George Rebane
At first light on 4 May 1949 the USS General Harry Taylor (above) had already slipped through the Verrazano Narrows by the time my father and I joined the other men and boys on the deck of the troopship. We all wanted to see the Statue of Liberty and the lights of New York that still defined its skyline in the hour before sunrise. Today we would finally set foot in our new chosen homeland after spending more than four eventful and uncertain years as refugees in the displaced persons camps of post-war Germany.
The port side-rails of the ship were packed as the big troop transport slowly made its way toward the waiting berth at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Soon it would be joined by two tugs to help nudge us gently into the dock. But that was still a good hour away and now everyone was looking at the biggest harbor, city, and everything else that they had ever seen. I remember the conversations were all carried in quiet awe of the passing scenery and anxious anticipation of the momentous events awaiting each family on this most mutually auspicious of days.
The Statue of Liberty was at first hard to make out from the lights of New Jersey. Everyone, of course, wanted to catch a glimpse because they knew this moment would be remembered forever. Finally, I saw it for sure when she came abeam of us across the harbor in the west. In the dim light it looked majestic and exactly like in the pictures I had seen on posters and pamphlets that were handed out to refugees in the camps. Now her torch seemed very bright. For me, seeing the monument meant that my mother, father, and I would no longer have to crowd into small single rooms that had been home since Christmas of 1945. On that May morning we didn’t know that that promise would be delayed for almost a year, but that’s another story.
It was in one of those lines where the name my parents gave me was forever removed from my record. I was named after my paternal grandfather, Jüri Rebane, but American typewriters would not allow a ‘Jüri’ to emigrate. So, without anyone of us knowing it, I arrived on these shores as Jerry Rebane. A more pressing concern to me, as this screening process was drawing to a close, was whether I would be berthed with the men or the women. A little background is necessary here.
Built during the war, the Harry Taylor was a troop ship that had carried regiment sized contingents (about 3,000 troops) through U-boat infested waters to European battlefields and brought them home afterwards. The ship now was still configured as a troop ship to carry similarly compressed refugees to the United States. This meant that the troop decks had large compartments packed with rows of framed and laced-canvas bunks stacked five or six high. Each person had about eighteen inches into which to wedge himself. Your whole life had to fit into a space barely six feet long and about thirty inches wide. Being a nine-year-old kid was now a distinct advantage.
The troop heads, of course, were communal and completely unpartitioned. This meant that the men and women would have to be transported in separate compartments. Boys under a certain age would be bunked with their mothers, and I was terrified that I would have to spend the crossing with mom and a bunch of strange women. I wasn’t even used to sitting on the toilet with any kind of company, let alone in the middle of a crowd of partially dressed women. Luckily the cut-off age was eight, and I had made the cut. Now all I had to worry about was getting a knee rammed into the small of my back twenty times every night. And I had no idea that in such tight quarters we men could smell so bad and snore so loud.
But on this cool and damp May morning this all was forgotten as the sun finally exploded on the Manhattan skyline – truly a picture perfect beginning to our new lives. We didn’t have long to admire that scene because the ship’s PA system came on and started issuing all kinds of orders in several languages for us to go below and prepare to disembark. We had to clean our compartments and turn in our meager bedding – more standing in lines that wound through narrow passage ways. All of us were then told to report to different offices on the main deck to get more ‘papers’ and buttons and tags that had to be displayed on our coats. When these were strapped on, we looked like an assembly line of mannequins each sporting different quality control and inventory tags. And that’s exactly what we were for the next couple of hours as we were marshaled from this line to that line. Somewhere in this chaos, dad and I were reunited with mom. Now everyone wanted to know how they would get their belongings from the ship’s hold. Belongings? Each person was permitted to board with a small suitcase, and each family was also allowed to have a small and carefully labeled wooden crate or box of no more than six cubic feet. The boxes and most suitcases came over in the hold. More confusion.
During this interval I had a chance to stand by an upper deck rail and look down on the big open hatch to the forward cargo hold. There the ship’s cranes were hoisting out jumbles of boxes and suitcases all mixed together in huge cargo nets. What interested me the most was how one sailor was able to make the big crane both lift and lower the cargo net using one huge stanchion that rotated continuously in only one direction while the he deftly wrapped and unwrapped the thick line around it. I was impressed.
