Our family had wanted to go to Israel, but we had been advised that the fighting there might prove too stressful, given all we had suffered. Consequently, we applied for entry to every other country we could. In 1948, Uncle Norman and Uncle Henry received visas to go to the United States. I remember being in our bungalow at the DP camp in Cremona, watching my uncles gather up their possessions. For the journey, my father had taken them shopping for the good suits, coats, and hats they now were wearing.
“Why are they leaving without us?” I asked my father.
“It’s better this way. They’ll get to America and look over the land for us,” he answered. All I could think about was how I wouldn’t see them again for a long time. I knew I would miss them, especially Uncle Norman.
“I’ll see you soon in America,” he said when it came time for our good-byes.
“I’ll miss you,” I said quietly, with tears in my eyes.
“God willing, we’ll be together before you know it,” he said. He set his cardboard suitcase down and gave me a big hug.
Uncle Max, Aunt Sonia, and their young son, Leonardo, received their American visas nine months later, in July 1949. They were sponsored by a cousin of my father’s who had left Poland before the war. Then, in October of that year, our visas arrived, too.
“We got the visas! We’re going to America!” my father walked into our room and exclaimed. One of his uncles in New York, Grandma Paya Neshe’s brother, had agreed to sponsor us.
“Oh, my God. When are we leaving?” Clara asked.
“When are we leaving? Early November.”
“But that’s in two weeks!”
“Yes. We have a lot to prepare.”
I wanted to share in their joy, but I don’t remember feeling any. I had come to love the sounds, smells, and feel of Italy over the past four years. America was another unknown.
“We have to pass a medical examination tomorrow,” my father mentioned right away. He and Clara exchanged glances. I knew they were concerned about me.
“Maybe the doctors could be paid under the table. I still have a few gold coins,” my father said.
The following day we all went to the doctor. The middle-aged man listened to my heart and lungs. I was shaking with fear that I would be left behind. But to our great relief, the doctor brushed his hands together and declared, “Everything is clear.”
Two weeks later, we were boarding a huge cargo ship in Naples, en route to the golden land where opportunities abounded. Passengers were strewn all over the ship. There were no staterooms, just makeshift dividers. We shared one area with several other families. From the moment we embarked, I was seasick. I stayed rolled up in a fetal position on my cot for days.
Even as I lay still as possible, I found myself captivated by one couple. They had two young children and appeared too healthy and intact to be Holocaust survivors. The man was dark and handsome, and the woman gorgeous and fashionable. Unlike most of the passengers, she spoke Polish, not Yiddish. Maybe only he was Jewish. She had silvery blond hair and wore sophisticated makeup, jewelry, and high heels. I don’t know how she did it. It’s not as if there were hairdressers or separate quarters. Seasick as I was, I felt uplifted when I stared at this woman. I realized how nice she looked being thin, and I felt better about my own figure. I vowed that when I grew up I was not going to stay with the lowest of the low and be sick. I was going to make the most of my brains and my looks and stand out—assuming I could just survive this excruciating journey.
When the ship finally arrived in New York Harbor after two weeks at sea, all I could think of was, How do I let go of this cot? As we disembarked, following the crowds down a ramp off the ship like sheep in a herd, I was careful not to lose sight of my father. Strangers were all around me, excitedly kissing the ground or being greeted by relatives. Finally my father spotted his brothers. Uncle Norman and Uncle Henry were standing behind a roped-off area in the midst of a crowd, jumping up and down and waving as they tried to make themselves visible to us.
“There they are!” he pointed excitedly. “Norman, Henry!”
It was so thrilling to see their familiar faces as we ran toward them with open arms. Soon we were reunited, hugging, kissing, and crying. As my uncles helped us navigate our way through immigration, I could not wait to see the bright new world I had heard about.
“Where is the beauty, and the gold in the streets?” I asked my father. Everything looked run-down and depressing as we exited the subway station in Brooklyn.
“Be patient,” he counseled.
We arrived at an apartment building where Uncle Max and Aunt Sonia greeted us at their front door. My cousins Sally, Miriam, and Lola came running down the building staircase. Everyone hugged and kissed. I had pictured my three cousins just as they had been when we parted company in Austria, but of course, four years had elapsed, and they looked more grown up.
“You’re finally here!” Miriam said in Yiddish. She was now fourteen. Then Sally said something to her. I was surprised they spoke to each other in English. “I just meant that we were worried you would never get here,” Miriam said.
I realized that I now felt shy around my cousins. I just smiled, hoping my sister would speak for us. But she just smiled, too.
