Dad was an incurable romantic. He loved to tell Evy and me stories of his childhood in Kurenetz, Russia, of his attempts to leave home to come to America, and of his early experiences in his adopted land. Those stories are part of our childhood as well as part of Dad’s being a father and a historian and a story teller. Some of his tales differed between what he told us and what he said later in his oral history. Both version are delightful and worth recounting.
Listen to what he told us about the Gypsy with whom he became friendly on the Prince Oskar, the ship that brought Dad to America. The Gypsy’s family was unaccustomed to sailing and much of the time was plagued with sea-sickness. Their worst trauma was the lingering illness and death of their youngest child. Dad was pained by their loss and did his best to comfort them especially because none of the other passengers in steerage gave any attention to them in their grief.
When the Prince Oskar docked at Philadelphia, Dad was told he could not land unless he had $25 in his possession. It was presumably to prevent his becoming dependent on the social services of his new country. It was actually a ploy of the anti-immigrant feeling brought on by the influx of immigrants from Eastern Europe. Dad told the authorities he was penniless; where could he get $25? The immigration officer warned him that if he didn’t have the money, he would be put on the next ship returning to Hamburg, the port that he had come from. Dad was frantic; how could he, a poor man in a new country, get $25? It was his good friend, the Gypsy, who stepped in and gave him the $25. Dad was overjoyed; he assured his savior he would get the money back to him somehow.
The story did not end there. One morning many years later, when Dad was sweeping the sidewalk in front of the shoe store, he looked up and there, on Franklin Avenue, was the Gypsy and his family traveling along by horse and wagon. Dad hailed them and they talked for a while. I can’t remember for certain, but my guess is that Dad paid him back the $25. It would certainly round out a remarkable tale.
But there is a different version of the $25 in Dad’s oral history. Yes, the authorities did demand that he have $25 on his person before they would allow him to land, but there the story takes a different turn. When he did not have the money, he and several others in similar straits were taken by a small boat to an island in Philadelphia harbor, there to wait until they could produce the money. If not, they would be returned across the Atlantic. As Dad glumly pondered his ill-fate, “a man with a jacket with brass buttons” spoke to him in Yiddish! “Why are you so unhappy,” he asked. Dad explained the money problem. The man gave him the money and told him not to worry. He explained that he was from HIAS—Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society—and he was there to help. Dad had heard about HIAS back in Russia and now knew that his arrival in America was secure.
It wasn’t the Gypsy who had come to his rescue. He was real and kind and friendly but did he rescue Dad in his moment of financial need? Or was it HIAS which was part of the welcoming agencies to help and protect immigrants.
There is another story that we heard Dad tell over and over. When I say that I remember hearing his stories, I am also aware that I could tell when he was about to tell one I had heard before but I never wanted him to stop. I remembered the stories, having heard them so many times but I wanted to hear them again.
The story of the change of Dad’s name from the Russian to the American form was one we heard so often that it seemed like a fairy tale with a highly pleasing ending. When the immigration officer asked Dad his name, he told him “Hillel Yachnovich”. According to Dad, the officer said it wasn’t American enough. Dad then said, “My brother’s name is Louis Jackson.” That caught the officer’s fancy who announced that Dad’s new name was now Harry Jackson.
I have been told, on good authority, that at one time it was legal (and common) for immigration officers to change an immigrant’s name if the officer thought it too hard to understand or pronounce or if it was not “American” enough. It could even be changed if the immigrant so requested. Dad told Evy and me that story so many times; we were fascinated that Dad’s quick thinking had given him his new name and paved his way past the port’s authorities.
Dad’s oral history has a different version which certainly makes more sense. Dad retained his name through the immigration process. When he was permitted to, he went to Munhall, a steel mill town near Pittsburgh to find his brother Louis who was the first Jackson brother to come to America. There, Dad joined other immigrants, men and women who were determined to become American as soon as possible. They formed social groups to learn to speak better English by reading poetry and prose, by putting on plays, by debating, and singing, solo or in groups. On attending his social group one evening, Dad learned that without consulting him the group had decided that he should change his name from Hillel Yachnovich to Harry Jackson. He was crushed that he had lost “Hillel” the name of a famous rabbi and scholar, and “Yachnovich”, the name of his father, whom he venerated and respected. He was heartsick but kept his feelings to himself and gradually accepted the change to his American name. So, if it is true that his social group changed his name for him, then the story about it being changed by an immigration officer, as he told us over and over, was just more evidence of his love of spinning a lively tale with a happy ending.
In his reflections about the new name that had unceremoniously been attached to him by his fellow-immigrants, he confessed that he had submitted to their action without open objection because long since arriving in America, he had been thinking that “Yachnovich” sounded too Russian for someone who wanted to be Americanized as quickly as possible. He knew he needed to make a change. As he turned the matter over and over in his mind, he could not find a sound in English to match the sound of the Russian “ch”; he had thought of “Yachnin” which his friends had trouble pronouncing. He discarded “Yanin” as sounding weak. He scolded himself for being unable to make a choice in the matter, finally gave in to his social group’s summary decision, and adjusted to being “Harry Jackson” for the rest of his life.
