Lost and Found

by Ann Huber

  Lily and Lulu divorced after about thirty years of marriage. Lulu’s time in the labor camp had left him vulnerable and he turned to his faith more and more as he got older. By the time he passed away, he had given away all his worldly possessions and lived in a single room in Montreal. He continued to visit Lily in Toronto. He also visited my mother since they had both been left to grow old in Montreal. He dedicated his life to prayer and wore the long beard and clothes of the orthodox Jew.

  My mother was the last to die in 2012, also age 89. She too suffered from dementia and severe medical problems, and despite my best efforts, I could not ease either her profound psychic or physical misery in the last year of her life. Her passing was undoubtedly a relief for her, and frankly it was a relief for me too. She had seen and survived it all, including another emigration from her beloved Canada to an assisted living facility in New Jersey, where Herm and I visited her often. I refused to let her be alone and forgotten, and she wasn’t. Netty was there for all three of her granddaughters’ weddings in New Jersey, New York, and Ontario.

  We did not think Netty’s and her sister Lontzi’s last visit together would be their final one. Netty had traveled to Buenos Aires for Rayna’s and Esteban’s post-nuptial party in 2003 where she met up with Lontzi who had come from San Paulo. But, alas, Lontzi died several years later.

  In 2005, Netty, Herm, and I visited with my Aunt Lily, then living in Toronto near her daughter, Anna. We’d all had such a sad visit, knowing this would be the last time they saw each other. Lily had survived Lulu, but died a year after Netty did.

  Netty held on as long as her dementia would permit, determined and tenacious, just has she had been fifty years earlier when she insisted we go to Atlantic City. For that I will be ever grateful to her.

  Strangely, despite these loved ones missing from the Seder, I was not sad. I felt hopeful and understood the endless cycle that is life. Looking at the loving faces of those around me, and remembering the happy and meaningful moments with those no longer there, centered me.

  The family traveled to Montreal for Netty’s burial; she’d made me promise it would take place there. Ironically, we stayed with our children and grandchildren in Ruby Foo’s across the street from the hotel where Herm and his family had stayed on their first visit, almost fifty years earlier. A year later we attended the unveiling of Netty’s footstone, on a gravesite she shared not with Sandu, but with her second husband, Simon Glazer. Netty and Simon, married less than a year after Sandu died, were happy for 20 years. Simon was my stepfather, my third father and a grandfather to our children.

  Lenny, who had known Netty for 47 years, presided over the service. It poured the entire weekend.

  EPILOGUE

  I UNDERSTAND NOW why I could never become Secretary of State as Madeline Albright did. Unlike the groundbreaking path she chose, I’d chosen a safe path. My plan was a traditional one. I would get married. I would work and support Herm while he pursued a doctorate. We would have a dozen children. Despite my many interests, I never thought about what would come after marriage and children or what else there might be for me. Unlike me, Madeline Albright had wide, unending vision and ambition.

  My own vision came from movies and books. Observing the fictional romantic lives of others, I came to believe in the possibility of living a fairy tale life. I’d always wanted the fairy tale. And, I got the fairy tale. I met a handsome, blue-eyed man who whisked me away from my ordinary, sometimes difficult existence, to a romantic one, far from family, friends and memories, all the way to another country. It was a migration much like the one each of our families made, though not as easily and willingly as I did.

  In many other ways, my life has been a fairy tale. So much so that when I’ve told others about my life’s story, many have suggested I write a memoir. But it is not my story alone. It is also the story of the people who made profound choices and sacrifices that made my fairy tale come true.

  I grew up before the Women’s Liberation Movement had become a household word. My ambition to become a lawyer did not take hold until I was in my early twenties, already married with two children. Coming from one immigrant family and marrying into another, I had no blueprint for the modern world. No one had gone to college. No one was a lawyer. No one had aspired to more than making a living and being a good person. It took a long time for me to realize the wonderful role models I had in Mamaia, Netty, and Pesche. They were strong, courageous, and willing to take great risks to protect their families so that their legacy might live on. I found that it was how I lived my life and taught my daughters to live theirs. Is that not, after all, the meaning of life?

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  MANY PEOPLE contributed their time and energy to helping with this five-year effort. I am particularly grateful to my mentor and friend, Barry Blank, English teacher par excellence, who spent the better part of two years thoughtfully and gently guiding my efforts. Essentials of grammar, how to flesh out memories, how to remain on the path, and figuring out what should stay in or not, are valuable skills he taught me.

  Much appreciation to my editor Bibi Wein, who performed a behemoth task by arranging and re-arranging, and always insisting that she wanted to know more details. Yet, she somehow always kept sight of the big picture.

  Margo Greenfield offered kind support and made me think about what I was really trying to say. I conducted interviews and research about critical themes and events of the 20th century, and I am indebted to Leonard Huber, Samuel Feldmus, Fay Swita, and Murray Goldfinger for their memories.

  I also owe a debt of gratitude to the instructors at The Writers Circle who helped me find my memoir voice after 30 years of legal writing, especially Sondra Regine Gash and Vinessa DiSousa. Jim Malcolm, expert on the Oxford comma, and eagle-eyed Mary Zanes, expert at saying “I don’t understand what you wrote,” were valuable proofreaders. Adept Content Solutions created a professional interior design, helping to make the memoir come to life.

  My three girls, Rebecca, Rayna, and Sara, offered warm daughterly support and specific advice that made this a better book. Their profound interest in their mother’s story was touching.

  Finally, this book would never have seen the light of day without the unrelenting support of my blue-eyed boy, Herm, who would not let me quit and who floated with me down memory lane.