Leslie Gilbert-Lurie - Bending toward the sun: a mother and daughter memoir

In Moms Voice (19371960)

Childhood, Interrupted

Stashik Is Coming

Safe for the Moment

Where Is God?

Far from Normal

Good-bye Urzejowice

Una Situazione Molto Grave

A Taste of Freedom

The Greenhorns

But We Just Got Used to It Here

Utterly Demoralized

I Might Even Marry Him

A Wonderful Mother

My Own Voice (19601997)

On My Watch

Bread Crumbs

Magical Distractions

I Do Understand

Sunday Inquisitions

Time to Say I Love You

A Word Game

Society of Overachieving Offspring of Holocaust Survivors

Team Leah

Just Jump

Its Not That Kind of Thing

Inside NBC

The Most Beautiful Woman in the Attic

Water Your Garden

The Present I Needed to Appreciate

A Joint Venture (19972008)

Maybe I Should Write It

Feelings of a Deprived Child

I Tried My Best

Ma of the Grand

A Deluxe Buffet

Mikaela: Different from Other Kids My Age

Rita: Lessons to Be Learned

The Abyss

Legacy

MOMMY, I WAS afraid that you died.

I didnt die. Sleeping. I was sleeping. Holding my cell phone, I propped myself up on the pillow and regained my bearings. I was in an elegant hotel room in Washington, D.C. Judging from the burning sensation in my eyes, I had not been asleep for long.

I was so worried when you didnt answer the phone. My daughters small voice trembled.

I answered the phone, honey. Were talking.

Not until the fourth ring.

Her sadness and the demands I knew were soon to follow sent blood rushing to my temples. Mikaela, Im fine.

I cant stay here, Mommy.

I took a deep breath and thought fast. My voice softened. I just dropped you off a few hours ago. We talked about the fact that the first night might be an adjustment. What did you do this evening?

Nothing. I didnt eat. I just cried.

She was in Bethesda, about twenty minutes away. Honey, it was a big honor to be chosen for this leadership conference. You were so excited about going, you have a good friend there, youll learn all about government, and

Mommy, please! Take me home! Im only eleven years old, and Im not ready for this. Please.

Mikaela, you are ready. Youll be so proud of yourself for sticking it out. What do you want to bet youll love it there by the end of the five days?

She was sobbing now. I wont. I hate it! I dont even feel like myself here. Im hiding in the bathroom so I dont wake up my roommates, worrying that youre going to die!

Im not going to die. Not for fifty more years at least.

You dont know that for sure.

I was afraid she would say that. Youre right. But I eat healthy foods, I exercise, I wear sunscreen, and I dont drink and drive, so I should live for a very long time, right?

Can you at least come over here to give me a hug goodnight?

Its a trap. Shell never let me leave without her. If I had just flown out of town this afternoon, we would not be having this negotiation. It wont help, sweetie. Youll just miss me more if you see me. By now my head was aching.

I wont. I swear.

I was not surprised by her determination, but I held firm. No.

You just dont understand, she said angrily.

Yes, I do. I did understand. She was in pain, a kind with which I was all too familiar, and I could alleviate her anxiety just by jumping into a taxi. But it would be a mistake. Even though she had always been apprehensive about being away from me, she had made significant strides as of late. Shed been nervous about a recent two-night class trip to northern California, but had gone anyway and had ended up having a great time. I was certain that this new adventure would also surprise her, and provide further evidence that she could survive without me. After all, she was a survivor. She came by that honestly.

I GREW UP in 1960s suburban Los Angeles, part of a family that was living the American Dream. My parents raised my siblings and me in a friendly, safe, and well-kept community. Every home on the block and every kid looked more or less the same, with a smattering of ethnic diversity to break the monotony. I loved sports, especially baseball, made friends easily enough, and was a good student. My family ate dinner together nearly every night and took occasional vacations, much like the other families we knew.

Yet some things were different in our family. My mother believed that I could be president of the United States, but she hoped I could make the leap to high office directly from my cozy bedroom, where she knew I was safe. My mother didnt like me to smile at strangers, play outside after dusk, visit friends whose parents werent nurturing enough, and most importantly, be far away from her. While I occasionally bristled at these restrictions, I lived by them. I knew that my mothers fears were birthed by tragedy. She carried wounds whose power I could never comprehend.

My mothers past bears eerie similarities to Anne Franks. Both my mother and Anne Frank spent two years in hiding during the Holocaust, from 1942 to 1944, while the Nazis searched for them. Both managed to live in an attic with their families, which was highly unusual. Jewish children were rarely able to hide with their families, and typically, hidden Jews spent only a short time in any one place. My mother and Anne Frank both were kept alive, in large part, because of the courage and kindness of non-Jewish friends. In my mothers case, a Polish farmer and his wife sheltered a bewildered five-year-old girl and fourteen members of her family, including an infant.

Numerous comparisons can be made between my mothers and Anne Franks experiences. But my mother was fortunate enough to survive. For decades, readers have wondered what Anne Frank might have become, had she lived. My mothers coming-of-age story may provide some indirect insight, and shed light on the long-term impact of the Holocaust, and other tragedies, on the children involved.

Ive begun this book with my mothers story. Her memories from early childhood are unusually detailed, although surely idealized at times. Ive taken some creative liberties in reconstructing dialogue, but always with an eye toward accurately reflecting the spirit of the conversations my mother recalled, and the manner in which she remembered family members speaking to one another. In addition to relying solely on the memory of my mother, I also interviewed six other relatives who hid with her in the attic.

I will never forget the evening my mother and I spent in the living room of her first cousin Sally. Four women, all in their sixties, who had hidden together in an attic as young children, a half century earlier, were sharing recollections. Given how rare it was for children to survive the Holocaust, such a family reunion was remarkable. And then there was my mothers eighty-six-year-old uncle, Max. He had never wanted to share his memories, but that evening, he found himself leading the discussion.