To A One Of A Kind Couple, On Their Anniversary

When I set out to write a piece about my parents in commemoration of their wedding anniversary, I approached it thinking that it would invariably be dark and sentimental. After all, they were Holocaust survivors, and they both experienced things that no human being should ever have to see or remember. Let’s face it, they carried a lot of baggage with them when they got off the boat in Boston in 1948...and I’m not referring to the valises they were lugging. 

They were married on Columbus Day (although in Germany, they didn’t know it was Columbus Day), October 12, 1947. Theirs were stories of miracles--it was a miracle that they survived, but I felt that the true miracle was that they stayed married to one another for over 50 years. They fought like cats and dogs all throughout my childhood, and on into my adulthood, but I don’t think either one of them would have been happy with anyone else.

They were from different countries, different walks of life, and sometimes I thought, different planets. My mom was short, fair, and platinum blond. Dad was tall, dark, and muscular. Not exactly two peas in a pod--but my mom would always blame their getting together on the war...”It did strange things to people.” 

There are many stories from my childhood that are not happy: screams of terrors past in the middle of the night, tears, rants, harsh words. But, when I went out to dinner with my sister and brother-in-law last week, and the topic turned to Mom and Dad...all the stories we recounted made us laugh! So, I wonder, is it OK to talk about Holocaust survivors and not mention the sad stuff? Because in my parents’ cases, in between the horror and the sad old-age “stuff” was lots of good stuff. There was us--my sister and myself--and our lives. Some semblance of normalcy had to be established because of us, and try as mightily to fight it as they did, my parents had to give in.

She liked to primp--he didn’t. He liked to dance--she didn’t. But he always wore the clothes she bought for him, and he always dragged her out to the dance floor. It is rather amazing that after the horrors they had been through, they could still dress up and go out on the town...and have fun. There’s a particular pink pouffy dress that I remember my mom wore to lots of Bar Mitzvahs. It was not light pink, no...Mom liked to make a statement when she entered a room...it was hot pink...definitely hot pink. Strapless, and did I say “pouffy?” With her platinum blond hair done up, and her pink dress, she looked like a beautiful Barbie doll. Dad was not exactly Ken, more like Dean Martin. I have an actual photo of them taken one such night, but it’s somewhere with thousands of other photos of mine that are in a storage facility. No matter, I have that picture indelibly fixed in my mind. I don’t need a photo to prove it was true. 

And speaking of truth, Mom liked to stretch it...a lot. She never looked at it as though it were telling a lie--just decorating the truth. She was a huge decorator. We never asked her why her own life seemed so less than perfect that she had to “decorate” it, but it was understood that she did. She wasn’t as cunning and creative as was the character in Catch Me If You Can, but it is a shame she never picked up poker. Her bluffing skills were unmatchable. “You know,” she chastised a nurse in the hospital once, “I was a surgical nurse, and if I had ever treated a patient like your handling me, I would have been fired!”  A surgical nurse, a medical student, a singer. She was quite accomplished. In fact, we like to joke that my son’s musical ability comes from his grandma...since at one time she was a “musical prodigy.” 

Her stories were a big bone of contention between she and my dad. He understood she wasn’t happy with her lot in life, and he knew he was a big reason why. So, they argued about it...more times than I like to remember. And the more stories she would make up, the smaller she would make him feel. But my dad was no shrinking violet, and very often my sister and I were caught in between these two battering (figuratively) rams. 

It’s probably very hard to believe, but in spite of the Holocaust stories and the battles about money and ambition and their stature on life’s totem pole, there was lots of laughter in my house. My mom had a very dry wit--she was the queen of sarcasm. And my dad liked to play tricks on her. They had a large group of friends--all of them also survivors--with names like Yussel, and Moully, and Velvel, and Bruncha, and Manya. We could never tell whether those were their first or last names--that’s just what we called them. They would all get together and eat (always) and chatter away. They often spoke in Yiddish, which we girls understood, so there were very few secrets bantered about. But every once in a while some Polish would be spoken, and then we’d be in the dark, as would my mom, since she was Hungarian. And then there would be more drinking, and the voices would get lower.

Neither of my parents was very political. But there was one thing that got them going, and it was often most evident around the dinner table.  The scene around that table was the epitome of Americana: it was my mom and dad, my sister and I...and the TV--always on. We could be talking about anything--even something really important--until my dad would get a glimpse of something on the screen and then shout, “SHHH! Israel!!” And then it was all over. Israel trumped any dinner talk, no matter how earth shattering it might have been.

In addition to Israel, their world also revolved around us. It was obvious that we were their world, their entire world. Our existence proved to them that the world would go on...could go on. And if we ever did anything, as most children sometimes do, to disappoint them, they were crushed. And they let us know. Guilt trips were taken frequently in our home.

As my parents aged, their idiosyncrasies become more pronounced. My mom’s fancy dresses gave way to more flamboyant, quirkier wardrobe additions (there was the gold lame’ bib she would pull out at restaurants, but that’s another story), and my dad became more sullen. He no longer added to his dictionary of crazy, made-up words like, “chupaydina” (bizarre) or  “matzapanna” (imaginary food). Their lives revolved more around themselves and their illnesses than around us. And their grandchildren were now looked upon as a whole new set of miracles.

