As a young child I was moved from a modern American orthodox home to my grandparents’ home located in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York. There I met a new type of Jew, Hungarian Jews, refugees from Europe. Many had their children born in “displaced person camps.” They had just arrived with their families to New York after a hard-earned escape from the Russian suppression of Hungary in 1957.Being a fourth generation American living in Williamsburg with survivors of concentration or DP camps, was like living in a different world, the “Twilight Zone.” The butcher had a tattoo number, as did the baker and teacher. Almost everyone had a number. I thought that when you came from Europe you received a number on your arm together with your passport.
As long as I can remember there was hardly a religious holiday or happy occasion that didn't end in a funeral speech for the family members who weren't there. Every newborn baby, Bar Mitzvah, or wedding party that I attended had a discussion about a dead or martyred parent. The newborn child was always named after one of its parent's deceased mother or father, sister or brother.
I remember visiting a family with my Uma, and being told by the mother, "How lucky you are yingela, sonny-boy, that you have a father, a mother, a brother, a sister, uncles, aunts and even grandparents. The only thing I have left from Germany is this!" She shoved her arm with the blue numbers in front of me.
"Crossing the Williamsburg Bridge,” consists of stories and experiences while living in Williamsburg. The reader will glimpse the world of Chassidim through the eyes of an American youngster.
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