Long Journey Home: A Young Girl's Memoir of Surviving the Holocaust

by Lucy Lipiner

  I had always been more persistent in doing things my way; maybe I learned it from life or Papa. But Frydzia had always been more accommodating and complied with their wishes. She was the “perfect” daughter. She was the “perfect” young lady, and she was beautiful in a delicate sort of way. I was always envious of her beauty. Sometimes I heard people say that I was pretty. But my kind of “pretty” was different. My features were not as delicate and elegant as hers.

  Frydzia, US immigration/affidavit photo

  Now, my parents sensed that I was not willing to conform to their unique values.

  Edward said good-night. With sadness in my heart, I watched him walk away. Papa was very unhappy with me. He made me promise I would not speak with strangers, at least not until we reached the American shores. He was very firm about it. I thought maybe I was having too much fun laughing and speaking with Edward—maybe that was something that unsettled my family. I felt very conflicted. I had always trusted their powers of reasoning. I was still so young. I knew there was much I needed to learn. Yet, for the first time ever, I knew that I would have to disregard my parents’ wishes. This was stronger than anything I had felt before.

  I hoped that Edward and his family and my family would all be boarding the same ship because I was convinced that I would see Edward again, speak with him, and enjoy his company again.

  We boarded the troop transporting vessel General C. H. Muir on August 14, 1949, at the North Sea port of Bremerhaven, Germany. I watched as Edward, his parents, and his brother walked slowly up the ship’s gangplank. My heart did a triple somersault! Now, I was certain we were to cross the Atlantic on the same ship. Nine days with Edward was happiness unimaginable. It was beyond any happiness I had ever experienced in my entire life. I was on my way to heaven, and I wasn’t even asleep. This was real.

  We boarded the ship. My family and his shook hands. Now, we were all introduced. I hoped Papa felt a little better. Edward actually had a family. I knew Papa would feel good that Edward came from what seemed like a solid family. And they were Jewish! That made things even better.

  My parents wore very ordinary, unimpressive clothes; Papa wore his ancient sport coat and hat, and Mama wore her best dress (she was so skinny that the dress hung on her). Edward’s parents wore tailored suits, which impressed my parents. This was another hurdle out of the way. Edward and his younger brother, Jacob, both wore pilot-style leather jackets. Edward was taking photographs with a Leica, a technologically advanced camera of the day.

  I kept staring at his mother. Regina was a striking woman with red hair and beautiful blue eyes. My mother also had beautiful blue eyes, but she was a brunette. Edward’s mother looked familiar. I was certain that I had met her or seen her before. I just couldn’t remember where.

  Later that day, I recalled where I had seen her. It was pure coincidence and a little sad, almost unreal. I saw Regina naked, where all of us—hundreds of women—were thrust together during our physical exams. It was her striking red hair that attracted my attention. She stood a little ahead of us on the same line, in the section for women whose surnames started with the letter L.

  It seemed so sad to me that I should see her—the woman who years later became my mother-in-law—for the first time under such unfavorable circumstances, even before we met. Oh, how I wished that I had not seen her that day in the examination hall! In my mind, she had lost some of the dignity she deserved to keep. I tried very hard to erase that image. I vowed never to mention this to anyone.

  Edward was very intelligent. He spoke five languages, including English. He taught himself rudimentary English by reading discarded or old copies of the Herald Tribune with the help of a borrowed English–German dictionary.

  We got on board and, almost immediately, all men over the age of eighteen were informed that they were required to put in certain number of work hours each day; that was to pay for the passage. Being multilingual, Edward became an interpreter. His job was to assign work to other men.

  Edward assigned chimney painting to my father along with other men. I was horrified!

  “How could you do such a thing, placing my father all the way up there to paint a chimney?” I screamed. That was our first fight on board. Edward’s answer astounded me and got me rooted in my tracks.

  He said very calmly, “Painting the chimney will not hurt your father. And being high up there, he may gain a better perspective on life.”

  Then, with a tiny smile and a little wink in his eye, he said, “Besides, how else would I be able to romance his daughter?”

  I was speechless. Then I laughed. Later, I learned that he had assigned a kitchen job, several decks below, to a young man I knew only vaguely from one of the DP camps. Karol (in America, he became Carl) sometimes smiled at me and said hello. Even from several decks below, Karol managed to sneak out of the kitchen, along with smuggled grapefruits. I had learned to enjoy that fruit very much, after all.

  Eating in the mess hall was an adventure I also enjoyed. I guess everything was an adventure because everything was new. After supper, we watched American-made films. I didn’t much care for war films. But I liked films with lots of romantic scenes. I guess I was a normal sixteen-year-old teenager with romance in my heart.

