Blood knows blood

April 28, 1928

I’ve never met my father. At least, not in a way I can remember him. He left seven years ago when I was only two years old. After the war, too many families came through the village. The fields could not feed everyone. Men gathered in the square every evening to discuss their next move. Prices rose. Work vanished. Soup grew thin. Mother would count coins at the table long after she thought I was asleep. I knew she didn't want me to worry, but it hurt me to see her this way. Father had no other choice. He made the tough decision to leave our family behind and make the long journey to America. He needed to take the risk, find a job, and send money back home.

Mother keeps his photograph above her bed. Every night she prays beneath it, whispering his name. Hoping God would hear her voice, asking for his help in reuniting us soon. In the picture, he stands rigid, dressed in his best dark coat. His mustache is thick and burly, with hair on his head combed neat to one side, not a strand out of place. Mother says he had to remain still for several hours for the camera to capture his likeness. I don't understand how. I have never known anyone who could do such a thing. Not even in church.

Today we received the final letter from our father. We’ve been in contact with him ever since he left, communicating every few months. He would tell us how unique it was, how he lived with other people from our village, and spoke Greek with them. He said he was also learning the American language, saying it was difficult to understand. But he remained vigilant, gaining a grasp on it months later. He found a good job in a factory, paid handsomely for his hard work. The envelope contained our chance to join him in New York. Because here in this envelope was enough money for all of us to get on the boat and sail across the Atlantic.

April 29, 1928

Tomorrow, we will leave. Mother bought us tickets for the next boat out of Athens. She says we can’t bring much. She stitched together cloth bundles that would carry our belongings. We were going to leave with the clothes on our backs and a little something extra to remember our home. I clutched onto my doll Father gifted to me when I was born. It was the only thing I had left from him, small enough to carry with me.

I asked Mother if Father would recognize us when he sees us. She assured me he would. She said, “blood knows blood. A Father never forgets his own.” The cadence in her voice told me she wasn’t only saying it to me, but saying it to herself as well.

May 1, 1928

The city is overwhelming. People crowd the streets, noises come from every direction, and the air reeks of a stench I’ve never quite experienced. It makes my eyes water, my nostrils flare. Mother holds my hand tight, warning me never to let go.

Once we arrived at the pier, a line had already formed. Hundreds of people waiting for their turn. It took a few hours, but we finally managed to board. Cramming up against the wall to make as much room as possible. This is it. The beginning of our journey.

May 2, 1928

Our first night out at sea. It’s calm and beautiful. I’m too short to see over the railing, so Mother picks me up. My eyes strain as I squint into the darkness. I watch our home disappear from view. The outline of the city still stands on the horizon. I might never see it again. For now, I will hold it in my memory.

May 5, 1928

It’s already becoming difficult to get used to this kind of life. The motion of the ocean makes me sick to my stomach. Food is handed out periodically, and everyone gets their fair share. We eat mostly bread. Sometimes soup or rice. It’s not much, but it’s something. At night, Mother wakes me before the sun rises to relieve ourselves in the water closet. Lines formed early, staying consistent throughout the day. Let’s hope this trip isn’t too long. I’m feeling claustrophobic.

May 9, 1928

Mother liked to brush my hair. It consistently grew untamed due to the wind. The air is salty. I can taste it on my tongue. I close my eyes, my skin warming up to the sun. I always look forward to seeing it after the long and cold nights. Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all.

May 12, 1928

I spoke too soon. A terrible storm rocked the boat. People collided into each other. Children cried. Water sprayed onto the deck. My feet slipped from underneath me. Mother caught me before it was too late. It continued its onslaught for what felt like an hour before it dissipated. The deck was a mess of debris and fish that had been picked up by the waves. When night fell, my body shivered. We huddled together under a blanket, sharing our warmth between us.

May 16, 1928

The ocean isn’t blue like in the paintings. It’s black as the night, and moves like it has a mind of its own. I’m starting to think we will never see land again. Mother says the ocean is just a road. If that’s true, then this is the longest road I’ve ever seen. But this road leads to Father, and that’s the only thing keeping me sane.

May 20, 1928

I’m getting restless. Why aren’t we there yet? What’s taking so long? Where are we right now? I want to go home.

May 22, 1928

It’s been 20 days. 20 days on this accursed boat. How much more will it take? People are starting to lose their minds. Hysteria is running rampant. Portions ran thin. Yet, Mother and I remained vigilant. She gives me some of her portions because she says I need it more. To be big and strong for when I meet Father.

May 25, 1928

I’m awoken by the sound of screams, raining pouring down on us. Another storm had found us. This one worse than the last. More powerful. More angry. Waves were taller than any building I’ve ever seen. People clutched onto each other, bracing for impact with each one that slammed into the hull. I thought for sure the boat was going to capsize at one point, but in the end it didn’t. Once the clouds cleared, the water calmed back down. Poseidon decided to spare us. He must’ve known how important this journey was for us. For all of us.

