My great-grandmother, Miriam, was born in Romania in 1901 as the youngest of ten siblings. She grew up in dire poverty, lacking education and living in fear. Each day, she wore the same dress, and her family often survived on little more than latkes and broth, sometimes facing hunger. As World War I loomed, they were frequently forced into hiding as soldiers invaded their town.
When the war erupted in the summer of 1914, her father desperately sought a way to escape. Eventually, he managed to secure a one-way ticket to America for Miriam, costing $11—a staggering sum for that time. Her parents decided she would embark on the journey, believing that as the youngest, she would be safer and could carry on their family traditions and faith.
They had heard tales of America being a refuge, a land of opportunity where Miriam could thrive. As the day of her departure arrived in late 1914, the heart-wrenching moment came. At the port, she clung to her mother, unable to let go, tears streaming down her face. With no money to spare, she would leave everything behind, taking only the clothes on her back—the very same dress she wore daily.
At just 13 years old, she was still a child. A man named Jacob Levinson approached them on the dock, also heading to America. He assured Miriam’s parents that he would look after her during the voyage, which comforted her. After a tearful farewell, Miriam and Jacob boarded the ship, never to see her family again.
Jacob Levinson became my great-grandfather. Upon arriving at Ellis Island in New York, they found themselves in a shelter, alone in a new country with no connections. They quickly secured jobs—Jacob at a printing press and Miriam as a seamstress. They toiled tirelessly until they saved enough to secure their own home, settling in Ridgewood, Queens, an area populated by Eastern European immigrants.
They maintained their jobs while building a new life together, getting married and starting a family. In 1922, Miriam gave birth to their first daughter, Rachel, followed by a second daughter, Sarah, in 1924. The girls attended school, learning English, a language vastly different from the Aramaic spoken in their home.
Then came the Great Depression. By the late 1920s, they struggled to make ends meet but never lost faith in America. They felt secure and proud to be Americans. However, as Hitler rose to power, Miriam worried for her family back home and prayed for their safety, hoping they could escape and join her. Unfortunately, they never made it.
Years passed, and their daughters grew up and married. Rachel stayed in Queens, while Sarah moved to Brooklyn. Sarah Levinson was my grandmother. She married Samuel Goldstein, who served in the United States Postal Service for 25 years after returning from World War II. In 1946, Sarah gave birth to a son, Daniel, and in 1948, a daughter, Amy. They raised their children in Brooklyn, where Daniel would later marry and have two children, while Amy had three children and eventually moved to Queens.
Sarah Goldstein was my mother. Miriam and Jacob continued to work hard in Queens, never achieving wealth but contributing in meaningful ways through their labor. They were grateful for America and held deep affection for their adopted country.
Although I never met my great-grandfather, I have many cherished memories of my great-grandmother. She spoke broken English, and I vividly recall the day she gifted me a silk, pink dress with a diamond-patterned design—the same dress she wore when she arrived in America. When I turned 13, she bought me my first bra, and at 15, she sang to me in Hebrew, a song her mother once sang to her. I was always cautious around her, fearing that my weight might overwhelm her tiny frame.
I remember playing outside her house, splashing water from the garden hose on a hot summer day, only to be drawn inside by the familiar scent of her homemade latkes. When she passed away in 1989, I cried deeply. She worked as a seamstress until her final days.
Two decades later, I would share Miriam and Jacob’s story with my own children. Generations of my family have served this nation, fighting in various wars—World War II, Vietnam, and Desert Storm—embodying the immigrant spirit that shaped America.
Today, America is different from the one Miriam and Jacob arrived in. Their courage and patriotism fill me with pride, and I want my children to understand this legacy. Around our dinner table, we’ve established a tradition of sharing our daily experiences—who we kissed, what we learned, and what we are grateful for. This began in 2005 when my daughter was 9 and my son was just 5.
Last night, as I reflected during our dinner, I expressed my gratitude that America had not built walls in 1914 or implemented immigration bans. If they had, I wouldn’t be here today—none of us would. Most Americans share similar roots; our nation is a tapestry of diverse backgrounds.
After dinner, I uncovered a box labeled “The History of Clara” in the attic, reminiscing over old photographs of my great-grandparents. I draped Miriam’s dress over my lap, feeling a connection to her journey. Like her, I sought refuge from chaos and now live in a quiet town where my neighbors welcome us warmly. We are slowly creating a life here.
Sitting in the attic, I pondered the future of America. It pains me to see it diverge from the vision that Miriam and Jacob once cherished. I hope to find a renewed faith in the America I wish to believe in again.
Summary: This narrative recounts the journey of my great-grandmother, Miriam, from Romania to America. It highlights her struggles, perseverance, and sacrifices, ultimately shaping my family’s American identity. Through generations of service and love for our adopted homeland, I reflect on the importance of preserving these stories and values in a changing America.