In many cultures, the elderly are revered for their wisdom and although they may not be current on the latest technologies, trends, and fads, their vast life experiences automatically provide insight that one younger could not possibly have.  My grandmother’s life experiences are filled with some of the most horrific and beautiful stories imaginable, and the wisdom that she has shared with me is unparalleled.

There is no question that I love my grandmother and our bond is unique in that despite the fifty-plus years in age between us, we get along like best friends.  My grandmother is a cute little woman of 80+ years young, although with her energy, she could easily pass for fifty.  She tells people she is five feet tall, but I’d doubt she is even 4 foot 10 wearing heels, and standing next to me she does not even reach my chest.  Grandma has a strong European accent that everyone loves and a laugh that can uplift even the most depressed.  Her pudgy, rose-colored cheeks and double chin are complemented by short fluffy reddish-brown hair that looks like it was styled in the 50’s, and like most grandmothers, there is nothing in life that she loves to do more than speak of her family (which now includes 17 grandchildren and 13 great grandchildren). 

My grandmother is a special woman who has instilled in me the meaning of soul graffiti and has shown me her kindness more times than I can count.  What her smile and kind words do not reveal however, is the pain that she has experienced in her lifetime and a story so terrible that it is difficult to fathom.

Like millions of other Jews in Poland, my grandmother was a victim of the ruthless nazi regime.  Her entire family and extended family – sister, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, parents and grandparents - were brutally murdered at the hands of the Nazis.  She watched her own mother starve to death in the ghetto, and saw her father lick the soles of shoes out of hunger.  Her five brothers were burned alive in a crematorium along with her three-year-old niece, a beautiful girl with blue eyes, blond hair, and a bright smile that the entire neighborhood spoke of.  She was beaten repeatedly, including one time when a female guard broke her nose with the butt of a rifle because she begged for some hot water to feed her dying friend.  She was treated worse than a slave in a nazi run ammunition factory, making bombs that she knew would end up only killing her friends and family.  My grandma told me how she prayed many days for death to come quick and ease her sorrow and pain.  She stood in line to be burned alive only a few feet from the furnaces of Auschwitz when the war ended and miraculously spared her life.

The years following the war were filled with harrowing nightmares and panic as she struggled to cope with
creating a new life for herself.  The man she hoped to start a family with was diagnosed with incurable tuberculosis and pleaded with her to open her heart to someone else who was healthy and could provide for her as she deserved.  She met my grandfather, a simple and humble man, in a displacement camp in 1946 and they soon married with the hopes of starting over and building a family. 

After years of struggle and with the help of the Red Cross, Grandma was able to save enough money to move to the United States with her husband and two young daughters.  Upon arrival to New York after a long and difficult flight, she was informed that the boat carrying all of her belongings had sunk, leaving her literally with nothing but the clothes on her back.

Like so many other immigrants, my grandparents believed in the "American dream" and toiled night and day to provide for their family.  Taking odd jobs and never complaining, my grandparents eventually did succeed in building a home and raising a family instilled with love and respect.

It would be impossible to write of the hundreds of obstacles, pitfalls, and roadblocks that my grandmother
experienced along her journey through life.  Yet, today when she speaks with her warm and gentle voice, there is only love that radiates.  Despite her struggles, she has always volunteered to help others, at times when she could barely help herself.   Even as a newly arriving immigrant with no money, her door remained open to the poor and her kitchen to the hungry.  She continues to embody kindness and generosity, volunteering daily at a senior center, for the Red Cross, and at various community functions.  By her bed is a list of names of complete strangers in need of healing and she prays every day with all her heart for their relief.  She wakes up at the crack of dawn and with her chubby arthritic hands she bakes cookies, cakes, breads, soups, and other delicacies to deliver to the elderly on her regular visits to local hospitals and nursing homes.   And of course there is her humor that she uses liberally to put a smile on the face of everyone that crosses her path.

I’ve recently asked my grandmother how she can continue to tirelessly commit to kindness after such a difficult life.  She responded in her broken English, “I may have been poor of money, but I was always rich with love.”  She then said that she considers her life a “bonus” since she encountered death many times and has lived; as a bonus she explained, she hopes to use it for the good of others.