  I liked dancing too. Soft lights illuminated the entire dance hall, creating a pleasant, even a romantic environment. Edward and I danced to popular tunes. He held me ever so gently, while we danced slowly among many young people. I recall feeling emotionally moved as we danced to a tune called “Begin the Beguine.” After all these years, I still remember the words.

  When they begin the beguine

  It brings back the song of music so tender

  It brings back the night of tropical splendor …

  To this day, the voyage to America remains the most memorable experience of my life.

  Epilogue

  Early morning about 6:00 a.m. on August 23, 1949, before reaching New York Harbor, we glimpsed the Statue of Liberty for the first time.

  People crowded the decks, taking up every last inch of space. With wonder and shedding tears, people kept saying over and over, “Look, look, there she is—the Statue of Liberty.”

  My family and I stood quietly at the railing. Frydzia and I, in our best summer dresses, stood side by side, holding hands. After all these years, I still remember what we wore. Frydzia’s dress was of thin, flowered fabric draped softly around her beautiful, shapely body. And I remember clearly the dress I wore to greet the Statue of Liberty. It had green and white stripes, puffy, short sleeves, a lovely but rather risqué scooped neckline, and it was tight around my narrow waist with a flared skirt.

  Papa was smiling at the sight of the lady in the harbor. No, he was actually laughing with joy. It had been so long since I’d seen him smiling or laughing. He was so happy. But Mama had tears in her eyes; that was her way of feeling happy.

  I had never seen a photograph of the Statue of Liberty. But this exceeded my expectation. The statue was grander and by far more beautiful than I had imagined.

  “This is where it all begins for us. This is where our home will be forever,” Papa said.

  Then he reached into the pocket of his old, shabby sport coat and withdrew a fistful of American money!

  “You see this money? Thirty-six American dollars!” He went on to explain, “Thirty-six is two times eighteen. In Jewish tradition, even back in ancient times, the number eighteen was and still is to this day symbolic for life and good fortune. Thirty-six means that it’s twice as good!”

  I had no idea my father had American money in his pocket. I was even a little apprehensive. After all, we weren’t even Americans yet and already he had in his possession American money!

  Then he said, “With this money, we will start a brand-new life here, and we will work hard and not ask for a handout.”

  We disembarked with the help of the crew and the Joint, the members of the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee. They were so helpful. They literally
took our family by our hands and delivered us straight into the open arms of Uncle Jack and his wife, Tante Ida.

  It was heart-wrenching watching Uncle Jack holding Papa, his younger brother, tight in his arms, both crying. They had not seen each other in more than thirty-five years since Uncle Jack (Jacob in the old country) departed from Poland when he was hardly a teenager and my father was just a little boy.

  After all those years of corresponding and trying so hard to bring us over, it all became real, and Uncle Jack became real. It was a joyful reunion.

  I had not seen Edward or any of his family that morning of the sighting of the Statue of Liberty. I was hoping to say a proper good-bye. I looked around. I thought I had seen him in a distant corner, far from where my family gathered.

  The huge holding compound in New York Harbor was filled to capacity with hundreds of immigrants, all searching for friends or families. I could hardly discern Edward’s familiar face in the midst of all those people. Edward and his family were being greeted by their own American family.

  During the ocean crossing, Edward had told me that he and his family would most probably be staying with his aunt and uncle in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

  We shook hands and said good-bye. I tried hard not to show any emotions, but Edward must have seen tears in my eyes. He inched a little closer and kissed me on the lips. We made a promise to each other that we would write and meet again soon.

  “I will come to see you soon, Lucynka,” he said.

  “Why do you call me that? That is not my name,” I said.

  Edward smiled and said, “That is my pet name for you.”

  In all my sixteen years, I had experienced many painful good-byes. It had become a deep-rooted part of my life. But Edward’s departure was different. It was the pinnacle of all I had lost in the ten years since the beginning of the war. It was shattering. And I didn’t even have a picture of Edward’s smiling face. I vowed to remember his face.

  Uncle Jack and Tante Ida welcomed my family into their home in Bensonhurst, a pleasant Italian and Jewish neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York. My aunt, uncle, and cousins Aaron and Irving made room for us in their modest rental apartment. They made room for us in their home and their hearts. They fed us and kept us under their roof for more than one month.

  In September, only several weeks after coming to America, Papa went to work in Uncle Jack’s business, plating and polishing costume jewelry. It was hard labor, especially working in conditions that required hot water and very high temperatures.

