Rachel Calof and Jewish Immigrant Women Between a "land of opportunity" and a "terrible new world"

Rachel Bella Kahn Calof's story was almost lost. It was a story that she wrote on sixty-seven pages of a writing tablet she purchased in 1936 to recount her experience as a Russian immigrant to the United States in 1894, traveling alone to marry a man she had never met. Her journey began at Ellis Island, as did the experience of millions of others.¹ However, her life took a much different turn than that of, say, my grandfather, when she moved with her husband Abraham to North Dakota, which had only been admitted as a state in 1889. Calof wrote her story for her children only; in fact, as editor J. Sanford Rikoon notes in the Acknowledgements, Rachel Calof"s most acute desire was for privacy, and that reticence may have precluded even her descendents from publishing her story (xiii). However, a view into her life in North Dakota allows us the chance to consider whether Jewish women had a different experience from women of other ethnic backgrounds and whether they tried to retain their cultural practices even in the most adverse circumstances. Therefore, though I will concentrate on Calof, I will compare her experience to other women's experiences to assess whether her experiences were unique or more universal.

Of course, the way that a person chooses to tell her story must be the key to analyzing that story. Mary Catherine Bateson writes, in Composing a Life, her analysis of how women tell their life stories, that "we edit the past" so that it remains understandable to those who hear those stories (32). And, although Calof supposedly did not intend to have her story published and had edited her own memory for the sole purpose that her descendents know about her journey (xi), she does directly address her audience (59; 76). Calof does not mention any people outside of her husband's immediate family and several Jewish officials despite the fact that she lived on the homestead for ten years. Not all diaries imply such a sense of personal isolation as Rachel's does, and we have to be attentive to her choice of narrative voice, perhaps indicating that what she wished above all was to be recognized as an individual, a lofty goal for any woman in the nineteenth century and especially for a Jewish woman who, as we will explore, existed (and perhaps the present tense might be more applicable here) on earth and in heaven only through the identity of her husband. Carolyn Heilbrun asks us to consider a new "representation" of power in the writing of women's stories as "the ability to take one's place in whatever discourse in essential to action and the right to have one's part matter" (18). Calof certainly would not have called herself a feminist, but her awareness of her own strength and ingenuity encourages us not to perceive her as accepting marginality.² Calof's story is one of those "narratives of female plots" that provide women with permission to value their own stories. Female narratives, so often neglected or lost in the telling of American history, are an essential part of our common past.

According to the article "Jewish Farm Settlements in America's Heartland" that is part of the volume of Calof's diary, it is difficult to accurately count the number of Jewish immigrant farmers in the Midwest during the first wave of immigration that included the Calofs, but it certainly numbered in the thousands (Rikoon 106-107). Philanthropic groups such as the localized Hebrew Union Agricultural Society (Cincinnati) or the more widespread Jewish Agriculturalists' Aid Society of America (Chicago) and the Jewish Agricultural and Industrial Aid Society (New York) encouraged individual settlements to relocate the poor from unhealthy urban environments to the Midwest (Rikoon 110-115). In fact, Abraham Calof and at least two members of his extended family received loans from the last two organizations (115). Calof makes no mention of this assistance in her diary, perhaps because she was focused on her personal experience and wanted to convey the strong sense of independence she obviously felt, but it also implies the sense of isolation that she felt during her homesteading experience. Certainly there were women she could relate to in terms of a common experience; according to Elizabeth Jameson, by 1890, Ramsey County, North Dakota (where the Calofs lived) was forty-two percent immigrant, and the 1990 census indicates that over 24,000 individuals had Russian parents ("Collective History" 141; 152 n.). Approximately one thousand Jews filed homestead claims in the Dakotas between 1882 and 1900 (Abrams, 196-197, n. 19).

