Story 4 - a warm welcome on John Street
Siema (shay-ma). That means hi! in Polish. My name is Anton Witkofski, but everyone calls me Antje cuz I‘m small and strong like my father. We moved to New London from Poland whenI was very young. I got sick at sea and almost didn‘t make it. The crossing took ten days plus, but like I said, I‘m small, but strong. My mother and older brother are still back at home. I miss them… most of the time.
Today we watched as a new family moved in above the Soltz Meat Market on John Street. Two men, two women, a boy and a girl, maybe 9 or 10 years old.
So… while the women and children bring up the boxes and sacks, the two men are trying to light a kerosene space heater in the doorway. They curse and start yelling at the women. The boy and girl stay huddled down below by the wagon that brought them and their stuff here. They’re looking down at their badly worn polish boots, avoiding eye contact with everyone now gathered for the show.
Did I say it‘s snowing again? It is. Everything is white which is nice cuz it makes the place look festive instead of tired and dirty. Plus the snow and ice make John Street great for sledding. We use pieces of cardboard and burlap to keep our bums and legs warm.
So yes, it is snowing again. Neighbors are stopping to watch and listen to the yelling and cursing. A strong wind comes up off the river. We start flapping our arms like seagulls trying to keep warm. I‘ve gotten good at cauing like them too.
And then it happens… Boom!
The two men jump back from the kerosene stove that‘s now in flames, the wind blowing them onto a pile of bedclothes, sheets and curtains left on the floor nearby. There are maybe a dozen or so of us kids, cheering, jumping up and down with excitement, screaming with glee… what a show!
The two men stand frozen. The clothes pile ignites. We scream some more. A few women have now joined in for different reasons.
From behind us, Mr. Bukowski and Mr. Povchik rush forward, race up the stairs to the door and brush aside the two men. Mr. Povchik throws himself on the clothes pile. Mr. Bukowski grabs the stove by the handle while the crowd instinctively scatters. Like a meteor the stove sails threw the falling snow and crashes in a sudden burst of flame on the icy street cobblestones. The flash lasts but a second and then the flame goes out. Mr. Povchik gets up off a singed pair of men‘s pajamas and claps Mr. Bukowski on the shoulder.
The new family is standing together now on the deck. They‘re looking down at the crowd of new neighbors. There is silence. No cursing. No yelling. No screaming.
As if on signal the crowd starts to clap. The two men, two women, boy and girl, look at each other with blank expressions. They briefly start clapping in return and walk down to the sidewalk where the crowd surrounds them. To everyone‘s amusement, the children pick up snow and start to rub it on each other. A few of the adults playfully join in. I walk over to the boy standing by the wagon and take my right hand out if my coat pocket.
Siema, I say, shaking his hand. I point to myself. Antje.
The boy hesitates, then smiles. Siema, Antje. Niko.
In the crowd there is talk of tea and biscuits coming from the house next door.
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