Connecting With My Father's Past

Not a day goes by that I don’t think of my dad. He was not an easy man to get to know, but he could spin a tale or tell a joke with the best of them. I attributed his moods and hesitancy at revealing too much about himself to his history and being a survivor. His crying out in the middle of the night as my other tried to shush him back to sleep was evidence enough of the demons that lived in the closet of his psyche. 
I often look at my sons and see him in them: They are both strong-willed almost to a maddening degree, just like him, and also like their grandfather they are both fervent defenders of what they believe is right and just. Yesterday, January 11, I gave my dad more than just a cursory thought; it was his birthday. He’s been gone for over fifteen years, but a short while ago, while on a Viking River Cruise that sailed on the Danube from Germany to Hungary, I made a discovery that changed my life and brought me closer to him than I had been even when he was alive. The overwhelming connection I felt during that cruise somehow made this birthday seem more meaningful to me.

An optional World War II tour in Nuremberg during the cruise was high on my list because, as the child of Holocaust survivors, I take every opportunity I can to explore that horrific period of time. I’d hoped that it would give me some insight into what actually transpired there during the pre- and post-war eras. Our guide, Ingo, was a German history scholar, born long after the horrors that occurred in his country during WWII. His knowledge and level of sensitivity and morality were impressive, and I only wish I had more time to pepper him with questions. 

The Nazis chose Nuremberg as the locale for their many rallies partly because of its central location, and partly because of its connection to the Roman Empire. As we walked around what was now an empty expanse but had at one time been Zeppelin Field, the site of the former Nazi Party Rally Grounds, it was not difficult to visualize row upon row upon row of supporters shouting in unison as they saluted Adolf Hitler. An icy rain fell that morning, and it pelted our faces as a sharp wind blew through our jackets and created an atmosphere that was befitting of a group immersing themselves in that painful and evil bubble of history. We, who were alive, we who were safe, we who were merely observers, stood on what had once been the hallowed grounds of a power-hungry man and his followers who were starving for for the nourishment of his hate-filled words.

My eyes wanted to see more, but eighty years have past and there was not more to see. 

 Off in the distance stood the fuhrer’s massive Congress Hall. It built, according to blueprints that only an extreme narcissist could commission, to resemble the Roman Colosseum. Later, at the Documentation Center, we viewed photos and articles of Nazi propaganda. A visit to Courtroom 600 in the Palace of Justice, the venue of the Nazi war trials,  gave us a glimpse into post-war Nuremberg—a period that was fraught with guilt and retribution and meant to counteract some of the evil that occurred there.

My eyes wanted to see more, but eighty years have past and there was not more to see. There were no monuments—the German people intentionally did not want to create any shrines which would have given some the opportunity and the place to extol the workings of the Third Reich. The only pilgrimages made here are from the curious, the seekers of truth, the survivors.

Could he see the trees that I was seeing?

We were a somber bunch as we boarded the buses and began our trip back to our ship. And as I looked out the window I saw train tracks, and couldn’t help but wonder whether my father passed over those tracks; whether those were the very same tracks on which the trains took him and his family to the camps. Did the car where he and over 1,000 other prisoners were herded like cattle lumber by here? Could he see out from behind any slats in the wood? Could he see the trees that I was seeing? Was I looking at the same sky my dad looked at when he got off in Passau, another stop on our cruise? Gravel and dirt are mingled with the blades of grass that now grow between the railroad ties and as a modern-day train hunkers down the track, the dissonant sound of its wheels screeching—the metal upon metal—was what I could imagine him listening to. I cannot imagine the fear, I don’t dare begin to.

But on that day, on my dad’s day, I thought of him and felt him with me. I now understand…I have seen, not the worst of what he had seen, but my feet have perhaps touched the same ground he touched, I have breathed in the same air and looked at the same sky. I understand, because I was there.

My Mom's Fur Coat

My mom’s fur coat had been hanging in my front closet ever since I moved her out to California–six months before she died. When we wanted to get our very seldom used cold-weather coats out, we’d push it to the right, and when we wanted to get our luggage out from the crawl space in the back of the closet, we’d push it to the left. We’d been pushing that coat back and forth for ten years, without even noticing it…without me ever wearing it. When the time came for us to relocate to the East Coast, and for me to start purging, I finally had to take the muscrat by the tail, so to speak, and deal with the fur coat.

My husband thought I might take it with me, after all winters in Boston are mighty cold, and “lots of people there wear fur.” “No way,” I said. Even though I had nothing against wearing vintage, that black Persian lamb coat with the wide gray and black beaver cuffs was too big, too old-fashioned, and too REAL FUR!

