This is not really a Holocaust story, dear reader. It’s a thank you note to America.
In America, we were not citizens at first, but we had the right to become citizens. We had to wait five years, pass a test, take an oath and then we would be equals with all other Americans.
It was different in Poland. Poland passed a law in 1920 conferring citizenship on the Jews, which was a significant step forward, but prior to that we were a legally sanctioned minority subject to separate and unequal laws. This is not a complaint, dear reader. Poland gave us refuge at a time when other countries exiled us. I mention it only to draw a contrast.
America went beyond refuge. In America, we were part of the fabric of the nation.
I can tell you that becoming citizens was hugely precious to all the Holocaust survivors. The adults studied hard for the civics test they would have to take. It was a frequent topic of conversation. I recall a silly joke they told: The Judge asks the Greener (we called ourselves Greeners — short for Greenhorns) to name three American generals. So the Greener says: General Eisenhower, General Motors and General Electric.
The joy at becoming a citizen is beyond my ability to describe. It brings tears to my eyes. Can you imagine? Becoming a free American? Our citizenship papers are our treasures. We had lived in Belgium for five years before coming to the United States. There was no persecution there, but in Belgium we were not citizens. We were “displaced persons,” or refugees. In America we were somebody, just like everyone else.
One of the most wonderful things we experienced in America was freedom of religion. My parents were not orthodox Jews —they wanted to be secular. In Belgium, there were laws and customs that made it almost impossible to find employment as a non-citizen, so my dad had to work in the diamond industry which was controlled by orthodox Jews. He resented the fact that he could not be seen breaking shabbat lest he lose his job.
In America you did not have to prove anything to anyone. You could choose how you wanted to practice religion, or not at all. There was truly freedom of religion here. I hope that American Muslim women have the same freedom — that they can choose to wear the Hijab or not, and that their livelihoods don’t depend on the choice they make. All Americans deserve freedom of religion.
Likewise, in America we had freedom of association. In Poland, my parents’ friends were all Jews, with the sole exception of Ala Moskalska, the woman who hid my mother during the war. In Belgium there were some associations with non-Jews, but not intimate friendships — no one who ever came to our home for dinner. By contrast, In America, my dad’s first business partner and friend was a thoroughly Irish man named Ed Fitzgerald, and my mom’s first bestie was Mary Quinones, a Puerto Rican woman, whose family melded with ours. My first playmate was Janine, a Black girl who lived down the street, with whom I shared a love of playing ball.
In America, this freedom to make friends across ethnicity and race is so commonplace, so natural, that it’s hardly worth even mentioning. It’s part of ordinary life. But really, it’s not ordinary at all.
In America, you don’t even notice freedom of religion until it becomes a lawsuit. Same with freedom of association. In the 99% of time that is our daily life, we assume we are each free to live by our chosen values, and to befriend whom we love.
America gave us freedom. In this sense, I feel deeper connection many times with immigrants from around the world that I meet occasionally — like the woman from Sudan I met recently — than I feel with Americans born here. In one eye contact we understand each other: the back story, the journey, the meaning. Yes, my friends, the concept of America is precious and rare. I’m grateful.
Ruth Chevion lives in Hopkinton.