I love cemeteries. It’s all your fault. Yes, I am fascinated by the names, history and stones, but, it’s more than that. When I was about 10 – it was the mid ‘70’s – you pulled me out of religious school early and headed to an unveiling. You were driving that horrendous orange Buick that you bought used, in beige, and had painted your favorite color. What you were thinking?! I don’t know. But that’s beside the point. Continue reading
My daughter answered the phone. Her voice went up an octave, and her face forced a smile, as if the caller could see her and she needed to convey welcome. Translation? She had no idea who she was talking with. But, a well-trained clergy kid who can make small talk with the best of them, she chatted with whomever was calling her grandmother. I watched from Mom’s kitchen, trying to guess the caller’s identity while Mom slept in the living room, unawakened by the ringing phone.
In my mother’s house everything is calm. Continue reading
I broke a coffee mug the other morning. Continue reading
When you died
you took part of my memory with you. Continue reading
Today, Marsha Gruenberg Kreuzman, a Holocaust survivor, will be buried alongside her beloved Robert. Marsha spent decades telling her story and teaching others so that we will not forget the atrocities of the Sho’ah. Please read this reflection & share it — in order to honor Marsha’s memory. These reflections here include the broad outlines of Marsha’s story. The more detailed account is accessible through the USC Shoah Foundation Visual History Archive: http://vhaonline.usc.edu/viewingPage?testimonyID=18431&returnIndex=0#. Marsha and her husband Robert recorded their testimonies as part of the visionary project created by Steven Spielberg.)
Marsha and her mother.
Marsha Gruenberg was born in Krakow, Poland. She was the only Jew in her class and stood out as a redhead. She was persecuted and taunted with the cries of “Jew – Jew – Jew.” Continue reading
Remember that afternoon you and I took Noa to the field where the Northwestern marching band practices? Continue reading
She was a weaver. Coming to it late in life, her footsteps were no longer steady, but her fingers delicately managed the small loom in her living room, balls of yarn beckoning from the nearby basket. One of her last days, I came to see her. Her daughters handed me a small, soft package, wrapped in tissue — a narrow jewel-toned scarf unrolled, marked by a label with the weaver’s name. Continue reading
We were both lifeguards.
Beyond that, our lives were different. Continue reading
Every few years, my mom would troll our neighborhood for a good refrigerator box. Continue reading