Baltic to Brooklyn Bound

On April 29, 1930, our ocean liner arrived back in New York harbor. My father, mother, and Aunt Edite headed toward the ramp to go to the docks along with the other first-class passengers. I walked right behind them when suddenly an immigration official stopped me in my tracks. “Miss, may I see your passport?” I stuttered. “Passport? I don’t have one.” “Well, I’ll accept your citizenship papers.” Pa came to my aide. “Sir, my daughter is traveling with me and my wife.” The official said, “Then, let me see your passport.” He took it out of his lapel pocket and showed it. “Mr. Glamzo, your passport is in perfect order, and it covers you and your wife. We have no proof who this woman is. She must remain on board. Mrs. Edite’s passport is fine also. The three of you may go.” Two officials pushed my family members off the ship and no further explanation was given. I was left alone. I tried to talk my way out of the situation. “Sir, those are my parents and my aunt that you are pushing off the ship, and I’ve lived in Brooklyn for twenty years.” “What proof do you have? Nothing! You are a woman from who knows where? With your blue eyes, maybe you are an attractive spy from the USSR? You need to remain on board until further notice.” I sat down on my suitcase and waited on the deck of the ship. I grew hot and thirsty, and the sunshine burned my face. When the sun started to set, the immigration official escorted me off the ship and onto a ferry. “Where are you taking me?” “You are going to the Main Immigration Station at Ellis Island.” They marched me like a criminal into the Women’s Detention. Would I have to spend the night in this dismal place? “What is your name?” said one of the officials inside the Detention Center. “Wanda Glamzo.” I watched as he wrote my name in a detention log. This was why Pa had gone to all that trouble to make sure he had a passport before we left. Although he had assumed if I had any trouble, it would have been in foreign lands, not here at home. It was true. I was an alien, a woman without a country. No papers could prove where I belonged. Pa said it would be all right, but that was not the case. I cannot blame him. He never expected this. The next morning, the officials took me to appear in front of a magistrate who had an office on the premises. Their badges caught the morning rays and shone prominently on their chests. They walked proudly as they escorted me. One said, “You didn’t think you could just come into America, did you? Where do you belong? You must be registered in some country. We have immigration quotas. Do you have a birth certificate?” “I was born in 1901 in the Duchy of Kurzeme, in Imperial Russia, but then the duchy became Lithuania in 1918, and Imperial Russia became the USSR.” “So, you say you are Russian or Lithuanian, but still no papers to prove it.” “No, Sir. I don’t have any papers. My parents were immigrants. I was born in my grandparents’ cottage on a farm.” “You can tell it all to the judge.” The sign engraved into the glass on the door read Immigrant Proceedings. We entered and I stood nervously in front of the magistrate. He looked down at the notes. “Well, Wanda Glamzo, I understand you entered America by ship without a passport or a birth certificate.” "Yes, sir, that is true. I have no birth certificate. I was born in my grandparents’ cottage in the Duchy of Zurzeme in Imperial Russia. My father said I wouldn’t need a passport on this trip because we were traveling together.” "Well, America started with birth certificates about thirty years ago. I don’t know about other countries. But your father’s logic did not hold up because you are here and in trouble. Tell me about yourself and convince me of who you are.” “I am twenty-eight years old. I can tell you I was born in 1901. I came to America in 1906 with my parents and my sister. I work at a design studio in Brooklyn.” “You mean you worked at a design studio. Haven’t you been abroad for the past year?” “Yes, sir, that’s true, but I hope to go back to my old job. I live with my parents in Flatbush.” “Why didn’t you get a passport?” “We were in a hurry to leave the country. Anyway, I couldn’t get my own passport as I am not a citizen. I am too old to travel on my parents’ passport.” “Are you single or married?” “Well, I’m single, but I may be married. I don’t know. I was married then I just moved out.” In a stern tone, the magistrate scared me. “Yes, miss, then you are a married woman. Because neither of you bothered to dissolve the union legally, you are still married to him and he to you.” “I don’t even know where he is!” “You don’t have to know that. Just answer my question correctly, that you are married. This is a citizenship proceeding, not a family matter.” I hesitated then nodded. “Just sign this Certificate of Naturalization with both your maiden name and your married one. Use today’s date of April 30, 1930. When you get a passport picture, attached it on the certificate.” I never thought I would have to use Nicholas’s last name again. Rich was something I always wanted to be, and in a single moment and the stroke of a pen, I became Mrs. Rich again. Rich was probably a name that got shortened from some long Lithuanian name years ago, but I didn’t stay with Nick long enough to find out his history. I would worry about an official divorce later.