However, in telling her story, Calof numbers the lack of funds, fuel, and materials after the more abstract priority of what today's jargon might refer to as "personal space." She says that of all deprivations she had to suffer as a homesteader, the "lack of privacy was the hardest to bear" (24). Calof bore nine children on the prairie, the fifth (Elizabeth) on a day that was "so unbearably cold" that her children "huddled" around her even during the birthing process (her discreet version being "I attended to my chore"), but she does not dwell on that experience at all (81). In fact, in the very next paragraph, she does discuss "vulnerability to the elements," but it is violent weather and not personal exposure she chooses as her focus. Calof is the kind of narrator who chooses to credit her personal rather than a communal strength to her successes, not out of a sense of vanity but because her self-reliance is what got her through her difficulties. She is a complex woman, one who views America both as a "land of opportunity" and as a "terrible new world" (17; 30).

Elizabeth Jameson, writing about "Rachel Bella Calof 's Life as Collective History," notes that, "Jewish immigrants constantly negotiated, as families and as individuals, which practices were malleable, and how practice related to Jewish identity" (148). However, before we consider whether Jewish immigrants had experiences unique to them simply because of their Jewishness, we should consider the experience of women in general, regardless of their religious affiliation. "Women," Rachel was informed, "had no judgment or voice in matters of importance" (30). Clearly, an exhaustive study is not feasible here, so I will limit my discussion to some common experiences shared by girls and women, including loneliness, childbirth, and religious observance.

One pioneer who settled in South Dakota was Laura Ingalls Wilder, and I approached her biographical fiction books with an expectation that she would gloss over the difficulties and sugarcoat the experience.³ Perhaps some of her Little House books might follow that pattern, but the books that describe the Ingalls family settling in De Smet, South Dakota in the 1880s, certainly do not. Like Rachel, Laura and her sister are threatened by wolves as they slide on the frozen lake in Silver Lake (Rachel calls them the "butchers" [61]). Usually very brave, the "voices of the blizzard winds" terrify Laura as they keep her awake at night, and the family is virtually starving when the railroad is cut off because of the weather in The Long Winter (187). Perhaps more subtle but equally frightening, however, is the scene in that same novel when Ma gives Laura a sliver of wood to secure the latch in her door when the male homesteaders, whom Ma is feeding to earn extra money, stay in their house (225). The gendered lessons concerning daily life that Laura receives are no less subtle. In Silver Lake, Laura cannot help Pa with payday, although she had always helped him before (110) and, although it is a fate she strongly dislikes, Laura "had to be a school teacher when she grew up" (127) to help her blind sister Mary attend college, a comment that runs through several of Wilder's semi-autobiographical novels. Of course, girls do not show anger or resentment (and we will see that Calof does not follow this rule, either). In The Long Winter (174-175), Ma suggests they save some papers and magazines to read on Christmas Day, as the arrival of the train bringing more gifts is doubtful that year. Mary thinks, "…it is a good idea. It will help us learn self-denial."

"I don't want to," Laura said.

"Nobody does," said Mary. "But it's good for us."

Rachel Calof's life in North Dakota certainly was also one of self-denial. When she first arrived there in 1894, not yet married to Abraham Calof, she felt that she lived a life "hardly above the level of an animal" (29). Not only did she have to share a bed with strangers, she had to share her shack with other Calof family members and their livestock that first winter, as there was not enough fuel to go around. Driven to despair and anguish a number of times, Rachel felt "resentment and rebellion" grow within her, driving her "desire for a better life" (31). Despite the traditional prohibition that Carolyn Heilbrun mentions against female "anger, together with the open admission of the desire for power and control over one's life"" (13), Rachel develops what she calls her chutzpa and tells her future mother-in-law that she doesn't care if the older woman disapproves of her because she had "nothing further to lose" (31). Later, she is quite angry with her husband, Abe, when he tells her that he would have to divorce her because of the dirty conditions of the communal shack that she worked so hard to keep clean. Though in retrospect, Rachel recognized the stress that drove her husband to accuse her, that day she "was in no mood" to analyze the situation (59). She knew that the strain of "the small society of that shack" took its toll on Abe; however, Rachel believed she had conducted herself even under these deprived circumstances "as a Jewish woman should," and she considered this accusation of being dirty the "greatest degradation." This insult never faded from her memory (59-60). We see in these situations a woman who not only does not apologize for her anger but is actually quite proud in the way she stands up to abuse. Maybe Calof is more adaptable than Abe, as she does not allow herself the luxury of wondering about her fate, realizing that her role was "basic motherhood," satisfied that she did a good job raising her children so that they could "take charge of their own destiny" (67).

