Russian narrative

I've been somewhat absorbed lately with this identity film project that I'm working on for class. It's all about my russian heritage and my connection/disconnect to it. I wrote a narrative from the perspective of my great-grandmother from what I've heard about her life that I'm going to have as a voiceover. I think it's a pretty cool story. What do you think?

I was only sixteen when I came to America. I can still remember standing in that long line on the dreariest day ever. It was only early morning, but the heavy rain made everything look gray and later than it really was. After a few hours of standing in that line, all the people began to look gray and expressionless as well. But we stood there just the same, waiting our turn and hoping that we wouldn't be the next person to be turned away. Away from our hopes and dreams. This was the day we were to leave Russia for good and start our new life in America.

Not all of us would be boarding the big ship. The Russian soldiers who strolled up and down the long line saw to that. Their job was to weed out the weak ones; the ones not fit to go.

I began to cry and started to miss my mother and father already. Would I ever see them and all my brothers and sisters again? But I was the oldest and so it was up to me to make a new start in a strange new land. I can remember crying more loudly and the woman standing behind me poking me.

"Stop that silly crying girl! Do you want them to draw a big white "X" on the back on your coat? Show them that you're strong!" She pulled a small white apron out of her over stuffed purse and gave it to me to wipe away my tears. The soldiers came and marked a big white "X" on the woman’s back, then promptly led her away. I never saw her again, but still had the white apron she so kindly gave me. I often thought of her and the kindness and advice she gave me.

The sight of Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty was bigger than I could have imagined, and the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I can still remember coming off the ship and the first moment I stepped on American soil. Oh, to be free at last! Who of us knew what would happen to us next?

After all the paperwork was finalized, I found myself being whisked off with a group of strangers. We were to share a very small apartment together. Those were the loneliest days of my life.

I soon found a job as a waitress in a busy restaurant on Hauser St. in N.Y.C. I wore that white apron given to me by the kind woman. Before long, I started to recognize some of the people. They had become like family to me. The usual supper crowd would filter in, most for a taste of old Russia. Some blini, kishka, or perhaps a bowl of borsch. There was one particular man who would come every day and order his usual bowl of borsch. He always had a twinkle in his eye; his large unkempt handle bar mustache covering the half hidden smile. There was mischief in this one. He wouldn't have anyone else take his order except for me. Maybe it was because I was the only one who could understand him? He only spoke in Russian. Oh sure, he knew how to speak English, and was fluent in several other languages as well. I later found out that he didn't want to let on that he could speak a variety of languages so that he could always sit at the tables I waited on.
I would take his order, and as I turned to place his request to the cook, he would reach over and pull my apron string, unraveling my white apron. I would watch it drop in slow motion gracefully to the floor. Then he would get up from his table, walk over to the apron, pick it up and hand it back to me. He never said very much, but repeated the same routine over and over every day.

One day, he pulled my apron string and it fell to the floor as usual. And as always, he got up from his table and walked over to the apron. But this time, it was different. He picked it up and walked over to me, but he knelt down on one knee and took my hand. He looked up at me with tears in his eyes. "Will you marry me Julie and be my wife?" There was total silence in the noisy, over crowded restaurant as the patrons waited for my answer. I said "yes." I figured he would bother me forever pulling at my apron strings until I said yes, and so I did.

Suddenly the whole place turned into a big party. Most of the patrons were Russian, one was even a famous ballet dancer. She danced in celebration for us. Accordions and balalaikas appeared from nowhere and we danced all night long.
We were married a few weeks later. He was a good man; a hardworking man and our love grew day by day. He built us a house with his own hands in N.J. and it still stands there today, with echoes of happiness. And so my Sarah, my great grand daughter, I pass my white apron on to you. May it always remind you of the kind spirit that it was given to me and may you wear it in good health. And who knows, perhaps one day they'll be a man with a twinkle in his eye and mischief in his blood for you.