Soviet Jews Adjusting to New Lives : * An Orange County family-service network helps new immigrants get started. For many of them, this is the first time they can observe the High Holy Days without fear.

Samuel and Irena Sorsher didn’t tell their son, Boris, he was Jewish until he came home from school at age 7 and asked, “Who are the Jewish people, anyway? Why do people hate them?”

Boris had been exposed to enough anti-Semitism at his school in the Soviet Union to know he didn’t want to be Jewish. He cried when he found out he was.

But today, at 9, Boris proudly tells visitors that he is learning Hebrew and that he’s glad his family came to America because “they like Jews here, and they have more toys.”

Samuel, 35, and Irena, 34, left the Soviet Union and resettled in Irvine because they didn’t want Boris and his 3-year-old brother, Michael, to grow up the way they had--constantly facing the threat that their religion would be used against them.

The Sorshers, who felt some discomfort about being interviewed and photographed because they have always lived with their guard up, said they followed the news of the failed coup and the collapse of Communism in the Soviet Union without having any second thoughts about their decision to leave.

On the contrary, Samuel said, they felt grateful to be so far removed from the political and economic turmoil that they fear will fuel anti-Semitism and make life harder for the relatives and friends they had to leave behind.

Although those loved ones are very much on their minds, the Sorshers are observing the Jewish High Holy Days this week without a trace of the fear that drove them away from everything familiar.

They marked the start of this 10-day period of self-examination and prayer by attending services Sunday evening for Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year). And next week, they plan to return to the synagogue to observe Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement.

For immigrants who never had the freedom in their homeland to step into a synagogue--or even light Sabbath candles in their own dining room--attending these special services is an exhilarating expression of religious freedom.

The Sorshers will probably always associate the High Holy Days with the sense of wonder they felt when they arrived here as refugees from Minsk a year ago, just in time to celebrate Rosh Hashanah.

Samuel, who is able to converse in English more easily than his wife, described how they felt when they first attended services at Temple Bat Yahm in Newport Beach: “It’s all new. We didn’t know what was going on. Our friends explain us. It was very nice. We saw people can be Jewish and not be afraid or ashamed. We feel free.”

The prayers were as foreign to the Sorshers in Hebrew as in English because their families had not been able to hand down Jewish traditions and teachings from generation to generation. As children, Samuel and Irena were given only glimpses of Judaism through the bits of Yiddish and Hebrew songs they heard from their grandparents--and, in Samuel’s home, the matzos they ate secretly on Passover.

“We were born Jewish, and we feel it all the time,” Samuel explained, “but we were not able to practice it. We didn’t have any information. And people were afraid to practice religion--not only in a special building but at home also.”

The Sorshers are among about 40 Soviet Jewish families who have started new lives here in the past year with the help of Jewish Family Service of Orange County, an affiliate of the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society.

Charlene Edwards, who oversees Jewish Family Service’s refugee resettlement program, said: “For some refugees, the mere mention of the High Holy Days brings tears to their eyes because it’s something they’ve heard about all their lives. Even though they weren’t able to observe them before, it’s something they were taught to cherish and try to get back into their lives.”

Edwards said Jewish congregations throughout Orange County “adopt” the refugees as soon as they arrive, and volunteers help them with everything from finding jobs, housing and health care to getting their children into Hebrew school and learning how to practice their religion.

The Soviet Jews, who must prove they have suffered from discrimination or harassment before they can get refugee status, also are supported during their first four months here by Jewish Family Service of Orange County, Edwards said.

The organization, which works only with refugees who already have a relative living here, covers basic living expenses during that initial adjustment period while providing such support services as employment counseling and English tutoring. After their first four months in the United States, refugees are eligible for welfare if they are not able to find work, Edwards noted.

“Fortunately, very few of the people we resettle go on welfare because they get a lot of support from the Jewish community,” she added.

She said the Sorshers, like many other refugees, arrived with a determination to succeed and establish their independence as quickly as possible.

They left a life that had become increasingly oppressive, in spite of all the changes that came with perestroika and glasnost under Mikhail Gorbachev.

