My grandfather had a saying that has been passed down through our family lore, “Honesty isn’t the best policy—it’s the only policy.”
In this holiday season, with travel and in-person gatherings in doubt, I gain strength from my family heritage and the inspiring history of my predecessors.
My dear grandparents on both sides set my moral compass. One of my goals in life is to honor them always, and it is with them in mind that I pass this true story on to you.
My maternal grandfather Marcus Zausmer was a watchmaker by trade in Lemberg, Austria. He married my grandmother Regina Wander in 1911 and they emigrated to America shortly after. If they had stayed, they would have met their fate in a gas chamber, as did my grandmother’s family who hesitated to leave until the 1930s when it was too late. My grandfather had begged them to leave early on to move to America.
Grandpa opened a jewelry shop in the teeming Jewish ghetto of the lower East Side. He eventually moved the family to Glen Cove, LI, where he opened a hardware and paint store, sensing the need in the town for useful products.
My grandparents raised seven children, including my mother Rose, the oldest girl. What they lacked in formal education they made up for in hard work and strength of character.
As immigrants from Eastern Europe, they underwent extreme hardship to support, educate, feed, and house their families in the New World. My cousin found them listed on the manifests of the ships that docked at Ellis Island. I can only imagine the experience, separated from their relatives, enduring rough passage, carrying only a few battered suitcases with clothing and the Shabbos candlesticks, not speaking English, subjected to medical examinations that determined their suitability, even getting their names changed if the official couldn’t understand the handwriting on their papers.
My grandparents lived in an apartment building with a coal furnace. Layers of choking dust found their way daily into the living quarters. Grandma was constantly wiping the dust from all surfaces, in addition to cooking, canning, wringing clothing on the washboard, hanging laundry outside in all seasons, sewing and ironing garments for seven boys and girls, and most importantly, keeping the Sabbath.
Finally, Grandpa found an apartment with an oil furnace and steam heat. Grandma was in heaven, no more coal dust residue or waking the boys to stoke the furnace in early morning hours.
After some months, their oldest boy, my uncle, came home with his friend, the landlord’s son, carrying armfuls of apples. They had clearly snatched them from the grocery man.
Grandpa was upset and knocked on the landlord’s door. “Did you know that our boys stole apples from Mr. Feinberg? They need to return them and apologize right away.”
The landlord replied with a laugh, “Oh, that’s nothing, Mr. Zausmer, boys will be boys!”
Grandpa briefly pondered this reply. He realized that the landlord had no scruples and that this could influence his children to cut corners in their behavior and character. “Thou shalt not steal” meant just that, a commandment from God. He took his son and his share of the stolen goods to the merchant to set everything aright with him and with the universe.
Next order of business—he gave notice to the landlord. There was no changing his mind. At the end of the month, he moved his family out of the apartment, leaving the steam heat behind.
POSTSCRIPT:
My grandpa adored my grandmother. She was ten years younger but died before he did, at age seventy-five. He sold the house to move closer to his daughters. When I first visited Grandpa in his apartment and used the bathroom, I noticed the lone toothbrush in a plastic cup, next to the shaving brush. I felt a wave of sadness at the lonely life that was now his lot.
Several months later, Grandpa invited me to accompany him to Paris to visit his surviving in-laws, including Grandma’s widowed older sister. While I visited museums, shopped, and watched the fashionable Parisians walk past my cafe table, I did not suspect the true purpose of the trip. Grandpa and Blima (pronounced Bleema) were conversing in Yiddish about plans to marry.
I honor my grandfather for acting on his feelings and again traversing the Atlantic to fulfill his dreams. I revere my Great Aunt who, in her eighties, had the courage to leave her home to live away from her children and start a new life in a country where she did not know the language.
They had just over two happy years together, after which she returned to her family and died in Paris ten years later.
Wow miss barrie what an amazing story! Emigrating to a country not knowing the language what a challenge. Among other adjustments. Grandparents sound like the bestest thing:)
Thank you Rosa, I appreciate your enthusiasm for what I write. Have a good Thanksgiving, be careful.
That is a truly a story of bravery, fear, courage and resilience.
Immigrating is a tough road to take as I know first hand. Immigrating while you’re life is at stake is more than tough though. Your Grandparents were extremely brave. The language ,being unknown to them, must have made their life very difficult! Also having to deal with different currency, different customs, different weather, different people ,different everything! And like you said being separated from family,( maybe the toughest part, ) was more than tough. Their honesty prevailed in spite of everything. They were as the previous person states ,the bestest of Grandparents
Kathy, so good to hear from you! Thank you for reading my family story. I know you have your own story too, and while the language was similar, the culture and customs, distance and unexpected personal experiences, can make for a very tough adjustment. I hope you are faring well. My best wishes for a good thanksgiving. One day we will have tea and biscuits together!