“Wait until you meet the kids in America,” Lola said. She had always been very small, but now she was taller than me.
“Come inside. I want to show you around,” Aunt Sonia said.
We stepped inside. Aunt Sonia was already explaining that she, Uncle Max, and their young son, Leonardo, who now was called Lenny, lived in the apartment. My father’s sister, Tsivia, lived one flight up, with Uncle Libish and my cousins. We walked through a small kitchen, past a tiny washroom, and into a dining room that faced a brick building. There was a small room with one bed off the kitchen where we would all sleep. By the time we got to the master bedroom, my cousins wanted our attention.
“Come upstairs and see where we live,” Cousin Sally urged. My sister and I followed our cousins. Their apartment had more bedrooms and furniture. I wondered why we were not staying up there.
“Look at my bedroom,” Cousin Lola said. We followed her into the small room with a linoleum floor that she shared with Miriam. It was nice.
“Do you want to dance?” Sally asked. She was already in high school.
“Okay,” my sister said.
We went into their living room, where they had a portable Victrola turntable and a stack of record albums.
“Do you want to hear Perry Como or Frank Sinatra?” Miriam asked.
We had never heard these names. It seemed odd. After so many years apart, we were almost strangers. When we were younger, it seemed we had all spoken at the same time, the words almost on top of each other. Now one of them spoke at a time, more politely.
“You’ll like school,” Lola said. I listened carefully, since we were the same age. But then she went on to talk about things I did not understand. “Some kids were making out last week in the middle of the school. One boy even said something sexy to me.”
“Really?” I said, trying to keep up. But I didn’t know anything about boys.
I was encouraged by how quickly my cousins had adapted, and at the same time, I was in awe of them. They viewed themselves as already being Americanized. We were the “greenhorns.”
Over dinner, I heard how difficult it was to make ends meet in America. In Europe after the war, food and lodging, however modest, had been provided by relief organizations. In America, it had come as a shock to my relatives once again to rely entirely upon themselves. Uncle Max, who had always been social, had found work in a retail clothing store for Yiddish-speaking customers. Aunt Sonia continued to sew. Feisty Aunt Tsivia also found work sewing. Uncle Libish worked in a factory that made fur trim for accessories like hats and shoes. Uncle Norman and Uncle Henry lived nearby and came to dinner that evening, too. Henry was working in a factory, as a presser. He was a hard worker and talented with his hands, but still not too talkative, so the job was a good fit.
Uncle Norman, the youngest, seemed to have adapted the best. He worked near the pier in a general store that catered to immigrants when they first arrived. His ability to speak Italian served him well, as there were also a lot of non-Jews coming over from Italy. My father’s other brother, Benny, had moved with his wife, Dora, to Chicago. Everyone missed Uncle Benny, but they understood why he had not wanted to pass up the opportunity to work in the grocery store of Aunt Dora’s uncle.
“Every morning we get up early and go to work,” Uncle Libish said. “Don’t let anyone tell you that it’s easy to become a success here. I promise you it’s not.”
“I won’t,” my father said. He used to always have a comeback to his brother-in-law’s comments. Now he seemed at a loss, while Uncle Libish looked so confident.
All my aunts and uncles appeared to have adapted. There was a palpable distance between our family and the others that had not existed in Europe.
I kept hearing my uncles say, “It’s very hard here” and “You have to work very hard.” I didn’t hear any hope extended, which made my blood boil.
“How do you get started?” my father asked as he cut his chicken into pieces.
“You have to start at the beginning,” one of my uncles said.
“It’s not like you just arrive and own Macy’s department store, you know what I mean?” Aunt Sonia told Clara.
“Of course,” Clara said, but she didn’t look happy.
For dessert, Aunt Sonia served a delicious gooey white cake with chocolate frosting and sprinkles. It was the first store-bought cake I had ever eaten. I talked mostly to my cousins, but I still overheard snippets of the adult conversation. Passing references were made to the old way of life and to my grandfather Aharon, who was sorely missed. I hoped that the conversation would lead somebody to mention my mother. I still was repressing terrible feelings that drained much of my energy, and I fantasized that my mother was my guardian angel, keeping me alive. But nobody said anything about her.
The following morning, my aunts and uncles went to work, and my father and Clara left for a while, too. My cousins were excited to have the house to ourselves. They took out bread and butter, which we ate as we talked.
“Are you excited about Thanksgiving?” my cousin Lola asked.
“What’s Thanksgiving?”
“You don’t know about Thanksgiving? It’s a holiday on a Thursday, and we eat turkey,” Miriam said.
