Beams of sunshine peered through shuttered windows, effortlessly reaching into every corner of the cramped apartment. Iridescent rainbows spilled out of crystal figurines onto miniature photo frames. Mesmerised, I picked up a small cat figurine, the glass cool and smooth against my skin,
halos darting out in every direction as I moved it backwards and forwards between the sunlight and shade—
“Everyone! Gather around the table!” Mum’s voice called out, weaving its way from the tiny kitchen to the other side of the apartment. Murmurs of excitement at the oncoming meal bounced off popcorn ceilings, the rich scent of chicken broth and sickening aroma of fry-oil staining the air.
Thick quilts and knitted throws cushioned beds and lounges, glowing with familiarity and succour under yellow light bulbs. Small trinkets and delicate ornaments sat idly on every available surface, some chipped or yellowed with age. Black and white images hung on unfashionably wallpapered walls, the biggest kept in an ornate silver frame, of Oma and Opa.
Opa admired her as if she was made of gold; like her bluish-gray eyes were speckled with unmined diamonds, and her skin was beautiful wrapping paper concealing the real gift. At his mention, my ears rang with swirling voices of my mum and Oma, reminding me how much they wished he could have met me. The story of how they met had been told again and again, a memory concreted into blood. Things were simple between them; he cooked, she cleaned, and together, they loved.
The dining table was set with discoloured lace doilies and more cutlery than I knew what to do with. Oma’s heart was laid across the table, gentle and overflowing. Sensing my apprehension, she smiled, whispering,
“Don’t worry. Just use what is most comfortable.”
Mum lent over, reminding me that Oma was just excited to have us over. Intrigued, I picked up one of the many forks – the shortest one – entertaining the table with my unknowing clumsiness. Heat flushed my skin. I nodded along as Oma kindly explained the difference between a ‘fish fork’ and a ‘salad fork’ and a few other types of cutlery I’d never understand when to use. She insisted that it didn’t matter, that she was just traditional.
At everyone’s place was a steaming bowl of matza ball soup – hardly customary for Hanukkah, – but a staple nonetheless. The table overflowed with an array of fried goods, sparkling under the hideous chandelier’s glow with grease, salt and happy memories. The aroma radiating off of the dining table invited a conflicting concoction of nostalgia and melancholy. Images of our past lunches and dinners and birthday celebrations and special holidays, a sore reminder that these times, these cherished and beloved moments shared over bowls of nourishing soup, were ephemeral.
Sensing my apprehension, my mum nudged me in the side,
“Eat up! The soup won’t stay hot for long.”
I grabbed a spoon – aptly titled a ‘soup spoon’ according to Oma. I felt the heartwarming broth almost scald my throat, welcoming the familiar flavours of chicken and carrot and onion. I listened eagerly as Oma described how Opa was the chef between the two of them, a rarity for her time. Oma eager to learn and Opa generous with his talent, his recipes became hers.,
“The soup is from him. The vegetables are from him, but without the caraway seeds because you never liked them as a child,” gesturing to Mum. I giggled, the image of my mum as a picky child unrecognisable.
We ate. We laughed together, appreciating each other's company. We smiled. And we listened.
At meals, Oma liked to tell stories.
We often joked that she had lived multiple lives, somehow able to tell a new captivating story at each lunch or dinner. Her face blazed with passion as she shared her childhood with our eager ears.
“A doctor. I always wanted to be a doctor when I grew up. Of course, when I was 14, I was taken out of school and sent away.” Her slow words shared so nonchalantly were a reminder of her strength and the experiences held in between her wrinkled fingers.
Not all of her stories were sad. She fondly recapped childhood memories playing outside with cousins and collecting things from her own Oma’s house, ‘tchotchke-botchkes’, she called them.
“If she ever asked where something had gone, I would blame my sister!” A mischievous grin spread across her face. A glimpse of Oma as a little girl showed through this grin – the little girl who dreamed of being a doctor, who bickered with her sister and adored her grandmother.
After lunch, I snuggled under a hitherto crisply folded blanket in the TV room with my mum, nibbling on a stale macadamia nut from Oma’s glass jar. I asked what ‘tchotchke-botchkes’ were. Mum smiled, and pointed around the room at the shelves littered with small photographs, pocket watches, figurines, hair ribbons, foreign currency, crystal medicine cups, jewellery.
“These are tchotchkes. Or ‘tchotchke-botchkes’, as Oma calls them.”
The glass cabinet was nothing short of amazing.
While small collections of these items could be found across the apartment, they couldn’t compare to the vast amount of memory held here. Some photographs were newer, protected in small frames and behind glass covers. Others were senescent, small bits of discoloured paper that could have easily been mistaken for rubbish by the wrong eyes.
