The greeneh were poor — but products of a noble past

Back then, when my parents and their contemporaries immigrated to the United States after World War II, the newcomers were called “the greeneh,” a Yiddish version of greenhorns, recent immigrants. They were survivors, mainly from Eastern Europe, from towns and villages whose development was years behind the West. At the war’s end, most of them had ended up in DP camps in Berlin, Germany, where they waited years for visas to the United States.

My parents were married in 1947 in a DP camp, and they and their extended families arrived on American shores in 1950. They were grateful to finally be in this new land and appreciative of the help their American brethren gave them, but it would take time for them to understand the culture and the nuances of American life.

The men worked in factories owned by shomrei Torah u'mitzvos. They were mostly located in the lofts of Williamsburg. A 12-hour day wasn’t unusual. Taking off on Shabbos and Yom Tov was no problem. Erev Yom Kippur and Erev Pesach were the only other “off days” when the factories were closed.

My father made neckties in a non-union shop that was open six days a week, and the employees were paid for piecework, not by the hour. My friend’s father worked in a union shop that was closed on Sunday, so he brought work home; it wasn’t possible to support a family on a five-day workweek salary. He made fabric-covered belts. I remember going with my friend to deliver the finished work to the boss’s house near Avenue C.

The summer I turned 14, I worked in a “piecework” factory. I learned a lot that summer. I could imagine the stress of a family being dependent on serious and in some cases backbreaking labor, and the feelings of the man who woke up each morning to face such a day.

In my father and his peers’ case, it was different. After their war experiences, their factory work was “child’s play.” They were only concerned that they  earned enough to keep their families fed and warm. Coming late to work, or taking a day off, was unheard of; making a living was not to be taken lightly. I can’t remember my father or my friends’ fathers ever being sick and staying home.

My father’s morning started with going to the mikveh and davening Shacharis. He then crossed the bridge to Williamsburg, by bus or by thumb. After a long day and a late Maariv, my father z”l, tired as he was, would open a Chok L’Yisrael so that the day wouldn’t pass without him learning. Sometimes he would fall asleep with his head in his “chokil.” With time, parnassah became easier, and it was possible for him to spend more time in the beis medrash.

I could always pick my father out in a crowd; he walked faster than everyone else. He had a high level of energy and a “can do” attitude. He was a wise and kind man, with a wonderful sense of humor.