My grandfather stood in a crowded line, holding a briefcase made out of hardened cardboard. Inside of it, a few clothing garments and a shiny, rather small tea cup. Thousands of people waiting patiently though no one was talking. A grey welcoming symphony composed of only a few seagulls, the naval crew and the deep and heavy metal moaning of a floating giant beast.
Around 11 in the morning of Friday October 21st,1927, a large cross-Atlantic steamboat named “Giulio Cesare,” lowered the ramps in Puerto Madero, Buenos Aires. Masses of immigrants, mostly from Europe started to march down and set foot in a land that promised a fresh start and life without starvation. My grandfather’s chest was pounding, taking in the new colors, sounds and smells. All immigrants were directed onto trolleys that brought them to a large white building. Someone in the trolley pointed to this imposing edifice as they arrived and said, “sisserändajate hotell.” My grandfather didn’t speak Estonian but he understood it: “Immigrant Hotel.” Every pair of eyes he gazed at revealed a mixture of uncertainty, excitement and longing; much like mirrors to his own.
Five days had passed since my grandfather entered into this eerie place. Women dressed in white aprons and nursing caps would gather and direct groups in large dining halls, bring food and assign sleeping cots. Any chance my grandfather got to interact with these women, he tried to learn a few words in Spanish, though he wished he had a pen to write them down somewhere.
After dinner, a few immigrants would whip up an old accordion or a fiddle. This compelled my grandfather to stay late before going to his assigned cot. Some mazurkas, polkas and a few waltzes brought him to tears. Sounds from a distant land he had known his entire life, now a fleeting image in his mind. It had been three months since he held a parting gaze with his mother and father, not knowing if he would ever see them again. He was boarding a train when his mother placed that small teacup in his hands. The one he carries in his briefcase. It was the only valuable item his mother had. It was a vessel for his cultural heritage, and in a way, his mother’s identity.
“¿Señor?” his eyes opened quickly as a young man dressed in military uniform shouted from down the hall. He stood up and understood the motion to follow him. He picked up his briefcase and followed him through large halls with tall ceilings. A rushing feeling overwhelmed him: this was it, he was about to get a new identity, a fresh start —a new life. Other immigrants had whispered aboard the Cesare, “everybody was to receive citizenship and land upon arrival.” His mind raced calculating how long he would have to farm and save to be able to rescue his parents from starvation. As they arrived to a dimly lit room, a family of four was exiting. They looked Italian, all of them smiling. The father paused at the door and gave my grandfather a comforting nod.
“¡Adelante!” a voice invited him into the room. Behind a desk, a military man with a thick mustache was writing on a large book. Without looking up, the man asked, “¿Parla italiano?” A brief silence filled the room. “¿Ruso, polaco?” The man insisted. My grandfather pulled his red passport and handed it over. “Hungaro.” The man sighted, paused and then asked “Nombre, nimi, nazev” quickly cycling through different languages. My grandfather slowly uttered his name. “József Buranÿ.” Writing and still with his eyes on the book, the military man said, “bienvenido señor José Burany.” He stamped a small piece of paper and handed it to Jose. The man then turned and pointed at a large map on the wall, “Aquí van a estar sus tierras don Burany. En el sur.” To which my grandfather opened his green wide eyes. He looked at the map and he saw the land he was about to receive was in the very south of the continent. It would be cold and difficult to farm there. Freezing and humid winters had scarred him with memories of his parents barely surviving them. Even the little produce they amassed had to be given up to the state, to be redistributed. Everything, in fact, belonged to the Party. Anything of value was confiscated.
“Kérem” Jose kindly said. The man kept writing. “Por favor” my grandfather insisted in broken Spanish, this time louder. The man stopped and raised his gaze. “Sur” Jose uttered embracing himself, gesturing being cold. The man’s mustache moved slightly while considering Jose’s plea. Lowering his eyes back to the page, he continued writing.
Jose abruptly lowered his briefcase to the floor and opened it. The man, alarmed by Jose’s sudden movements, fixed his eyes on my grandfather's hands. They held a small but shiny teacup. A memory of his mother burying the teacup so that it wouldn’t be confiscated by communist soldiers filled Jose’s vision as he offered it to a different kind of, yet still, military man. The man looked at Jose’s eyes and slowly took the teacup. Inspecting it, the man asked, “¿Porcelana?” Jose guessed what this meant but decided not to lie. Looking slowly down, he shook his head; this teacup was not expensive porcelain. The man, inspected the tiny ornaments and flowers designed on the peculiar teacup. Alas, it wasn’t anything extraordinary. However, for Jose, this teacup had just revealed to have a very different kind of value. The man gently rested it on his desk and extended his hand, asking for the paper he’d given Jose. He tore it, stamped a new one and writing something down he said, “Muy bien, a donde va usted ahora, no va a pasar frío.” He pointed to a place in the map saying, “Santiago.” Jose nodded, receiving the new paper and almost whispering, “Santiago.”
He picked up his cardboard briefcase and walked towards the door. The dark red tiles of the floor were almost identical as the ones his mother was likely standing on that same instant, just on a different continent. These tiles were haughtily asking him what else in that briefcase would help him remember his country; his culture. His mother. His mother that had placed the teacup on Jose’s hands gently, as if it was her own soul. Until this moment, he had not thought about the fact that her eyes were the same deep blue as the teacup’s flowers. He felt helpless but couldn’t excuse himself from what he had done. Anger and shame swelled inside as he picked up his pace to exit this cold room.
His shoulder was gently pulled from behind. The officer stopped him at the door, “Aca se toma mate. Vaya con Dios Jose,” handing the teacup back to him. Slowly taking it, he breathed a few times before nodding one last ‘gracias.’
My grandfather stood in a crowded line, holding a briefcase made out of hardened cardboard. Inside of it, a few clothing garments and a shiny, rather small teacup. A few hundred people waiting patiently for a train to Santiago though no one was talking. He didn’t know it then but in that train station, three men were singing “La Violeta;” a Tango that tells the story of an immigrant that arrives to Argentina, in the belly of a metal beast.