My favourites were all of the old coins; some gold, some silver, some copper, all of varying ages, places of origin, value. They littered each shelf, a kind of confetti filling the few empty spaces left between the array of items.
Reaching into my pocket, I found the coin purse I brought with me to feel elegant. It was empty – a gesture designed more for appearances than functionality.
Gently shuffling items around, careful not to knock anything over or disturb Oma’s collection, I made a small space on the glass shelf and placed my purse on display.
I turned around to see Oma at the door, smiling, and eagerly accepted her offer of more stories.
* * *
Years had passed.
Moments had become memories.
Memories faded.
* * *
Tucking crisp white sheets around her body, my daughter begged for one more story. My eyes shifted to the clock on the wall, conscious that it was a school night, but moved back to the wide, bluish-gray eyes that so curiously peered up at me.
“Fine. One more. But one of Mummy’s stories now, not from a book. It’s about my grandmother, your greeeaaatttt grandmother – Oma.”
Inquisitive eyes watched as I introduced her to Oma.
I told her about the war, and how Oma was one of the lucky ones. I told her about the jar of Vegemite in her fridge, reserved for when my mum – her grandmother – came over. I told her how she wanted to be a doctor. At that, she interrupted,
“I want to be a doctor like Oma!” I smiled gently, letting her dream, gently withholding the truth her heart wouldn’t yet understand. I wished desperately that Oma could have met this sweet sweet girl, feeling her undeniable presence all around. My daughter loved to play doctor, always the first to attend my bedside whenever I was sick with her toy stethoscope, bringing cups of water and checking in every hour. I quietly hoped she would stick with this dream and fulfil Oma’s ambitions.
As she slowly succumbed to her tiredness, I promised that I would show her some pictures soon. While photos were never the same, I had albums upon albums, passed down from my mother. She had dedicated time embellishing photos with captions, ribbons and golden stickers; a maternal affection that she of course had learnt from Oma herself. These albums glowed with fondness, somehow almost, nearly, but-not-quite, as warm as the moments themselves.
I relished in hoping the hours I spent creating similar albums for my daughter, excessively documenting her every achievement, every milestone, with all of her dearly cherished family and friends, could be savoured this way one day as well.
“So when can I see them? The pictures. After school tomorrow?” She begged, sleepy eyes holding back affectionate inquisition bringing me back to the present moment.
“Okay. It’s a deal.” Tucking her in and kissing her on the forehead, we said goodnight.
The next afternoon, I watched her race out of her kindergarten class and into the playground. She was begging, before she even caught her breath, that we go home and look at photos of Oma.
The photo album was older than she was. Memories of my own childhood flooded in at the array of nostalgia. One picture showed my chubby cheeks stained blood red, with cherry seeds scattered across the table in front of me, captioned ‘Summertime’. I must have been the same age in the picture as my daughter was now. I heard Oma’s stories first-hand then.
Another was a photo of me as a baby, wrapped in a multicoloured striped hospital blanket and cradled in Oma’s arms. My daughter pointed at her, asking, “Is that her?”
Memories flooded and faded at once. Rolling out and filling hamantaschen with sweet date paste. Getting ice cream up the street next to the bus stop. Visiting her when she no longer remembered my name. Everything and nothing and the closeness I once felt and the distance I felt today.
I looked at my daughter and nodded.
I shared my account of our treasured moments together. She giggled hearing that her favourite meals weren’t my own creation, but rather beloved heirlooms passed on from Opa – her great grandfather – to Oma, to my mother, to me, and when she was old enough, to her.
We smiled about preserving the light and love that was so integral to Oma’s identity. We promised to keep her alive in small, quiet ways.
Flipping the page revealed a spread of photos from that Hanukkah. Unknown to me then, it was our last Hanukkah together. The largest image was of me and Oma standing in front of her decorated shelves. The little girl in the picture was smiling widely as she pointed to a coin purse on the shelf. My mouth opened to speak, stuttering, the words feeling unbearably heavy
I paused and tried again.
“This one is of me and Oma. Mummy was really excited to put her new purse on Oma’s shelf of…” I trailed off, searching for the words Oma so adoringly used, “On Oma’s shelf of… knick knacks.” The words felt foreign, the crude Anglicised version of the phrase Oma had so adoringly used poison on my tongue. The words I couldn’t quite reach at that moment, knowing and knowing and knowing them but helpless as they faded into the past.
Hot tears silently rolled down my face. My daughter’s gentle hand squeezed mine.
“Why are you crying Mumma?”
“Don’t worry baby. I’m just a bit sad today.” Her arms wrapped around my body. She reached into her pocket, pulling out a My Little Pony toy.
“Can we make our own shelf of knick-knacks, like Oma?”
“I think that is a nice idea.”
