Author: oscar

We are here to pay our respects and remember my mother, Celina. Each of us is different and how we interact with each other is also different. We each have our own  memories and perspectives, as you’ll hear.

My mother was angry at the world because of her experiences. She was kind, considerate, “a gita nishuma”, literally, a good soul, a wonderful wife, and devoted to family and friends. She deserved a better life.

My mother was born on June 1, 1923 in a very small village, named Jasiorowka, just east of Warsaw, and into a world that no longer exists. A substantial proportion of the village population was Jewish, most of whom were related in one way or another. My mother did not talk much about her childhood or life in pre-war Poland. Her father Leib was a butcher – I am named after him.  Her mother Chaya was a homemaker. She was the oldest child and had a brother, Zischa and a sister, Yuspa.  Her grandmother also lived with the family.  My mother was a fussy eater, and skinny so her parents indulged her. She attended Polish public school and completed the equivalent of elementary school or middle school. One thing I learned from her is to never confuse intelligence with education.

My mother’s family was not poor but it is still difficult for us to comprehend the gap between our level of material well-being and pre-war rural Poland. She grew up in a very small house – just two rooms for six people, and no indoor bathroom.  My kids shared bedrooms. My mother told me that they should each have their own room. But, when my kids complained about sharing, my mother would indignantly remind them that she shared not a room, but a bed with her grandmother.

Mummy considered the world a dangerous place. Powerful, malevolent forces were conspiring to harm her and her loved ones. Based on her life experiences she was not wrong. I used to tease her that since life was so dangerous I should never get out of bed.

When I was growing up I felt an underlying tension – bad things could happen at any time. One could come home from school or work and discover something bad had happened. And sometimes it did.

In September 1939, when my mother was 16, the Second World War began. My mother was traumatized by the war. She was the only member of her immediate family alive by 1944 and most of her extended family were murdered. My mother was hidden by Poles and was extraordinarily fortunate to stay out of the camps and ghettos. But there was constant danger of capture and betrayal and a number of harrowing incidents when her life hung in the balance.

In the fall of 1942, the roundup of Jews was underway.  My mother and some cousins, including Mottel Cyranko, were given some money by a wealthier relative, and headed for Warsaw where they had addresses of some people prepared to hide them.  At some point during the war, my mother had to ford the Bug River at night.  This is a major river in Poland, and my mother did not know how to swim.  She almost drowned and remained terrified of water her entire life and had a great fear of lakes and swimming pools.     Around this time, my mother started going by the name Celina instead of Sara as she was known in the family. This was to help establish her persona as a Catholic Pole.

My mother could pass as a Pole. She spoke good Polish, that is without a Jewish accent, and she did not “look Jewish”. Although my mother was profoundly Jewish – it was an essential and ineradicable part of her identity – she was a little uncomfortable with it. She was not religious, never attended synagogue, except for bar mitzvahs or weddings, and was not comfortable in shul.

When I was a child I had very blond hair and blue eyes. My mother was delighted. When I told her that the parents of a friend had commented that they’d never met a Jew who looked like me she was very pleased despite the prejudice implicit in the comment. When my son Juda was a baby I remember my mother looking wistfully at him and sadly saying he looks so Jewish.

My mother preferred to speak Polish. My father Yiddish. Part of this is a legacy from the war when to be overheard speaking Yiddish could be a death sentence.

Despite Mummy’s ambivalence she mastered a famous characteristic of the Jewish mother – the guilt trip. One example: She asked one of my sons, when he was an adult, how things were going. He replied that he was very tired. Without any hesitation she responded “Too tired to lift a finger to dial a telephone I suppose.”

Returning to my mother’s story, in Warsaw she stayed with a family of modest means: a father, a mother and two sons her age.  The neighbours were told she was a cousin of theirs from the countryside.  The whole family slept in one cramped room.  One of her cousins who knew where she was staying was arrested.  The lives of all the members of the family hiding her were now in grave danger. They told her to leave.

Imagine – walking down a street with no place to go, only the clothes on your back, knowing that the authorities want you dead. My mother described walking in a daze, praying to be shot in the back. The day was June 1, 1943, my mother’s 20^th birthday.

The janitor of the building in which she was hiding saw her in the street and took her in. The courrier who made the regular payments for her upkeep took her to a farm in the countryside when he found her at the janitor’s.  At the farm, she joined 9 relatives including two small children.  They all slept in a crawl space under the house. My mother said that the space was so tight that when one person turned they all had to turn.  The area in which the farm was located was liberated by the Red Army in the summer of 1944.