“Do you like turkey and pumpkin pie?” Lola asked.
My sister and I stared blankly. We had never had either one.
“Help me clean up the kitchen and I’ll tell you everything you will want to know about the holiday,” Sally said.
That week, we celebrated our first Thanksgiving in Brooklyn. I wasn’t hungry, but I watched everyone else enjoying the festive meal. My father seemed happy to be reunited with his sister and brothers. Later that evening, however, Clara expressed doubts.
“They treat us like we’re second- or third-class citizens,” she whispered to my father, back in our tiny room, after the others had gone to sleep.
This was a shock to me, because it seemed that so recently we were a highly respected, special family.
“Maybe they’re afraid we will ask favors of them,” my father said.
Up until then I had been certain that people who survived together would remain close. Now I wasn’t so sure. In Europe my uncles had been dependent on my father, and now, it seemed, when we were desperate, no one was offering us assistance.
After a week or so in Brooklyn, we went to stay in the Bronx with Clara’s kind, plump old aunt Yetta and her thin husband, whose name I no longer remember. They had come to America as teenagers, and while their apartment was small and simple, to me it was a palace.
“Look, Sara. We’re so high up!” I told my sister, as we stared out the window, watching rain fall onto the pavement.
“We’ve never been in a building this tall!” she said.
Aunt Yetta prepared huge breakfasts with bagels, smoked fish, cheeses, and many desserts. I still wasn’t hungry, but after I heard Clara gossip to her about how unruly and sickly I was, I felt I had to be on my best behavior.
When Aunt Yetta’s two sisters came by to visit, dressed stylishly in fur coats and jewelry, the elderly women sipped tea and complained about their grown children.
“They’re too Americanized,” one of them said.
“Who can get along with them when they think they know everything?”
“It’s another world here,” the eldest of the three sisters lamented. She wore a black shearling coat and old-lady lace-up boots. We called her Tante Sura. “You’ll see,” she said to Clara. “American children are different.”
Tante Sura took Sara and me shopping one day. “To prepare for school, you should speak English as much as possible,” she advised us on the subway ride.
“Okay.” I was shy, and mostly responded “Yes” or “No.” I also assumed that since she was Clara’s relative, she was negatively predisposed to me. From the subway station, we had to cross the street to get to the store. The stoplights changed so quickly it was frightening, and the store itself was overwhelming.
“I can’t believe there are so many clothes in one place,” I said. This may have been my first time in a retail clothing establishment.
“I hope we don’t get lost,” my sister said.
“Just stay close to me, girls,” Tante Sura said, guiding us over to the escalator. I held on tightly as we stepped onto the moving stairs.
We walked by the racks of clothes, making our way to the preteen department in the basement. Everything seemed so big, and I felt so minuscule.
Tante Sura bought us underwear, blouses, and shoes. “Now, let’s find each of you a pretty dress,” she said, making a beeline for the dresses. “How about this one, Ruchel?” She held up a blue taffeta dress with a Peter Pan collar and a red ribbon with clip-on cherries in front. “Do you like this?”
“It’s gorgeous,” I exclaimed.
“Try it on,” Tante Sura said, pointing to a fitting room. I loved dressing up. When I came out, my aunt smiled. “That looks so cute. Should we get it?”
I was excited to be buying American clothes of my very own.
One afternoon, my sister and I were sitting in Aunt Yetta’s den, talking to some visiting relatives, when a man and woman I didn’t know walked in. The woman looked like a princess, with sparkly brown eyes, long lashes, dark, curly hair, and fuchsia lipstick. She was dressed in an elegant outfit, beautiful shoes, and a fur coat. She walked right over, smiled a big, toothy grin, and spoke to us in Yiddish.
“Hi. I’m your cousin Margaret. Welcome to America,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said. Despite her Hungarian accent, I loved her throaty voice. And her interest in us made me feel important. We explained that we had not yet been to school because we had to find an apartment first. She assured us that we would love school once we got settled.
There was a vague sadness about Margaret. Later, I heard that she had been in the concentration camps but managed to come directly to America afterward. I’m not sure whether her husband had rescued her or they met after the war, but he was reputed to be wonderful to her. Apparently Margaret suffered from depression and was going for psychiatric help. Maybe that was why I identified with her so immediately.
“You’ll come to love your new homeland,” Margaret said, before she left.
“Thank you,” I replied, dutifully. But loving America seemed doubtful. I had no friends and no home. At twelve, I was not only an immigrant but a girl without a mother. I felt like a third wheel everywhere I went. Under these circumstances, I was not sure I could find happiness in any homeland on earth.