Remembering my grandfather, on this day of atonement

“Be it known that Louis Gold, then residing at 1555 South May Street, having petitioned to be admitted a citizen of the United States of America, and at a term of the District Court of The United States held pursuant to law at Chicago on January 12, 1937…”

When my mother’s father immigrated to this country from Poland in 1920, I have been told, his name was Louis Cheskonofkovitch or Sympkanofkovitch or some variation of the name “nofkovitch” that has never been remembered.

I do not know much about my family history. In the early 90’s, I was living in Mesa, Arizona, which has a large population of Mormons, who are known for having the largest genealogical library. When I attempted to trace my family tree, I was quickly disappointed because I knew so little about where to start.

There are many myths that families were given new names when they entered Ellis Island. Some people could not speak, read or write in English, so they took the name that was given to them by the Port Authority workers. Other families did not want to be labeled or associated with a particular ethnicity or religion for fear that they would be passed over for a job.

Louis was a very proud man. He had pride in his faith and pride in his abilities. He came to this country, as many people did, in search of a better life. He also came in search of gold.

I have very few memories Louis. Pictures and images are my only link to him. Whenever we visited, he would greet us at the front door with a smile and a kiss. My grandparents lived in a tiny, one-bedroom apartment on the third floor in a mid-rise building. They lived in Rogers Park, a one-time predominantly Jewish neighborhood. Zadie would buzz us in and we would quickly walk up the noisy stairs. He was always so happy to see us and would kiss me on the forehead and give me an amazing hug filled with nothing but love. He had a scratchy face, and he had wet kisses. I would wait until he looked away before I wiped off my forehead.

Zadie was, and continues to be, my definition of Judaism. During our family’s Passover Seder, he would proudly stand at the head of the table, dressed in a black suit and white yarmulke, wearing a Talit draped over his shoulders. His singing voice was loud and beautiful. He sang with a passion that brought tears to the eyes of my mother and my aunt, Etta. Their father’s tradition reminded them of their strict orthodox childhood, stripped from them as adults; a consequence of marrying non-religious men.

I miss his singing. I miss the way my brothers, our cousins, and I would make funny faces at each other as he sang, trying to make someone laugh. I miss the way we would impatiently sit in our seats, stomachs growling, mouths watering, as he flipped the pages in his song book and tried to bring religious meaning to our lives. He knew what it meant to be Jewish and he deeply wanted to share his spirituality with his family.