How did my mother meet my father, Oscar? My father was married before the war and had two young children. All murdered in Treblinka. My father and his brother Zygmunt were interned in Treblinka but participated in and escaped during the prisoner uprising in August 1943. Eventually my father joined a group of local Jews hiding in the woods. Among them was Mottel Cyranko, then a 13-year old boy who would later introduce Oscar to his cousin Celina.

After the liberation, in the summer of 1944, my mother, Mottel and a few of their surviving family members emerged from the forests and from hiding to return to their village, Jasiorowka. In January 1945, a few nights after the Red Army advanced from the village to launch the final offensive that ended the war, my mother, Mottel, and their remaining family members were attacked by members of the Polish resistance. Three family members were killed. The survivors fled the village for Lodz which had not been badly damaged during the war and where Mottel knew my father was staying and would help them.

My father and Uncle Zygmunt had an apartment in Lodz that is legendary in our family. It is where my parents became a couple, my cousin Krysia was born, and our cousin Fella and Wlodek Szer met and were married. Wlodek eloquently describes life is this apartment in his recently published memoirs. I quote: “It lasted only a year and a half, but life there had such intensity that it left a mark on all of us.”

When my parents met my mother was 22 years old. My father was 17 years older. My mother told me that a couple from her village noticed my father’s increasing interest in this

attractive young woman. They believed he was too old for her and tried to dissuade him by telling him that my mother had venereal disease or some other sexually transmitted disease. Happily my father ignored them.

My parents never formally married. I would occasionally tease my mother about this. She would (indignantly) respond that it was a different and special time, which it was.

My parents had a wonderful marriage. My father adored my mother. As a child I thought it an ideal marriage, and I still do. A model to aspire to… Loving, respectful, full of tenderness. I do not remember my parents ever bickering.

One might expect that since my father was much older and more experienced, that he would be the dominant partner. Not so. In August 1946, after the assassination of a close friend in Lodz and recurrent antisemitism, my mother, who was nine months pregnant at the time, told my father that she would not have her child in Poland.  My father was running a successful tinsmith business at the time.  He was not keen to leave.  However my mother insisted, and they were smuggled into Germany in the back of a van and became displaced persons.  I was born three weeks later.

We spent about a year and a half in Germany and finally emigrated to Canada, arriving at Pier 21 in Halifax on April 30, 1948.  We settled in Montreal, because my mother had an uncle, Louis Zuker, living here.  He was a pillar of the Montreal Jewish community. Uncle Zuker was very supportive and my parents and family showed him deference and respect.

My sister, Malka, was born shortly after our arrival in Montreal.  My brother Charlie was born some years later.  We were joined in Canada by my father’s brother Zygmunt and his family, as well as my father’s sister Nacha and her family.  We lived together, first in a single cold water flat, and then, as the family’s economic conditions improved, in a triplex – Zygmunt and his family on the ground floor, Nacha and her family on the middle floor, and our family on the top floor.

There is a saying that it takes a village to raise a child.  It wasn’t quite a village, but the seven of us kids were all raised by six adults.  I feel that we were enormously privileged to grow up in this environment.  Despite the challenges of being new immigrants, mastering a new language and adapting to a new country, these were the happiest years of my mother’s life.

My parents developed a wide circle of friends, mostly recent Jewish emigrees from Eastern Europe like themselves.  My mother was really in her element, surrounded by loving family. She loved children and was the primary caregiver to all of us.  As you will hear, all of us have heartfelt memories of this period and of my mother.

When the kids were older, there was an opportunity for my mother to take a job as a file clerk in medical records at the Jewish General Hospital.  My father was not happy.  He had very clear and conventional ideas about the responsibilities of a husband and wife in a marriage.  The husband’s duty was to provide for his family and the wife’s duty was to run the household.  My mother prevailed, but she worked very hard to ensure that the household was maintained to her own high standards.

In 1966 my father died after a short illness.  The next year was extraordinarily difficult for my mother and the rest of the family.  As it turns out, it was extremely important that my mother had a job at the hospital, where she ultimately worked for more than 25 years.  She was also forced to take on a second job, which my uncle Zygmunt arranged at the butcher shop he managed. My uncle and my father had made some investments which, several years later, would generate income to help ensure my mother’s financial well-being.     

