An Immigrants Story   by Helena Lofgren

One Immigrant's Story

We've all heard immigrant stories of hardship, survival and triumph. Yet, not many firsthand accounts of leaving the Eastern Block have appeared in the main press.

If you are old enough to remember the 80s, you know there was a huge influx of Russian Jews into America. I, a teen, was one of them. This is not your typical immigrant story of the grueling boat journeys and Ellis Island. We're talking a dumbfounded Soviet kid turned political refugee!

We were released by the Soviet government following a major outcry from the Western Jewry against the violation of our human and religious rights. As Israel was now home, the Soviet government had no choice but to "let my people go", although mess with us it did, and how!

Not many Soviet Jews actually went to Israel, and my family was no exception. Our altruistic reserves were quite depleted; we just wanted a better life. And as the story goes, many Russian immigrants chose America because they were saving their sons from the Soviet Army, and weren't about to hand them over to the Israeli army.

Let's get back to this immigrant's story. One grey 1980 October morning, after days of waiting at a dismal town on the Ukrainian-Czech border, my family and I were braving the Soviet customs. We were surrounded: barking dogs, barking men with automatic guns, hatred and envy twisting their faces. The accursed Jews, the thorn in everyone's side, were getting the best cut again. We were getting out, and they were staying; and whatever they could do to avenge their fate - like blatantly throw most of our possessions back behind the line, claiming the luggage exceeded the weight limit - they did. One couldn't protest; one had to clench one's teeth, grab the children and run, run for that door before they changed their mind, because behind that door was freedom.

I know, I'm getting emotional. It's weird how vividly I recall every detail of our immigrant 'passover' story. Don't worry, it gets better.

Our train enters Czechoslovakia. Everyone's hearts are in their throats. Another armed convoy, now Czech, is rummaging through our stuff. Not much to look at, now that we've been robbed. My parents are worried: the plan was to sell the goods and live off the profits.

We are approaching Austrian border. These soldiers are greeted with enthusiasm - they are the first representatives from the Western Block. The relief on the train is palpable - tears of joy, hugs, laughter - as we roll into Vienna.

How can I describe the reaction of poor immigrants who've never been outside the barbed wire, to the sparkling wonder that is Vienna? My story depends on it. Vienna glittered with diamonds, perfect cleanliness, and historical beauty. Its well-groomed people and poodles were unbelievably polite, unguarded store displays lined the streets, and the supermarkets! Those little fruit yogurts were better than any I've tasted since. And the bread stayed fresh forever! Everything seemed magical. With our limited means - a family of five in a tiny motel room - most wonders were free.

Rome was as drastically different from Vienna as two European cultures can be; and even more thrilling. We tasted our first pizza by splitting one slice into five pieces. The noise, the dirt, the bustle, the chained store displays, alongside the ancient architecture, awe-inspiring art, friendly white-toothed banter, and air infused with romance. I admit, I had an impossibly cute Italian boyfriend before the airport bus arrived at our hotel; good thing we both spoke broken English. The two months in Italy awaiting permission to enter the States were unforgettable... but I must get on with my immigrant story, which it can't become until we reach the final destination: New York.

The prior months' culture shock was just a precursor to the awe-struck gasps New York elicited when we disembarked at Kennedy. Can't say it was all good, but definitely most fascinating. New York is at once a happy ending to every immigrant's story, and a new beginning with indefinite possibilities.

Our bus is slowly making way in traffic onto what I now know is the Brooklyn Bridge. Suddenly a spectacular panorama opens below: a gigantic nighttime city dissected by streaming myriads of red and white lights. It slowly dawns on me that some streams are all red and others - all white, because they are cars moving in opposite directions; billions of cars! My heart aflutter, I whisper: "Hello, New York, we are home."

About the Author

About the Author:Helena Lofgren is a Web content specialist for Innuity, Inc. in Redmond, Washington. Do you have your own immigrant story, or wish you could learn more about your ancestors? You may find Price & Associates very helpful.

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