Then suddenly we were down below in a crowded line that rapidly emptied itself through a big hatch in the ship’s hull that had a gangplank stuck into it. As we shuffled forward I now saw the dock and the huge warehouse building into which we were being herded. Lots of loudspeakers braying unintelligible instructions. Lots of people now starting to assemble into dockside groups according to the various tags each dangled from his overcoat. The three of us found ourselves in a small group of about thirty people next to a pile of boxes and suitcases. My father went to the pile with the other men, and wonder of wonders, came back with the news that all of our stuff was there.
We then became aware of the longest line of military buses that we had ever seen, waiting for us in the warehouse. Each bus had a clearly marked number on it. More people shouting orders in all the languages, more people asking questions, seeking lost family members and belongings, more chaos. Finally we were on the bus and headed out into the bright city streets. Now I was looking at so many new things that memory becomes a blur. All I remember is the magnificent and abundant wealth on display everywhere in Manhattan as we drove toward what I later learned was Grand Central Station. The city was filled with cars that we boys called ‘limousines’ when we saw one that belonged to the US Army or a UN official come into the displaced persons camp.
It was just after noon when we climbed off the bus and were led into Grand Central Station. At this point my eyes were on ‘maximum gawk’ as someone speaking German took us down to our platform. There we were given our train tickets and ten dollars apiece, and wished good luck with handshakes all around. We were also told our destination, which, of course, at that time meant nothing to us. Who just off the boat on a new continent would know where Plainfield, Connecticut was? But the conductor would know, just show him your tickets. And with our tags flapping in the breeze, we were left alone in that giant, busy train station, strangers in a strange land not knowing one word of the local language.
Soon a friendly conductor ushered this obvious family of immigrants - dressed and tagged in recognizable European shab (see picture above), each with a small suitcase - on to the gleaming silver train and seated us in unimagined luxury. Instead of the expected wooden benches of European trains, everyone was seated individually in velvety blue and overstuffed seats. My nose was immediately glued to the window as the train pulled out and started heading north and east out of a city that seemed to go on for an awful long time. This was America, and I imagined that I was now seeing all of it right through that train window.
The towns and farms of Connecticut soon became a passing blur. All I remember is discovering that all of us were very hungry and thirsty. I don’t recall putting anything in my mouth after coming on deck before sunrise. My mom rose to the occasion and said that she had seen a person with a tray of goodies come through the car selling things to the passengers. She took her ten dollars out and waited for the next pass of the goodies.
When the attendant came, she waved her money and pointed to the tray. The exchange that followed should have been taped for a prime spot on a late night comedy show. Dad and I had no idea how she did it. Without hesitation, she began negotiating the transaction using a mixture of energetic German and Estonian, with perhaps an odd English word that neither of us could understand thrown in. But no matter, with a lot of other passengers looking on and offering helpful hints, the attendant finally made change and departed leaving my mom proudly sporting a soft drink bottle and three candy bars. We would not starve, at least not on our first day in this land of plenty.
The sun had just set on the passing landscape as the conductor came by to announce what we presumed to be our arrival in Plainfield. And before we knew it, all three of us were holding our little suitcases and standing alone next to our box on the platform of a very small train station. To this day I have no idea how that box followed us from dockside to Plainfield, Connecticut. During most of my childhood I was in awe of adults, and amazed at how they earned a living and handled complex things. But I also concluded that it had to be one of the many wonders of a country that could build and deliver them faster than its enemies could sink or shoot them down.
We were expecting to be met by our Estonian sponsor at the train station – they were chicken farmers who had immigrated from Estonia before the war. Our sponsor was clearly late, and my parents were beginning to get worried in the growing darkness. By this time we had matched the ‘Plainfield’ on our tickets countless times with the large ‘Plainfield’ sign suspended from the overhanging roof. We were in the right place, but was it at the right time? Suddenly, we’re standing in the headlights of a single car as it pulls up to the platform. Three people get out and head for us with obvious enthusiasm, and, greatly relieved, my parents head for them.
Again the occasion should have been taped. What followed was the most effusive, joyous, and short-lived welcoming ceremony one could imagine - everybody was hugging, talking, and laughing all at the same time. One of the strangers even grabbed me and gave me a hug. This must have gone on for a solid two to three minutes before anyone figured out that we couldn’t understand a word they were saying, and that they were equally handicapped. Then just as suddenly as the welcome party started, it stopped. Everyone sort of dropped their arms, mumbled something to each other, and our welcome party got back in their car and drove away. At this point at the end of a long and hectic day, things were definitely not looking up.