My mother was a widow for almost fifty years.  Three years after my father died, my mother remarried.  As far as I know, my mother was never told that her new husband had previously had cancer.  The cancer returned with a vengeance on their honeymoon in Mexico.  The honeymoon was cut short.  Doctors were consulted and they went to the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota where he died.  They had been married for less than a year.  In Minnesota my mother was treated as a pariah, with disdain …, considered a gold-digger who had married for money.  My mother was devastated.  She never again contemplated remarriage.  This was a tragedy for my mother. She would have made someone extremely happy.  She would have made a wonderful wife.

We like to think that we were good kids.  I think we were good kids.  The family and friends did their best to support and assist my mother in every way.  My mother was an enthusiastic traveller and a terrific walker.  We all took her on vacations.  When my wife and I took a sabbatical after I finished school in 1974, my mother and Uncle Julek spent a month with us tromping around Switzerland and Paris.  My sister and my uncles and aunts took her south or to Europe in the winter.  She enjoyed these trips enormously.  When my mother was 81, I took her on a long road trip.  We drove to Victoria to visit my cousin Krysia and my Auntie Maryla, and my mother loved it.  I had her hiking in the Rockies!

But it was not enough.  My mother was lonely.  Her passion was family, and she exulted in her grandchildren, as you’ll hear more about.

In the last few years of her life, as her health declined, my mother was blessed to have a group of exceptional caregivers.  Dolly, Tina and Myrtle made her life as stimulating and fulfilling as possible.  They were conscientious and showed incredible patience, tenderness and respect – thank you.

My mother was a wonderful person.  She was warm and kind hearted.  Everyone who knew her saw these qualities.  Her life was centred on her family and she always put family first.  We will all miss her.

Miriam delivered these remarks for herself and her mother, Malka.

I am going to be sharing some words my mother has prepared and then I will share a few personal memories of my own.

This is what my mother wanted to share with all of you:

While my brother Leo grew up with the sense of impending disaster, I am happy to say that i grew up feeling extremely safe and protected by both my parents. When I was young, in my mind Poland and the war were a long time ago and very far away and had nothing to do with our existence in Canada. Despite both having had such difficult pasts, they managed to create an extremely warm and stable home for my brothers and myself. My mother took extremely good care of us. I admired everything she did at home: I would watch her, fascinated by the way she would turn her mouth full of water into a vaporizer while ironing. Our darned socks were a work of art. I looked forward to supper every night because each meal was always home-cooked and delicious, and also, punctually served at 6pm. She worked from morning to night taking care of every detail to keep our home neat and spotless, our clothes clean and mended, fill us with 3 good meals a day.  Everything ran smoothly and I took for granted that this would never change, and it never did as long as I was living at home. She was fast and efficient in everything she did, and when Charlie started school, she insisted on going to work since she felt she no longer had enough to do at home. Our father was worried that she wouldn’t be able to keep up with the housework but she always did. We never wanted for anything. She worked for 25 years and was very proud of the work she did.

On top of her devotion to her family, she was part of large group of friends – all holocaust survivors who met in Montreal after the war. These friends were extremely important to her and to me they all felt like aunties and uncles. Our close knit extended family along with this group of friends, further added to my sense of security. Although not religious, my mother was determined to have a large sumptuous party for Leo’s Bar Mitzvah attended by all of these friends and family. It was the celebration of the successful life they had created in Montreal.

My mother lived 39 years in her apartment on Rosedale. For half those years she was working and for the other half she was retired. Whether she was working or retired during those years, she always kept an open house and was happy to receive family and friends. She prepared beautiful meals, the whole time making it all seem so easy.

Everyone was welcome in her home. My four American nieces and nephews (Maurice’s brother’s children) visited Montreal often to see their grandparents. But they would always visit my mother too. They all told me they have such fond memories of my mother and her apartment and how well they were treated and fed. Some of them told me they even thought she was their grandmother too.

All who met her – at home or elsewhere – found her a gracious, charming, generous, caring and gentle person.

Now I would like to share some of my thoughts:

As you all know, little by little the Bubba her kids and grandkids grew up knowing slowly slipped away from us. The past years have been very depressing for all of us, watching Bubba lose not only her memory but her ability to enjoy even the simple pleasures of life.

