Sara Perlmutter

I never was close to my Grandmother, Chaya Sara. Sure, I lived next door to her most of my life and saw her every day. She was an, undeniable, imposing and impressive presence in my childhood and early adulthood, but I never understood her. My view of her was bias, since she was the proverbial mother in law who called my mother every morning at 6:30 am, to make sure that my father had ample food provisions for the day at the knitting factory she ran. My grandmother could even unnerve the Lubavitcher Rebbe, who she knew before anyone did, since she was BFFs with his mom. When my father had his tonsils out, the Rebbe was just on the cusp of becoming THE Rebbe and called the house to see how my father was feeling. He simply said this is “Mendel Schneerson”. You see the previous Rebbe had sent her husband all over the world and she was left to raise the kids all by herself. Essentially, she was a single mother. She was tough, resilient and a handful. As she used to say about herself, “I’m trootful”. To be brutally honest, I never got a hug or an acknowledgement of “love” from her. I struggled to understand that, but on a day like today, I understand. MAN, DO I. This woman lost a mother and two brothers in the Vilna Ghetto. People were being massacred and murdered. If they weren’t running from Stalin, they ran from Hitler. Everyone wanted to kill Jews and they did. My grandfather was in and out of prison, just for being a pious Jew. She gave birth to her eldest alone and sent a messenger with the name of her firstborn “Frieda”, which is Yiddish for “Joy”. I can’t wrap my limited brain around how a woman who is suffering can still hope. When pain and trauma is so embedded in the recesses of your soul, you MUST detach or it kills you. She needed to be there for her family, so she toughened up. This, I can relate to. A bit too much. She traveled through Russia, deep into Asia to save her family. All the while she had to earn money. Since she was “on the lam”, there wasn’t much employment to be had, so she became a bartender to support her family. She procured false papers and after the war, she met my grandfather in Paris. She had smuggled her four children with her and miraculously was reunited with her husband and together they immigrated to America, where my grandmother found my great grandfather and he moved in with her until he passed away in the 1970’s. I was named “Shaina” after his wife who had been murdered by the Nazis. But, you see. The Phoenix does rise out of the ashes. I lost many of my relatives in the Holocaust. When I was younger, NO ONE would talk about it. The branded numbers from the concentration camps were on many arms of the people I knew and loved. It was everywhere and a “normal” part of my childhood. I thought that I had more of a chance of seeing a unicorn on Eastern Parkway, than see people murdered and attacked for being Jewish. And those murders being celebrated. The blood of my ancestors cries out to me. My grandmother, Chaya Sara does too. #NeverAgain #October7Massacre