When Grandma called me a balaboosta, she made me feel capable of anything. Regina, better known as Grandma, was born in Eastern Europe, in or around what is now Ukraine, at a time when country borders shifted like fastmoving tectonic plates. She immigrated to Brooklyn in 1955 and slowly assembled a life there. I met her when my husband and I were dating, and she and I immediately connected. Her quiet yet thoughtful demeanor, soft glittering eyes, and affable acceptance of me, a shiksa from upstate New York, drew me to her. Family members had told me that she could be reticent, but I found the opposite true. From the start, our relationship was easy and flourished into a friendship.
Initially, we connected over food. I remember the first time I ate Grandma’s apricot sandwich cookies. They were sweet, tender, and melt-in-your-mouth delicious. I marveled at the way she used her gold ring to punch out the cookie’s center to reveal the glistening jam inside. There was also stuffed cabbage, wrapped like a newborn in a bunting, and her chicken noodle soup, a mosaic of savory flavors. I was touched when Grandma allowed me to cook for her. Perhaps foolishly, I prepared my version of chicken soup with an abundance of dill. When she happily slurped it up, I felt like our relationship had reached a different level.
As we grew closer, we talked more, though I was careful not to ask too many questions about her past. In her late teens, Grandma was imprisoned at Auschwitz. Although she managed to survive, almost everyone in her family, including her parents and siblings, perished. Once free, she married another Holocaust survivor, Leo — each soothing the other’s scars of war. They settled in Nyiregyhaza, Hungary, and, together, built a successful business and raised an exceptionally kind and compassionate son, my father-in-law. Then the Soviets took over Hungary in the 1950s. Afraid their future would be ripped away from them once again, they fled their comfortable home under the cover of night. The family dog remained behind, anxiously barking. This sound haunted Grandma until she died.
Over the years, Grandma shared additional stories with my husband and me, albeit hesitantly. We wanted to know every detail, but for her, protecting us was more important. In my eyes, she had developed the power to transmute her pain into love, which she enveloped us with. Nothing was more important to her than filling our lives with everything good and hopeful. This struck me as a most selfless and courageous act considering her past.
Hanging in our kitchen is Grandma’s handwritten apricot sandwich cookie recipe, which we framed when my husband and I bought our house. The recipe is both a lament and a celebration. When my husband and I look at it, it’s a sweet reminder of Grandma’s gifts and how she’s still illuminating our lives.
