Yesterday marked my grandmother’s first yahrzeit (yiddish for “anniversary of death”). In honor of her memory, I am posting my eulogy for her here. As I was reading my words of goodbye for my Babi, I was so struck by how true these words ring a year later. In honor of all those who love in the face of hate, whether they be living or dead, I offer these words to you:
When I was a kid, my parents would send me to Canada to spend a week with my Savta and Zaide in Toronto and a week with my Babi in Hamilton, Ontario. When I stayed with my Babi, I would sleep in her big bed with her. One summer, after a couple of nights staying at Babi’s house, I finally worked up the courage to ask her if she would take down this one painting of this woman that sat on top of her dresser. The woman was young and beautiful. She wore a blue dress with white flowers. She had her thick brown hair done up nicely, but not too fancy, and her lips, though stern, were beautifully colored. All this aside, the picture was kind of unnerving to me, especially in the dark. It was her eyes. I could feel her staring at me, even when my eyes were closed. I finally asked my Babi if she would take down the photo because it was creeping me out. In her usual kind, gentle, “my grandchildren can do no wrong” voice, she replied, “Oh, really? You know that picture is of me, right?” Mortified, I instantly stumbled out something along the lines of “Oh…yeah…of course…I mean…you’re beautiful…yeah…it’s great.” To her credit, and my sincere regret, she took down the picture for me. I’d like to think I asked her to put the picture back up the next day, but I honestly can’t remember.
The truth was I couldn’t believe that painting was of my Babi. It was hard for me to imagine my Babi having lived a life before she was my Babi. I knew she was a Holocaust survivor, but to me that was more of a historical framework than a personal fact. I knew her only as the old woman who made endless amounts of polunchinta and water challah, who was a wiz at Rumikub, and who never had enough nice things to say about me and my siblings to anyone who would listen, especially her friends. And in truth, despite all she had gone through, I think that is the way she wanted me to see her.
When my Babi passed away this past Friday afternoon, I found myself needing to look at that very same painting almost instantly. I had not seen that picture in years, but I wanted it now. I went rummaging through her closet, which is quite literally filled with family pictures, until I found it. There she was. That young beautiful woman staring out at me, and this time I was staring back. Those eyes which had frightened me as a child were now so powerful. Looking back, I think what was unsettling to me as a child was my inability to recognize the graceful dance of strength and pain that was emanating from her eyes. Based on how young she looked, the painting couldn’t have been made too long after she was liberated from Bergen-Belsen. The fact that she looked so determined and laser-focused at such a traumatic time in her life is just incredible. I didn’t know it, but that look, which had made me nervous as a young girl, is now the most powerful thing in the world to me. My Babi was a warrior and had a warrior’s spirit, and one need only to look into that young woman’s gray eyes to realize it.
It is an understatement to say my Babi had a hard life. She lost basically her entire family in the Holocaust, and she lost two husbands thereafter. She suffered from pain and she suffered from depression. And yet, despite it all, my Babi maintained her strong spirit until the very end. This spirit even worked against her at times. I was visiting her a couple months ago, and she asked me how old she was, which was a common question for her. Sometimes she just wanted me to guess and sometimes she genuinely didn’t know. I told her she was 90, and she said, “Huh. 90…I think I’ve had enough.” That was my Babi, quick wit, albeit a little dark, until the very end.
But even though her mind may have been finished with this life, her strong spirit was not yet done. My Babi lived through the Holocaust as a young woman. As an old woman, she fell down the stairs a few years ago and came out of the hospital virtually unscathed. She suffered from an infection at age 89 from a certain bacteria, of which there were only 10 other reported cases in the world, and yet she made a full recovery. There were a number of times our family readied ourselves to say goodbye, but that warrior spirit of hers was certainly determined to hold on. Some days, I was sure my Babi would outlive us all.
When it was finally her time to go, my Babi went peacefully and quickly, in the comfort of her own home, which she had told us many times was so important to her. Just a few days before she passed, her nurses brought in oxygen tanks for her, which meant she couldn’t have any open flames in the apartment, and that meant this would be her first Shabbat not lighting candles, which always meant so much to her every Friday night. She never had to experience Shabbat without her candles. She died just a few hours before it was time to light them. What’s more, my Babi died on her second husband’s and my grandpa’s yahrtzeit, Shushan Purim. Some might call these things coincidence, but I’d prefer to think that her spirit, untouched by life’s tragedies and bodily ailments all these years, finally decided it was time to let go. And there is immense strength in that as well.
But my Babi’s spirit helped her do more than survive. What is so incredible to me about my Babi’s story was her ability to find strength in loving others. Inside that 4’10” woman was an unconventional warrior, a warrior who was determined to hold on but was even more so determined to love, and she loved her family and her friends most of all.
Right up until her final weeks, when speech was becoming a challenge for her, my Babi would never let a visit go by without letting the whole room know how beautiful she thought I was every single time I stepped into her apartment. “Just beautiful,” she would say, “Susan, isn’t she beautiful? Isn’t she just beautiful?” She couldn’t talk about much, but she could always tell you how happy she was for all her grandchildren (partners included) and how successful she thought we all were. And if my parents, or her wonderful caretaker, Tsaro, or even a friend of mine visiting that my Babi was meeting for the very first time, was in the room, my Babi made sure the entire room agreed with her and acknowledged just how special her family was. And even as it became difficult for her to speak, my Babi never ended a visit without thanking us profusely just for stopping by to say hi. “Thank you so much darling. I love you. Thank you, darling. Thank you.”
Once she entered into her final weeks, and the end was very much in sight, my Babi’s dementia started to show itself more and more. Her speech really started to go, and she had a very hard time identifying me when I would come visit her, at least at first. I would say, “it’s Daphna,” and she would look at me blankly. But then I would say “Daphnika, Susan’s daughter,” and even on the last day I saw her, my Babi recognized me right away, however briefly, and gave me as big a smile as her body would permit. Daphnika is the Hungarian way of lovingly calling me Dear Daphna. Something about adding that little bit of affection brought my Babi back to reality, even if just for a moment. When things were at their worst, my Babi never forgot how much she loved her family. Her love ran so deep, not even her mind could forget that, even when her mind was forgetting everything else. That is an epic, warrior kind of love.
My Babi was a warrior, and I never fully realized it until she was gone. But looking back, that strength seeped out of her eyes and it was infused in everything she did and everyone she loved. She taught me strength in the face of unimaginable hardship, and she has taught me to only love harder when faced with pain. That kind of strength, the strength to choose love even when confronted with pain and unimaginable hatred, is something so few people can do, but for her it was so natural. Because, as my Babi understood, real strength does not lie in muscle or aggression, but in your ability to love when life is hardest. My Babi has given our family so much through that love. There is never a right time to go, but I can say with complete confidence that my Babi is finally at peace. Her life was hard, but it was also filled with friends, family, and love. And if there is any legacy up to which we can live, it is to love, and love fiercely, no matter what hatred may come our way.