  He loved working with his brother and his two nephews. Aaron and Irving adored their uncle Abe. Papa had reached the age of forty-eight. He was still very handsome in spite of long years of hardships and tribulation. His nephews wished to look like him because of his full head of dark brown hair (their father had a receding hairline). They kept telling Papa that he resembled the actor James Mason, and Papa would say, “Who is James Mason?”

  In September, only weeks after our arrival in the United States, I enrolled into tenth grade in Lafayette High School, a school in my uncle’s neighborhood.

  At first, I had some difficulty with the English language and adjusting in general. Eventually, I made some friends but not entirely. More than wanting friends, I needed to belong. But that was not so simple. The only thing we all had in common was our age as fifteen-and sixteen-year-olds.

  But I was different and felt like an outsider. I couldn’t discuss my life’s experiences; I didn’t think anyone would understand. So I rejected friendship, even when it was offered to me in good spirit.

  I remember a girl in one of my classes saying, “Why don’t you wear some lipstick? It would look good on you.” I didn’t think about lipstick. I hated the differences between me and the other students who seemed to have such perfect lives. I felt ashamed of what my life had been like and where I came from.

  What I didn’t understand at the time was that being different was not such a bad thing. But most of all, I didn’t understand that we were a product of our lives’ experiences. And that too was not such a bad thing.

  Mama stayed home. That was when we had already moved into our own small, two-bedroom apartment, a walk-up “railroad flat” in the Brownsville section of Brooklyn, not far from Uncle Jack and Tante Ida.

  Mama cooked and cleaned and communicated with neighbors who would converse with her in Yiddish and taught her how to shop for food in America. Eventually, Mama went to night school and learned to speak English and, much later, read the New York Times. She was proud of that achievement.

  At eighteen, Frydzia found a job sewing thick-gauge plastic material on heavy industrial sewing machines. Hers was the most exhausting job. Sometimes she came home after a long day’s work so tired that she would go straight to sleep without dinner. She earned seventy-five cents per hour, minimum wage in those days, but it was hardly enough to pay rent on the apartment, food, and utilities. Even with Papa’s wages, it wasn’t enough.

  I dropped out of high school only six weeks after I enrolled. My high school counselor tried hard to talk me out of quitting school. She said I had a bright future if I would only continue with my education. I explained that I needed to work and promised that, one day, I would go back to school and get my education. I didn’t think she believed me.

  I sometimes think back to those high school days of mine. Did I in fact leave school for altruistic reasons—wanting to help my family financially—or was it something else? Perhaps I was compelled to leave school because I didn’t feel that I belonged …

  My work was tedious and boring, packing and shipping goods in a stockroom, also at the minimum wage of seventy-five cents per hour. That is when I understood I needed to break out of that mold, and that education was my ticket to a better life.

  Many years later, I fulfilled my promise; I did go back to school. Doing undergraduate and graduate work was a very lengthy process. Juggling family responsibilities, home, and children, it was exhausting and a financial struggle. It took many years of both day and evening classes.

  I earned a bachelor of arts degree from the City University of New York and a postgraduate degree, a master of arts in occupational therapy, from New York University. In fact, when applying to a postgraduate school, I was accepted to the same program in both Columbia University and New York University. I chose New York University because of the proximity to home.

  Years later, my big sister, Frydzia, also went back to school part time. She earned a bachelor of arts degree from the City University of New York.

  But all that was a long time off. In the meantime, during the difficult months late in 1949, I could not have foreseen all the good that still awaited me.

  One winter evening, there was a knock on the door, and there was Edward standing in our doorway, smiling his beautiful smile, his eyes shining with happiness. I almost fainted from surprise. I flew into his arms, wrapping my arms around him.

  Edward liked New York better than Pittsburgh and decided to stay. He lived with a great-aunt in Brooklyn. We dated on and off. Sometimes we dated other people, but eventually, we became a couple.

  Edward found a job at Ohrbach’s, a department store in New York City. He worked in the stockroom and worked very hard. People who spoke English with an accent were not generally hired to provide services to customers from behind the sales counter.

  Edward also went back to school. He earned an undergraduate degree and a master’s degree in business administration from Baruch College of the City University of New York.

  Edward and I married when I was not quite nineteen. We raised a family—a girl and a boy.

  From the very beginning, our children understood that knowledge, education, and hard work held the key to a better and meaningful life. And, here in America, all that was possible. Our children also hold advanced degrees, and they are very successful. But best of all, they are good people.

  After all, Papa was right when he said, “Anything is possible if you work hard. You can achieve a
nything in America.”

  Lucy and Edward marry.

  Acknowledgments

  I want to express my enormous gratitude to Sandra Wendel for her early encouragement and strong belief that my story needed to be told and to Lisa Pelto and the team at Concierge Marketing for their wise publishing advice and professional help in bringing my words to light.