Claiming Our Space

We went through the purchase of our new home half sleepwalking. Were we really doing this? I couldn’t conceive of how our belongings would fit into this smaller space. In truth, the actual living space was about the size of the main level of our old home, but it was as if the downstairs walkout of our old home had disappeared. POOF!  Of course, that was where we stored all the things we didn’t know what to do with. 

We had purchased our new condo from the original owners, and much was as it had been when it was built seventeen years earlier. The place had open space and a great view, but not everything was to our taste. I knew that if we just moved in without changing things we didn’t care for, we would never change them. And it would take much longer to feel like ours. And so, we began to seek bids to redo the bathrooms. It had never truly occurred to me to rip out tile floors and tubs. My concept of remodeling hadn’t extended beyond a coat of paint. We were astonished at the bids that returned and continued to seek out new ones hoping there was some simpler and less costly solution we were overlooking. Ultimately, we did find the right person to complete the work at a more reasonable cost with us playing a more active role in the purchasing. 

We dutifully went off to the tile store to select our materials.That part of the journey was fun but tinged with uncertainty. We visited showrooms and big box stores for shower equipment, closet doors and tile. There were multiple intersecting decisions to make. Were we making the right choices? What looked great in the store’s lighting, didn’t always work as well in ours, so we had a few attempts before we arrived at the best combination of elements. Then we went through a similar process in replacing carpeting and selecting paint.  Ten samples of paint patches coated our walls as we considered what colors would work best in a room with so much light that paint colors changed dramatically throughout the day. We each could veto a choice and we had to both agree to move forward. Fortunately what mattered to one, mattered less to the other, so we defaulted to whomever felt more strongly. 

The incremental nature of the decisions made it difficult to picture the final result, but we began to trust our judgment as each of our changes proved pleasing. It was beginning to feel like ours. My worries about space had resulted in us taking out a tub and replacing it with a large closet which proved to be an excellent decision. I was also pleasantly surprised to discover that with ten-foot ceilings there was lots of storage space if I had a step stool nearby. Thus I found a home for the china and crystal that I couldn't give away. They harkened back to a time in my thirties when I took cooking classes and threw dinner parties. I carefully put each piece away, contemplating if I might ever resume such activities.

Each new purchase involved much searching and debate. We purchased a new bedroom set and couch and ferried our old couches to our artist studios, where we had to find room for them. The convenient thing about a studio building is that what doesn’t fit in our studios may be an inviting addition to another artist's studio, not to mention the free table where items that are left may end up in studios or repurposed in artwork. 

 Our condo had a round living room which meant that the lengthy low bookcase that once held glass and ceramic art objects had nowhere to go. Instead, it took up residence in my studio along with all our art books. My smaller paintings sat atop it. It looked as if it had been designed for that space. 

And I moved furniture out of the studio as well. When my mother passed away, I got the two mid-century modern chairs that had graced her living room since I was a child. I had housed them in my studio and talked of someday having them refinished and reupholstered. That day had come. They moved out of the studio to make room for other furniture and into our new condo. It is the first home my parents are not around to see, but I feel their presence through those chairs and other artifacts that summon their presence. I know my late mother, a nature lover, who always called us to the window to see a bird or a sunset, would have loved facing the park.

 

Most of our family now resides out of state, but one grandson is in a neighboring state and was the beneficiary of furniture and artwork. In an early visit his girlfriend admired a wood carving that I had gotten on a trip to Mexico. “Would you like it,” I asked, as I handed it to her. “It’s yours!” It was the first of many belongings that we passed on to them, pleased to have some treasures begin a new life with family. My niece, our first overnight guest in our new space, also left with artwork. Are you sensing a theme? We have a lot of artwork.

I soon learned that two people bring two different approaches to an impending move, each gravitating to action, but in different ways. Panicked by the mere thought of moving, I quickly began to sort through clothing, papers and books, thinning out belongings. My husband was not at that stage yet, annoyed as he tripped over my growing pile of bags for Goodwill. He envisioned a simple and orderly move. His theory was that we would move the items that we wanted to the new place and simply get rid of what was left. I argued, that while that was nice in theory, it ignored the fact that there is a sorting process that must occur and that entails getting rid of things gradually. It is an incremental process, not simply a toggle switch between keep or don’t keep. And neither of us had yet contemplated the difficulty in getting rid of things without adding to landfills. To give my husband his due, he was in his comfort zone, busy painting the condo walls while I sorted. 