May 30, 1928

Mother held me up to watch the sunrise. The blue expanse stretched out as far as the eye could see. Nothing but us, the ocean, and the sun peeking out from below the water. I squint my eyes, holding my hand over my head to block some of its light. It’s so beautiful, the sky a mix of red, orange, and yellow. Mother asked me what I saw. I remember shaking my head, responding how I didn’t see any—

I froze, cutting myself off. My eye had caught movement. “What is it? What do you see?” Mother asked me before she stood up for herself, turning to look in the same direction.

There, on the horizon, we didn’t see just the sun. But we saw something else. Something strange. Something unexpected. A large structure rising from the depths with a circle of light as its backdrop, like a beacon of hope.

The boat crawled forward, the structure now forming into a figure of a human. Larger than any I’ve ever seen. It held a golden torch in the sky, held high for all to see.

People crowd around, others spotting and pointing at it. Not a sound escaped from anyone’s mouth. I think they were scared or confused about what it could be. I mean, who could blame them? I felt the same way. I clasped my hands together, praying it was friendly.

God rays cut through the clouds as the sun inches its way up. Light reflects off the surface of the figure, casting an emerald green glow down onto the water. It shimmers and sparkles. A sight to behold.

Someone shouted her name was Lady Liberty. A fitting name. She wears a metallic dress that looks like it's flowing in the wind. A gentle giant standing over us, welcoming us to the promised land. I asked Mother if she was their God. She tilted her head, inspecting it. “You know what?” She said, “I’d like to believe she is.” The crowd started pointing and shouting again. But this time, at something else. Something beyond the large statue. I turn my head, following the direction to see what the commotion was about. And I see. Land.

May 31, 1928

We draw near a small island, dominated by a large red brick building. Its roof shiny and metallic, windows arched. It stood tall, but not towering like the goddess we saw earlier. People lined up in single file outside, guards directing them toward the entrance.

Many boats docked at the pier, some big and some small. A gigantic ship appears from the other side of the island. The deck carried hundreds of passengers, the pristine white outer shell glowing in the sun. Once our vessel reaches the pier, crew catch rope hoisted up to them, tying knots securely down.

We disembark from the ship, and the people grow silent again. The air now still. Men in uniforms ushered us onto the wooden dock. My legs wobble, feet heavy like lead. No one uttered a word. I stared at the back of the woman in front of me. Moving one foot forward at a time. She cradled a baby in her arms, its voice muffled behind her blue fuzzy coat.

As we shuffle into the entryway, an old gentleman in a stark white jacket places a hand on the woman, escorting her a different way. More people are grabbed out of line, one after another. Some let it happen, while some cry out, latching onto their loved ones. Ultimately, the guards win the tug of war, stripping families apart. It’s horrifying to watch, but no one is brave enough to fight back. A few hours later, I found out I didn’t have to be so scared at all. Turns out they were doctors and government workers, completing a routine inspection. They were checking our documents, checking if we were ill, and making sure everyone was accounted for. Once we were given the go-ahead, we were free to go. Now, all we have to do is find Father.

June 1, 1928

If I thought Athens was overwhelming, then New York was over the top. Buildings towered into the sky, they were large enough to go beyond the clouds. It feels like we stepped into a whole new world. Cars and people flooded the streets. Horns blared, street vendors shouted, and our boat was gone from the port as fast as it came. My head turned every which way. So many things to look at. How could we ever find Father in a place like this?

Mother found another woman from our village, she showed us a place we could stay the night with the others. They had a feast to celebrate our arrival. Maybe others were there. I recognized some of them, but not all. That’s when I saw him, talking with the other men. He hadn’t noticed us. He looked so much like Father with all the features of the man in Mother’s photograph. I wondered if it was really him or maybe his doppelgänger. Then, he turned his head and looked directly at me, his eyes growing wide. That’s when I knew for sure it was him. Mother was right. Blood knows blood. He stands up, pushing people out of his way. I do too, running to him. No, sprinting to him. Water wells in my eyes, streams fall down my face. It’s him. It’s really him. We collide. Embracing and spinning in circles. Father says “Oh, how I’ve waited so long for this day. I knew it was you from the moment I saw you.” Mother joins us too, weeping and laughing. We made it. We were finally here. Once again, we were together again.

March 29, 2014

Chevi Paraskeva passed away at the age of 95. After living in Wilmington, Massachusetts for most of her life. She was a devoted mother to my mom and her two sisters. Grandmother to many grandchildren. This story is based on the real events that occurred to her when she traveled across the country with her mother at the age of 9. It took 29 days to reach America. Her father left their family behind when she was 2 years old. After the war, jobs were hard to come by, and the family was struggling financially. Her father made the decision to go to America, find a job, and send them money to join him later on down the road. She was the only grandparent I ever knew growing up. And anyone who interacted with her was lucky to be in her presence. She carried strength, kindness, compassion, and a good sense of humor. And I miss her very deeply. This story was a tribute to her legacy.