 It would be very hypocritical of me to claim I was bent on making an ethical statement since I have no compunction about wearing leather shoes and jackets. And I would never scoff at a gift of the latest Miu Miu tote, but I would never be caught wearing a fur coat in public…well, aside from that time during a winter vacation in NYC. I had borrowed a friend’s beautiful parka, never thinking that the “fur” around the hood was real until a group of PETA members surrounded me on Fifth Avenue and followed me down the street yelling, “Bimbo in fur, bimbo in fur!” (Boy, did my kids and my niece get a kick out of that one. Thank goodness none of them were old enough to have iPhones at the time, as I’m sure the video would have been an overnight sensation on YouTube.)

 My mom’s coat represented so many things to me, so much of her personality and my childhood were wrapped up in that coat. I can remember the feel of the curly fur as I would sink my face into it. And the fur cuffs made me laugh as I would brush them across my nose when Mom wasn’t looking. The black and white paisley silk lining was chosen specifically for her. She had a matching scarf that she draped around her neck and tucked in, just so. So valuable was the coat, I believed, that her name was hand-embroidered on the lining in a fabulous scrolled font…”Blanch.” It was hers and only hers–and in case some mistaken soul should try to abscond with it from any of the various coat check rooms she hung it in, her personal ID was there for all to see.

 Back in those days it was de rigueur for my mother’s friends to own a fur…in fact many of them had many such coats. Their furriers were treated as members of the family  (what five-year-old even knows the word “furrier” these days?!?) My mother had her own furrier–he treated her almost as regally as he treated her coat. And when the weather grew warmer Mom’s coat, like all good fur coats, went on a paid vacation to “summer camp,” otherwise known as cold storage. (Didn’t everyone’s?) The coat for Mom was not just something that kept her incredibly warm, it was a symbol of prosperity and stature.
A grand statement and a fierce slap in the face of those shadowy, haunting bogeymen and women who tried to vanquish her flame during the Holocaust. She had made it to Hell and back, and now she had the fur coat as proof of that emergence. The ethical aspect of wearing fur did not hold a candle to the ethical dilemma I dealt with when deciding what to do with the darn coat. How could I get rid of something that represented my mother’s battle cry of defiance?

 I’ve come across quite a few letters that were written by daughters who have wrestled with similar predicaments as my own. One woman had her mother’s coat made into a jacket so she could keep her mom’s embroidered name intact. Another mentioned that she found an animal preserve that uses old fur coats as bedding for rescued weasels and beavers. And yet one theater lover donated her coat to be used on stage during period plays. I like all those ideas (although I can’t say Mom would be too thrilled to know some old beaver was sleeping on Blanch’s pelt.) But I have to admit when push came to shove, the coat went into a storage facility with the rest of our things. And there it hangs, once again, its future in question. Knowing someone on Mad Men was wearing her coat would probably make her happy, but I know my mother would rather I just keep it as a memento.  And I just might…but really, I don’t need the actual coat to remember…the memories I have of her are already embedded in my mind.

 Does anyone else have a fur coat they inherited?

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.”

Nearer My Mom, To Thee

The Crafty Crow

I can’t remember the last time I spent Mother’s Day with my mother...in person. She’s been gone almost ten years and before that she lived in Florida while I lived in California. The times we spent together during the Mother’s Days of that period were reduced to the length of a phone call, and there was always an undercurrent of guilt fueling that obligatory call. I felt sad that she was not with her children and grandchildren, and guilty about not making that happen.  Each year I wrestled with the determination of whether it was better to get the call over with earlier in the day or at the last possible moment.  

During those calls, Mom would say she loved whatever gift we sent, and then I would put my boys on the phone so they could wish their grandmother a happy day. She would never say, but I could tell from the tone of her voice whether it really was a happy day or not. Whether she and my dad went out for lunch or dinner (my dad, Mr. Romantic, was one of those guys who would celebrate the day before to avoid the crowds), or whether they did nothing and just stayed home alone. Invariably those phone calls did not do much to contribute to the happiness of my day (thus the hemming and hawing connected to making them). They hearkened me back to the many Mother’s Days of my youth. On those days, my dad would often come home from his morning errands with a big bunch of flowers.  I would always add my own colorful bouquets--the ones with the crepe paper blossoms and pipe cleaner stems, and handmade cards covered with hearts that had been glued on assiduously. A big fuss was made over anything I created, and as ours was a very symbiotic relationship, I was ecstatic to be able to make my mom happy. As I grew older, the homemade gifts were replaced by gifts I actually purchased. One in particular was a white cotton nightgown, delicate and thin as rice paper. A white satin ribbon zigzagged around the neckline, and also the hemline.  My mom wore that nightgown often, until the many runs through the washer made it unwearable, just to show me how special it was.

