Dear Jozef and Agata,
How are you, my przyjaciele? How are little Marcin and Marta? I wish we could be back in our village together, for my girls miss your fruit tarts and playing with the twins. We arrived safely to America. We traveled by sea, and my two daughters suffered the whole trip from sea sickness. We were crushed by the sheer number of bodies on the boat but thankfully were in an area that had some fresh air and light. Ellis Island was not what we were expecting, the officers there were sometimes cruel and made some of the immigrants we traveled with stay there for a couple weeks before letting them into New York. Some were forced to change their name. We were lucky and just followed the crowd- the relief flooding my mind temporarily blinded me from the overwhelming fear of being in a new world. Oh przyjaciele, I dream every night about Tomasz and the day the Nazis took him away. If you had not helped us escape, we would not be alive today. I am not the only one who grieves the loss of Tomasz. Sofia, who has just turned 11, cries when she thinks I am not looking. She was so close to her father, sometimes she wakes screaming from the nightmares but there is very little I can do.
We live in one room of a small apartment. We have little money and our s?siad, or neighbors as they say here, have many children and the babies cry into the night. I spend little time in the room, I cannot stand the confinement and must work to provide food, though my fingers bleed from long hours working with needle and thread. Sofia has begun work in the factory down the street, she works on machines three times her size and the factory is hard, hot, and crowded; she comes home so very tired. But we survive.
Little Isabela is barely six years old and doesn’t understand the situation we are in yet. I wish she could be ignorant forever, but that is not the possible; girls her age already work in shops like mine. Most days, though, she plays in the streets with the other children. We live near many Polish families with whom she can communicate, though there are some Irish here as well. We all are running from something here: from famine, from annihilation, from fear.
I have met someone, Agata. His name is Fryderyk, and he is a good man. He wants to marry me and though I will always love Tomasz, I must think of Isabela and Sofia- of their future. There is no future in this little room, in this dirty city. There is no open space, no freedom to move or breathe. They grow thinner and paler every day, and it hurts me to see them so small and tired. I am their matka, I must protect them. Fryderyk tells me about the west, about Oregon territory and the gold in California. He tells me stories about small men from a country across the ocean call “China”. These men are immigrants like us and have come here for a better life- for a life of wealth. I have seen them in areas of the city but have never talked to one for they speak a language I have never heard.
I must tell the truth, for you know I cannot lie: I am wary of leaving the city. I have heard bad things about territories and western states- about fields drying up and becoming debtors to the State. We may be poor here, but we owe no one. I cannot stay though. This is not the life I want for my daughters. We leave for the West next month.
How I wish I was back in our little village with you, dear Jozef and Agata. I miss the fields and the rain, the sheep and the chickens-- I have even begun to miss the harsh winters! At least in that cold I had my family with me- whole and happy. I may never see you again my przyjaciele, or the lakes dividing our beautiful country from Lithuania, but I will carry you in my heart as I am sure you carry me in yours. Take care of your children and keep them safe. Po?egnanie, my friends, po?egnanie. And may good fortune bless you.

-Your Friend
Lidia