By: Clara Thompson
Date: December 10, 2017
My great-grandmother, Miriam, was born in Romania in 1901, the youngest of nine siblings. She grew up in dire poverty, lacking education and living in constant fear. Each day, she wore the same dress, and her family’s meals consisted primarily of latkes and broth. Often, they faced hunger. As World War I loomed, they were forced into hiding as soldiers invaded their town.
When the war erupted in the summer of 1914, her father tried desperately to find a way to escape, but only managed to secure a one-way ticket to America for Miriam, costing $11—an immense sum at the time. Her parents decided she should be the one to go, believing that as the youngest, she might have the best chance at safety while also carrying forward their heritage and beliefs.
They had heard tales of America as a refuge, a land of opportunity where Miriam could thrive. The day came when she had to leave her family behind. As they reached the port, the weight of the moment consumed her. Overcome with emotion, she clung to her mother, unable to let go. With no money to send her off with, she boarded the ship wearing the same dress she had on that day. At just 13 years old, Miriam was still a child.
On the dock, a man named Jacob Levin approached them. He was also bound for America and assured Miriam’s parents that he would look after her during the journey. Comforted by his presence, she bid her parents farewell and boarded the ship with Jacob. Tragically, she would never see or hear from her family again.
Jacob Levin became my great-grandfather.
Upon arriving at Ellis Island in New York, they found shelter, having nothing and knowing no one in this new land. Both secured jobs—Jacob at a printing press and Miriam as a seamstress. They worked tirelessly, eventually saving enough to move out of the shelter and into a small home in Ridgewood, Queens, a neighborhood that welcomed many Eastern European immigrants, including Romanians, Slavs, Poles, and Albanians.
They held onto their jobs to support themselves as they built their lives together. Soon, they married and started a family, embodying the American dream. By 1922, Miriam had given birth to their first daughter, Sarah, followed by another daughter, Rachel, in 1924. Their daughters attended school and learned English, a language distinct from the Aramaic dialect that Miriam and Jacob spoke.
However, the Great Depression hit. By 1930, they struggled to make ends meet but never lost faith in America. They believed they could endure and provide for their family, feeling secure as Americans.
As the Nazi regime rose, Miriam feared for her family back home, praying for their safety and hoping they might find their way to America. Sadly, they never did.
As the years passed, Sarah and Rachel grew up and married—Sarah staying in Queens, while Rachel moved to Brooklyn. Rachel Levin became my grandmother. She married my grandfather, Samuel Cohen, who worked for the United States Postal Service after his service in World War II. In 1946, they welcomed a son, Daniel, and a daughter, Lila, in 1947. They raised their children in Brooklyn, where Daniel married and had two children, living just two blocks from where he grew up. Lila married and moved to Queens.
Lila Cohen is my mother.
Miriam and Jacob remained in Queens, committed to their jobs. They were never wealthy and didn’t achieve great notoriety, but they contributed to America in their own way, performing necessary work as a seamstress and in a printing press. They were grateful for the opportunities America provided and held a deep love for their new country.
Though I never met my great-grandfather, I have vivid memories of my great-grandmother. She spoke broken English when she shared her story with me. I recall vividly the day she gifted me a pink silk dress adorned with diamond patterns—it was 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 passed down from her mother. I remember feeling that I might crush her tiny frame when I hugged her.
As children, my brother and I played outside her house, cooling off with a garden hose on hot summer days. Upon entering, the familiar aroma of her homemade latkes filled the air. I wept when she passed away in 1989. She had worked as a seamstress until her final days.
Two decades later, I began sharing Miriam and Jacob’s story with my children. Generations of my family have served this great nation, participating in wars from World War II to Vietnam and beyond. Our immigrant lineage has always fought for America.
Today, America differs greatly from the one Miriam and Jacob arrived in during 1914. Their bravery, determination, and patriotism fill me with pride in my identity as an American.
Once my children reached school age, I initiated a tradition at the dinner table to foster open communication. Each night, we share who we kissed, what we ate for lunch, one thing we learned, and something we are grateful for. This tradition began in 2005 when my daughter was 9 and my son was 5.
Last night at dinner, I expressed my gratitude: “I’m thankful America didn’t build walls in 1914 or impose immigration bans, because if they had, I wouldn’t be an American. None of us would.” I believe that most Americans have roots in other countries—what would America be without this rich tapestry?
After dinner, I ventured into the attic and opened a box labeled “The History of Clara.” As I sifted through old photographs of my great-grandparents, I draped Miriam’s dress across my lap. I realized that I, too, had left my home in search of refuge from urban chaos, just as they had fled Romania. Now, I reside in a small town with a low crime rate, where my neighbors warmly welcomed us—a family seeking a fresh start.
I pondered the future of America. It saddens me to see that it no longer resembles the nation of hope that Miriam and Jacob once believed in. I aspire to find within myself the faith to believe in it once more.
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Summary:
This narrative chronicles the journey of Miriam, a young Romanian immigrant, who arrived in America during World War I. Through hardship and resilience, she and her husband, Jacob, built a family and contributed to their new country despite facing challenges like the Great Depression and global conflicts. The author reflects on her family’s legacy and the importance of maintaining open communication with future generations.