My father and I left the SS Washington, the ship we traveled on from Le Havre, France, to New York City to start our new life in the New World. We said goodbye to Lady Liberty and proceeded off the ship. It was the first day of Passover, 1948.
Four cousins were waiting to greet us—two were from my mother’s sister’s family, and two were my father’s nieces. My mother’s family was ultra-Orthodox. They, of course, did not travel by train on the holiday. My father’s family, which was not so religious, came by train to meet us at Pier 21. We all talked for a while, and then my father’s nieces said, “We will see you soon,” and left—again by train.
My cousins, my father, and I started walking from Pier 2 on the West Side of Manhattan to Williamsburg, Brooklyn. We walked through lower Manhattan streets on the West Side, then to the Lower East Side and past all the shops on Delancey Street, many of which were closed because of the holiday. We entered the walkway of the Williamsburg Bridge, crossing the East River to Brooklyn. The river was wide with large ships in it, and not very far away, we saw the Empire State Building. The city looked amazing with its tall buildings as well as the smaller ones.
My father and I walked as if in a dream as my cousins asked us questions about what we thought of the city and being on these streets. We walked at a fairly quick pace since we were not carrying our luggage. It was Passover and Shabbat, so we were not allowed to carry anything.
We quickly arrived at 555 Bedford Avenue in Brooklyn, where my aunt and uncle’s apartment was on the second floor. I don’t remember the moment when we entered the apartment, but within a few minutes or a few hours, I found myself feeling totally a part of the family. We were eating and talking freely and openly. We didn’t talk about what we had been through, but we talked about my mother—what a great, smart, and good person she was.
Many of my cousins who lived in Williamsburg came over, wanting to meet us, and then they stayed for the seder. We had met these cousins years earlier in Mukačevo when they came to our house to say goodbye, before they departed for the United States. I was two and a half years old then. They told me stories about my sister and myself. Since my brother was only six months old when my cousins visited us in Mukačevo, they had little to share about him other than that he was adorable. I agreed. They told me about the game “I am going to America,” which was played both in Mukačevo and in the United States, but with different names. It was played on the sidewalk using chalk. We made fun of each other about how we played, laughing and crying, which helped us bond easily.
The seder was the most beautiful to me. We sang and talked more than I ever remembered doing before. I remember crying bitterly, each time I thought I was hiding my tears. It was also my 18th birthday.
Throughout the rest of the week, which was a holiday week, we were taken to visit the cousins who lived farther away in Brooklyn. We were received warmly and lovingly and were told stories about my mother and also about my grandparents whom we had never met. I don't remember ever being asked about my experiences, not even about my sickness and hospital stay after the war. I was told that I should not speak Hungarian, Yiddish, or German to anyone and that I had to start reading easy books and newspapers in English. Everyone except my aunt and uncle spoke to us only in English and then translated the words that we did not understand. My family was wonderful. I thought so then and still think so now. I love them all dearly—those who are no longer alive and those who are still living.
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