This is a story of Jeremiah, a 10 year old Jewish boy who lived with his parents in rural Western Pennsylvania in 1840. "Jer" as he liked to be called, was a good looking dark haired kid with a ready smile. While he had the normal build of a 10 year old, his working in the fields had gained him significant endurance for hard work. (He had quickly learned that "slacking" would earn him some time with his father's strap in the barn). Jer was a happy kid, and was well loved by his family. The 1840's were not, however, a time of reconciliation, nor of peace on earth and good will to all men. Jer had heard the slurs toward his father, who wore his hair in a conservative Jewish way. Jer's mother would always shush him, and push him along ahead of her as they walked.
Something caused an angry mob to form and come to their farm one warm night. Jer heard a shot, followed by another, and saw through his loft porthole a mob of men in white sheets, who had lit a burning cross in the yard, and were in the process of burning down the barn, and were even now walking toward the house. He heard their leader saying that they should just burn the little Jew, as he threw a lighted torch onto the front porch of the little cabin. Jer quickly climbed down the ladder, and, coughing with the smoke, flung open the door to their storm cellar, and climbed down into the dark, damp room, as the sound of burning followed by the sound of falling timbers filled the place. In sheer terror, Jer huddled in the corner, clad only in his nightshirt, shivering with fear and cold. Long hours later, he touched the heavy oak roof of the cellar, and pushed with all of his might to open it. It was wedged shut, and nothing he could do would move it. He cried out, and yelled, but there was noone with 20 miles to hear his lonesome voice. Searching, he found a shovel and a pickaxe. He worked to make an opening next to the heavy door, realizing that his breath was becoming labored, but not knowing that it was caused by a lack of oxygen. It seemed like hours later when a piece of dirt fell, and daylight shone through a small opening he had created. Working with a determination which would belie his 10 years, he frantically worked his way from the cellar, and was able to make it up to what was left of the only home he could remember. Everything was destroyed. He could not find an article of clothing, nor a speck of food. Nor, could he find his parent's bodies, only two blood soaked areas of dirt which had hastily been brushed over. He sat on the ground and cried and cried. Finally, he went to the still standing well, and drank the cool water. He then poured a bucked over his head, and started down the long lane, not knowing where he was going.
As he walked along the dusty trail, he remembered his father speaking of his brother, Abraham, Jer's uncle, who had moved West to California. Not knowing where else to go, Jer faced West, and began his long journey.