A bone-chilling autumn wind blew through the stillness of the atmosphere where earth is met by the vast open skies. A year to the day did she actually leave us? Oh, I know all about life’s cycle, that man is mortal and lives not forever, but you were – invincible, I whispered to the unmoving gray slab of rock.
How many physically frail and ailing ninety year olds, intellectually ravaged by the scourge of Alzheimer’s, emerge from their trance-like state to react to a rhetorical “Where’s everyone is nobody around?” with a dispassionate “Am I nobody?”
It had begun to manifest itself at one of her grandchildren’s Shabbos Sheva Brachos, several years ago. We sat at a table together when she turned to me and asked, “Heint is Shabbos? (Today is Shabbos?)” I thought she was pulling my leg. No such luck.
Soon thereafter, the recurring curiosity: “Where do you live? How many children do you have? Yingelach? Meidelach…? Chasuna gehat? (Boys? Girls? Married?)” – invariably followed by profuse blessings for nachas from them all. (My youngest daughter was still single.)
Fast forward changing seasons minds unraveling. The steady deterioration of my in-laws’ physical and mental stamina gave one of their sons no pause for thought. And so we welcomed them with open arms – our lives never to be the same again – as my shver and shvigger came to live with us.
She was a good-looking single, poised and talented – and orphaned by Hitler. Nearing the age of forty, she was apprised of a potential match: a young widower four years her junior, with three toddlers in tow. She readily and happily partnered with God to heal the wounded soul of a broken-spirited man who had tragically lost his beautiful young wife on the day of the
bris of their youngest child. She would go on to be her husband’s right hand and strong arm in every facet of their life together. Fiercely devoted to his three little orphaned boys, it was she who selflessly prodded the youngsters to honor the memory of their birth mother. As soon as each child was old enough to comprehend, she’d load them with her home-baked goods and send them scurrying along to shul with instructions to recite Kaddish for their mother on her yahrzeit.
When we first met, her warmth and enthusiasm set me instantly at ease. It turned out that as a child she’d lived in the same small village as my maternal grandparents. She vividly recalled my zeida, who had been the town’s baal tefilla as well as renowned shochet and mohel.
Intrigued that her new daughter-in-law was a granddaughter of the revered and beloved Reb Bentzion, she’d often reminisce about the golden days of her youth. Even while havoc was wrought on her brain cells, she held fast to glimpses of her past. I would periodically probe, “De shvigger gedenkt noch remembers mein zeida?” – and invariably elicit a smile and instantaneous recollection. “Reb Bentzion My eas still ring from his sweet, melodious voice” And then, “Is he alive?”
Perhaps my gratitude for the chance to bond so intimately with precious souls of a different generation stemmed from having been cheated (by the Nazi vermin) of the privilege of knowing my own grandparents. I wholeheartedly endorsed my husband’s assertion (to those who looked askance at our decision): “I don’t recall my parents abandoning me when I was helpless and dependent on them for all my needs.”
