Schweissfuss

There’s no sweeter sound in the world than your name.

Until it doesn’t work for you.   I started as Sean Murphy but ended up as Albert Schweissfuss . This is my tale of an immigrant’s life. 

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……”There’s no future here for a young lad” 

Ma stated the obvious. I was fourteen, full of romantic ideas of a successful future. Ours was just another family cursed with extreme poverty. She couldn’t afford to show any pity, she had to encourage me to leave home, though her heart must have been breaking.

………” You have to go, son. Find a better life”.

It started with rain, even more than usual. The west of Ireland was devastated, the potato blight was now in its second year. Almost overnight a dense blue fog blanketed the puddled potato fields. 

A sickening odor forecasting death and destruction penetrated every window and door. Nothing escaped its vile reach. When the wind and rain ceased the eerie stillness was worse. The crop was ruined and destroyed by the fungus.   

One million died and two million emigrated. 

England sent some Indian corn and maize, but it was poorly ground causing painful digestive problems.  Too weak to man the boats and haul heavy nets of fish, thousands gave up and perished. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.  I knew there was a better way.

Walking out the door to hitch a ride when possible and walking to Belfast gave me a purpose.

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Several attempts to be hired legally as a cabin boy in Belfast aboard ships bound for the new world failed. Watching the line of emigrants, desperate, close to tears, a couple with three kids about to board looked quickly at me, seemed to grasp my situation. I can’t understand to this day how they appeared at that moment. Nodding meaningfully, the father shepherded me into the midst of the kids to avoid detection and I boarded looking like part of the group. They were second class passengers and once aboard, I snuck into steerage. Before we parted, the mother hugged me whispering quietly,

……”God be with you, son”

Although hungry, cold and filthy, I did survive that long sea journey. The exhilaration of being among throngs of people talking of a new start in a magical new land with floating elevators and exotic animals, I felt welcomed with the warmth of a family’s embrace.

Bawdy jokes, vulgar ditties leaving some in tears of laughter. and always afterwards the rosary. A few even fancied themselves as talented singers. We’d suffer Danny Boy or Galway Bay until someone yelled: 

…….” Ah, shut yer friggin mouth, Paddy. Yer a pain in me arse.”

Mary Ann Rafferty told the same ghost story over and over. 

…….”Fr. Ambrose, a lovely young priest was walking on a lonely road, at dusk…

…….” ooh at dusk,” we’d all repeat.

……..when there appeared a terrible old hag, oh she was filthy with a big crooked nose and a loose manner. She tempted this young beautiful priest. Knowing ‘twas the divil himself he said in a loud voice:

……”.in God’s name who are ye, and what do you want? (This with a hushed tone and beatific glance upwards.)

……..”And in a flash, she was gone.”

At fifteen I was curious thinking why wouldn’t the devil have the sense to make the temptress more attractive.   

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The first obstacle to overcome was on landing in New York, Ellis Island. Tagged with information placing me as a child of the family that helped me as a stowaway, I passed through medical check. After a cursory look at my ID. a six-second check of eyes, and lungs and a question to determine mental alertness, with knees shaking, I heard:

……” he’s young enough, he’ll make it. Let him through.”

 After that, it was every man for himself. Determined and full of youthful exuberance, I lined up for hours until with terror I approached officials wearing uniforms. In front of a barrier, and behind that two blue painted doors marked Immigration and the other Deportation. I started praying.  

It was chaos. All I remember is shouting of strange-sounding names, someone answering with hand raised a quick signing of papers, then either deliverance or rejection through a blue-painted door. That door, the one marked Immigration, was the gateway to the world I craved, but lacked the necessary paperwork, the ID tag was insufficient.

What happened next was either a miracle or the result of overworked, careless entry officials.

……..”Schweissfuss, Albert”

Nobody responded, hesitating for a moment, his name was repeated no one answered so I raised my hand.

I entered the United States of America with a visa in a stranger’s name.  

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From the barge to lower Manhattan, I held my face up to the sun and breathed the air which felt clean. The shock of new sights and sounds. Seagulls, dozens and dozens making such a racket. Hard to describe what I was feeling, both anxious and radiating supreme confidence at the same time. Hearing the word freedom I wasn’t sure what it meant but the sunshine on my face and the birds flying overhead I thought it must mean heaven. Passing the Statue of Liberty, dozens of adults cried holding their hands to the sky.   

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Washing dishes in a cafeteria was my first job. It paid real money plus tasty food. Reuniting with the family who first befriended me, I paid a few cents rent to share their two-roomed apartment. They were glad of the extra money, and I had nowhere else. It worked fine.  

Meeting dozens of other immigrants, Irish, German, and Jewish. I soon learned my identification papers bearing the name Albert Schweissfuss sounded hilarious in German. It translates as Sweatfoot! The Authorities must have mangled the original name, to render it unrecognizable. I said a guilty prayer for the victim hoping things worked out for him.

Fortunately, Fr Schmidt, pastor at St. Peter’s Church, in lower Manhattan, a true friend, and a German immigrant himself, caught it early before I had to use it.

…….”I can fix this with the bishop, and a couple of bottles of altar wine next time he visits. We can change it to the middle letters only, Weiss, leaving the first name unchanged”.

And that’s how I became. Al Weiss.  

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Yes, that’s me. actor, writer, plumber, painter, and tailor I’m all of them. I’m probably even you, dear reader. Part of the greatest wave of human migration the world had ever seen.

I never saw my mother again, but I know she loved and was proud of me. I can imagine her saying….

…….”I knew he’d fall on his feet.”

My other Mother is the Lady standing in New York Harbor. I often stop by and chat, like I’m talking to Ma. I have to be careful I’m using new expressions like swell. Ma will notice I’m adapting and forgetting the old Irish cuss words.

I never get tired of reading:

 …Give me your tired, your poor

     Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free

…..The wretched refuse

…..Your teeming shore

…..Send these, the homeless tempest-tossed to me

…..I lift my lamp beside the golden door.