My great-grandmother, Rachel, was born in Romania in 1901, the youngest of nine children. Growing up in abject poverty, she faced an uneducated childhood filled with fear. Each day, she donned the same worn dress, and her family survived on simple meals of latkes and broth, often enduring days of hunger. As World War I loomed, they frequently had to hide as soldiers invaded their town.
When the war erupted in the summer of 1914, Rachel’s father attempted to relocate the family but was unsuccessful. However, he managed to secure a single one-way ticket for Rachel on a ship bound for America, costing $11—a staggering sum at that time.
Rachel’s parents decided she should be the one to embark on this journey. Being the youngest, it was believed that she would have the best chance for safety and opportunity while carrying forward the family traditions and beliefs.
They had heard tales of America being a sanctuary, a land of opportunity where Rachel could thrive. Finally, the day came in late 1914 for her departure. At the port, overwhelmed by emotion, she clung to her mother, tears streaming down her face, unable to let go. With no money to send her off with, she set sail with only the clothes she wore—still that same dress.
At just 13 years old, she was a child.
A man named Samuel Cohen approached them at the dock, also traveling to America. He assured Rachel’s parents that he would look after her during the journey and ensure her safe arrival. Comforted by his presence, Rachel hugged her parents one last time and boarded the ship, never to see her family again.
Samuel Cohen became my great-grandfather.
Upon arriving at Ellis Island in New York, they found themselves in a shelter, with no possessions, no acquaintances, and no knowledge of their new country. They quickly found work; Samuel at a printing press and Rachel as a seamstress. They toiled diligently until they saved enough to leave the shelter and secure a home.
They settled in Ridgewood, Queens, a vibrant community for Eastern European immigrants. Today, the neighborhood is still known for its Romanian, Slavic, Polish, and Albanian roots.
With their jobs, they built a new life together and married, dreaming of family. In 1922, Rachel gave birth to their first child, Hannah, followed by another daughter, Lily, in 1924. Their daughters attended school, learning English, which was different from the Aramaic spoken at home.
Then came the Great Depression. By 1930, they struggled to make ends meet, but they never lost faith in America. They felt secure in their identity as Americans.
As the era of Hitler unfolded, Rachel worried for her family back home, praying for their safety at Temple. She longed for them to escape and join her in America, but they never did.
Time passed, and their daughters grew up and married. Hannah remained in Queens, while Lily moved to Brooklyn.
Lily Cohen was my grandmother.
She married my grandfather, Robert Salkind, who worked for the United States Postal Service for 25 years after returning from World War II. In 1946, Lily welcomed a son, David, and in 1947, a daughter, Marlene. They raised their children in Brooklyn, where David would later marry and have two children, living just two blocks from his childhood home. Marlene married and had three children, eventually moving to Queens.
Marlene Salkind is my mother.
Rachel and Samuel remained dedicated to their work in Queens. They may not have achieved great wealth, but they made their mark on America, holding important roles as a seamstress and a printer. They were grateful for the opportunities America provided and held a deep love for their new country.
While my memories of Samuel are few, I vividly recall my great-grandmother. She spoke broken English when she shared her story with me. I remember her giving me a beautiful pink silk dress with a diamond pattern, the same one she wore upon arriving in America. At 12, I cherished it.
When I turned 13, she bought me my first bra, and at 15, she sang to me in Hebrew, a song passed down from her mother. She was a petite woman, and I feared my weight might crush her.
I recall playing in the grassy yard with my brother, cooling off with the garden hose on humid summer days. The moment we stepped inside, the aroma of her homemade latkes enveloped us.
I cried when she passed away in 1989. She worked as a seamstress until her last day, never quite getting ahead.
Two decades later, I would share the story of Rachel and Samuel with my own children. Generations of my family have served our nation in various wars, from World War II to Vietnam and Desert Storm—immigrants fighting for the land they loved.
Today, America is a different place from when Rachel and Samuel first arrived in 1914. Their resilience, tenacity, and patriotism instill a sense of pride in my identity as an American.
As my children approached school age, I started a tradition at the dinner table. I wanted to remain engaged and guide them amidst outside influences. Thus, we began sharing experiences: who we kissed that day, what we ate for lunch, one lesson learned, and one thing we were thankful for. We initiated this practice in 2005 when my daughter was nine and my son was five.
Last night, during dinner, I expressed my gratitude that America hadn’t built a wall in 1914 or enforced an immigration ban because if they had, I wouldn’t be an American—none of us would. Most Americans can trace their roots back to other lands. What would our nation be without that rich tapestry?
After dinner, I ventured to the attic and unearthed a box labeled “The History of Emily.” Surrounded by old photographs of my great-grandparents, I draped Rachel’s dress over my lap. In that moment, I realized I share a common thread with them; I too left my home seeking refuge from chaos, now residing in a small, crime-free town with welcoming neighbors. We are gradually building a life here.
Sitting in the attic, I pondered the future of America. It saddens me to witness the changes, knowing it differs from the America Rachel and Samuel once believed in. I strive to find hope in the America I wish to believe in again.
Summary
This narrative recounts the journey of my great-grandmother, Rachel, who immigrated to America from Romania as a child. It reflects on her struggles and triumphs, the lineage of family members who served in various wars, and the values of resilience and hope that have shaped my identity as an American. Through shared traditions at the dinner table, I aim to instill the same pride and values in my children, while pondering the current state of our nation.