A Suitcase for a Bed

The suitcase was too small for a life, but Victoria’s parents tried anyway.

The large chest was lifted onto the bed, springs squeaking under the weight of a box that hadn’t been filled yet. The ivory quilt looked dirty, despite the blanket being freshly washed. Not even the clean white design within the quilt could make it look pristine in this dull room. Soon, the smell of fried cabbage would be filtering through the house. The taste of bacon grease adding flavor and the illusion of meat to the dish.

Victoria’s mom looked at the chest without a glint of fear nor did she look at the chest with hope. Her dad didn’t give up his stoic face either. But this chest would hold all of their hopes. It would hold all of the family’s fears, strengths, and pride. Victoria put her hands on the end of the bed and looked over the edge at the opened, empty chest wondering what it would hold.

The musty smell of old leather and wood somehow matched the olive-tinted brown. It also matched the atmosphere of a broken Poland… at least to the eyes of foreigners. To most of the Polish people, the country was still whole and beautiful. Shared food nourished every taste bud and music danced through fields, forests, and cities. The language held strong as it told stories of pride. The Tatra Mountains, outside the family’s window, were strong with tall peaks like a crown. The lakes and fields covered in jewel tones of blues, greens, and purples.

In twelve hours this view would be behind her as she boarded a ship to America.

Victoria’s mother started with practical things: two outfits each, double the socks, and so far there didn’t seem to be room for anything more. Victoria looked longingly at the chest, hoping that she would be invited to add something of her choosing to the suitcase.

The necessities were easy to add, but the sentimental belongings would be harder. Something of their old life would have to be left behind, but how much of it would be left in the Old Country as they prepared to enter the New World?

After adding most of the clothes, her mother put a small, handwritten cookbook and address book into the trunk.

Victoria tugged on her mother’s skirt. Her mother looked down at her without changing her expression. “Can I add something to the chest?”

Her mother used a voice like a guiding hand, “No, there isn’t enough room to add anything more.”

Victoria looked at the chest confused. There was a large amount of room at the top. “We could fit a whole table in here.”

Victoria’s mother looked down at her again. “There’s enough room to fit our hopes and our traditions. We might even be able to fit our country’s pride in here and bring it with us to America.”

By evening the suitcase was almost full. Her mother had allowed her to put one thing into the chest, a white rosary that had hung from a corner of a picture frame. Clothes pressed against the rosary, the rosary pressed against books, books pressed against memories. Tucked in their pages were meals passed down through generations and photos concealed to save space. The lid closed heavy but easy. The straps weren’t latched yet, but Victoria’s father helped her mother lower the suitcase off of the bed.

Victoria sat on the floor beside it.

What was life, really? Not the objects. Not the furniture or the dishes or the Wycinanki on the walls. Those were all just memories people left behind. They were traditions that were too much to carry forward. They were just life.

These thoughts were making Victoria melancholy. Trickles of rain from a cloud burst drew Victoria’s attention away from the chest for a moment and to the window. A drizzle of rain mixed grey with soft yellow in the fading light. There was a softness outside the window. And as quickly as it started, the rain stopped, leaving a few lonely drops to streak down the window. The pale yellow of the setting sun was as lovely as a new day. She hoped her sleep tonight, and from now on in her new home, would be as soft and comfortable as this light.

“Victoria,” her mother yelled, “it’s time for dinner.” Victoria peeled herself from the window and bounded down the hallway. It would be the last glance out the window of her childhood home.

The house looked dim the next morning despite the yellowish white of the sun trying to work its way through the glass.

Victoria peeked her head into her parent’s room to see them loading the ivory quilt from their bed into the chest. Victoria held a doll in her hands. Her face fell like the dull dust that would be left behind on the remaining family heirlooms. There was no room for anything unnecessary including her doll.

Her mother noticed the disheartened look on Victoria’s face. She walked over to the doorway and knelt down in front of her daughter. “A life is the things that follow you. And not everything can follow,” Her mom paused, “nor should they.”

Her father jumped in, “We are leaving weight behind.” Victoria would know years later that he meant the weight of oppression and extinction of long-held traditions. They were taking on the weight of carrying beliefs out of danger. He was carrying the weight of a family to safety and prosperity.

Her parents closed the lid on the full chest and lifted it out of the bedroom. You really couldn’t pack a whole life into a suitcase. But you could pack the parts that mattered.

