and enriched mine.”

Muslims and Jews lived and prospered for generations. They worked hard and minded their business.

The Armenians, mostly catholic, collided with the Turks. The Turks in turn killed many Armenians. Soon the Jews were going to be in danger. So Daniel thought it was time for his four sons and one daughter to migrate to where everyone said life would be better; America. However, there were truly two Americas. One spoke English, the other Spanish. His choice was Cuba.

* * *

“It is time for you, my sons, to migrate,” he said, glancing at Jaim. He took his time before continuing. “America is a wonderful continent that welcomes all races, religions, and classes. Over here it’s still este pan para este queso, this bread for this cheese, we will never progress. The land there is paved with gold, so I hear. A hard working man can eventually own land and educate his children.” Jaim, his oldest son just listened. Daniel continued.

“Look at us, in forty eight years all I have is a rented farm, two donkeys and this cart that threatens to come apart with each trip to the city.”

Jaim looked at him with apprehension. “We don’t have the money for such a trip, father.”

“We have enough for you and Yusef to go there, make money and come back for Jacob, Gershon and Fortuna.”

“What about you and Mother?”

“I am too old and feeble to travel and start again. Go, make your fortune and make the last years of your mother, comfortable.”

“But if you stay behind, you will be killed in the war,” insisted Jaim.

“Better one than the entire family.” He didn’t say anything else; he couldn’t. At that moment his heart stopped and he toppled out of the cart. Daniel’s life had ended right there, on the road, amid the rows of olive trees and date palms. After futile attempts to revive his father, Jaim put him on top of the cart and with tears in his eyes, whipped the donkey onward.