Hannah & Henry circa 1915

My Grandpa Henry

In the early 20th century there was an influx of East European Jews coming to the States seeking refuge from troubled times at home.   Among them was my maternal grandfather Henry who came with his widowed mother Gertrude,   his younger brother David,  and Gertrude’s elderly and blind widowed father.   They came from the town of Obertyn,  then part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire,  now part of Ukraine.

Gertrude’s late husband had been a sofer,  a skilled scribe entrusted to pen sacred Torah scrolls,  each containing the five books of the Bible.

In fact when the young widow arrived in New York and was questioned by immigration officials,  she said her late husband was “Moishe the sofer“,   and thus she entered the States as Gertrude Soffer.

The family settled into their new life except,  understandably,  for Gertrude’s father.  Blind and unable to speak the language,  the old man begged to return to Europe and it was decided that young Henry would accompany his grandfather on the ship,  and then return to New York on his own –  and he did.

Living in the beach town of Far Rockaway,  Henry and David became good swimmers,  but one day when the brothers were teenagers tragedy struck.  Swimming far from shore David developed a cramp it was believed,  and he drowned.  Years later I was named for David,  who,  had he lived,  would have been my great-uncle.  (See Call Me by Their Names)

Henry was a good student,  attended law school,   and became an attorney.   He met and married my grandmother Hannah whose family had emigrated from Romania,   and they had two sons and a daughter who would become my mother Jessie.  (See Art Imitates Life)

Then in 1938 New York’s Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia appointed my grandpa Henry to  a city judgeship.  The young boy who had sailed alone from Austria had come a long way.

– Dana Susan Lehrman

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At the turn of the 20th century,  with the Jewish influx of the time,  both my maternal and paternal grandparents emigrated to the States from Eastern Europe,  my father’s parents from Ukraine.

They all came as young adults seeking opportunities for a better life and they studied and worked hard,  and raised their children with a sense of security and an American identity.

But decades later in 1930s Europe my husband Danny’s parents caught up in the Nazi horror had quite a different story.  His parents,  aunts,  and uncles fled their homelands as refugees – in some cases with barely the clothes on their back.  They left behind friends and relatives they feared they’d never see again.  (See Family Photo and Tracing Our Roots)

Danny’s parents went first to Bolivia where he was born,  and several years later came to the States.  Raised in a multi-lingual home Danny speaks several languages.  (For a light-hearted look at his language skills and my lack thereof see Parlez-vous Francais.)

And always sensitive to others who are foreign-born,  my husband often surprises and delights them by speaking their language and knowing the history and geography of their homelands.

And of course save for Native Americans,  we’re all immigrants or refugees,  even if the migration happened generations ago.  And along the way all our families may have known heartache and struggle and loss,  and all surely have stories to tell.

Early one recent sunny morning I was scheduled for an outpatient medical procedure and a Pakistani-American cabbie drove me crosstown to the Manhattan hospital.

At the hospital an African-American receptionist admitted me and did the paperwork,  a Filipino-American tech took my history and vitals,  and a Dominican-American nurse prepped me and wheeled me to the OR.

Then an Israeli-American anesthesiologist put me out,  and an Asian-American doctor performed the procedure.

In the recovery room a Polish-American nurse woke me, helped me dress,  and brought me juice and cookies.   And then my South American-born husband picked me up and brought me home.

I know my own family’s immigrant story,  but I can only imagine the stories of the men and women whose paths crossed mine on that sunny morning in New York.

– Dana Susan Lehrman