The California Immigrant Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Author Bio

  Acknowledgments

  Book Club Questions

  The California Immigrant

  A Novel

  Copyright 2019

  First Edition

  Cypress Point Press

  ISBN: 978-1-7335369-1-2

  Book Cover Design by Jenny Q, Historical Fiction Book Covers

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction. However, the author tried to stay true to known historical facts but may have taken a few creative liberties with them in order to better serve the story. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictional way.

  No part of this book may be copied or transmitted by any means without the author’s permission.

  To my family and friends who made Watsonville their home. And to my children whose ancestors lived this story.

  Author’s Note

  I was working on another project when I came across some very interesting material about the early history of Watsonville which I knew little about. It inspired me to write a book set in the first part of the Twentieth Century which would allow me to play out the events in real time. Coincidentally, I was planning my first trip to Croatia from where my paternal grandparents immigrated to America. Ancestry research led to some interesting facts about my grandfather that helped inform the book. I have read many books about World War II but none that are set in a small American town where so many momentous events took place, especially those related to the war in the Pacific. I only wish I had known more about this history growing up. And so, I wrote a fictional story as a record of life in Watsonville during an extraordinary period of time. I hope you get as much out of reading this book as I did writing it.

  Chapter 1

  August 1904

  Martin Petrovich walked out of the apartment, carrying an old suitcase bound with twine, shutting the door behind him. He wound his way through the narrow alleys, up and down stairs, past pillars and posts, until he got to the main road running through Old Town Dubrovnik. He thought he would at least come across one friend who would bid him goodbye, who would wish him Godspeed, who would tell him he’d be missed. But Dubrovnik at this hour was a ghost town, the sun not yet making its presence known. He felt abandoned to the fates, friendless and forgotten. Where was Marika selling vegetables from her cart? Where was Father Novak scattering feed for the pigeons? Where was Tony readying his shop for the fresh catch of the day? None of them were there to say goodbye.

  Martin wanted to look back for them one more time, but he knew the Bible warned against that—always counseling to move forward—so that is what he did. But he couldn’t help but feel sad he would never see his home again. Martin walked up the ramps to where the city gate stood open and went through its Renaissance arch for the last time. It was all he could do to resist looking back at the city’s patron, St. Blaise, presiding in a niche above the arch. Martin crossed the drawbridge and glanced to his left across the Adriatic Sea, which dawn still had in its grip—a gray veil of mist hiding the azure blue waters. This is what loneliness feels like. It is the color gray—neither black nor white—just a dull feeling of emptiness.

  Then directly ahead, he spotted the wagon with his father, mother, and sisters already aboard. His older and younger brothers, Peter and John, stood holding the reins. Peter stepped forward. “What’s taken you so long?” He grabbed the suitcase and tossed it into the wagon. Martin was about to climb aboard when an argument broke out between a man and woman on the street across from them. It caused him to hesitate while he turned toward the source of the yelling. “It’s only a man trying to shoo the Serbian woman away,” said Peter. “She should know by now that she is not welcome to sell her wares here.” At that, there was nothing left for Martin to do but climb aboard.

  His father made a clucking sound while shaking the reins to signal the horses to move ahead and pull their load. It was only a short distance to the port of Gruz where the ship to Trieste would be waiting, but the bumps and ruts made it slow going. Martin hoped they wouldn’t break a wheel spoke which would be nothing short of a disaster on this day when he was holding a ticket on the only ship available for weeks. But luck was with him and they arrived with time to spare.

  Martin jumped off the wagon and paused to catch his suitcase, which John had hurled overboard. Then he helped his sisters, Veronika and Zara, down. Peter had already gone around to the other side to help his mother off her seat. His father managed on his own and handed the reins to John when he alighted.

  Martin took one look at his family and wanted to cry. Their faces wore sad looks; his mother looked frightened. He could tell tears were welling up in her eyes and soon would be streaming down her face. If he didn’t leave now, he never would. He kissed his sisters and shook hands with his brothers, giving them hugs as well. Then he shook hands with his father and hugged and kissed his mother several times. Her tears were flowing and soon his sisters were crying, too. His father and brothers tried to be stoic, even though water welled up in their eyes.