Victoria followed her parents out of the bedroom as they struggled to carry the trunk out of the room and down the hallway.

“Dziadziuś!” Victoria ran over to her grandfather. Multiple family members surrounded the kitchen table. They were here to enjoy one more meal together before shipping their loved ones across the ocean.

“Are you finished eating?” Victoria’s grandfather asked. Victoria finished the last bite of her breakfast before hopping down from her chair. He polkaed her across the kitchen floor and straight out the door into the sunlight. Victoria giggled with each graceful leap as she left behind the shadows of her country’s uncertainties, dancing toward a horizon brimming with possibilities. “Wait, I have something for you.” Her grandfather handed her a small, brown, leather notebook with pencil attached.

Victoria’s parents didn’t look back. They simply shut the door and locked it behind them. Victoria danced in front of them as she merrily forgot for a moment what she was leaving behind forever. Victoria’s mom walked in the middle of the group saying goodbye to everyone as one last hosting curtesy. And Victoria’s dad, with the help of an uncle, picked up the chest of clothes.

Morning air rushed through the docks as the enormous ship loomed. The boat was as tall and impending as the skyscrapers awaiting them in New York City.

Victoria stood on the crowded deck of the steamship. Poland was a distant memory now. It’s sharply-peaked mountains and vibrate wildflowers were overtaken by grey waters that beat against the side of the boat like angry fists. She wondered if this would be the reception she’d get in America once they stepped foot on the fabled Ellis Island. Or would she step into a city that was paved in gold and as magical as her home. She had heard how the city glittered and gleamed.

Her father came up behind her and lifted her to the railing, stabilizing her so she wouldn’t fall into the sea. Victoria couldn’t see the future through the murky water but she got a strange feeling that they were leaving a similar sort of grey behind. Though her life was filled with familiarity of food and family and the promise of garden-esque springs after harsh winters, Victoria knew they were leaving something bleak behind.

The boat creaked as if protesting its human cargo. Families huddled together, speaking in hushed tones, sharing scraps of bread and stories of what awaited them. Victoria kept her eyes forward on the choppy waters, imagining schools, books, and the smell of rain in streets she would one day call home.

As the day drifted away and night deepened, the wind carried voices of children laughing despite the cold, and the waves seemed to hum a lullaby just for her. She held her small journal close, the pages filled with dreams: a pencil for drawing, a notebook for writing, a world she had yet to touch.

Many of the voices Victoria could not understand. Pockets of people talked in different languages, leaving her disoriented. Some voices were harsh and sounded like the people were fighting… some sounded like enchanted soft melodies like fairies in a forest… some resembled the strong, complex vocals Victoria was familiar with. Victoria hoped there would be one universal voice which tied everyone together in America.

It would make making friends with the other kids onboard easier too. Though laugher and fun was a universal language, it wouldn’t be enough once life began off of this boat. The evening star appeared in the sky and its friends followed quickly after. A cold breeze blew onto the ship and passengers retreated to their cabins.

Below deck, the air was heavy with the scent of damp wood and the nervous whispers of other families, all of them strangers yet bound by the same fragile hope. Victoria’s mother hummed a tune that felt like a thread connecting them to the life they were fleeing. Her mother sat on one of two cots in the cabin while her daughter sat on the brown chest. Victoria was given a thin sheet of linen to use as a blanket, and she used the suitcase that contained her entire life as a bed.

It wasn’t a comfortable way to dream, but at night, when the stars peeked through the clouds, Victoria imagined what awaited them: a city alive with lights, a school where she could learn without fear, a park where she could play freely. She pictured, just outside the city, mountains and lakes just like those of southern Poland.

After weeks, a lookout shouted, “Land!” A cheer erupted from the passengers, a mixture of disbelief and joy. Victoria did not know what people were cheering about until her father lifted her above the railing, and there it was: The Statue of Liberty, its torch reaching toward the sky like a beacon.

As exciting as it was to be welcomed by the greatest hostess into the greatest home, Victoria’s journey was far from over. The boat would dock, forms would be checked, questions would be asked. She would have to be brave. She was not just a girl from Poland; she was part of a new story now, one that stretched across oceans and generations.

As the ship creaked closer to the pier, she whispered a prayer. The wind carried it forward, and somewhere ahead, America awaited.