One of the last best memories I have of my parents took place just after my husband and I moved to Los Angeles. My father had not yet begun to show the effects of Alzheimer’s and my mom was still healthy and spry. This was their first time on the West Coast and they loved it. They looked up old friends they hadn’t seen in decades and sat around tables eating babka and strudel, drinking schnapps and slivovitz, and reminiscing about the old days--both good and bad. 

One night, we discovered a Hungarian restaurant in Hollywood, and as a surprise, we took them there for dinner. I don’t remember the entree, but I do remember the rigo jancsi, a luscious, chocolate cream cake...and the band with live music. It was Hungarian music. And that night, when my dad asked my mom to dance there were no protestations. It was Dirty Dancing, old-country style.The two of them whirled around the dance floor--they were happy and smiling, and for once, that happiness had nothing to do with children or grandchildren--it was just them. All the years, and all the burdens seemed to slough off, and they literally floated.

So, on October 12, while everyone else is thinking of Columbus Day, I will be thinking of that one of a kind couple who gave me life, and sending them a silent anniversary wish. I just know they’re together out there, somewhere. And if you should hear thunder or lightning on that day, just ignore it...it’s probably them...celebrating.

Candlelight

The flames from the Yahrzeit candles painted an orange sheen on the walls of our kitchen. The rows of small candle-filled glasses were neatly lined up, one after another, in metal pans that my mother kept just for this occasion. I say that it was an occasion, but that’s really not true. The word occasion, for me, conjures up something pleasant, like a birthday party with a double fudge cake and gift bags stuffed with various hues of pastel tissue papers hiding lotions and beaded trinkets beneath them. Or a Fourth of July picnic--hot dogs, potato salad, heirloom tomatoes, and giant chocolate chip cookies passed around in plates the shape of lobsters; cloth napkins that look like the American flag. Yahrzeit candles--otherwise known as memorial candles--are not pleasant. They serve as a reminder of the dead; to honor them. They burn for 24 hours, and by the time they are burned out, the memory of the dead has been burned into your mind. 

It is Jewish custom to light a candle on the anniversary of someone’s death and on certain holidays, but since my parents were Holocaust survivors and could not be sure of the exact dates of the deaths of all in their families who had perished, they did this big time on Yom Kippur.

I always thought one candle would have been enough of a memorial, but my dad was adamant that there be many. I cannot say that there is any hard and fast rule that every dead person gets his or her own memory candle, but my mom obliged Dad’s wishes. So we had many. And there they were, year after year. Serving as a reminder of the huge hit our family took during that horrible time in history. They stood there, in their rows and their flames flickered as if to say, “we are still here, we still matter.”

I don’t know why I never questioned some of the things my parents did. Never asked them how they felt or told them how I felt. It’s almost as if the reasons behind everything they did, good or bad, were because of what they had been through. It was understood, a given. We shied away from bringing attention to “it” for fear that we would hear more than we cared to hear in any explanations.

Most of the year they held it together. They were able to celebrate when the celebrating was appropriate (sometimes), but this holiday...this holiday was different. This was a somber holiday, thus my mother took the opportunity to revel in it’s solemnity. Today it was expected of her to beat her chest.  It was a day of atonement--a period of repentance, and she took that as being her right to mourn. We were not permitted to turn the lights on...nor the TV, radio, or any other electrical appliance. My dad would do his praying at temple, but my mom stayed home and stood with her prayer book...by herself. Those nights, in the almost dark apartment (we kept a light on all night), I would watch her praying and wonder what she was repenting for. What sins had she committed during the year? Hadn’t she suffered enough? Those nighttime hours seemed interminable.

The daylight hours were almost bearable: weather permitting, my sister and I would get out of the house and take long walks, passing through neighborhoods we ordinarily would not get to see on foot. We would walk for hours, knowing that each passing minute would bring us closer to the day’s end...and food! When we were younger, or when it rained, much of the holiday was spent playing board games and reading.  Not such a bad thing, really. And ironically, a lot of the reading was of the various food magazines scattered around the house. We would look at the pictures and dream about what we would eat once our fast was over. (There’s nothing like being a glutton for punishment!) 

Devoting a day to reflection is almost welcomed, now that I am an adult. My family and I observe the holiday very differently than I did as a young girl. We still do a lot of reading (not in the dark) and praying, but there is the understanding that this holiday is all about introspection and making our peace with God. It’s almost like a spiritual cleansing. For me, the mourning and chest beating are symbolic. I don’t think my parents could ever have intellectualized it in that way. They’re minds were too clouded with the antiquated teaching of the religion they grew up with, and as always, with their experiences. 

