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Grandparents

Drew Marshall

    I never knew my father’s parents; they died before I was conceived. My grandfather came to America from Germany. His wife was born in New York.
    I did know my mother’s parents, which was not necessarily a good thing. Both of them wound up fleeing from the Ukraine, a few years before the Russian Revolution began. Years later, they met for the first time in New York City. Thiers was a short courtship and soon they were married. Sarah was white as a sheet with a permanent look of terror carved on her face. She towered over me as a child. A six foot plus giant who frightened me. She cast a ghostly figure, always dressed in ragged clothes and dirty aprons.
    Morris was barely over five feet in height. He wore the weight of the world on his shoulders. The poor soul was hunched over and hard of hearing. He refused to wear glasses and was always squinting due to poor eyesight. The puffed out, thick bags under his eyes seemed to weigh him down even further. Their grasp of English was fair at best. Morris and Sara never had much formal education. Not the types to welcome a grandson with hugs and compliments. I was not showered with affection by them. To say that my grandparents were distant and aloof, would be putting it mildly.
    There were no old-world delicacies waiting for me. No slipping me a few bucks on the side. No precious wisdom from experience to be passed on to me. They were of a generation whose hardships were unknown to me. My grandparents both believed in spare the rod and spoil the child. Children should be seen and not heard.
    Mom kept the cat of nine tails they whipped her with in the closet. A small handheld whip with nine knotted cords and a wood handle. Made by the hands of her father, a carpenter and furniture maker by trade. Along with her two sisters, I was told of the physical and verbal abuse they suffered. Being the middle child, my mother seemed to have escaped with the least damage. My father, a psychologist, and my mother were adamantly against hitting children.
    Growing up, the sisters were constantly being told that they were unwanted. “We never wanted girls. Girls go off and get married. We wanted boys. Boys get jobs and support the family.” A comment often repeated by Sarah to her own flesh and blood.
    I sometimes wondered why my mother was so well adjusted, while her sisters suffered as a result of such an upbringing. Trekking up to the Bronx from Brooklyn to visit them was not something I enjoyed. The gloom and sadness that emanated from their presence was palpable, even to a child. Sarah would take one look at me and then turn to my mother. In perfect English, she’d ask; “Why doesn’t he get a haircut. He looks like a girl.” That was about the extent of my relationship with her.
    She died in 1972. I was in the hospital room with Sarah when it happened. My mother, Millie and Eva were out in the hallway. The eighty-two-year-old is silent and lies motionless. I try to make small talk . She stares right through me. Suddenly, this battered and beaten woman lifts her head and opens her mouth as if to speak.
    My grandmother’s face took on an expression as though some mystic revelation about existence, had just been revealed to her. A second later her eyes slammed shut as did her mouth. Sara’s head dropped back onto the pillow. I knew she was gone.
    I calmly told the three women what happened and they entered the semi-private room. I walked down the hall towards the bathroom. They would have to sort out their ambivalent feelings. I don’t remember any of them saying much or weeping. I was all of sixteen at the time. Morris had died a few years earlier. I didn’t like or respect the woman and felt no sadness. I didn’t know much about Sarah’s backstory. Mom rarely spoke of her parents to me and I seldom asked her about them. It appeared to be a taboo subject. Only several years later, did my cultured and college educated mother occasionally, open up to me about her parents.
    Morris was a different case entirely. He was a teenager when the soldiers came in the middle of the night. They pointed the rifles at his elderly parents and two sisters. “You have just joined the Russian army!” said the tallest soldier.
    Morris had no choice but to go with the soldiers. If he had refused, they would all be slaughtered. He traveled by train en route to his assigned location. While crossing the bridge overlooking a huge river, Morris made a decision. He jumped off the train and down into that large body of water. Somehow he survived and eventually made it to South America.
    My grandfather was able to contact a cousin up in the Bronx who made all the arrangements. Soon he began working as a carpenters apprentice at his cousin’s furniture store. The young man never saw or heard from his family again. All seemed to be going well for him until the Great Depression hit and the store went out of business. Morris worked all types of odd jobs that he could find, including selling rags. At some point he was back on his feet again with a partner in another furniture store. By the time the 1940’s rolled around, Morris owned a new car. He had supported his family through thick and thin but never saw or reached for anything outside of his limited world view.
    My dad had four brothers and one sister . They grew up in poverty on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. All of them went on to become successful and live out the American dream. Visiting my father’s side of the family was always a treat. There was an abundance of love, laughter, good conversation and a great variety of delicious foods, waiting for me upon arrival. Happy, upbeat music was always playing on the stereo. They appreciated all of the good things in life. My relatives always emphasized the importance of an education to me. A good time was had by all and I made out like a bandit. The stark contrast between the two families were quite apparent to me early on.
    As an adult, knowing how cruel and unfair life can be, I developed compassion for Morris and Sara. Their lives were barren of any sunshine and filled with horror. They shaped the type of person my mother became, for better and for worse.
    I’m retired now and the family ties that bind run through my mind as I reflect on the past, good times and bad. I have a sudden curiosity that compels me to search out my family history. I want to know more about my long-gone relatives, which in turn, can help me to better understand myself as well.

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