My Mother Comes to America

Had my mother’s father lived, her family would not have been poor. He owned a brick factory, and now my mother’s mother ran it. I never knew the name of the brick factory. I never thought to ask, and now, all of a sudden, I would like to know its name. There is no one to ask.

Because my mother's mother was a widow with seven daughters, the townspeople took pity on her, and all the people who needed bricks bought them from her.

A competitor’s business was hurting, and one dark night, the competitor burned down the brick factory, leaving my mother’s family destitute. There was no insurance back then. How was my mother's mother going to provide for herself and her children?

They lived in a big house, and so Bubbe Devorah, my grandmother, rented out rooms. Not rented to single people, but to whole families, one family per room. They all cooked in the kitchen. It was some of the children of these families that my mother, at the age of four, took care of.

During the day, the living-room was rented out to a rabbi who held classes there.

Can you just hear my mother telling this story? It is her story, after all, and these are her words, with just a few of mine thrown in.

There are very few stories where my mother comes out like a heroine. As the tale progresses, we can find out if there are others. But here’s one:

When my mother found the 100-ruble note, she ran home to her mother with it. As the story goes, her mother announced in the synagogue that her daughter had found some money on the street. The wealthy man who had lost it, said: “Because of her honesty, she can keep it.