  At sixteen years old, Martin now had the responsibility of a man on his shoulders. He was tall, almost six feet, and strong as
well as handsome, with dark wavy hair and gray-green eyes. He was wearing wool trousers, a fisherman’s sweater, knit hat, and boots. Over his arm he carried a leather jacket, which he would need for additional warmth.

  He had to succeed in the New World so he could help his family who stayed behind in Croatia. Fortunately, his Uncle Anton promised him a job at his restaurant in San Francisco. It would be a good start if he could just get there. Being alone, poor and not speaking a word of English, it would be a miracle if he made it. But Slavs are a tough breed—they don’t give up—not easily, not ever. He had fortitude running through his blood. Little did he know how much he would need it.

  Martin boarded the small sailing boat that would take him along the Adriatic to Trieste where he would board the steam ship for America. He stood on deck, looking out at his family who was waving and now seemed happy for him. Then he couldn’t help himself from turning to get one last glimpse of Dubrovnik, the fortified city that had stood since the 10th century, despite enemy attacks, and would probably remain standing until the end time. The ramparts, rising to great heights, were a masterful work of engineering that could be reached by stairs and walked upon circling the town below. But it was the view from that vantage point that Martin regretted abandoning. He would gaze over the clear, blue sea past islands close to shore to watch for merchant ships returning with their wares. The Croatians were great seamen and ship builders having once ruled the Mediterranean not to conquer but to trade. Their ships flew a white flag with the single Latin word Libertad, meaning freedom, to alert foreign peoples they came in peace. As soon as a ship landed, Martin was on the dock, helping to unload in an effort to learn what the cargo contained.

  Martin was awakened from his reverie by the sound of sails unfurling, their flapping a sign the wind would be strong. It was not long until the crew threw off the lines and the captain steered his ship into the sea where they would make their way through Croatia’s archipelago, second to Greece’s in the Mediterranean, with over seven hundred islands. Nearby Korcula, a favorite of Martin’s, would be one of the first they passed. He often stopped there when fishing with his father to relax on the beach before returning to Ston, where most of their fishing fleet was moored. Korcula claims to be the birthplace of Marco Polo. It is famous for the two swords dance known as the Moreska but even more notable for being the first place in the world to end slavery in 1214.

  The sailboat tacked its way through the archipelago past the islands of Brac and Hvar, nearby Split, the town built inside Diocletian’s palace. Then up the coast aiming toward Zadar, maneuvering around the Istrian peninsula past the towns of Pula, Rovinj, and Porec until finally reaching Trieste for embarkation. Once the ship was tied up at the dock, all the passengers disembarked, making their way toward to office of emigration.

  Martin took his place in line but grew impatient with the wait. It seemed many of the people ahead of him, especially families, did not have all their paperwork in order, which held up the entire process for everyone. He could feel his impatience rising. Martin wished he could just take a number and comeback when it was his turn so he could explore Trieste, an Italian city with an abundance of Austrian influence most notable in its architecture. He would especially like to stroll around the main square, Piazza Unita d’Italia, which he spied across from the port featuring a number of cafes. He’d love to sit down at one of them and have a coffee right now. Martin did not know much about Trieste other than the talk he’d heard about an attempt here to assassinate the Emperor Franz Joseph. Croatians disliked living under the emperor’s rule, but even if he had died, there would have been another emperor to take his place so they would have been no better off.

  Finally, Martin’s papers were processed and he was issued an Austrian passport. He went back to the port in search of the steamship Carpathia, which would take him to America. Once he found it, he went up the gangplank and was directed to steerage several layers below deck in the bowels of the ship. Single men had one side and families the other. He entered the quarters already smelling of body odor and was lucky to find a lower berth still available. Not only would it be easier to get in and out, but sleeping low would ensure he would not be tossed about as much especially during rough seas. As soon as Martin struck his claim to the bunk, he headed back upstairs to stand on deck for the departure.

