Jason was different from the other handsome Jewish boys I met in college at Syracuse. I’d liked him the second my roommate’s boyfriend introduced us, in the fall of 1995.
He went to nearby Ithaca College, and on our first date, I was struck by our similar backgrounds and values, even with him growing up in New York and me in California. He was fun, and his faith was central to his life. “It’s because of what my grandparents went through,” Jason said. “They are Holocaust survivors.”
“Mine too,” I told him.
We didn’t talk much more about that. Too heavy a subject for a first date. Besides, neither of us knew much more. His grandparents, like mine, rarely spoke about their wartime experiences.
Sweetness and joy, not sadness, filled my grandparents’ home. They lived in Florida, and I visited them two or three times a year. Their house always smelled of fresh-baked sugar cookies or my favorite, Grandma Ada’s chocolate chip cake.
“When your father was little, I fed the neighborhood kids till their bellies burst,” she told me.
“It’s true,” my father added. “She was always in the kitchen.”
Every so often, I’d catch a glimpse of the numbers tattooed on Grandma Ada’s arm. One time, after getting my ears pierced, I asked why she never wore earrings. She cringed.
“A Nazi guard tore my earrings out,” she said, her voice shaking. She straightened up. “No more talk about that. Your earrings look pretty. Now, have a cookie.” That was the last she ever said about it.
It was my father who told me that Grandma Ada had been a prisoner at Auschwitz, one of the most notorious concentration camps. The tattoo on her arm was an identification number put there by her captors. Grandpa Leo survived a different camp. They met after the war and emigrated to New York City.
That was when their history seemed to start. Grandpa Leo told stories about working several jobs as a waiter to support my grandmother and my father. Grandma Ada talked about parties they threw.
“We shared holidays with other families who survived,” she said. “And so many simchas, joyful occasions…weddings, bar mitzvahs, graduations, anniversaries. Life went on.”
They took me to temple for Shabbat, Friday evenings and Saturday mornings, and I got to see families celebrate their simchas. For blessings over the wine and the challah, I joined the other children up front to drink a cup of grape juice and eat a bite of the braided bread.
Back at my grandparents’, we lit Shabbat candles and ate a feast, starting with Grandma’s soup and ending with her chocolate chip cake.
At my own bat mitzvah, my grandparents beamed with pride. “These traditions are important,” Grandma Ada told me. “We must keep them alive.” She didn’t need to say why. Passing on her faith made sure that a part of all those who had died lived on.
Something Jason understood. After our first date, I knew we’d made a real connection. I asked him to my sorority’s winter formal. We spoke on the phone a lot over the next few weeks.
At home for Thanksgiving break, I got a call from Jason. We chatted a bit about our holidays. Then Jason said something odd. “Tell your father that Jaffa, Jerry and Simon say hello.”
“Who?” I asked.
“My uncles, Jaffa, Jerry and Simon Bergson,” Jason said.
My father was surprised when I mentioned those names, and so were my grandparents. “Nadzia and Milton’s boys? They were our dear friends back in New York!” Grandma Ada said.
The story came out. She had first befriended Nadzia in Auschwitz. After the war they lost touch, until years later, when they bumped into each other one day on the street.
My grandparents were thrilled I was dating Jason. “It’s bashert!” Grandma Ada declared. “Meant to be.”
She was right. In 1998, Jason visited my grandparents and told them he planned to propose. As soon as I said yes, Grandma Ada got us a silver Passover Seder plate and Elijah cup. “To use with your family… and your children,” she said.
Jason and I have done just that. Our twin sons are named in memory of their great-grandmothers. They are a constant reminder of how sweetness and simchas can grow even from the deepest sadness.
Try Grandma Ada’s Chocolate Chip Cake!
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