Welcome back, Your Dreams Were Your Ticket Out. Pt. I

My Grandma Rose once yelled at a man who stole her spot in a grocery store parking lot. Summoning the strength of the old spirits she pointed two fingers at the confused man and yelled at him in Ladino. "What did you say to him, grandma?" I asked mortified. "'A pox on you and all of your generations!'" she declared. Don't fuck with my grandma. Survival is in her bones. Old country gonna get ya.

I think of this story as we begin our descent and the Island of Rhodes comes into view from the plane window. The Boy and me, joined by Mi Madre, are on a mission to trace our roots. We figure our family was expelled from Spain in 1492 (or fled earlier). And we know they came to America in 1914 from this small island near Turkey. But what happened from 1492 to 1914? And what happened to all the family my great-grandparents left behind in Rhodes?

It must have taken months to travel by boat from here to Ellis Island in 1914. On our flight from Barcelona to Rhodes, it takes us just four hours and thirty-five minutes to step back in time.

According to Trip Advisor:

The largest of the twelve Dodecanese islands on the Aegean's eastern edge, Rhodes is also it's most popular. The well-preserved medieval city of Rhodes sits at the north of the island of the same name. High rise hotels line the northern and eastern coastlines. Small villages and resorts dot the island's other shores. Whether your interests are beaches, bars or ancient sites, Rhodes offers an abundance of all three.

We book ourselves into the indulgent all-inclusive five-star luxury Mitsis Alila Resort & Spa, just seconds away from a picturesque beach. It is all infinity pools, white modern furnishings, chrome, and dessert all the time. Resorts just like this run all up and down the coast. Although it is a Greek Island in the Mediterranean Sea, I can honestly say that I never once considered that my relatives who came here in the 1600s may have actually owned bathing suits.

This what it is to go back to a place that your people left long ago. You can see your great-great-grandmother placing plump dough into the bakery ovens. You can see your nephew kicking a soccer ball

here. Rhodes is new and familiar all at once.

Here's what we know: My great grandparents Moshe Touriel and Hannula Hasson Touriel left Rhodes just before and just after World War I. Moshe and Hannula traveled under Italian passports to Ellis Island, New York. Moshe left in in 1914. Hannula followed four years later with a toddler, my great uncle Joe Touriel, in tow.

By the time Moshe arrived in 1914, there were already about 40 Sephardic families from Rhodes and Turkey settled in Seattle. The early Sephardic families of Seattle dominated the fishing industry and hosted stalls at the Pike Place Market. Moshe got a job shining shoes. Eventually, he was hired as a fish cleaner.

Hanula and Joe joined him in 1919. My grandmother Rose Touriel was the first in her family born in America. The year was 1921. According to a 1930 U.S. census report, they lived in a neighborhood with other “Italians” and spoke Spanish in their home. They lived on Yesler Avenue just across from Leschi Elementary School (where I attended fourth and fifth grade).

We are back in Rhodes to see the world what Moshe and Hannula left behind when they set off looking for a better life. What and who did they leave behind? Why go?

We are armed with pages of Hasson and Touriel genealogical history created by the many individuals working to preserve Sephardic Jewish history on Rhodes. There are records of my great, great, great grandparents recorded back to the 1800s here.

To my surprise, the family records report a number of family members who were killed in Auschwitz, Poland. The Nazis came to Rhodes? My family died in Poland? I had no idea. The news is crushing. I'm not sure what is more upsetting -- the thought of their suffering in the Holocaust or the fact that this sad story was never shared with the cloistered American grandchildren.

Moishe and Hannula got out of Rhodes. They were damn lucky to leave when they did. Their parents, brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews didn't. According to one record, Moshe's mother (my great-great grandmother) Rosa Alhadeff Touriel died "abt. 1943; on

train to Auschwitz, Poland."

Then it hits me. My grandmother Rose was named after her grandmother who died on the way to Auschwitz. My grandmother was 22 years-old and living a world away in Seattle. How did she take the news that her distant family was taken from her parents' childhood homes and sent to die? Did she realize that these same ancestors had already escaped thousands of years of suffering in Spain only to be killed by Germans? If she knew, my grandmother never shared this with me. It makes me wonder what other stories our immigrant parents hide from us in the belief they are protecting us from the pain of the old life.

Armed with this startling news, and several maps of homes and business owned by Turiels, Hassons, and Alhadeffs, we head into the old city of Rhodes to uncover the past. To be continued...