  Soon he could hear the engines starting and saw the gangplank pulled up. The steamship slowly pulled out of the port and entered the Adriatic. Martin would get a chance to see the Dalmatian coast again before heading toward the Atlantic. In much less time than it took to sail, the ship had reached Dubrovnik. Even at a distance it was an awesome sight that made him proud of what his ancestors had accomplished. The ship turned to enter the Mediterranean, skirting the boot of Italy as it headed toward the strait of Gibraltar before entering the Atlantic. Now Martin was in unfamiliar territory, and knew he was really on his way to America, a voyage that would take nearly two weeks. He hoped the seas would be calm since the steam ship did not need wind to move. The first day he was blessed and even spotted some dolphins following the boat. He knew they would bring good luck.

  Chapter 2

  About the third day, the sky drew dark and thunder blared, sending out one boom after another. The sea responded with swells that developed into huge waves beating against the sides of the ship and tossing it around like a flimsy toy. Martin had heard stories of ships being so battered they came apart, scattering their cargo and passengers in the ocean where they either drowned or were devoured by sharks.

  Just the thought of sharks sent a shiver through Martin, causing him to touch the crucifix he wore around his neck as if it were a talisman warding off evil. Martin clung to his cot to wait out the storm as its fierceness grew and it lashed out in fury. The night had been a long one. What little sleep he got was filled with nightmares of sharks and sea monsters. But when day dawned, the sun was shining and the seas had returned to calm.

  Martin got dressed and went back up on deck to look around. He spotted another boy about his age whom he had seen in his bunkroom. They began to chat about their voyage—where they were from, where they were going. Michael Latskovich was from Split. He was taller than Martin and had blond hair that was cropped short. His eyes were a clear blue, like the Adriatic, features even except for his nose, which was somewhat bulbous like many Croatians. “I heard some families are sick,” Michael told Martin.

  “Oh no. I hope it’s not the plague. Best we stay away from them.” Michael nodded in agreement. “And stay out here in the fresh air as much as possible. Breathing in the stench down below can’t be healthy.” Again, Michael nodded.

  The next few days, the seas stayed calm and on occasion, Martin would spot a whale blowing water through its spout at a distance. He scanned the sea for more creatures, but they eluded him—even the dolphins, which he hoped would return to guide them. Martin took a deep breath of the fresh, clean ocean air with its fishy fragrance. He felt a cold coming on and didn’t want to be sick when he arrived at Ellis Island. He had heard too many stories of people getting turned away or at the very least having to wait until a doctor cleared them. He did not want that to happen to him, to have anything jeopardize his entrance into America, the home of the free.

  Freedom—that’s what he most yearned for. Living under the oppressive Habsburg regime did not offer an opportunity for a better life. His parents did all they could do to cobble together the bare necessities. If the sea did not offer up its riches, they would be too poor to survive. Martin took in a few more inhales while noticing the clouds forming in the west and knew that meant another period of rough seas.

  He went back down below, covering his mouth and nose with a handkerchief to filter the odors and germs. It was going to be a long night. But first he would have some dinner to hold him over. Martin grabbed his silverware and plate and headed to the kitchen where a mystery stew awaited, served from kettles. He found it difficult to make out what was in it. At least a home, his mo
ther always provided a good meal with the main course, fish, always being recognizable. Thank goodness there would be an end to his journey in a few days but how long he wasn’t sure.

  Martin’s stomach was rumbling by the time he got back to his bunk. He certainly did not want to add to the disgusting smells already hanging in the air by vomiting. He opened a canteen to take a sip of water and took deep breaths through his mouth. That seemed to settle his stomach. Now he just had to try to fall asleep, but the swells were mounting and he feared what was yet to come. In the middle of the night, he awoke to the sounds of screams and waves crashing against the ship, making horrific sounds as if the end of the world was upon them. There was nothing he could do but wait it out and hope. He fingered his crucifix while saying a prayer.