Perhaps equally important is Rachel's sense of humor. Poking fun at her in-laws on the day of her wedding, Rachel says that they insisted she and Abe fast, "spreading their usual cheer and goodwill" (37). Later, when her mother-in-law accuses Rachel of not following Jewish law and refuses to drink water in her house or stay with her the next winter, Rachel says it "would be an understatement to say I was pleased" (73). Although she does not shy away from recognizing the immediate difficulties, Rachel always speaks of her strength and optimism. "It might seem a cheerless life," one woman noted in Joanna Stratton's Pioneer Women, "but there were many compensations" (56). For one pioneer bride, "Approval or no approval" the word "obey" would have to be left out of her marriage vows (Stratton 58). Mollie Dorsey Stanford, crossing the prairie to Nebraska Territory with her family in 1857, writes a number of times about men who came to "hunt a wife" (4), and she certainly does not jump at the chance. About one man she writes, "…(and if he is a specimen of the fellows out there, oh! deliver us, sweet fate, deliver us!)" (29) Clearly, optimism and resiliency were of enormous help in adjusting to what Mollie calls a "strange land" (1). Yet the notion of opportunity threads through the story of each of these women. "I guess you could say I had an optimistic nature," Calof observes (60).

Like many immigrants, Rachel Calof had even relinquished some of her personal identity when she came to America. Her abusive father and life of poverty in Russia compelled her to accept marriage to a man she had never met (certainly not an unusual circumstance); however, she had to agree to travel under the name of the woman to whom Abraham had first been betrothed, Rachel Chavetz. Of course, it is with twenty-first century eyes that we even recognize this as an assault on her identity, but Rachel recognized that it was this small shift that might guarantee her "entry to the promised land" (12). Undoubtedly, many immigrants happily accepted this concession to assimilation and having their names changed for them as they passed through Ellis Island in New York. Still, it was important enough to Rachel and another immigrant, Sophie Trupin, to mention it in their diaries. Sophie writes that when she attended school, "the American throat" could not pronounce the Hebrew names, and so the children had to use translated names. Her name, Sorah, was closest to the English "Sarah, but another girl had already chosen that name. "Sophie" was the next closest and, although she liked that name, she "always felt deprived of something that was rightfully mine" (76). In her article, "Daughters of Sunshine: Diasporic Impulses and Gendered Identities," Irit Rogoff explores the idea of female identity within Israel and talks about the constancy of the notion difference or "not belonging," leaving the individual in a "permanent state of defiance and self-definition" (1). Although clearly not a reference to Jewish settlers in the American Midwest, Rogoff's concept is still relevant here, as both Rachel Calof and Sophie Trupin sensed that it was their "not belonging" that forced them to alter their names. The names of other Jews whose names have been Anglicized are countless, really, and the luxury of writing one's story was limited to very few. However, successful writers of the early twentieth century such as Mary Antin (again an Anglicized name) or Anzia Yezierska showed how Jewish immigrant women reinvented themselves as American Jewish women, and the notion of "American freedom merges with the triumph of a woman's autonomy" (Antler 18).

Relocating to America did affect the way women worshipped and indeed interpreted their religion. Very little data actually exists for settlers in the Midwest, but Jeanne E. Abrams offers a history of women who settled in the West in Jewish Women Pioneering the Frontier Trail that might provide insights into the Jewish female experience and how women interpreted the three female commandments: lighting of the Sabbath candles, baking the challah and setting aside and burning a portion to bless the Sabbath, and ritual mikvah (cleansing bath) observance. Clara Sky of Chugwater, Wyoming, improvised when a snowstorm prevented the delivery of Passover matzah and baked her own (3). In the same spirit, Rachel Calof fashioned mud lamps with a rag and butter, not only creating a more "civilized" environment but also giving her mother-in-law a kind of candle to bless the Sabbath. Her mud lamps gained her respect in the family, despite her youth and her sex (31).⁴ Abrams also writes that although women did try to keep a kosher home, many had to modify practices to adapt to western American life (9).