Yet as celebratory as those times seemed, there was always an undercurrent of melancholia hiding there beneath them--like a piece of fine gauze. Any joy that was experienced in our home was often followed by a loud, wistful sigh, or a remark that began, “If only.” “If only my family were here.” “If only the war had not taken your grandparents away.” I’m not sure whether it was my mother’s survivor’s guilt or merely her inherent unhappiness that caused her to destroy the mood, but she often did.  It was as if she felt obligated to always bring up the past so it wouldn’t be forgotten, and never allowed herself to revel too greatly in her joy and good fortune. It was always incumbent upon us to bring her that joy, but we could not compete with the memories of the Holocaust, and she was wont to let us know, in her own subtle ways.  It was as if the joy, as well as the air, was being sucked out of the room. I felt there was nothing I could say after such remarks to make things better, so very often my younger self would walk away, feeling dejected. Mom could never understand why that was, and quite often she would become angry. She probably didn’t even realize how her demeanor affected us, and it was obvious she didn’t try to.

www.wallcoo.net

The Mother’s Days I spend with my own family are some of my most cherished times. We usually try some obscure place for brunch, and often my guys indulge me and allow themselves to be taken to a chick flick if there’s one playing that day. I love sitting in the theater with them knowing we’re all in one place, together. (Even though some of us are sleeping.) Last Mother’s Day we were all together on a plane to Italy. Once we had taken off and were flying at a pretty high altitude, I felt in my own childish way, as though we were closer to heaven, and thus closer to my mom. I imagined her looking in on the plane, seeing my boys, now young men, sitting there with me and I thought of how bursting with pride she would be. She often said that the only things that gave her pleasure were her children and grandchildren. And yet her pleasure seemed so fleeting at times.Thinking of her while on that plane did not dampen my spirits, as it usually did. In some strange way I felt her presence and as a light blanket on a cool summer night it descended upon me, and I felt happy. This year, I will once again be on a plane on Mother’s Day, this time heading to Turkey. I will think of my mom on that day, hoping to sense her again. I will imagine her smiling, and send her my love.

MISS HUNGARY OF 1939

There is a jar of Revlon's Eterna 27 in my medicine cabinet.  Even though it traveled with me from California to Massachusetts I know that I will never use it--or get rid of it. It was my mom’s and the imprints of her fingertips are still visible in the once white, now eggshell-colored cream. This was her signature cream, the only thing she used on her face, and judging from the glowing comments people would make about her skin until the day she died, it did the trick. 

My mom was very concerned with appearances, of all kinds. She was a cosmetician and a manicurist. Her platinum blond hair and well-manicured nails and toes (Naked Pink was her color of choice) were her calling cards. She was one of the only moms I knew who wore platform shoes back in the day, and topping out at five feet, towered over no one even when she wore them. One of my favorites was a pair of matte gold wedges that were sprinkled with bits of  color that looked like confetti. Had it not been long gone, the pair of size five shoes would definitely have rivaled her face cream's status.  


Mom was always worried about her weight. At one time our small apartment was overrun with various belts and rollers and other odd-looking contraptions that came with the promise of changing your looks and your life. How she looked and how her life looked to others was very important to my mom. And if the reality of her life was not to her liking, she would have no problem with inventing the truth. We would often call her out on this, but not that often as it became clear to us that she had a very difficult time discerning fiction from fact. (Yes, she did tell her nurses that she was Miss Hungary of 1939--and they never doubted her for a minute.)


Her beauty and style belied her very less than beautiful past.  She was the eldest daughter of an orthodox rabbi in Kolozsvar, Romania--the capital of Transylvania. When the Nazis invaded and she and the rest of her family were sent to Auschwitz, as she told it, the idyllic days of this very spoiled, overindulged young girl were over.  Nothing about her post-war life could ever compete with her pre-war life, and she often spoke of how wonderful things would have been "if not for the war."  She was not afraid to speak of the war, but she spoke more about the generalities of the horrors she had seen and experienced rather than the specifics.  By the time she and my dad and their infant daughter, my sister, landed in America after the war, only a glimmer of her former self (and life) remained.


She worked hard in her new country to maintain some semblance of normalcy, and as I look back on her life now I realize just how difficult that was. Her only true happiness came through us, her children, and ironically the pressure it put upon us pushed us away. It was her way or no way because in essence we were living our lives for her as well. She could be sharp-tongued,”This is what I had to buy a new outfit for?” she asked as she sweetly kissed me goodbye at my wedding. A wedding, by the way, that was paid for largely by my husband and myself, but had obviously not met her standards. And just as quickly as she stabbed with one turn of a phrase, she could charm the pants off of anyone else with another. 


