I was 24 years old when I completed my Master of Social Work degree at the Milwaukee State Teachers College, now the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee.
The year was 1949, and I was one of six social workers hired by the then Jewish Family and Children’s Service (now Jewish Family Services) — two men and four women, all of us in our 20s.
We were able to speak and understand Yiddish to a limited extent. I had grown up with my grandparents, so Yiddish was familiar to me.
Our supervisor was Stella Jaffe and the director of the agency was Rebecca Tanenbaum.
We kept written records of all of our office contacts with the refugees from Europe coming to Milwaukee, whom we referred to as our clients. Most originated from Poland and Germany.
While there were some couples and a few young children, most were single men and women. They had been in the displaced persons camps for up to five years. They never spoke of their past experiences and we did not pry.
Those rescued by the American and British soldiers came to be known as DPs. They were the survivors of the worst disaster known in our era.
When the American soldiers first saw the DPs, they were shocked by their appearance, reflecting the horrors of the concentration camps which dotted Europe. The DPs were emaciated and many were on the verge of death.
In the DP camps, the refugees were well-cared for, so that by the time they arrived in the United States, they had regained weight and looked healthy.
The Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society arranged for the DPs to settle in either Israel or the United States, as many who attempted to return to their countries of origin were met with hostility and were even murdered. Some came to Milwaukee in 1949-50 in small groups of three to four families.
At JFCS, we referred them to the Mount Sinai Health Clinic. We had consultations with a psychiatrist there.
The psychiatrist advised us not to talk about the DPs’ terrible experiences during the war, but to deal with their immediate needs for food, shelter, clothing and employment. We followed his advice.
Some of the refugees had married and produced children while in the DP camps. Many had lost family members, and some had lost their entire families.
All adults were expected to work and become self-sufficient. Jewish Vocational Services (now the Milwaukee Center for Independence) provided the refugees employment with minimum wage jobs (less than $1 per hour), requiring minimum English.
While they had no choice but to accept these jobs, they not only gained experience learning basic English, but their hard work also led to financial independence.
Our clients were eager to learn English by attending classes. They eventually were hired as bakers, factory workers and other positions.
Eventually, many of the DPs formed a group known as the Newcomers’ Club to help each other become self-sufficient.
Some of the refugees were demanding, while others were passive. There was one couple in their 50s. He had prosthetic legs and a cane under each arm and would swing his legs as he walked.
When I spoke to him about being required to work and becoming financially independent, he began swinging his canes at me, stating he wished to reside in a care facility. However, the policy of the Jewish Home for the Aged (now the Jewish Home and Care Center) at that time limited residency to those 65 and older.
While meeting with this couple in our office after the man’s wife accepted a job, he became so angry that he withdrew a knife he had hidden in his prosthesis and plunged it into his wife’s heart. Our director managed to wrest the knife away from him, but too late. The husband was eventually deported.
Other clients stand out in my memory. There was a belligerent man who refused all offers of employment, much to the embarrassment of his wife.
However, with the $100 allotted to him by our agency for clothing, he purchased an old truck which he used to transport cowhides bought from local farmers. He eventually became a wealthy man.
I also recall a married couple. The pregnant wife was given a coat big enough to cover her belly, and she vehemently protested that it was too tight, until our agency relented and bought her a new one.
As there was an extreme housing shortage in Milwaukee after the war, we sometimes had to house two families together in a single flat. This usually ended in disaster, but eventually we were able to find everyone separate housing.
Jerome, a refugee whose entire family had perished, lived as a border in my house. As his bedroom was near mine, I was subjected nightly to the sound of his screams brought about by terrible nightmares.
I have written this story because I do not want anyone to forget the Holocaust and those who survived it. I fear that soon there will be no one left who remembers, and thus I feel compelled to write of my memories of those brave people who made a new life for themselves in America.
Lucille Atlas, 88, lives in the Sarah Chudnow Community in Mequon.
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