Alice Braun passed away peacefully last week. She was 92 years old. A survivor of the Holocaust, she represented a breed of human being that surpassed anything we mere mortals could imagine. Survivors are cut from a different cloth. They have strengths that we most likely could not muster. We are soft. We are spoiled. But not in a bad way. In a way that the previous generation only dreamed of being. When I first met Alice, almost 22 years ago, I couldn’t help but be taken in by her smile and charm. “Please darling, let me give you something to eat.” But her intelligence—that look in her eye as she told me her story, a resolve that remained firm until the day she died. She was an integral part of the Spielberg interviews, retrieving stories of survival from her “brothers and sisters.” They all spoke the same language and were eager to make sure that history didn’t repeat itself. That this generation would never forget and have their testaments to ensure that.
And to listen to her speak of her dear husband George. The twinkle in her eye when she would tell me how smart he was, how even coming to this country with nothing in his pockets, he was able to build a wonderful life for them. How he had to learn a whole new language and was able to do so and pass the CPA exam in this country. He passed away 12 years ago, but she would speak of him like it was only yesterday.
Alice came to me through her daughter, whom I worked with 22 years ago (yes, I worked, yes, I am old enough to have started work 22 years ago and yes, I have maintained a friendship for that long). Her daughter and I started a relationship based on my being religious and her being curious. Here I was observing all of those laws that she knew about but didn’t practice. Her mother loved that I was a good influence on her (yes, it’s okay to laugh at that). My friend even nicknamed me “Latkes” because my maiden name is Latkin and we became friends around Chanukah time. When she introduced me to her friends, even at her mother’s funeral, she said, “This is my friend Latkes,” and they looked at me strangely (no surprise there) and smiled, “Oh, we have heard of you.” A graveside service with over 50 people in attendance is a testament to both my friend and her mom. Both amazingly special people who have enriched my life on so many levels.
Why do I start this “humor” column with some tears? Because that is what life is all about. Bad times, good times. Life and loss. You can’t really enjoy the laughter if you have never felt pain. Somehow, we all have the ability to continue moving forward even when we have had monumental setbacks. I see people in our community who have suffered, but the human brain was designed to allow them to forge ahead and continue living. Some do a better job than others, but I have to believe that they have support systems that help hold them up.
As I watch son #2 and his friends enjoy the end of their senior year, I can’t help but get teary. They are all about to embark on the next stage of their lives and none of us knows what is in store for them or for us. We want to hold them close and protect them from things that go bump in the night. To wipe away their tears when they hurt and to celebrate their victories and joys. We have given them 18 years of undivided love and attention (well, perhaps more love than attention) and now we let them unfold their wings and fly, literally fly on a plane, to a different country. Who will do their laundry? Will they know how to put on a Band-Aid if they skin their knee? But then I think of Alice and what she had to endure. She didn’t have family to support her because they were all taken from her. But she and so many others did the unthinkable. They started from scratch and helped replenish generations. If they could do that, I can certainly let go and watch my son leave the nest…if only for a little while.
By Banji Latkin Ganchrow
Banji Ganchrow will continue her usual sarcastic banter next week.
