By Malkie Gordon Hirsch
When I got the phone call at 2 a.m., I was so confused at the timing of it all that I didn’t have much of a reaction. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes as I tried registering and processing things in a matter of seconds.
The news arrived in the form of a missed call from my brother, which led me to check the family WhatsApp chat, where the news of our grandmother’s petirah was announced.
She was old, and old people pass away, whether we’re ready for it or not.
But the longer I sat with the news, the more I understood the finality of that last goodbye when I brought my kids to see her two weeks ago, when I myself barely recognized the tiny woman lying there in that hospital bed, the emotions finally caught up and like a faucet that’s turned ever so slightly, the tears began to fall.
The last time I saw her will now forever remain ingrained in my mind, the details of our talk and all the inconsequential things we did and said that day will stay frozen in time, which is a pretty cool trick I discovered a few years ago that your brain can do to preserve those last moments you might not have realized were going to be way more meaningful than you might have anticipated.
I’ll always remember her opening her eyes, seeing me, and smiling.
I crouched down to eye level and asked if she was hungry or wanted a drink.
Her tiny stature was suddenly so alarming to me, and in that moment, I realized that we didn’t have a lot of time left. Tears sprang to my eyes, and I tried hiding them so as not to upset her or confuse my children, but thankfully some things remained unsaid.
She looked too weak to sit up in bed, but she whispered how beautiful I was, which I laughed at.
My kids stood around me, shifting in their places uncomfortably and likely wondering how long the visit would take.
I don’t know if I can blame children who never knew the woman I knew.
I want to keep reassuring myself that we did right by her by being there pretty regularly toward her end, but guilt always has a way of sneaking up on us and making us feel like what we had done didn’t scratch the surface of what was required to keep her happy, comfortable, and proud of what she created with so little, so many years ago.
It’s a funny thought to write but I’d say often that I had a sneaking suspicion that my grandmother would outlive us all.
I’d joke about it with my mother and convince myself that we wouldn’t have to worry about losing her because she was tougher than anyone else I knew.
She did go through hell at a very young age, which likely prepared her for the unpredictability of life.
At age nine, she was orphaned after witnessing her father get killed for reaching out to hug her, a child who belonged to him but who the Germans thought was a non-Jewish girl because of her blue eyes and blonde hair.
Lately, she’d recount the years she hid in the cellar of a non-Jewish woman who had worked for her family and taken pity on her, a young girl with no surviving family.
She would lie flat on her back during the day, to keep out of sight and out of danger and only get some air once night fell.
She’d tell me things in bits and pieces because even 80 or so years after those atrocities, it was hard for her to reflect on how her life began.
And how she had to have the courage to do the things she did once that nightmare was over.
I don’t know a lot of the details of how she survived that way for six years, but sometimes when life presents you with the worst possible scenario and still gives you a way to get through it, you do whatever it takes to get through it. No questions, no complaints, no excuses. Just action.
She met my grandfather at a displaced persons camp once the war ended, and they married, started a family, raised five children who had their own children and those children had … well, you get the idea.
I guess that was my main motivation behind bringing my kids to visit the woman who made it possible for them to be here.
I don’t think she ever fully grasped what she had accomplished in her simple and quiet life. She never owned much and worked hard to provide what she could for her children and grandchildren.
I recall when she’d ask me why I wasn’t wearing the jewelry she worked hard to buy for my birthday or graduation gift, and I’d think about how often it sat in the box because I was wearing something else I preferred.
Because being born during the time that I was, with the things we had access to, was completely different than her upbringing. I could choose what I wanted to wear among the many options available, and she owned one thing. Her happiness, her need for stuff wasn’t contingent on material items.
She epitomized what a Bubby (grandmother) is. She was an excellent cook and baker and she’d regularly overfeed us to a point of discomfort, and we fondly reflect on the goodies she’d cook and bake for us when we’d visit.
She often brought up the time I took her for a manicure when she came for Shabbos, like it was the kindest thing anyone could do for another person. It wasn’t about the nail polish, though; it was the fact that I wanted to hang out with her that touched her.
If we were in Boro Park and she wasn’t home, we’d visit the Coat Gallery and find her at her part-time job, eating lunch out of a Tupperware, sitting on the top of a step ladder, underneath a mountain of high-hanging coats.
She’d convince us that it was her last week at work because her feet couldn’t keep up anymore.
This we all knew wasn’t actually the truth, as we’d find her a week later perched in her same spot, happily watching passersby during her lunch break.
She was a small woman but had strength to grab our faces with both of her hands and plant a full-mouthed wet kiss on our cheeks before searching her bag for something to gift us with.
Candy, a little money to buy something for ourselves, something to express her love.
When I think about her life and all the struggles she had to survive, I feel pretty spoiled. I know for certain that even her happiest day was a day I’d never fully understand.
I’ll never fully know or appreciate what it took for her to keep going when things felt hopeless.
My grandmother did not have an easy life. She did not have many material goods or wants for them. In its place, she had the nachas of more people than even I know.
She created future generations of a family that almost didn’t exist at all.
All I can hope for is that we do all we can to keep making her proud from her final resting place.
HaMakom yenachem etchem b’toch aveilei Tzion v’Yerushalayim.
Malkie Gordon Hirsch is a native of the Five Towns community, a mom of 5, a writer, and a social media influencer.