I don’t remember any holiday dinners at her house either. She didn’t knit baby clothes or baby-sit or come to my school performances. There weren’t all that many performances that I figured in prominently anyway. That wasn’t my forte. I don’t remember having any particular talent, actually. I wasn’t athletic, nor was I especially artistic. I was just me.
Grandma Sal was always the one I wanted to spend time with and whose approval I sought. Somehow she was the one that made me feel special and wanted. My own mother didn’t, not during my childhood and not now.
I was the first grandchild, a kind of an insurance that the family would survive. Perhaps that’s why my grandmother treasured me.
Even after Lucille was born, I think my grandmother still saw me, her first, as the assurance of a future, an imprint that has lasted since the day I was born. I never had to earn her approval. I never had to be skinnier or prettier or more popular. It was enough for her that I was me.
Several years ago, when I finished my training in accounting, I applied for a job at the FBI as an investigator. Grandma Sal was the only one in the family that didn’t view the whole thing as ridiculous.
When I didn’t pass the physical, Lucille could barely contain her self-satisfied gloating. She’s the athlete in the family… tennis, golf…You name it, she’s good at it.
My mother felt relieved that I had avoided getting into a career that she considered me totally unsuited for, one in which I would most likely embarrass myself, and probably her too.
My grandmother, on the other hand, assured me I’d find a way to do what I wanted and was meant to do. She advised patience.
As it turns out, I’m doing just about what I originally intended, but without the gun or badge I would have carried as an FBI agent. I investigate financial crimes and fraud. Sometimes I look for hidden assets that an angry spouse is hiding during a divorce. Much of my work is on the computer, digging up what people want to keep hidden.
****
Grandma has kept a lot hidden too. She’s very private about her past. I know she came to the United States as a young woman around 1950. Her two sisters preceded her, sponsored by a relative. I know nothing about her life before the United States.
The few times I asked her about her past, she changed the subject.
“Who can remember? Who wants to remember such things?” That was her standard reply to questions about her past.
A portrait of her, as a handsome young woman with three little girls, hangs in the hallway of her place. In the picture, her long hair is drawn back, held by a pair of light tortoise shell combs, which contrast with her rich brown hair.
I never knew her husband, my grandfather Max Berman, whom she divorced before I was born; nor have I seen a picture of him, come to think of it. He died many, many, years ago, when I was still a child.
As I sit there thinking back, I remember grandma Sal taking me to movies and museums when I was little. Whatever I didn’t understand, she always patiently explained.
For my fourteenth birthday, she took me to an Opera. It was Mozart’s The Magic Flute. I was enchanted by the music and the whimsical story, and moved by the way she loved them both.
One day, we were at Grauman’s Chinese Theater in Hollywood. Before going home, we stopped at Tower Records, an immense music and record store that is gone now. As she looked through some old 45s, she started humming a song I’d never heard before. The name on the record was “Meyn Shtetele Beltz”, (my little hometown, Beltz) by the Barry Sisters. Funny that I should remember that now.
She looked away as I saw a tear running down her face. She didn’t talk about it, not the tear and not the music. She was always private, about her past and about her feelings.
I find myself humming the tune as I recall the memory. Embarrassed that I might be overheard, I get up and start pacing, thinking of the envelope in my purse.
I head for the ladies room and enter the nearest stall, responding to curiosity more than the “call of nature.” The cloying smell of room deodorizer sets off my allergies and a sneezing fit. I place my purse on the pull down shelf, pull out a Kleenex and reach for the envelope.
Inside, there is a small key, a signature card for a safety deposit box at a local bank and a small picture. There is also a letter from my Grandmother Sal.
Clara my sweet,
You are reading this letter because I am preparing for the possibility that I may die soon and I have left something important undone, and it weighs on my conscience.
I want you to take up the job for me because you have a sweet and loving heart and a good soul, not like the other women in this family. I don’t need, nor do I want them to know my business.
I don’t need them judging me, nor what I choose to do with my money. You, I trust to understand and to do what can be and should be done.
It will take some time and you’ll have to take time off work and travel some, so I have left cash in a safety deposit box for you. I put your name on the box as co-owner. All you have to do is sign the card and turn it in to the bank. Do it right away, please, before anything happens.
If I get through this heart thing, God willing, we can finish it together. If not, it’s up to you.
The money will make it possible for you to take a leave of absence for a while. Whatever money’s left, enjoy it. But do not tell your mother or sister about it. You hear me?
There are some stock shares in the box too. If anyone pries, you bought these a long time ago.
Actually I did it for you, but they don’t need to know that. The shares are in your name. If people get nosy, tell them you decided to cash the shares in and have some fun, travel a little.
Your sister got the big wedding and the honeymoon travel. I helped finance that, not that it’s anyone’s business. She has that lawyer husband to provide for her too.
Why shouldn’t you get something from me too, just because you’re not married? Anyway, it’s not their business.
Get your passport in order. You’ll have to go through the packet of papers in the box and to contact Zbigniew Walenski in Warsaw.
He’s a genealogist and investigator. His contact information is in the box and he’ll fill you in on what I’ve been up to.
Grandma
The last item I look at is a picture. It’s of a little girl with a big white ribbon in her hair. She’s maybe four or five years old and standing with a young soldier in uniform. On the back of the picture is written