My great-grandmother, Rebecca, was born in Romania in 1901, the youngest of nine siblings. She grew up in dire poverty, uneducated and frightened. Each day, she wore the same tattered dress, and her family survived on simple meals of latkes and broth, often going days without food. As the First World War loomed, they were forced to hide as soldiers ravaged their town.
When the conflict erupted in the summer of 1914, Rebecca’s father desperately sought a way to escape, but only managed to secure a single one-way ticket to America for her. The ticket cost $11, a staggering sum for a family in their situation.
Her parents decided that she should be the one to make the journey. Being the youngest, they believed she had the best chance of safety, with the hope that she would carry on their traditions and beliefs. They spoke of America as a sanctuary, a land of opportunity where she could build a better life.
The departure day arrived in late 1914. The family traveled to the port, and Rebecca was overwhelmed with grief. In a fit of tears, she clung to her mother, unwilling to let go. They had no money to send her off with; she would embark on her new life wearing nothing but that same old dress.
At just 13 years old, she was still a child.
A man named Jacob Rosen approached them on the dock. He, too, was traveling to America and promised Rebecca’s parents that he would look after her during the voyage. Feeling reassured, Rebecca hugged her parents goodbye and boarded the ship with Jacob. Tragically, she would never see her family again.
Jacob Rosen became my great-grandfather.
Upon arrival at Ellis Island in New York, they found themselves in a shelter with nothing and no one to turn to. They secured jobs; Jacob worked in a printing shop, while Rebecca became a seamstress. They toiled tirelessly until they saved enough to move into their own home, leaving the shelter behind.
They settled in Ridgewood, Queens, a neighborhood known for its Eastern European immigrant community, with a demographic mix that still includes Romanian, Slavic, Polish, and Albanian residents today.
As they worked in their respective jobs, they built a life together and eventually married. Living the American dream, they welcomed their first daughter, Lila, in 1922, followed by a second daughter, Clara, in 1924. The girls attended school, where they learned English, a language foreign to their parents, who spoke Aramaic, a Hebrew dialect.
However, the Great Depression struck soon after. By 1930, they struggled to make ends meet but never lost hope in America. They believed they would somehow provide for their family and felt secure as Americans.
Then came the rise of Hitler. Rebecca was terrified for her family back in Romania and prayed fervently for their safety and escape to America. Unfortunately, her prayers went unanswered.
As the years passed, Lila and Clara grew up, both marrying and starting families of their own. Lila stayed in Queens, while Clara moved to Brooklyn.
Clara Rosen was my grandmother. She wed my grandfather, Samuel Goldstein. Clara was a homemaker, and Samuel dedicated 25 years to the United States Postal Service after his return from World War II. In 1946, Clara welcomed a son, Daniel, and a daughter, Ruth, in 1947. They raised their children in Brooklyn, where Daniel eventually married and had two children, living just two blocks from his childhood home. Ruth married and had three children, moving to Queens.
Ruth Goldstein is my mother.
Rebecca and Jacob remained in Queens, committed to their jobs. They never achieved wealth—in fact, they lived quite modestly—but they contributed to America in their own ways, through their hard work as a seamstress and a printer. They cherished their new country and held deep love for it.
Though I was too young to remember my great-grandfather, I have vivid memories of my great-grandmother. She spoke broken English and often shared her story with me. I distinctly recall the day she gifted me a silk pink dress with a diamond pattern, the same dress she wore when she immigrated. I was 12 years old then.
When I turned 13, she bought me my first bra, and at 15, she sat me on her lap, singing a Hebrew song her mother had sung to her. She was so small that I feared I might crush her.
I remember playing with my brother outside her front door, spraying the garden hose on a hot summer day. The scent of her homemade latkes wafted through the house as we dried off.
When she passed away in 1989, I was inconsolable. She had worked as a seamstress until her very last days.
Two decades later, I found myself sharing the story of Rebecca and Jacob with my own children. Generations of my family have served this great nation, fighting in wars such as World War II, Vietnam, and Desert Storm. We are a bloodline of immigrants who have fought valiantly for America.
Today, America is a different place than the one my great-grandparents entered in 1914. Their bravery, resilience, and dedication to this nation instill a profound sense of pride in my identity as an American.
When my children started school, I initiated a dinner table tradition to keep our communication open, guiding them through the influences of the outside world. Each night, we share who we kissed, what we ate for lunch, one lesson we learned, and what we are grateful for. We began this tradition in 2005 when my daughter was 9 and my son was 5.
Last night, during our dinner ritual, I expressed my gratitude that America hadn’t built a wall in 1914 or imposed an immigration ban; otherwise, I wouldn’t be an American, and neither would my children.
Most Americans can trace their ancestry back to other lands. What would this nation be without such rich diversity?
After dinner, I ventured into the attic and unearthed a box labeled “The History of Emilia.” As I sifted through old photographs of my great-grandparents, I draped Rebecca’s dress across my lap. It struck me how similar our journeys were; I, too, had left a chaotic city behind in search of a peaceful life. Now, I reside in a small town with a zero crime rate, where my neighbors warmly welcomed us—a family from an unknown place, slowly piecing together a new life.
Sitting in the attic, I pondered, what will become of America? It pains me to realize that it no longer aligns with the vision Sarah and Jacob had. Now, it is the America I must strive to believe in again.
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Summary:
This personal narrative recounts the journey of my great-grandmother, Rebecca, who immigrated from Romania to America at the age of 13. Through her story of struggle, resilience, and eventual success, we see how her legacy shaped generations that followed. The article highlights the importance of family traditions and the immigrant experience while reflecting on the changing landscape of America today.