I loved this! Not sure how I happened to receive it. Would it have been from our “Time Gone By” author? I sure miss her postings!
Hi Margo, I did have some nostalgia pieces published in Time Goes By, maybe that’s where you found me and my blog. I am bereft at losing Ronni, she was very good to me, a gifted writer and remarkable woman.
Great reminiscing and recording for future generations. My Mother would approve. She loved to hear (and recount) family stories by anyone.
Thanks for including me in your distribution list. I miss Ronnie.
Hi Rita, thank you for your comment about my family history piece. I too miss Ronni, very much, such a talented writer and observer of life, and a magnificent legacy of bringing so many together. I am deeply saddened that she is gone RIP Ronni ♥️
Barrie, a heartwarming story. Loved it.
Thank you Sue for reading my piece about my family history. I’m into poetry now but still occasionally write prose! Honoring my family is important to me, thank you for expressing your appreciation.
What a delightful story Barrie. Family values and traditions are so important. Your Grandfather was an honorable man. How sweet that he went to Paris to fetch his new bride. How lucky were you? I’m sure that trip will always be something really special. Thanks for sharing. Have a great Thanksgiving.
Thank you Magdeld for reading my family story. I take every chance I can to pay tribute to these wonderful people who paved our way. I wish you blessings in return for the holiday.
Another nice essay about the heritage from your maternal grandparents.
Thinking of our joint family at this holiday season…….. We always spent thanksgiving at grandma’s in Elizabeth, then at your mother’s after Grandma moved from the house on Richford Terrace.
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Yes, I remember my mother’s dining room where we gathered around the holiday table. Great memories — centering on food and family! Have a wonderful Thanksgiving and enjoy your neighbor’s generosity . . . .
This brought back memories of my father’s parents, whose history was similar — though my grandfather died before my grandmother, and so didn’t have a chance to marry my grandmother’s older sister, who I remember as “little bubby” because she was tiny and frail by the time I saw her.
We spent nearly every Sunday at their house, playing with my uncle, playing cards with my grandfather (who never let us win and cracked walnuts with his bare hands), and eating my grandmother’s hamburgers fried with onions and schmaltz, her chopped chicken liver, and my grandfather’s sour pickles and green tomatoes.
Thank you for sharing your family memories. Those Sunday visits were a backbone of childhood, stores were closed and extended families gathered. My grandma also made those tasty hamburgers, in the cast iron frying pan with years of flavor absorbed. She also made french fries and we got to shake them in a paper bag before serving.
It’s wonderful to have family stories to know about the lives of the people who came before you. You write about them beautifully. I have albums of black paper pages filled with old photos from my mother’s family. Fortunately most are labeled in the white ink used then. What’s missing is the written stories behind those faces. I regret that I never recorded the stories my aunt would tell as she led us around the cemetary where my mother’s family was buried. She was a wealth of information. Unfortunately by the time I got around to finally asking that she write the stories down, she fell ill and wasn’t able to do it. Richard recorded his grandmother telling about her life growing up in Sicily and coming to America as a young woman to join her brother. He later had it transcribed which was very helpful, but I still have the original tape. Voices of people long gone are hauntingly special.
Barrie,
Their is sooo much texture, so many layers to this great portrait of this great man. I had to read and re read it…. The photos alone reveal a lot. That beautiful family portrait radiates and affirms dignity and integrity. Look at the shelves in the hardware/paint store. Not a wasted square inch. Everything in perfect sequence and order. And there he stands, straight back, lookin right at ya, indicative of what he built from scratch through hard and honest work . His motto, “Honesty isn’t the best policy, it’s the only policy”. Tells me that every morning when he went out, he refused to compromise his values to the ever shifting ways of the world. Faithful to his principles, he stood his ground . THIS, is an Em, Ay, En, MAN. Not long ago I read some of Irving Berlin’s accounts of growing up in the Jewish ghetto of the Lower East side. Crazy intense; chutzpah, moxie, pluck and grit were an essential skill set for establishing and maintaining family security. He went on to say that he had a hyper activity and nervous twitch for the rest of his life that he attributed to his days as a youth in the Lower East side. To think that your Grand Dad was his contemporary there and then…..Big tip of the hat ! Very touching coda in Paris, his life story reads like a modern day odyssey. He was remarkable and exemplary from day one to day last. That commands awe and respect. Keeping his life story vibrant and accessible to inspire generations to come is the greatest tribute that granddaughter Barrie could give him. I could kick myself for only getting around to submitting my thoughts on this now but it needed time. Great, great piece Barrie ! Frank