“For the Jewish people, it’s very complicated and hard to live in Russia,” Samuel said.

Both Samuel and Irena had jobs in Minsk--he’s a computer systems analyst, she’s an accountant--but neither was able to get promotions or raises, Samuel said. Every time they seemed to be on the verge of advancement, he explained, they ended up in the “human resources department,” where a Communist bureaucrat would look at the passport that listed their nationality as Jewish and then tell them there were no openings.

Samuel said he was a straight-A university student and graduated third in his class, but when he tried to obtain an advanced degree, he was told, simply: “It’s impossible for you.”

He may have faced more restrictions than others because he was a computer expert and, he said, “the government doesn’t like Jewish people in any field involving any kind of secrecy.”

The Sorshers also felt anti-Semitism in their neighborhood when, for example, they stood in a food line and people around them shouted, “Go from our country. Go away--to Israel or America.”

Samuel said the large synagogue where Jews once worshiped in Minsk was turned into a theater sometime before World War II, and there’s only one place in their hometown now for Jews who dare to congregate--a small, rundown building.

When young Boris started asking questions and it became clear that he was beginning to share his classmates’ belief that Jews were bad people, Samuel and Irena decided it was time to leave. They waited anxiously for two years to get permission to join Samuel’s sister, Alla Zabezhinsky, in Irvine.

Zabezhinsky, who left the Soviet Union in 1979, had sent many letters to her brother describing the religious freedom she had found in America and the sense of belonging and pride she gained as a member of a Jewish congregation. When Samuel and his family finally arrived, they stayed with Zabezhinsky for three months and quickly became a part of the Jewish community that had made her feel so at home when she was a new immigrant.

As soon as Zabezhinsky introduced the Sorshers to Temple Bat Yahm, the Social Action committee went to work, helping them find clothing, furniture, employment and housing. Temple members also quickly became friends and included the Sorshers in home celebrations of Jewish holidays as well as Sabbath observances.

After Samuel found a job as a computer systems analyst, he and his family moved into a small, two-bedroom apartment in Irvine, which they now share with Samuel’s parents, Pauline Rakhlina and Zalman Sorsher, who arrived from Minsk in January.

The adjustment to a new life in a foreign country hasn’t been easy, but Samuel was able to adapt quickly because he had studied English in the Soviet Union and came here with marketable job skills that he was determined to use. Boris, a quick study, also adapted at a rapid pace, learning English almost overnight and taking an instant liking to fast food--especially pizza.

But for Irena, who is struggling to learn English and hasn’t been able to find an accounting job, this new life is a mixed blessing. She said she wanted to raise her children here as much as Samuel, but it was hard to leave her mother and her ailing, 89-year-old grandmother behind.

She expects her mother to join them here someday, and she watches the news from the Soviet Union with the hope that the opportunity won’t be lost.

Samuel’s parents, both of whom were subjected to close scrutiny as teachers in Minsk, are also struggling to adjust to their new life here. Pauline, who is 68 and speaks enough English to be frustrated when she can’t keep up with the conversation, said she cries when she goes to religious services: “We don’t understand it, but we know it’s very good. We feel it.”

She said she wants to be here with her children and grandchildren, but she misses her homeland--even though her memories from Minsk include an attempt to set her front door on fire that she feels certain was an anti-Semitic attack.

“For my husband and me, immigration is a tragedy,” she said. “We don’t know the language. It’s very, very hard for us. We often remember our country. The life was very difficult, but it’s very difficult for us here, too.”

“It’s harder for older people to leave,” Samuel interjected, looking pained by his mother’s comment. “You can’t take anything with you, and life is all different in the U.S. But most Jewish people (in the Soviet Union) want to leave.”

Samuel feels confident that life here will gradually become easier for everyone in his family as they improve their language skills and increase their earning power. Meanwhile, he is happy to be living in a country where his family is “free to be as we are” and his sons can study a religion that he was forbidden to embrace.

“Boris isn’t afraid to be Jewish here,” he said. “For my children, it will be easier.”