More than thirty more worrisome minutes would pass on that dimly lit platform before another set of headlights appeared and parked. This time, with a reserve fortified by experience, my parents greeted our sponsor in a solid Estonian to Estonian exchange that left no doubt as to the bona fides of all attending parties. This time there were only proper European handshakes, after which the man helped us load our box and suitcases into the back of his pickup. We all squeezed into the bench seat cab, and drove off into the black countryside of Connecticut. Our first day in America had somehow managed to end as planned, which was more than we could later say for the year that was to follow.
Well, the decor of Vintage may have stimulated memories of the 'blue velvet seats' of old. I never imagined these images were bursting for expression and only hope the dinner WAS as good as a sip of pop and a candy bar. I can't wait for the next installment or can I buy the book somewhere?
Posted by: Duckie Narveson | 04 May 2009 at 08:51 AM
As I read your history I was taken by feelings of how great this country was. I agree with Dick's comment: please write more.
Posted by: Teine Rebane Kenney | 04 May 2009 at 09:22 AM
Great story George! I too am looking for the second installment.
Glad you left out the sea sickness, if there was any. Being sea sick is my greatest recollection of a 3 1/2 week troup ship "cruise" west bound out of Oakland in 1968. I am sure you know where we were headed.
Posted by: DaveC | 04 May 2009 at 10:49 AM
You're right Dave, the ten-day trip is a story all in itself that includes our first introduction to sea sickness. Jo Ann, our 9-month-old daughter, and I reprised this voyage from Bremerhaven to the Brooklyn Navy Yard in January 1965 when returning from active duty in Germany. But now as an 'officer and gentleman' we had better quarters but a lot more sea sickness which apparently doesn't give a hoot for rank.
Posted by: George Rebane | 04 May 2009 at 11:47 AM
Dave, I agree. These nonpartisan posts sure resonate more than the predictable, partisan ones. Nobody even got their "undies in a bunch."
Posted by: Jeff Pelline | 04 May 2009 at 02:44 PM
Thanks for sharing George.
Posted by: Mikey McD | 04 May 2009 at 04:36 PM
Congratulations George on your celebration of 60 years in America ! Your story of the boat, disembarking, the sorting, the city, the train, and your arrival in Connecticut are wonderfully descriptive. I particularly like the " Maximum Gawk". America, as seen through the eyes of a 9 year old boy. Your memory serves you well. Thank you for sharing your experiences. They are golden.
Ellen
Posted by: Ellen | 04 May 2009 at 10:01 PM
George,
Congratulations on your sixty years in America. Yes, more please! From time to time you have shared parts of your story over a glass of wine, but it was far more powerful in writing. I am fascinated by your observations of America as seen by someone not born here, especially through the eyes and mind of an inquisitive nine year old. We sometimes forget how fortunate we were after the war, with our homes, villages and cities untouched by the carnage of war, and our economy growing rapidly. Your observations of America in 1949 are greatly appreciated , and I look forward to more stories of your assimilation into our post war American culture in the 1950s.
Posted by: Russ Steele | 04 May 2009 at 10:24 PM
Georgr Thank you for the Photo in September 1951 My parents and two sister. I was 1 1/2 yrs old so do not rember,but this ship broughts us to America and landed in New Orleans. I can now added to our family history .
Posted by: Zenon Sokolowski | 15 January 2010 at 04:43 PM
my father was aboard this ship at the same time.taavi kaldro along with his mother ,sister and brother.they were from estonia..
Posted by: randy kaldro | 03 March 2011 at 02:05 PM
I am trying to find the manifest from this day...my father, grandparents and uncle were on this ship....any help would be greatly appreciated.
Thank you for writing such a wonder story on this.
Posted by: Lisa Baumerts | 20 April 2011 at 08:35 AM
I too would like to see the manifest that would include the displaced persons' passenger list. But alas, all that survived is the name of the ship and the memory of that crossing.
Posted by: George Rebane | 20 April 2011 at 09:39 AM
I arrived on the same ship Nov 7 1949 as a 20 year old. Thanks for the memories, yours was remarkable for a 9 year old boy. Do we have more on your life?
Posted by: Margaret Kahla | 26 June 2011 at 12:19 PM
MargaretK - thank you for the visit. Yes, there is more on my life in the 'My Story' section (see right column), and more yet to come. Your last name sounds Estonian, are you?
Posted by: George Rebane | 26 June 2011 at 12:38 PM