Freida Sima was Lilly’s role model to the point where she even called her “Mama.” My grandmother often invited Lilly and her father for Friday night dinner, offered to do their washing, and Lilly’s father took to consulting her about how to raise a daughter alone.
Although undoubtedly no lines of propriety were crossed, my grandmother developed a fondness for Lilly’s father, comparing potential suitors to him and continuously finding them wanting.
This situation continued until mid-1927 when Lilly’s mother announced by letter that her parents had passed away and that her husband should send money for tickets for her and the children to come to America. Lilly was distraught, claiming she didn’t even remember her mother, that my grandmother was her real mother, and why did this have to happen and ruin everything? But happen it did.
Freida Sima always faced reality head on. As soon as Lilly’s mother arrived, my grandmother cut off all contact with the family. Realizing how this would change her life, she made plans to be away from her furnished room as much as possible. But the upheaval took its toll and she came down with a serious head cold that lingered for weeks. Aware of the situation, her closest friends, Fanny and Morris Carlin, tried to get her out of the house and invited her to a party at their home one Saturday night.
My grandmother begged off, citing her stuffed nose and red eyes. “I look like a witch,” she said. But Fanny didn’t relent. “No one cares, there will be good food and you know almost everyone there.”
Morris was also a pocketbook manufacturer and his friends were from the business. Freida Sima reluctantly agreed, finding herself trudging up five flights of stairs on a cold Saturday night in early February 1928.
Opening the Carlins’ front door, she found herself facing another guest whom she had never met. “Come in and meet Mordche,” said Fanny, gesturing toward him. My grandmother looked at the slightly built man in front of her and found herself mesmerized by his dark brown eyes, unable to turn away.
From that moment on she would always tell the story the same way: “We shook hands and forgot to let go.” The traditional, single Freida Sima had finally found her bashert, not yet knowing he was a widower with four teenage sons – and a communist and an atheist to boot.
The result was the marriage of Freida Sima, but that is another story altogether.
(This installment of the Frieda Sima series is dedicated to the memory of Zeide Avrum Scharf, Freida Sima’s grandfather, whose yahrzeit is Daled Tevet – Wednesday, December 16 this year.)