She was quite the conundrum, and it would be an understatement to say that she was a narssicist. But as often as she talked about herself and her life, I'm sure there was still lots about her that we really didn't know. "Why don't you write a book about me?" she would ask.  The thought of the padding she would apply to her stories made me steer clear of anything remotely similar to what she had in mind. There are times when I wonder whether we should have been more understanding--more empathetic. And then I realize that would have only made us more guilt-ridden, and heaven knows we had filled the glass to capacity in that category. 

It is ironic that my beautiful mother who took such good care of her own skin and the skin of others  would eventually die of skin cancer; malignant melanoma. Through it all she was a trooper, and even her illness couldn't dampen her personality: "Dahling, you could use a little moisturizer on that beautiful skin," I heard her tell one of the nurses who administered her PET scan. Her favorite phrase was, "You're gorgeous!" and she would use it when referencing not just your physical attributes, but anything positive about you. It was never, "You're so smart," or "You're so kind," but just, "You're gorgeous!" The phrase encapsulated everything for her, and it was her way of telling you that you were perfect. My niece Marjorie recently spoke at the baby naming for her daughter Mia (who was named for my mom): "My grandma had so much love to give, and it still amazes me that somebody who had lived through such horror and ugliness could still find the gorgeousness in life." Through the years, myriad feelings sprang to the surface when I thought of my mother, and many of them were fractured. Lately I prefer thinking of her in that wonderful, positive way. 

Hungarians are known for their cooking, and my mom was proof of that. It always amazed me how she never worked from a recipe. She had an innate sense about taste and flavors, and cold throw some random things into a pot and miraculously come up with a delicious dish. Shabbat dinner at our house was pretty simple, though. The menu varied from time to time, but the standards were chicken soup and Shake 'N Bake chicken. Mom would line her sheet pans with foil and we kids would clamor for the crunchy clumps of crumb topping that had invariably fallen off the chicken and adhered themselves to the foil during baking. This recipe from Maury Rubin of City Bakery is reminiscent of my mom's chicken. Rather than drizzling the mustardy vinaigrette as the recipe suggests, I use it as a dipping sauce. It is a tangy counterpoint to the mild pretzel topping. If you're lucky, some of that topping will stick to the baking sheet, ready to be picked at once it comes out of the oven.

PRETZEL CHICKEN STRIPS WITH MUSTARD VINAIGRETTE

( adapted from City Bakery--serves 6)

Vinaigrette:

½ cup canola oil

½ cup whole-grain mustard

2 tablespoons Dijon mustard

¼ cup water

3 tablespoons red wine vinegar

salt and pepper to taste

½ pound hard pretzels, coarsely crushed in a zip-lock bag

6 large skinless and boneless chicken breast halves

1 head romaine lettuce, washed, dried, and cut into small pieces

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. In a food processor, pulse the coarsely crushed pretzels until coarsely ground. (You should have some small chunks and some fine crumbs.) Transfer to a large shallow bowl.

In a blender combine oil, both mustards, water, and vinegar, and blend until smooth. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Cut chicken breast halves into strips and set aside. Pour half of the dressing into a large shallow bowl. Add the chicken strips and turn to coat. Dredge the strips in the pretzel crumbs and transfer to a rack set over a rimmed baking sheet. Bake in the upper third of the oven for 20 to 25 minutes, or until cooked through.

Place the cut up lettuce on a platter. Place the chicken pieces over the lettuce and drizzle a bit of the mustard vinaigrette over the lettuce.  

TALL, DARK, AND HANDSOME

My dad was the strongest man in the world. At least that’s what I believed and felt for much of my childhood. I was never fearful of anything when the two of us were together, which was quite often during my younger years as my mom worked on Saturdays.  Dad--Mike to his coworkers, Michel to my mom, and Michal to his buddies, was born into a poor family in Kalisz, Poland. He was one of many children, and when his father, my grandfather, made his frequent trips to the US, Dad would become the family’s substitute father figure. Unfortunately for my dad, on the last trip my grandfather attempted--the trip where he was finally taking his family with him--an eye infection prevented my grandmother (and thus the rest of the family) from going to “America the Golden.”  And the rest, as they say, is history--a very sad history. After experiencing the horrors of over fourteen concentration camps, one of them being the most horrible, Treblinka, my dad was left alone. I would come to find out many years later, only after reading a newspaper article about him, that his brawn, knowledge of mechanics, and sheer luck enabled him to survive. 

