Two months ago, I learned the truth about my family history.
Ever since I was a child, I have been told about my paternal grandfather, Samuel Kitrosser. Born in 1912 in Soroki, a small town in Bessarabia,1 Sam immigrated to the United States in 1936. He settled in Massachusetts where he and his wife Helen had three children.2 Although Sam passed away when I was only one, he has remained present in my life through stories. At family functions, I heard about how Sam could speak five languages. At home, his picture—taped to the cabinet above the yellow pages—presided over our kitchen. Yet it was as though Sam’s history had begun in the United States. Nothing was ever said about Sam’s life in Soroki, or about what happened to my great grandparents, who stayed behind. Continue reading