SOPHIE
At age fourteen, Sophie Kamler crossed the Atlantic alone, from Poland to America. At sixteen she paid for her siblings and mother to follow. At eighteen, a penniless wife, then a mother of three, she defied New York gangsters. At fifty six, a widow, she married again only to be widowed a second time. Matriarch to a sprawling but tightly-held family of descendants, hers is a story of ambition — of love given, withheld, slighted, sustained and disappointed.
This book is a moving tribute to a courageous woman, told here by her granddaughter, Barbara Kamler. Riveting vignettes, photographs and poetic reflections combine to tell an affecting tale of love, pain and determination. It is a story that will resonate with the experience of so many remarkable women, whose rich histories remain untold or defined by stereotype, minimising the complexity and vibrancy of their lives.
PRaise for sophie
Sophie Kamler’s story sweeps up the history of the twentieth century in one life. From pogroms to displacement, from freedom’s devouring ambitions to love that can endure years of suffering—this book of fragments, voices, memories and reflections offers readers gem after gem of wisdom. I found it unputdownable, almost holding my breath all the way through. —Kevin Brophy
Here is a story of our times—of women in our times, of refugees and exiles in our times—elegantly told in intimate pieces through the life of Sophie Kamler, the author’s grandmother. Sophie does what literature is supposed to do: it takes someone else’s story and makes it your own. —Mark Tredinnick
So much of who we are is predicated on the decisions, hardships, and downright luck of our ancestors. Barbara Kamler has written a deeply moving tribute to her grandmother Sophie in a series of vignettes that engage with the complexity and limitations of memoir, leaning into these connections, parallels and palimpsets to create a composite portrait that feels expansive and true. —Magdalena Ball
EXCERPT: SOPHIE FINDS WORK
I couldn’t bear being with my father. Straight away he put me to work in his tailor shop to pull bastings from the men’s coats. It’s illegal; you think he cares? Every day the Inspector came, he hid me in the toilet so he won’t get in trouble. You can imagine how I hated him, such a temper, so mean.
I begged my cousin Sam Kane to take me in. I’ll never forget him as long as I live. He and his wife owned a hat store on Clinton Street. At first his wife was nice, she wanted to teach me. That’s good. But soon enough I could see what she wanted was a servant—to clean and cook and shop for her, to do everything. But I’m not that kind, you know. I begged Sam, ‘Please find me some work. I need something.’ By that time, I was maybe 15. He had a friend on Barnett Street, Mr Cohen, with a shop that made feather boas. ‘Maybe he could teach you,’ he says. So Sam struck a deal with the man. ‘Four weeks my cousin will work for nothing’, Sam says, ‘I guarantee you that. You don’t pay her nothing. But she’s smart. Treat her right, teach her the trade.’
Four weeks I worked very hard. I walked from Bond Street in the Bowery all the way to the river each day and I learned. When four weeks were up, I said, ‘Mr Cohen, from today I’ll do piece work like the other girls—for a wage.’ He screamed, ‘You greenhorn. You’re telling me you want pay? You can work, but I won’t give you a cent. You don’t know the trade yet.’
I knew the trade. Believe me I knew better than the girls he paid. But I didn’t say nothing to him and I didn’t want to complain to Sam. Next day I was at Leibl’s house, my father’s brother. You know I often went back and forth between Sam and Leibl. They knew it was bad with my father and they took me in. Sometimes I stayed by Amy Wagner, my friend from school in London. Her mother was kind to me, she also took me in. If my father came, she’d throw him out. ‘Get out of here, you can’t have that child in your house! Go!’
At Leibl’s I saw an ad in the paper: ‘London Feather Company, Kent Street and Broadway. Experienced ostrich feather sewers wanted’. Nich bin ish nisht geven a sewer. I was never a sewer. What did I know? I only learned to sew six inches for the boas at Cohen’s—but the ostrich feather for the hat needs 36 inches. I thought to myself, I’ll go anyway.
A nice young man at the company asked me, ‘So where did you work before?’ I thought if I gave Cohen’s name, it would be trouble for me. But I remembered swinging in the park on Cambridge Road in London when I was a girl. I went to public school there til the fifth grade, that’s where I learned to speak English.
So I told him, ‘Cambridge Road.’ He frowned and smiled. ‘There’s no factory there for ostrich feathers.’ ‘It’s a little place, quite unknown,’ I said. ‘But we made good stuff.’
He looked me up and down and smiled—oyst gekicht. He sees how I’m dressed—a schlepper, rags for clothes, no coat. I had nothing! My English wasn’t so good, but I remember his words: ‘I like your nerve to tell me in Cambridge Road there’s a factory. I like your nerve. Here’s a feather to make up. If you do it right, I’ll give you a place.’
A nice Irish lady took me to a private office. She took apart all the pieces and said ‘Now begin!’ I started to scrape the feather and she smiled. She knew I didn’t know how. ‘You look like a smart girl,’ she said. ‘I’ll make that feather up for you and you say you did it. Come back tomorrow, mind your business, don’t speak to nobody and ask for me. I’m sure you’ll learn quickly.’
And that’s the feather she showed to the man. Such luck I had that day! Next morning I returned and she taught me—do this, do that, put it together, that’s how. And I did it right. She said, ‘It’s wonderful!’
That first week I made eight dollars. Can you imagine? By me it was $8,000. When my father heard I’m earning money, he wanted to take me home right away. Gonif. But Sam threw him out. ‘Get out of this house before I hit you’, he said. ‘You leave Sophie alone.’ He protected me.
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