When I first met my grandmother’s nephew Larry, I saw him as a kind, shy, extremely tall and handsome man. He spoke English with the same Yiddish accent as my grandparents. I would see Larry each time he visited Grandma Clara and Grandpa Max because my family’s home was in the apartment above my grandparents’.
During one of these visits, my mother whispered something about Larry surviving the Holocaust. Something about “the War.” I was only a child. I didn’t really understand, but still I sensed that Larry was somehow very, very lucky and at the same time very, very wounded.
As a teenager, I learned that Larry had never discussed what he’d gone through during the Holocaust. Not with his wife, not with his children. He never brought the subject up, my mother told me, and no one dared ever to ask about “it”.
So, when I interviewed him for this novel, I thought possibly he felt relieved to at last talk about “it.” He hadn’t discussed his experiences, he informed me, simply because no one had asked about them. Although this fact surprised me at the time, I realize now that back then, this was far from unusual.
Why I was the one in the family to finally ask the questions, I just can’t say. But if I were forced to find an answer, I’d have to respond: “Grandma.”
My father’s mother was a sweet, sad little woman of incredibly few words. But she said so much with those hazy hazel eyes. Because I could visit her every day, I did. Sometimes, if Grandpa happened to be busy with one of his projects, Grandma and I would go to her dressing table. I’d watch her reach down to the lower right drawer and remove a large cigar box.
Together, we’d sit on the bed and go through the sepia-toned family photographs stored inside that box. Photos from the “old country.” Photos of Grandma’s family. I remember thinking: So many brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, cousins! I never knew such large families existed!
Grandma would tell me the name of each family member in the photo, then say, “They were murdered! By the Nazis.” It was less a statement than a question. Whether I sat opposite her as a child of 8, a teenager, or a young woman—she would always look at me with those searching eyes as though I just might have a justifiable explanation for how there could be such cruelty.
“I’ll never see them again,” she would moan. “Gone. They’re gone. Just like that—they were killed! For no reason.” She’d shake her head and tears would spill because of her broken heart. I would be unable to speak, unable to move. Whatever had caused Grandma such heartbreaking grief was far too frightening and painful to explain, let alone comprehend or justify.
But I would have to do something to ease Grandma’s anguish, so I would hug her. Pat her shoulder. Kiss her cheek. And soon she would lift the corner of her apron to wipe away her tears. I’d return the photographs to the dressing table. She would say, “Come.” And together we’d return to the kitchen and move on to our next activity.
The Story Behind