I had the best surprise today at the farmer’s market in our town of Cambridge, N.Y., this morning. We went to get vegetables and other food supplies for the holiday weekend.

I knew who the young man was the second I saw him; I recognized him from the photos of him I put up on the website five or six times.m I saw the pride and joy in the face of his grandfather. I knew it was Alex.

About a month ago, we responded to a Troy woman’s gofundme page seeking to raise $7,000 to get Alex and his sister (the grandchildren of Aladdin, our friend and Farmer’s Market food supplier) out of Poland, where they had fled from Ukraine with two suitcases, and safely to America.

Two days later, they had raised $10,000.

The family had no money to apply for visas or get out of the Polish refugee camp and to America, where their surviving relatives lived. They were lucky to be alive. They had nothing left but the clothes in their suitcases.

Today, Alex came to the Farmer’s Market with his grandfather, Aladdin, who was practically exploding in joy. They got the vias, made the trip, and live in New York City.

Alex will be living with relatives in Brooklyn, which has a large Ukrainian community.

He was learning English and was helping his grandfather on his visits to different farmer’s markets at this time of year. A quick learner, he was scooping out the food and making changes.

He wanted to work.

Aladdin was overjoyed to be with him; he owns and runs a Slovakian cafe in  Troy, N.Y.

Alex was  serious, gracious, and grateful. He had piercing green eyes that took in everything and missed nothing.

He took my hand and, in faltering English, thanked me and asked me to thank all of the people from the Army of Good who made it possible for him, his sister, and their mother to get to the United States.

He had heard of this group that helped his family escape danger and tragedy and rebuild their lives.

I had a good feeling about Alex; he seemed strong and very bright.

His family’s home and all of their possessions were destroyed, they have no news of their father.

I watched Alex eagerly and skillfully help Aladdin count money and put their food into plastic tins for the customers. He wanted to help, and Aladdin was happy to have the help.

I asked him how he liked Brooklyn.

“Very much,” he said. Then he paused. “It’s dangerous,” he said.

“Worse than Ukraine?” I asked. He smiled for the first time.

I came home to write about this and post some other photos.

As I wrote this, I remembered the money I took out of the bank this morning to take to the farmer’s market. I had $120 left for the week. I decided to bring it to Alex – the market is open until one p.m.

I stuffed the money in an envelope with my address, e-mail address, and name. I licked the envelope closed and quickly drove four or five miles to the market.

Aladdin was sitting in his chair, and Alex was busy neatening the food trays and waiting on the customers when I returned. The place was quieting down; it was shortly before one.

I walked up to Alex, handed him the envelope, and pointed to my e-mail and name. He thanked me, but I realized he didn’t know there was money inside, he just thought I was giving him my e-mail, so I explained there was some money.

Aladdin jumped out of his chair to rush over, thank me, hug me, and shake my hand.

I told Alex again there was money in the envelope. He was bewildered. “Why?” he asked.

“Because you need it,” I said. “Use it in any way you wish; It’s for you.”

And I walked away.

I’m not sure if I will ever see Alex again, but I hope so. Maybe he’ll come up here on weekends to help his grandfather; he seemed to enjoy it. Perhaps he can visit the farm.

I told him my daughter lives in Brooklyn; perhaps we will cross paths someday.

“Let me know if I can ever be of any help,”  I said as I walked back to the car, thinking of how different his life had been from my daughter’s and how much it had changed in the past few months.

The trajectory and emotions of his life had been forever altered.

I tried to imagine the shock and pain he had endured.

It felt right handing him that envelope.

My family was loaded with people who had lost everything to get to America and give their children – me – better lives. I knew how hard it was for them to leave their people, culture, language, and work.

They never quite got over it. But the very young adapted and thrived. I bet that will be Alex’s story. I will pray for that.

The refugee exists at the heart and soul of America; it is what we are about.

We are choking in the grip of a new movement that would cut this heart right out of our great nation.

Alex is one of the reasons they must not prevail.