It had been foggy earlier, but as we approach New York Harbor, a wintry sun breaks through. There, rising through the mist as if by magic, the Statue of Liberty appears. She is taller than I dreamed she would be, and her head is crowned with seven spiked rays. In her right hand, she holds a torch aloft; in her left, she clasps a book. Just as the poem says, she welcomes us all. We have come from shtetls and cities; many of us from hostile, inhospitable, poverty-stricken countries. We have endured the harshness and indignities of the journey, as others have done before us. We have arrived at last. The journey has made me grow up. I am so full of hope, I feel as if I will burst with joy. All I can do is to gasp at the wonder of the skyline in front of us. We are pushed against the rails by a thousand bodies. Close by, Anna and Eva stand beside their bearded young husbands. Fanny lifts Essie up to wave to the many ferryboats and ships circling the harbor. I turn to see an old man swaying back and forth in prayer.
