Jan. 30 was my mother’s birthday. Born in 1913, it would’ve been her 112th. But Mom, whose name was Minnie, never wanted to look old, so she died in 1981 at 68. The blue eyes that you can’t see on the girl all the way on the left of the photo, at the end, were still bright and appealing. The practical haircut would evolve into a pompadour that gave her 5 inches, a fable of height.
The faded photo shows Mom’s family of seven. It would increase to eight when the youngest boy was born in the U.S. All four of the boys served in the Army. And thanks to the God who brought the family to our shores safely, my uncles received the same bounty — they returned alive.
The young girls in the photo did not enlist but faithfully wrote on thin blue pages that turned into airmail letters. They kept the boys up to speed on the home front. And they worked where there were jobs, and they parented their children solo.
I’m sharing this bit of history because I think it represents a good portion of my Chicago city. And with today’s threats on immigrants and refugees, no matter their status, that population that came over on boats and boots deserves to be seen and applauded.
Let’s start with my Zeyde and Bubbe, the Yiddish words for “grandfather” and “grandmother.” He was scary, but also enterprising and proud. His damaged eye frightened us. But his fish store, the pride of Division Street, showed us how hard work could change life for a family that arrived with nothing.
Bubbe was loved and adored by her eight children and eventually their children, who numbered 30 cousins. We’re still in touch today.
In the photo, that beautiful child with her blue eyes and solemn expression turned into my mother. It was as if God decided this glum girl needed beauty to withstand a difficult life she would walk into.
If you look closely, you will see my two adult children staring back at you. They not only have Mom’s charisma, but they inherited her pluck.
While my offspring’s talent can be seen on stages, Mom’s magic was practiced behind the counter of our grocery store. In my memoir, “The Division Street Princess,” I tell how she magically added prices in her head that she first wrote on a brown paper bag. There was an imperious cash register that she could’ve made sing. But Mom, in her white apron, had a line of customers waiting, so she took the fastest route.
Our customers were all immigrants or refugees like my parents. Some, like my clan, came from Russia. Others, Italy, Poland and likely places I couldn’t pronounce.
My dear father, Irving, was not as practical as mom. He preferred the pool room down the street and radio stations tuned to baseball games and wrestling matches. Alas, Dad’s disdain for management eventually led to the contents of Irv’s Finer Foods being auctioned off.
My parents didn’t spend time wallowing. The good citizens that they were, emboldened by their refugee stock, quickly got jobs. Mom was a telephone operator for a rental uniform company and Dad a salesman for a meat packer.
Sadly, and predictably, Dad died at 48, abetted by diabetes, smoking and girth.
All my aunts and uncles are gone now. Some of their children, too. And tragically, some of their grandchildren. But all of us, a crowd of doctors, lawyers, writers, entrepreneurs, shopkeepers, writers and directors have surely made Bubbe and Zeyde proud.
Who could have imagined that this solemn group in the picture, who surely were terrified of the unknown road ahead, would be transformed? It was as if a theater’s costume director rushed onstage to swap out the first act’s misery for haute couture.
This is just a small chapter in my refugee story. Perhaps yours has more intrigue, pathos and importance. Please share your stories with others. They’d appreciate hearing them. Trust me.
Elaine Soloway is a longtime Chicagoan and author of “The Division Street Princess.”
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