A ONE WAY CONVERSATION WITH MY DEAD MOTHER-IN-LAW

B”H

-She said WHAT?!?

* You are too old, too religious, too ugly.

-She has never seen me.

*You are a gold digger and not worthy of me.

-(Laughter)

*What’s wrong with you? 

-It’s a cliché times three:  1) my son the doctor; 2) my son, my baby, the mezhinik (Definition of mezhinik); and 3) my son, MY SON.  Did you expect anything else?

*(silence)

          I’m upset.

-I can tell.

* That’s it.  She finally gets what she says she has always wanted and it is still not good enough.

-So,

*We’re getting married with or without her.

-I love you.  By the way, how did you come to this conversation?

*Okay, I called her to tell her I’ve just gotten engaged to a nice Jewish girl.  And she asks me how long we’ve been dating.

-And you said?

*Two months.

-Anything else?   …like we’ve been acquaintances for over ten years.

*No, she only asked about dating.

-Oy.

          So, Grandma that is how we met.  Before we ever laid eyes on each other; before we ever spoke you decided that I was wrong.  Wrong for being too old… wrong for being too religious… wrong for being too ugly… and dangerous for being a gold digger. 

          Your son is such a wonderful and honorable man.  He was totally devoted to you and your husband.  And that is what attracted me, his devotion to family.  Didn’t you trust him to pick someone as devoted to family as he was?  Did you honestly fear that he would pick a thief?  Someone who would steal him from you forever? 

          We should have been friends.  Maybe we were in the end.  You died in my arms surrounded by my children, our children.  Your son, my husband, was at work.  We were with you that morning to give you a ride to an appointment but we lost you instead.  Never before did I witness a last breath.  Never before did my children see death.  I keep thinking that you would have preferred the arms of your son.  It is nothing we can re-do.  And so, I think of you all the time as we work our way through this first year without your physical presence. 

          Your son, my husband is at work.  It has become my job to go through your possessions deciding this to keep and that to give away.  I don’t know your stories.  You never told them to me.  So, how can I judge if I am making the correct decisions.  Your son, my husband, wants the job done, completed.  But, I touch each item and can only wonder what it meant to you.  There are so many boxes. 

Box #1:

-small envelope containing a locket of straight blond hair tied together with a cotton string

-sardine key

-gold tooth

-strip of beaver pelt

-half a photo

-small brass hand attached to brass dish (ring holder?)

-ceramic pieces… chipped bowl with lid decorated like grass and wildflowers

***********************

Item #1 – Locket of straight blond hair tied together with a cotton string

This is not baby’s hair.  It’s not her hair because she had curls galore.  It’s not from my father-in-law.  He was swarthy.  It’s not from my sister-in-law nor her children either.  Maybe the locket of hair comes from a first love.  Maybe she was writing to a young man during WWII.  Someone who never came home. 

Maybe, maybe, maybe… oh, dear G-d, if I fantasize about everything I’ll never get through these boxes. 

The Dream

(Heaven, Guardian Angel Michael is working) 

M:  Hi.

B:  Any thoughts or prayers for Beatrice?

M:  Over there, my dear.  Help yourself!

B:  Oh my goodness.  When did this happen?  There are so many questions.  Once a year, maybe, I get a kaddish, but, questions, never.  Michael, this is great.  I’ll take just one question for now. 

M:  Okay, but don’t forget to clear these out of here later.  They seem to be coming in quickly.

B:  See you later, then. 

(Beatrice moves on) Let’s see.  What have I here?  A lock of straight blond hair tied with a cotton string was found in my worldly goods.  Hmm, strange.  There is wonderment and puzzlement and conjecture.  No, it was not my hair nor that of my husband.  It did not come from the heads of any of my children or grandchildren. 

Oh, wrong, wrong, wrong.  Not this, not that, nor the other.  You are correct to think it came from someone special.  Someone so special that she is my earliest memory of a living and loving face.  Natalie was with me in the orphanage.  I was with her.  She was one of the big girls.  She was my big girl.  I was her petite fille.  We shared a cot at night.  In the morning, I always woke first.  Natalie helped me to get ready.  We were always on time for morning prayers.  She told me when to kneel and when to rise; when to touch my forehead, my heart, and my shoulders.  And then after breakfast we did our chores together.  Always well done.  Oh, Natalie, my mother, my teacher, my sister, my guide, my guard. 