While the bathrooms were remodeled, we were limited in what we could move in. Carpeting then had to be laid, and I had to wait until the painting was done. After those projects were completed, I began a daily trek each day to our new home, bringing over boxes to gradually establish our lives in this new space.

One morning shortly after the remodeling was completed, we woke up in our old home and my husband turned to me and said, “I think we should move in today.” I looked around me taking mental note of my surroundings as I wondered if this was the last time I would sleep in that bed. And it was. We moved in that day. What surprised me was how natural it felt. My husband remarked that it felt as if we were on vacation in a high-end hotel. It did a bit, but it also felt comfortable, like it was ours. We had begun to claim it as our own.

Stay tuned for Creating a Home

A Slow Jump Into Change

It has been a quiet year for blog writing. Also reading, painting and genealogy research. Many of the activities that bring me pleasure were abandoned as efforts were refocused on a more pressing priority. We have been in the middle of an interminable move.  Who knew it could consume just under a year? And so much physical and emotional energy. 

We decided to do it in a seemingly low-stress way. Having heard tales of people moving in very short time spans, we opted for the more costly, but lower stress strategy of buying first, updating, moving, and then the overwhelming task of fully emptying and disposing of our old home of close to 30 years. In hindsight, we traded one stress for another. We’re now at the “when will it be over” stage as we prepare our old home for sale. It is an experience that others in our condo building have all shared. They nod knowingly as we relate our woes.

 

I don’t remember my move to my former home being complicated. The decision had a different impetus. I had split up with a long-distance beau and decided I no longer wanted to put life decisions on hold, waiting for someone else’s concurrence. The home I was then living in was once shared with a former spouse. It was time to choose a home for me.

 

I didn’t have much furniture and apparently far fewer belongings. My handyman had a truck. I packed a few boxes, and they, together with my old furniture, magically appeared in my new and larger home. I bought new furniture and my now husband, then a new relationship, gradually moved a few pieces of furniture in along with himself.  After a time, his daughter who shared his townhome, had said, “Dad, don’t you think it’s time you left home.” And so, he did, selling his townhome to her and moving in officially.

 

Our time in our old home included years of collecting art as well as treasures from our travels. Years of having a home with lots of storage space. Years in which parents and sometimes siblings passed away.  We acquired the detritus of our parents’ lives as well as our own. And years in which we went through the disposal of parents’ homes and belongings, so had the beginnings of an appreciation that someday loved ones will be going through that process with our own belongings.

 

So, what led to this decision? It wasn’t an overnight decision. Neither my husband nor I are impulsive with big decisions, except of course when we got married after only knowing each other for fourteen years. We had no idea how long a new home might take. In fact, we looked for two and a half years, conscious that we were getting older and might prefer something that would simplify our lives. There were times that we each claimed we could have decided sooner if it was just up to us, but of course this time concurrence was necessary. It is a strange thing to imagine your future self and consider what future self might prefer. My very fit husband was biking 34 miles round-trip to our studio and reminding me that he wasn’t getting any younger. I was noticing stairs and gardening becoming more uncomfortable physically. We knew it wasn’t going to get easier and wanted to be in an environment where we could continue our active lives more easily.

What environment was that? We began by looking downtown and along the river, close to our studios and cutting my husband’s bike ride substantially. With that we were introduced to the idea of loft living, which originally sounded quite romantic, the stuff of movies. We looked at many of them and realized that light typically entered at one end, unless one found a coveted corner unit. Everything was focused on how to spread that light through what often was a long space. And trees. There usually weren’t any, although occasionally one might find one sheltering a balcony. Or you might see some in the distance.  For a long time, I felt like we were playing dress up, trying on different places and wondering who we’d be within them. Pulling the trigger 

was an entirely different decision.

 

When you look long enough, you begin to identify what really matters to you. And you begin to accept the hard reality that you may not find everything you want in one place. And that may be OK. I have often likened it to a relationship. You give up some things in exchange for the things that really matter. And then you throw in a bit of exhaustion to grease the skids. While I have a long research phase in decision making, ultimately I tiptoe up to the edge, swallow hard and jump. True to form, that is exactly what I did, only now it was a “we.”  And I have to say, I don’t know that I would have moved solo. Having my husband along for the ride helped immensely.

 I couldn’t imagine the path to get there, but figured other people do it and we could be other people too. I’m not so sure that’s true, but it is just as well I had that assumption, or I might have backed away. And that would have been a mistake. We are pleased with our decision, just not enjoying the tail-end of the process to get there. And I’ve learned that moving, at least disposing of one’s history, is not my skill set. As someone immersed in genealogy, it runs counter to my nature. 

