THE MAGIC SHOES: 18) WORLD HEADQUARTERS
Monster Monday Madness
I study the nickel, still in my palm. “I gather this is 1938.”
He nods solemnly. “A very grim and dangerous time for those I left behind. Ellis Island is closed. No more easy settlement in USA.” He gestures with his arms at the space we occupy. “I use my travel agency to smuggle themselves out of harm’s way in Poland to the land of the free.” He gestures both arms around his barren office. “You see? Easy to leave at a moment’s notice, if I must.”
“You’re running an underground railroad?”
Henry nods. “I am trying hard to rescue my people and save them from the horrors to come. Most poor souls want to remain where they are. They are oblivious to the danger. Or maybe they don’t want to see what’s coming. But for those who understand and see they are the danger, I am doing my best for them, even though it dangerous for me, too.”
“How so?
“What I do is against the law.”
I am astonished.
I’m astonished by just being here. But most of my astonishment stems from the great personal risk my grandfather is taking with this noble venture, all new to me.
I throw up my arms. “But how?” I exclaim in bewilderment.
“First we try legal way: emergency visa, financial sponsorship. But it is not easy and growing more difficult each day. Even though antisemitism and persecution of Jews increases in my homeland, President Roosevelt’s administration imposes strict limits and restrictions on their ability to flee the danger they face.”
“But why? Doesn’t the Statue of Liberty say, Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…?”
“…the wretched refuse of your teeming shore,” Henry finishes my thought, “send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
“Yeah... so what happened?”
Henry shakes his head sadly. His doughy facial features remind me of my dad. “The Quotas and Immigration Act of 1924. That year my youngest child—your father—was born. It severely limits the number of immigrants allowed to come here. And now, they will not even fill the quotas they set in 1924.”
“Why not?”
Henry nods knowingly. “Economic pressures from the Great Depression. But also,” he adds sadly, “antisemitism.” He pauses. “They think Jewish refugees could harbor Nazi spies. Can you imagine?”
I shake my head. The irony.
“So how do you get around it?”
Henry lowers his voice to a whisper, lest anyone is at the door outside trying to listen in. Or perhaps guardians of the law have concealed themselves on the other side of an interior wall. “Forged documents from neutral countries, mostly Portugal or Spain. Good enough to fool border checkpoints. They travel by train to Lisbon and embark on the SS Mouzinho from the Porto de Lisboa, the last free port in Europe.”
“What could happen to you if they discover what you’re doing?”
Henry sighs. “What I do they call felony. For me and for those I help. I’m not kvetching, but they could sentence me to 20 years in prison for forgery, conspiracy and fraud. Or worse.”
“Wow!” I pause to absorb this consequence if caught. “What could be worse?”
“Revoking my U.S. citizenship and deporting me back to Poland. That would be a death sentence.” He pauses, deep in thought. “But every time Mouzinho sets sail from Lisbon with a handful of families on board, I know it is worth the risk.”
“And you do all that from…” I glance around, gesturing with my arms. “From… here?”
Henry nods and reflects my gesture. “World headquarters.”
“Do you get paid?”
“Paid? Money?” He shakes his head. “Money leaves trail. Families who reach America do not even know my name. Is safer that way. ”Henry nods grimly. “I know it does not look like much. Everything is bare minimum. No records. All I need is candlestick…” He points to a black vintage telephone on a pedestal. “…And quiet place to think. As you know, I have four children. Our home is madhouse. I can leave here in seconds, no trace—and not put family in danger.”
“But what happens if the authorities show up at your door?”
Right on cue, there is a pounding on the door, followed by a rustling of the interior doorhandle, as if someone is trying to enter.
“Oy vey, G-men,” says Henry, quickly reacting, as if having planned and rehearsed such a scenario. “Follow me,” he whispers, rushing silently to the far side of the office. There, he slides a wall panel, revealing a dark narrow passage, which I enter behind him. A short staircase leads to the building’s basement. He plucks from his pocket a small flashlight and leads me through a long dark corridor lined with old crates and rusting tools.
“Where are we?” I whisper.
“Bootleggers stored liquor here during Prohibition,” he whispers back. “Keep moving.”
The corridor leads to a narrow tunnel that was part of an old drainage system.
“Watch your step,” he cautions.
We navigate puddles and uneven stones as we carry on past damp walls.
About 50 yards later we arrive at a small iron gate. He shoves it aside and enters with me at his heels. We are in what looks to be an abandoned speakeasy. Then up a narrow flight of stairs into a diner.
A man behind a cash register nods, leans down, and hands him a brown paper bag.
“Wait here,” instructs Henry.