He may know all this and yet not guess how Wall Street, in the West End,
appears in the eyes of a little immigrant from Polotzk. What would the
sophisticated sight-seer say about Union Place, off Wall Street, where
my new home waited for me? He would say that it is no place at all, but
a short box of an alley. Two rows of three-story tenements are its
sides, a stingy strip of sky is its lid, a littered pavement is the
floor, and a narrow mouth its exit.
But I saw a very different picture on my introduction to Union Place. I
saw two imposing rows of brick buildings, loftier than any dwelling I
had ever lived in. Brick was even on the ground for me to tread on,
instead of common earth or boards. Many friendly windows stood open,
filled with uncovered heads of women and children. I thought the people
were interested in us, which was very neighborly. I looked up to the
topmost row of windows, and my eyes were filled with the May blue of an
American sky!
In our days of affluence in Russia we had been accustomed to upholstered
parlors, embroidered linen, silver spoons and candlesticks, goblets of
gold, kitchen shelves shining with copper and brass. We had feather-beds
heaped halfway to the ceiling; we had clothes presses dusky with velvet
and silk and fine woolen. The three small rooms into which my father now
ushered us, up one flight of stairs, contained only the necessary beds,
with lean mattresses; a few wooden chairs; a table or two; a mysterious
iron structure, which later turned out to be a stove; a couple of
unornamental kerosene lamps; and a scanty array of cooking-utensils and
crockery.
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