My room was down the hall from the kitchen, and as I lay in my bed, I could see the orange cast of the candlelight. Even as my eyes were closed, I could imagine the flickering flames shining through my eyelids. If I closed the door, the faint orange glow would slide in through the thin strip of space between the door and the carpet. Just couldn’t get away from it. The strange thing was, this light didn’t haunt me--but it did sometimes upset me. It reminded me of who my parents were, and I just wanted them to be like everyone else. 

There’s a small aluminum pie tin on my counter on Yom Kippur. It holds two Yahrzeit candles whose flames flicker and dance for twenty-four hours.  They are for my parents, and they remind me, “We are still here...we matter.”

PASSOVER BREAKFAST

My dad was not a cook. He built skyscrapers in New York City, and his strong hands were more comfortable wielding the heavy steel of a hammer or a saw, than the gentle curves of a metal whisk. He was more adept at hoisting large wooden planks than swirling a wooden mixing spoon inside a soup pot.  I’d never seen him bake a cake or make a goulash like my mom, but for many years during my childhood, he rose even earlier than usual--which was at the crack of dawn--during Passover and prepared Matzoh Brei for my sister and myself. Matzoh Brei can be defined as Jewish French Toast with the matzoh substituting for the bread. Most Jewish households, regardless of whether they strictly observe the dietary restrictions of Passover or not, have their own way of preparing the dish. Some like it savory, in the shape of a pancake or a frittata, a little more on the eggy side, a little less. We had our own specifications and Dad’s way met every one of them. I have no idea where he got his recipe. It may have been my mom’s but hers never seemed to taste the same. And even when he would sometimes prepare it for us on the weekends, that Matzoh Brei just wasn’t as perfect.

Because his weekday ritual occurred so very early in the morning, we never saw him in his cooking mode, not even a glimpse. By the time we awakened, he was long gone, having taken the subway into the city. The wonderful breakfast treat he left behind was often on the stove, in a well-used nonstick skillet, covered with an inverted green milk-glass dinner plate. (This was our Passover dinnerware. And in spite of the fact that it was used every year for only eight days and nights, eventually, the entire set dwindled down to a mere few soup bowls.) 

While Dad’s prowess forty and fifty stories above the streets below was based solely on precision, his techniques in the kitchen were less so. Measuring spoons and cups were not for him. He would pour warm water into a metal mixing bowl (a “shissel”) and add the matzohs whole, breaking them up into random shapes with the back of his hand. We girls loved the smaller bits that became browned and crispy as they were fried, so Dad made sure we had lots of them. He soaked the matzoh pieces just until they became soft--too soft would be disaster. While they soaked and the pan was heating, he would take a large spoonful of “schmaltz,” rendered chicken fat, from a jar in the fridge. This was his secret ingredient; it was a staple in our house. (Dad would also slather it on his rye bread with abandon--he obviously was not too concerned with cholesterol, and I’m not certain whether he had reason to be anyway since he was always the picture of health.) 

The cream-colored dollop of fat would hiss as it plopped into the hot pan, eventually melting and coating the bottom. As it heated, it made low popping noises. The softened matzoh was gently combined with beaten egg, and then the yellow, glistening pieces were dumped into the hot, hazy fat. Once the entire concoction was browned, he would flip it and then brown the other side. Only then did he break up the pieces again with the back of a wooden spatula, and douse the top with a healthy shake of sugar. That snowy dusting soon became a crunchy, caramelized coating that my sister and I loved so much.

My dad was not a very demonstrative man, and to the outside world he may have even appeared gruff. He showed us love in more ways than I can say, but they were on his own terms. Back then I never thought about what he thought as he prepared this dish for us in the darkened kitchen while everyone else slept, and the sound of the clock ticking was the only sound he heard. This act was not one of obligation, but as I realize now, it was an act of sincere love--and just another way of him showing us, on his own terms.

As I said, my dad really didn't adhere to a recipe when making his Matzoh Brei. The closest one I found is from Joan Nathan's "Jewish Holiday Cookbook." It is a little light on the egg-to-matzoh ratio, and makes for a crispier end product. (That's how we liked it!) Additionally, butter or vegetable oil can be substituted for the chicken fat. (I will tell you that since I left my dad's house, schmaltz has never darkened my dooorway, but I am seriously considering making some just for this purpose.) If butter is used, the meal becomes a dairy meal, and in a kosher home such as ours was, it could not be served with any meat products. Just as Dad's version could not be served with any products containing milk.

                                                 MATZOH BREI

3 matzohs

2 whole eggs, beaten

1/2 tsp. salt

2 Tbsp. chicken fat, butter, parve margarine or vegetable oil

1/4c. granulated sugar

cinnamon, cinnamon/sugar, for topping

Pour warm water into a large mixing bowl. Place the matzohs in the bowl and break into pieces. Allow to soak for a few minutes. Drain and gently squeeze the matzohs dry.

Pour the fat of your choice into a large nonstick skillet and heat over medium heat.

Place the matzohs back in the bowl. Add the beaten eggs, salt, and half of the sugar. Mix well, without crumbing the matzoh.

Brei and the pieces have all browned, turn mixture out on a large platter.

Serve with additional sugar or cinnamon/sugar, if desired.