On what turned out to be the last morning of my mother’s life, I busied myself dividing homemade chicken soup into containers for her and packing up a toaster to sneak into the hospital. She hadn’t been eating well, and I wanted her to have her beloved breakfast of blueberry waffles.
I was planning on spending the day with her. Little did I know she would be gone within 20 minutes of my getting to the hospital. How I wish I could have gotten a little more time with her.
My dad passed away 17 years ago. After shiva, my mother turned to me and said, “If I ever pass away in my sleep, I want you to promise me that you will smile and be happy for me.”
Mom, you passed away very quickly and unexpectedly. I’m trying hard to be happy for you but it’s so hard when I’m so sad for me.
My mother, Grace Schwarzberg – Gittel Brana bat Naftali HaKohen – was the youngest of four children born in Tarnopol, Poland. She was a dedicated daughter and sister. Even though she was the youngest, she was the one who always took responsibility for the family. As a teenager during the Holocaust, she would find hiding places for the family and sneak in and out of the ghetto to get food. Her long blond hair and perfect Polish enabled her to blend into the local population. Her intuition and life smarts saved her and her family on numerous occasions. Baruch Hashem, she survived the Holocaust with her family intact.
Throughout my childhood and beyond, our New Jersey home was where her father, brother, and sister would spend every Yom Tov with our family. When her father became unwell, he moved into our home and my mother cared for him until he required a skilled nursing facility. As her brother and sister aged, my mother took over their affairs, becoming their caretaker as well.
My mother was a dedicated wife, a true eishes chayil to my father, helping him with his real estate business while single-handedly running the household. There were no grandparents to help with the children or housekeepers to help with the housework. Nor, in those days, were there kosher takeout places anywhere near our home. My mom did it all, and she and my father deprived themselves of any luxuries in order to send my brother and me to yeshiva and provide for our needs.
The last words my father mouthed to me were, “Take care of Mommy.” That’s the kind of marriage my parents had, and the kind of family in which we were raised, where everyone thought only of the other.
I hope I was able to live up to his last request.
My mother was my role model. She never chose the easy way out, never shirked responsibility. She was tireless, selfless, and there was nothing she couldn’t do if she put her mind to it. She was a perfectionist who in addition to being my mother was my confidante and best friend. Whenever I met with adversity, hurt, or disappointment and asked her how she had become so strong , she would tell me that when you take an ordinary piece of iron and put it through fire, you get steel. Everything you go through in life makes you come out stronger than you were before.
My mother moved to the Five Towns after my father was nifter, and we were privileged to have her spend most Shabbosim and Yom Tovim with us. She was so proud of how self-sufficient and “with it” she was, even as she entered her 90s. Until just recently she took care of all her affairs. Nothing made her happier than walking into her bank to update an account. When the officer would ask if he could mail back the paperwork, she would smile and say, “Why don’t you just fax it to me.” She would thoroughly enjoy the inevitable look of surprise and amazement on his face.
During her hospitalization over the last ten days of her life, she wasn’t happy with the answers she was getting from the staff. When I walked into her room one day, she looked up and said, “Finally, some progress.” When I asked her what she meant, she told me she’d called down to medical records and asked for a copy of her record so that she could review which physicians had seen her and what their assessments were.
My mom was a loving and committed grandmother. Nothing made her happier than receiving a phone call or visit from her grandchildren and keeping up with the goings-on in their lives. Yoni, Eliana, Adi, Sammy, and Zachy were the light of her life, and she was so proud of them all. Sammy and Adi: she was thrilled to welcome Regina and Esti into the family, and so happy with your choices.
Of course, mere words will never convey the depth of the love and gratitude I feel for my mother, nor could they do proper justice to her devotion and self-sacrifice. I know I can never repay my debt to her for everything she did for me throughout my life.
May she be a meilitzas yoshur for her family and for all of Klal Yisrael.
In addition to the author and the five grandchildren mentioned above, Grace Schwarzberg is survived by her son, Jason Maoz; son-in-law, Dr. Herbert Pasternak; and daughter-in-law, Jodie Maoz.