At the end of the day, I needed light and trees in a walking neighborhood. We looked at several places in an area that offered that, not as close to our studios, but closer than our prior home. We both loved the area but held out until a corner unit with ceiling to floor windows facing the park became available. And then we both jumped. I picture us floating through space holding hands as we free fall into change.  

 

Stay tuned for Claiming Our Space

Not Every Sam Was a Schloime or a Shmuel

For those involved in Jewish genealogy, the fluidity of given names often presents a brick wall. You can't find the record if you don't know the name. 

Jewish traditions have unique features, presenting both challenges and valuable clues for family history. Typically, a Jewish child receives a secular name and a Hebrew name. For Ashkenazic Jews, that name is usually after a deceased grandparent or great-grandparent. When several cousins bear the same name, you can assume that a grandparent of similar name probably died shortly before the earliest birthdate.  

Our ancestors came from another country where they had a secular name, a Hebrew name, and often a nickname. Then they Americanized their name and selected a new name that may or may not resemble their former name. Having made that leap into a new life, they often continued to modify their name, trying on new identities.  

To work your way back you will want to learn their Hebrew and Yiddish names. To follow their trail in the United States, you will need to trace name changes. So how do we do that?

 

Finding Hebrew and Yiddish Names

A unique feature in Jewish tradition, the tombstone, provides the Hebrew name. If you are fortunate, there will be Hebrew on your family tombstones that will reveal both the decedent's Hebrew name and their father’s.  You may be able to work from the Hebrew name to the secular Yiddish name found on the immigration manifest. Often the Yiddish name is shortened from the Hebrew. Yisrael becomes Srul, Ishaya becomes Shaja, Eliazar becomes Lazar. 

 

Certain names may be calques. A calque has the same meaning in a different language.  Often calques are associated with animals. Aryeh means lion in Hebrew and Leib means lion in Yiddish. While someone’s tombstone may read Aryeh, their secular name was likely Leib and, in the U.S., they often became Louis. Dov means bear in Hebrew, Ber in Yiddish. Sometimes the two names are combined, such as Dov Ber, but there are often unrelated double names. And don’t forget those nicknames. Dov often became Berek or Berel because of the Yiddish form of the word. 

 

After 1906, the naturalization record will show both the name they went by in the U.S. and if different, the given name and surname they held when they entered the country. You can now work back from that document to the immigration manifest. One thing you will quickly discover is that not every Sam was a Schloime or a Shmuel. They may have been another name with an “S” such as Shimon or Shaja. 

 

Trying on a New Identity

When our ancestors arrived, they discovered the popular names of the day and were quick to assume them if they resembled their Yiddish name. Batya often became Bessie, Chaim become Hyman, and Chana, Anna. But not always! And some names hardly changed at all. Binyamin became Benjamin 94% of the time. You may be surprised to know that in 97% of cases Ze’ev became William. Ze’ev is a calque meaning Wolf. Wolf to William makes more sense, but it would be puzzling if you didn’t know about calques.

 

There were no rules governing which name they took, and names often evolved. The best way to trace them is to review city directories and census records, tracing them in family groupings so you can continue to track them as names change. You may find small changes from Bertha to Bessie, Betsy, and Betty. Conversely there can be seemingly unrelated changes as I found with a Chaim who became Elmer and then Norman.

 

Never assume a name was static. Knowing a person’s name at a particular time will allow you to locate records from that period. If you have a gap with no records, consider the possibility that records are hiding in plain sight, just by a different name.

The Ones That Stayed With Me

Each year I write a summary of some of the books that spoke to me throughout the year. By the end of the year I have a long list, but I am often hard-pressed to resurrect the threads of the books that I rated highly after reading. Instead, it is the ones that had sufficient force to stay with me that remain. This year there are several that met that test. 

Tom Lake by Ann Patchett

I have always been a fan of Ann Patchett and her latest book Tom Lake did not disappoint. Central to the story is the play Our Town and a theater company in which Lara, in her youth, performed the part of Emily as she became involved with Duke, the actor who played her father. After their relationship ended, Duke goes on to become a famous actor while Lara, after a brief stint in acting, ultimately chooses a less glamorous, but satisfying life. The story moves between time periods with flashbacks to that earlier time— then a young woman, still forming and vulnerable, versus the mature woman relating the story to her daughters, as she chooses how much to impart. It made me think of the encounters of youth with all their foolhardy elements. Who we are in maturity contains all the layers of our past as we form the boundaries of our adult self.

