Sherry V. Ostroff - The Lucky One: A Memoir of Life, Loss and Survival in Eastern Europe

The Lucky One

By

Sherry V. Ostroff

2016 by Sherry V. Ostroff

Table of Contents

Introduction

Clarification

Chapter 1 - Life in Russia

Chapter 2 - My Mothers Wedding

Chapter 3 - Conditions in Russia The Pogroms

Chapter 4 - The Escape

Chapter 5 - Life in Romania

Chapter 6 Coming to America

Epilogue

Recipes

Thanks

Sources

Author Information

This book is dedicated to

My grandchildren

Ethan Walker

&

Colin Benjamin

My mother never knew them, but she would have loved them dearly.

The Lucky One

Introduction

My earliest cherished memory of my mother was our time spent together while she told me stories. This was when I had her undivided attention, and she demanded mine. Unlike other women of her day, my mother was not a stay-at-home mom. Because of economic necessity, she was forced to go to work full time at McCrorys Five & Dime selling notions when I was five years old. My parents needed the additional income to help fortify a desperate household budget. Therefore, the time we spent together was precious, so no distractions were permitted.

No matter what story my mother chose to relate, whether it was her very different and difficult childhood or her favorite novel, it became an opportunity for us to be together. Like a great riveting book it provided a brief escape from reality. It was not only a diversion for me but for my mother as well.

I can remember clearly how it all began. My mother started me off with Bible stories. While some children learned about Old Testament characters and events from Little Golden Books or attending Sunday school, I learned about our forefathers and foremothers in a cozy setting, my mothers kitchen. My young mind tried to wrap itself around all the wonders of Joseph and his coat of many colors or of Noah who lived in an ark for forty days in an effort to save humanity and the animals from the flooding waters. But, my favorite of all the stories in the Bible was Moses and the Ten Commandments. My mothers telling of these stories mingled with the many aromas of her cooking. From her chicken soup simmering away in the big metal pot or the sweetness of her rice keegel, to the browning of Fayges cookies in the oven, it was all divine. The food, the aroma, and my mothers stories, will always be a part of my childhood.

In my mothers tiny kitchen we could not help but to be close. It was barely four by six feet, and within that space there was a four burner gas stove and oven, a refrigerator, a white enamel sink, a few wooden cabinets and a small Formica table with four metal chairs. We barely had any room to move so closeness was a given. While she rolled the dough for varenikis (pierogis, Russian style) or as she amazingly skinned an apple in one long unbroken peel my mother could make Moses, the Deliverer, come alive for me. It was as if I walked beside him as he defied Pharaohs anger and rained havoc on the Egyptians. I stood on the shores of the Red Sea and watched Moses raise his shepherds staff to part the waters, and I bore witness when he destroyed the Ten Commandments as punishment to the idol worshipping Israelites. I was transported to another time and place, and I was no longer in that tiny kitchen. The walls melted away and I effortlessly traveled back in time with my mothers voice as my guide.

Storytelling was a way for my mother to share the knowledge she gained from her reading. She would choose books and characters that would demonstrate moral and ethical behavior so that I would learn right from wrong. She never completed her high school education because of the Depression and her obligation to her family, but that did not matter. Not having a diploma, she believed, was a poor excuse to forgo ones self-education through reading. Therefore, to my mother, there was nothing more precious than a great well-written book and each one that she chose to tell me about had to include an important message. If a book could not offer something of value, something worthy to take away from, then what was the point of wasting your time turning pages. As a result, comic books and many contemporary novels were never allowed in her home, or in my hands.

My mothers home was filled with books owned and loaned. The few she owned outright had an honored and cherished place in the top half of a glass enclosed secretary in the living room. Her library had all of the classics including Ivanhoe, Robinson Crusoe, The Last of the Mohicans and plays by Shakespeare. My mother also had a worn-out copy of Forever Amber which she perceived as way too scandalous and risqu for my young mind. Those books not encased but piled high on end tables or by her plastic covered chair, were loaners from the public library. The loaners were also treasured and cared for so to be enjoyed by the next reader.

Her favorite book, which she read long before I was born, was Victor Hugos healthy tome Les Miserables . The size of the book never daunted her. She was delighted if a good book was lengthy because she did not want it to end. She also claimed that the best books were thick, and she considered the additional hours needed as time well spent. If there were a lesson to be learned from the book, as in the case of good winning over evil in Les Miserables , what did it matter if it took you a while to read. For my mother it was quality versus quantity or was it quantity equaled quality?

I never shared my mothers love of Les Miserables except for the musical version. Maybe it was because she was so passionate in her love for the book and pushed hard for me to love it too. She proved how special Hugos written word was to her when she once had the opportunity to see the Broadway version. Shes the only person I know who walked out during the intermission of the hit show. How dare the great masters work be adapted to song and dance. I was speechless when she told me.

Telling a lengthy story was never a problem for my mother, the storyteller. Instead of recounting the tale at one sitting, I would hear it in segments that could go on for weeks. She always knew where she left off, and if I did not remember any preceding part of the book, she would have no trouble summarizing. This was almost a requirement to move forward with a long story. Occasional breaks, like commercials, were allowed in the case of bathroom visits. My mothers method of telling stories was the original episodic television that is so prevalent today. This Scheherazade was way ahead of her time.

Not all of my mothers story telling was based on the classics. Besides the Bible stories which I truly loved, and which ultimately began my journey as a lifelong lover of anything history, I was enraptured with my mothers tales of her childhood. It was so foreign to my own experience which seemed safe, peaceful and uneventful in comparison. When she described her life in Eastern Europe it was as if I was transported to a different time and place, and I, a young child, could meet my mother on equal footing. Besides Moses, it was the one set of stories that I would often request to hear over and over again, and they are the ones that have stayed with me to this day.

As I moved away from my mothers home and created my own I never heard the stories any more. I had a feeling she was telling my daughter some of the same tales when she and my father came to babysit, but since I was absent I never heard them. The time had come for my daughter and my mother to have their special moment together.

It was not until my mother was in her late 60s, shortly after she retired, that I suggested to her that she write down the story of her childhood. There were several reasons that prompted me to ask her at that time in her life. First, she had just recovered from a massive heart attack and subsequently spent thirty days flat on her back in intensive care. There were times I thought she would not survive, and that was a stark reminder that my parent was not meant to last forever, that life is brief and untold stories would vanish. Second, genealogy and searching for information about ones ancestors was made easier by the Internet and this pastime was becoming increasingly popular. I longed to have a more complete story of my mothers childhood and her birth family. Lastly, I realized I had a wonderful primary source in my mother. She lived during a time of great social upheaval and momentous worldwide change, and that along with her personal riveting history was meant to be shared and saved. Coupled with the fact that she was a great storyteller, I knew I had to get her to put it down on paper. Crazily, I thought by suggesting this project to my mother, I was being a good daughter since I was giving her something constructive to do with her leisure time in retirement. I think my mother didnt do it for any of the reasons I thought were important. I believe she did it for the reason that mattered most to her, she loved to tell stories.