When Rachel gave birth to her third child and that child was male, special celebrations were planned, as well as a bris, despite the cost of ten dollars (equivalent today to $150.00) for the mohel. The Calofs had no money at all, yet Abe borrowed the money for the train fare (71). No such arrangements were made for their first two children, who were females. The family had not had any meat for three years and decided to slaughter an ox for the occasion.⁵ Unfortunately, the shochet, upon slaughtering the animal, found it to be unfit for kosher consumption (traif), yet he insisted that Rachel cook and eat the meat because she had a higher obligation as a young mother of young children. Rachel was "absolutely delighted" with the shochet's interpretation of Jewish law, but her mother-in-law's "beliefs were so rigid that she could not afford to compromise" (72-73).⁶ Earlier, when Abe had gone for supplies, he returned with a jar that was supposed to be pickled herring but, "horror of horrors," was actually pickled pigs' feet. Neither Rachel nor Abe disclosed this information (67). A mikvah was established in Denver around the turn of the century, according to Abrams (89); however, Rachel Calof does not mention the tradition at all. This omission is in keeping with much of our knowledge about historical female practices: women simply did not discuss these things.⁷ Clearly, observant women did their best to improvise and maintain tradition; more than likely, those who were able to be flexible were most successful.

Although Rachel mentions several times that her mother-in-law was fanatical and "superstitious," those fears affected Rachel very deeply after the birth of her first child. She was not allowed to heat water to wash her child or milk to feed her; Abe was kept from Rachel because she was unclean (47-52).⁸ The superstitions played on Rachel's mind, however, and she describes what today we might call post-partum depression. She is convinced by her mother-in-law that devils are trying to steal her daughter, and for the first month and a half Rachel clearly is delusional and obsessive. ⁹ It is only a visit from one of Abe's nieces that restores Rachel's mental health, reassuring her that there are no devils and that God is on her side. It is the company of a woman that left Rachel "cleansed of madness" (56). Her mother-in-law, mired in tradition that does not adapt easily to life on the prairie, is of little help.

Rachel certainly does not question that tradition must be observed at the birth of her first son, despite the cost and the unavailability of resources; her only concern for her two daughters is that they "be properly dressed for the ceremony" (71). In one of Mary Antin's stories, the mother's question, "What are daughters worth? They're only good to sit in the house, a burden on their parents' neck, until they're married off," echoes Antin's own life story, in which her mother submitted to her father despite being his equal is business. In her world that celebrated maleness, the birth of a son was celebrated; boys were sent to school and were served first at the table (Antler 19-20). Sara Smolinsky, in Anzia Yezierska's Bread Givers, clashes with her abusive father, who curses America "where women are let free like men" (205). He reminds her that her sole duty, her "highest happiness," is to breed and multiply, as it is written in the Torah, and that she brings disgrace upon him in her forgetting of that duty. "It says in the Torah" that without a man, a woman has no value, "a blotted-out existence" (206-207).¹⁰ Whether on the prairie or in an urban environment, the patriarchal perspective on both daily life and religious tradition was deeply ingrained in both male and female behavior, influencing every action and relationship.¹¹

Childbirth certainly posed the greatest danger on several levels for all pioneer women, both in the absence of medical help and in the sense of isolation women felt (Stratton 86-88). Seven hours after the birth of her first child, Calof was left totally alone. When her daughter Minnie became ill, the Calofs had to weigh the seventy-five dollar cost of a doctor (over one thousand dollars in today's currency) versus her desire to help her child. She worried that if she had to bury her child, where would she find the requisite white sheet to wrap the body, and how would she protect it from the prairie wolves that dug up bodies following a burial? Not madness, Rachel writes, but "reality of life on the lonely plain" (60-61).¹²

Joanna Stratton writes that the remoteness was particularly difficult to bear during times of crisis (80; 85). Susan Glaspell writes of the effects of this isolation in her one-act play, Trifles, (1916), in which two women, Mrs. Hale and Mrs. Peters, assume some of the responsibility for their neighbor's actions because they had not come to visit her.

