Eighty years ago this month, the Greek steamer Nea Hellas landed in Hoboken, New Jersey. Aboard the ship were my great-grandparents, Lipman and Mary Bers, carrying their infant daughter Ruth. As one of the only babies aboard, Ruth had been a symbol of hope — kept at a safe distance by a protective mother — for hundreds of other passengers.
Seven months old, Ruth had spent her entire life as a refugee. Her parents were from Riga, Latvia, but Lipman had fled in 1934 after being exposed as the editor of an underground newspaper against their nationalist government. They spent four years in cities across Europe, arriving in Paris in 1938.
In his memoir, Lipman describes meeting with an influential American — the New York Times’ Paris correspondent — to improve his chances at obtaining a visa. He was told:
“‘… not only will not recommend you to the consulate, I will advise them to be particularly careful … We have enough political Jews as it is.’”
I cannot imagine how it must have felt, living as stateless people at the mercy of unpredictable legal systems. Still, to quote a Uruguayan exile named Mario Benedetti, they “lived happily, even without permission.”
“My wife and I had to appear in the Préfecture de Police every three months, and would spend the whole day waiting for a verdict on whether or not we could remain. But we were young, and Paris was La Ville-Lumière. And we were happy unless an immediate crisis threatened our lives. We spent every Sunday and many weekdays walking down the boulevards and wandering through the museums and monuments.”
At the age of 20, my great-grandmother had left her home, parents, brothers, and many cousins to follow her then-boyfriend into exile. By the time she was married and living in Paris, she had been apart from her family for years.
“Mary yearned to see her family before going to the United States. Her brothers sent her money to travel to Riga and back. I considered this a dangerous undertaking, and made her promise to leave Riga immediately upon the receipt of a coded telegram from me. She was to return to Paris upon receiving word that ‘Aunt Paulka [was] sick in Paris.’ Following an old custom, on the return trip to Paris her mother accompanied her on the train for one stop. Mary could not know at the time that this was to be the last time they saw each other.”
The last that we know of Mary’s mother comes from a brief note, left in the Riga Ghetto. She and most of her family had been marched into the Rumbula Forest, where they were massacred alongside 25,000 other Jews in December 1941. Two of her sons were chosen for concentration camps instead of death squads, and while gathering their things they found her note on the stove. It contained two words: “take revenge.”
Mary returned to Paris. Ruth was born. German planes were seen overhead. They fled to Tarbes, where they learned France had surrendered amidst a weeping crowd of soldiers, refugees, and foreign workers. As war consumed the continent, they lost touch with family members who could send money through the mail.
“The mayor of Tarbes asked me why I did not come to the soup kitchen, which was open to people without means. ‘But I am a foreigner,’ I said, ‘and am not permitted to accept employment, or to use the soup kitchen.’ His answer was simple and heartwarming. ‘But you’ve got to eat, don’t you?’”
They went further south, to Toulouse, attempting to find a smuggler who could get them to Portugal. Without money, they would have to do it alone. They planned to hike across the Pyrenees, baby carriage and all. Before they could go, Lipman, in his words, received:
“the second telegram of my life. The first had arrived at our apartment in Prague, directing me to pick up our transit visa to France. This second one directed me to go to Marseilles to get our visas. We went through Spain to Portugal and from there by ship, the ‘Nea Hellas’ to New York.”
In an interview, Lipman explained that “the miracle was performed by French socialists who wanted to help a political refugee,” in concert with an unexpected ally across the Atlantic.
“I literally owe my life to Mrs. Roosevelt. She convinced her husband to issue special emergency visas to political refugees and intellectuals caught in France after the defeat of the French and considered particularly endangered.”
Working alongside Eleanor Roosevelt was Varian Fry, the founder of what would become the International Rescue Committee. Ten thousand visas were issued, not intended specifically for Jews. The one which saved my family was signed by Hiram Bingham IV, a U.S. diplomat who broke laws to save more Jews than his government would allow. Through an extraordinary convergence of privilege and compassion, my family joined a tiny number of Jews who made it to America. Hundreds of thousands were left on waiting lists; others were turned away at the shore and sent back to their deaths. This country is not a shining beacon, but a crack in the door. Sometimes, it gives just enough light to see by.
The United States accepted only 11,000 refugees in 2020, a 90% drop since the Obama administration. From the Middle East to Central America, we are abandoning hundreds of thousands of people to crises that we helped to create. Their deaths are justified with the same slogan, “America First,” that was first shouted against Jews during World War II. Their lives will be lost in the same silence. America locked them out, so we will never hear their stories.
The coming days are our best chance to prevent the door from slamming shut. We all need to push — to donate, to volunteer, and to mobilize friends and family — however small each individual effort may feel. Every degree of opening, every inch of light, means the world to someone. A lifetime later, it means even more. It means the love of every grandchild who attended Ruth’s 80th birthday celebration in Manhattan, just before COVID-19 arrived this March. It means the appreciation of the great-nephew who missed the party, but has had the opportunity to catch up over Zoom.
On those calls we talked about family history, about moments that could have easily been the final chapter. Instead, we are here. Eighty years ago next month, Lipman, Mary, and Ruth settled down — in the middle of a presidential election — in a country that was worth fighting for.
Image Credit: Personal image provided by author.