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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