While I am sadden by her passing, I find comfort in knowing that she is not suffering anymore. Saturday and Sunday as I thought of what Iwanted to share with all of you, my mind was filled with so many memories I didn’t know even where to start. My eyes filled up with tears on numerous occasions. But what I realized was that these weren’t only tears of sadness, they were bitter sweet tears because I am slowly regaining the memory of the Bubba of my childhood and teenage years: of the Bubba who babysat me, took me to the movies, organized sleepovers with my cousins, and never failed to bring back lots of gifts for all of us from her many travels.

She was incredibly generous with both her time and money. Not only was she generous with her money, but she never wanted us to spend ours. It was always a fight to try to pay. I remember on several occasions inviting her to lunch and when i arrived to pick her up, the table was already set and she said, I had food, why should we go out? She wanted to be the one who took care of me and not the other way around. Once again, she found a way to be the one treating me and not the other way around.

She was so proud of all of us, whenever any of her kids or grandkids would visit The Waldorf she would walk around with us, stop her walker and introduce us to her neighbours and friends. There were likely dozens of people at The Waldorf that probably didn’t even know my name but they definitely knew I was a lawyer.

Sara and I often joked about how it’s a miracle we didn’t grow up resenting each other because, while I thought all Bubba ever did was boast about my cousins, I later learned that to them she would boast about me. Another quality that comes to mind is her fairness, if she gave one of us something, she would always give it to he others too. Sara and I have another silly rivalry going that no one seems to get except us and of course, I like to think Bubba. We went to camp and made pottery. I choose to make an ashtray which is a bit odd for a 7 or 10 year old kid but then again Bubba did always have a crystal unused ashtray on her coffee table. Sara made some sort of a pig. We gave them both to Bubba and she kept them on her shelf for over 20 years, until I finally took them back when she moved to the nursing floor of The Waldorf. Sara and I would always jokingly fight over whose pottery was better and which Bubba liked better, for years we would joke with her and try to get her to admit that one was better than the other, and of course, she never did.

I know i speak for my entire family, immediate and extended, when from the bottom of my heart, I thank Tina, Dolly and Myrtle for the thousands of hours carrying for Bubba as if she were their own mother. We will forever cherish the memory of the gentle loving care you gave her in her last years and the peace of mind you provided all of us.

Krysia Strawczynski read Yossi’s correspondence.

I’m Krysia Strawczynski, Leo’s cousin, Auntie Celina’s neice.

My brother, Yossi, lives in Australia, and he has sent this message to the family, and I’m going to read it to you.  It will sound a little weird because sometimes it refers to me.  For instance: 

I spoke with Krysia earlier this week and she informed of my Auntie Celina’s condition and after having spoken to Malka yesterday I knew that her time was near. Nevertheless the finality of this is no less sad and distressing. Over this period I have taken the opportunity to reflect on the impact my Auntie’s life has had on me and our extended family and it is not inconsiderable. Her role in our extended family was that of the children’s caregiver while the other parents were working, so that all of them together could create a future for us. As a child I took Auntie Celina’s role for granted but as an adult I understand how pivotal this role was in our lives and our upbringing.

Indeed her gentle oversight helped in no small measure to ensure our successful futures. I mentioned to Malka my lasting recollections of the all the lunches she made for us when we went to school which sparked those memories in both Malka and Krysia — Krysia: Fishsticks for me, pletushkis for Malka. It is these types of memories that bring both a smile and a tear in equal measure as they both come from the heart for my dear, sweet Auntie Celina.

This is not to say that Auntie was a pushover as she is responsible for the only time my Father strapped me. Well, if truth be told I must take a bit of the blame as I did swear at her. It was in the back lane at Belgrave Avenue when I was probably misbehaving and she saw me from the fire escape and told me to stop whatever it was I was doing. I stormed off and she followed me, and in a further act of defiance, I crossed Sherbrooke Street – not at the lights – which I knew was a big no no for us kids at that time.

I am so glad and thankful that I managed to get back to Montreal last year after a long absence and had a lovely visit with my Auntie Celina. It was special to see the smile on her face as I approached and our final hug and kiss will be an enduring memory.   

Krysia: Her face just lit up when she saw Yossi, and he kept making her laugh.

The last of our parents has now gone and we can only rejoice at how lucky we were to have had 6 parents whose collective efforts, love and care have allowed us the lives they always dreamed we could have.

Thanks to them all and let us celebrate their achievements.

Malka, thank you for whispering to her my goodbye the other day. I choose to believe that at some level it was heard, understood and appreciated.

Love to all,

Yossi