One day some strangers came to the orphanage.  A man passed out food to each of us.  I had never accepted food from anyone but Natalie.  I was afraid to accept food from him, though I was so hungry.  He spoke to my Natalie.  She called him, Monsieur, the man with the glowing countenance.  Before I knew what had happened to me I was eating the food that Monsieur brought to the orphanage. 

The difficult times ended.  We had more food.  We grew taller and stronger.  Our hair grew soft and shiny.  Many children left the orphanage.  Not Natalie, not I.  It was so safe with the sisters.  We wanted to stay forever.  Natalie was going to join them.  I was too young they said.  Then the people came from HIAS (http://www.hias.org/).  They knew me but I did not know them.  Mother Agnes seemed to know them in return.  She called Natalie and me to her room.  Mother talked about a little girl whose parents wanted her to live even if they could not.  Nazis destroyed the parents.  The little girl survived because she was hidden.  A little Jewish girl lived because she was too young to remember her life before hiding.  Who was she? I wondered.  Natalie must have known her because the tears rolled down her cheeks as Mother Agnes told us this story.  Who was this girl?  Did she live with us?  Mother said a quiet, “yes”.  She looked at these HIAS people and glanced back at me.  “Please, let me explain,” said Mother to them.  They nodded their heads.  “My precious Beatrice, you are that girl.  You are that little Jewish girl.”  Natalie then cried out and wrapped her arms around me.  We stayed like that forever.  When I understood that the HIAS people meant to take me away I held onto my Natalie with all my might.  She wondered out loud if they would allow us one more day together.  Yes.

Mother Agnes made the arrangements that I would leave in the morning.  How could I leave the only life I knew?  Natalie and I walked to gather herbs for the evening meal.  We did not speak until bedtime.  Then, she gave me a lock of her hair and promised to pray for me everyday.  I made an oath to her that I would pray for her everyday, too.  That is how we fell asleep.  In the morning she got me ready to leave her forever.  She kissed me and blessed me and walked out of the room with Mother Agnes.  I went with the HIAS people, this little Jewish girl who only knew how to pray in church.  I moved to another orphanage, a Jewish one.  The Directrice had known my parents so she took over their roles for me as she did for the other children.  She helped me to grow up and to marry and to make a life without my Natalie.  But, I always kept that lock of hair near my heart. 

Yes, my child, that lock of hair is precious.  It is my precious Natalie. 

Next day

My mother-in-law was born in the States.  Why am I dreaming about a Beatrice in an orphanage in Vichy France?  Who are these people?  Natalie, Monsieur (the man with the glowing countenance), Mother Agnes, La Directrice?  At least, there is a lock of straight blond hair.  I understand why my dream world Beatrice cherished her lock of hair.  What does this one, the one in my hand, mean? 

That night, the dream

Michael, we both know that this girl is not my daughter-in-law.  Oh, but I do like her.  Why do you suppose that I am getting all of her questions?

That’s simple.  You will answer earthly souls.  As long as you like her and don’t mind sending her dreams, it is a win-win arrangement.  The questions have a destination that welcomes them and you like her.  She needs your love and attention.  She is lonely. 

N.B.  For a girl to let her slip show out from under her skirts means that she is looking for a mother-in-law.

I always let my slip show out from under my skirts.  The other girls and ladies tease me but I am not ashamed for I do indeed seek a mother-in-law and the son who would be my husband.  When the time came to marry the only boys we knew were from the boys’ building.  Boy orphans like we were girl orphans.  No parents to make the match, no parents to make the wedding.  La Directrice made the chupah for me and my young man in the basement dining hall.  What joy!  What tears!  What dancing!  Boys dancing with boys and girls with girls in alternating concentric circles.  Oh my goodness, the rabbi went crazy.  He wanted the boys on one side of the hall and the girls on the other.  But, we were all family and now two of us were husband and wife.  The photographer gathered me and Bernard for our wedding portrait.  Flash.  I saw stars.  Then, as my eyes recovered their vision, for a flicker of a moment, I saw more people standing around us with smiles and tears.  Faces I did not know yet they were all familiar.  We made two copies of that photograph, one for us and one for the cabinet of shelves at the end of the hallway on the first level above the ground floor.  That was a place of honor and inspiration.  That was a place to where we brought our children in the future years saying, “this is where we grew up”.  There was never mention of my Natalie or anyone else from before.  When our babies called out Mama or Papa, I marveled at the miracle of life, its endurance and vitality.  I never said those words myself. 

The next day 

Dream Beatrice is loving.  Where is the one I knew in this world?  I don't know what to do with your stuff.  Where are you?