He was a simple man, with simple needs. He had a great memory--could pick out someone in a crowd he hadn’t seen in forty years and knew exactly where and when that last time was--and although he was not one for small talk, he was a great storyteller. How he and my mom (Miss Fancy Pants), ever got together was one of life’s great mysteries to my sister and me. “The war did strange things to people,” my mom would like to remind us. “If not for the war...,” she was wont to say. They met in a displaced persons camp in post-WWII Germany.  She allegedly was a witness to a crime, and he was the chief of police. He was good-looking, strong, and employed. That was good enough for her. Theirs was a tempestuous marriage, to say the least, and how it lasted over fifty years is yet another of life’s greatest mysteries.

One of the favorite things I loved doing with my dad was visiting his cousin Molly who lived in the projects near Coney Island. Every once in a while we would go on some rides, but mostly we went too see Molly. She lived in a very tall apartment building where the halls echoed with the sound of our heels and the elevators smelled of ammonia. Molly was his “American cousin,” the daughter of his uncle. There was always a tuna sandwich on a soft, braided challah roll awaiting me on those visits, and I munched happily in the kitchen as I listened to my dad and his cousin speaking in hushed tones in the living room. Every once in a while I caught a snippet of what was said--most of it was health-related (Molly’s) or marriage-related (Dad’s).

 Some of our other outings took us to Pitkin Avenue, in the Brownsville section of Brooklyn. Back then, Brownsville was the cultural center of Jewish life in Brooklyn, and Pitkin Avenue was it’s main commercial strip.  Much of the street was taken over by pushcarts from which vendors would sell their wares. A special treat we would bring home from those trips was marble pound cake. The paper-wrapped cake came in long loaves from which smaller slabs were cut. The yellow part of the loaf was soft and buttery, while the swirly ribbon of chocolate that ran in and out through the yellow cake was moist and fudgy. My dad was not a big sweets eater, but he did like this cake (simple, always simple), and he would wash down a slice of it with a big tankard of coffee. He never drank coffee from a normal-sized cup, always a tall glass tankard. He had a large collection of tall ceramic mugs imprinted with “World’s Best Dad” that were given to him on birthdays and Father’s Day, but invariably the glass one was the one he would choose. Last week marked the tenth anniversary of my dad’s passing, and when I think of him at this time of year, at Hanukkah, I think of my mom saying, “Michel, if you’ll grate a few potatoes, I’ll whip up a batch of latkes.” (No food processor for them back then.) He’d then pull out the four-sided box grater and together they would get to work. 

 I very much doubt the pushcarts of Pitkin Avenue are still in existence. Soon after I discovered the wonderfulness of the marble pound the Jews began to skedaddle from Brownsville to other parts of Brooklyn, such as  East Flatbush and Canarsie, and even to Long Island (better known as the hinterlands). After that, we no longer made the trek to the neighborhood. The marble pound cake did survive, however. I’m sure the one I tasted back then was oil-based, not really buttery at all. (How was I to know everything had to be parve??) This one below is buttery, and a whole heck of a lot better than the original. But memories are memories....

MARBLE POUND CAKE

(adapted from a recipe by Marcy Goldman)

Vegetable oil cooking spray

2 cups all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

1/4 teaspoon salt

1 1/2 sticks (6 ounces) unsalted butter, softened, plus 3 tablespoons melted

2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder, preferably Dutch process

1 1/3 cups granulated sugar

2 large eggs

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

1/2c. buttermilk

Preheat the oven to 350°. Spray an 8-by-4-inch loaf pan with vegetable oil cooking spray and line it with parchment paper. Spray the paper.

In a medium bowl, whisk the flour with the baking powder and salt. In another medium bowl, combine the melted butter with the cocoa until smooth.

In a food processor, combine the softened butter with the granulated sugar. Add the eggs and vanilla and process until smooth. Add the dry ingredients and pulse just until combined. Add the buttermilk and process until smooth. Transfer 1 cup of the batter to the bowl with the cocoa and stir until smooth.

Spoon batters into the prepared pan in 2 layers, alternating spoonfuls of vanilla and chocolate to simulate a checkerboard. To create marbling, run a table knife (or wooden skewer) through the batters in a swirling motion.

 Bake the pound cake for 25 minutes. Reduce the temperature to 325° and bake for 25 minutes more. Cover loosely with foil and bake for 15 to 20 minutes longer, or until the cake is lightly browned and a toothpick inserted in the center comes out with moist crumbs attached. Let the pound cake cool in the pan for 10 minutes, then unmold and let cool completely on a wire rack. Dust with confectioners' sugar before serving.

MAKE AHEAD The cake can be wrapped in foil and refrigerated for 1 week or frozen for up to 2 months.