MRS. PETERS (something within her speaking: emphasis mine). I know what stillness is. When we homesteaded in Dakota, and my first baby died—after he was two years old, and me with no other then—…I know what stillness is…

MRS. HALE. I might have known she needed help! I know how things can be—for women. I tell you, it's queer, Mrs. Peters. We live close together and we live far apart. We all go through the same things--it's all just a different kind of the same thing. (http://www.vcu.edu/engweb/eng384/trifles.htm).

According to Stratton, although women might have learned to cope with the loneliness, they still sought out companionship whenever possible. Anne Bingham never saw a light from a neighboring home the entire time she lived on the farm (83-84). These stories, whether fictional or factual, give us the female perspective on the life of a pioneer. The fact that Rachel Calof chose to tell her story as though she lived in total isolation reflects the loneliness she felt on the Dakota prairie. This emotion was complicated by the fact that she and her husband never had any time alone and had to find their "privacy" on the open prairie and hold their private conversations in the barn. Rachel yearned for the "dignity of privacy," and, in later years, she resented her husband because of the lack of it and refused to compromise (90).

Still, it may have been the fear of isolation that drove women to form congregations and perform community service. According to Abrams, life in America meant modifying and perhaps modernizing some of the traditions that had been at the center of Jewish life in Europe. Women had full membership in the United Hebrew Benevolent Society in Helena, Montana by 1883 and in the Seattle synagogue by 1889. The "feminization" of American synagogues in the West gave women a place in their traditions that they, rather than the men, continue to uphold, and many of the funds raised for community service and the building of synagogues were raised by women (9; 13; 41-43; 96; 99-101). Calof's home became a gathering place for religious celebrations for "Jewish farmers … both far and near," as she and Abe became successful, prominent, and respected throughout North Dakota (85). The first mention in Calof's story of other families is when she writes of this period of her life in 1910, about fourteen years after they staked their claims.¹³

Clearly, some aspects of female pioneer life were dictated by tradition, and women continued to reinforce the need for continuity.¹⁴ However, those women who were more flexible and adapted those practices for pioneer life were more successful, both physically and emotionally. Because of the centrality of the mother in the transmission of Jewish identity, historian Ellen Umansky contends, it is a distortion of Jewish female reality to tell the story solely through a male lens. As life in America became more demanding for men, who perhaps because of these pressures abandoned Jewish practice, women became more vital in maintaining Jewish ethnicity and spirituality (Abrams 94). Mary Antin's autobiography, though overwhelmingly positive (its title is The Promised Land), recognizes that assimilation and its resulting modifying of Jewish practice are at the same time "hopeful" and "pitiful" (Antler 22-23).¹⁵ Assimilation, for the Jewish immigrant of the late nineteenth century, was the price of admission.

On the page opposite page one of her story, there is a picture of Rachel Calof on the homestead, so tiny against the landscape. Yet she survived and flourished and, fortunately, so does her story. Much of Calof's story parallels the fulfillment of Proverbs 31:10-31. Because she "sets about her work vigorously," she is spiritually and materially rewarded, her husband "is respected at the city gate," evidently another fruit of her labor, and, ultimately, she is praised at the city gate as well. The shift in Jewish practice and culture brought about by the influx of immigrants began a gradual (and most likely unconscious) process of recognition of sexism within the religion that must accompany any movement toward equality. As a Jewish woman, she knew how to adapt and how to observe, unlike her husband's mother, and she attributes her strength to her resiliency. Whether or not Jewish tradition regarded her as equal to her husband, she certainly did, as she "stood shoulder-to-shoulder" with him (90). Her sense of humor undoubtedly helped. Still, it was the love for life that made the difficult journey "well worth it," as she observes at the end of her diary, an optimism that seems to have been of invaluable help for pioneer women in general. "There is no history of Jewish women," Naomi Shepherd begins her book A Price Below Rubies. Stories such as Rachel Calof's begin to fill in those narrative gaps. For Jewish women, moving to America did not mean abandoning tradition or practice but rather modifying it so that life would continue in a new way in the new world.