 

The Postcard by Anne Berest

 

When people come through my studio and view my artwork on cultural themes, they often recommend books to me. I am always intrigued that they think they know me so well as to know what I’d like. Even more so when I find they are correct. The Postcard came from such a recommendation. It begins with a mysterious unsigned postcard that arrives with only the names of family members who died in the Shoah. An unsolved puzzle then, fifteen years later, a chance barb at the author’s inconsistent engagement with being Jewish, launches her into a search for that lost family. And quite a search it is, with dead ends and serendipitous discoveries deep into the French experience of the Holocaust and the personal history of the author’s family. It is a search laden with self-discovery as she discovers a deeply personal connection to her ancestry.

 

The Heaven and Earth Grocery Store-James McBride

 

Many years ago, I read the Color of Water by James McBride. I recalled that his mother was a white Jewish woman who married her black husband in the 1940s. When I first heard of The Heaven and Earth Grocery Store which connects the black and Jewish communities, I thought it likely drew upon the threads of his own personal experience. My involvement with the Jewish historical community had also made me aware of the early beginnings of my local Jewish community which also existed as an immigrant community side by side with the black community. For a firsthand flavor of these joined communities, McBride is the perfect storyteller, bringing a warmth and tenderness to the relationships that connected the two communities. While sometimes separated by ethnic and racial differences, the two communities also interact and support each other. Each character is finely developed and an integral part of the larger community that surrounds it.

 

Foster by Claire Keegan

This novella packs a lot in. Foster is a quiet story, amplified by the quiet as it forces the reader to focus on each gem of expression and thought. Even the one word title implies both a foster child and  what it is to foster. A young girl is sent to spend the summer with a foster family as her family awaits another child. In this new home the child is nurtured and flourishes in a way we learn was not likely in her home of birth. The foster home has its own griefs, the loss of a son, a sadness that allows its hosts to open their hearts to this girl child in need. This quiet story was made into a quiet movie, quite true to the novella. On a flight back from London, I had the good fortune to watch the aptly named The Quiet Girl. I was left to wonder what happens to this glimpse of sunshine in a child’s life upon her return to a family that lacks the nourishment under which she thrived. Does she keep that spark alive within her?

So why these books? Each spoke to me in a unique way, touching aspects in my own experience. From the inward and vulnerable child, to the experimental period of youth, to the understanding of family history that connects each of us to our own roots and culture. Each topic of interest was explored by an author who is a master of their craft, capable of touching those common experiences in a manner that echoes our own personal experience.

A Peaceful Journey

It always begins with a phone call, those things that rock your world. My niece, brave soul, had taken on the task of passing on the news of my sister’s death, still in disbelief as we both absorbed this unimaginable event.

It was indeed hard to believe. My sister, Andee, was so alive, such a vibrant person. I last saw her at Thanksgiving, the one time of year we gathered in person. We had a good talk. I recall the solidness of her hug. I never expected it was the last time. 

I had forgotten the ability of death to strike suddenly, lulled by the lengthy life and gradual demise of my parents, well into their 80s. I wasn't prepared for the unexpected disruption of our trusting assumption of day following day. Neither was she. Her menorah still sat out, candles beside it, waiting to be lit for the sixth night of Hanukkah. 

I have written about my parents and brother upon their deaths and often over time as they bubbled up in my memory. A sister is harder and this is the last and most difficult to write. I try to unpack it to capture the magnitude of the loss it signifies to me, and it feels like a matryoshka doll. I remove one layer only to find another. Matryoshka dolls, those dolls inside dolls, represent a chain of mothers carrying on the family legacy through the child in their womb. There is something about that image that is particularly apt. My sister embodied my mother, carrying her love and wisdom forward to her own daughters. As the only sibling who had children, she represents that carrying forward of family legacy, but an improved legacy as she took the best of each of our parents in a thoughtful act of parenting. She embraced that part of her life and did it with love and a full heart. 

 

My sister was the last direct tie to my family of birth. We could speak in unfinished sentences when we talked about our parents, we knew the subtext because we lived it. We often carried them into the future with us, imagining their reaction to new events in the world and in our family. When we found a new cousin through DNA we talked of how our dad would have responded to this new family member with delight. In each new accomplishment we heard our mother’s voice cheering us on.

 

I contemplate how birth order affects the parent with whom we most identify and who we in turn become. My brother, the oldest and the son, identified with my father. As the middle, I am an odd combination of the often-contradictory parts of both parents. My sister, the youngest and the one with the most solo time with our mother as a child, identified most closely with her. And for me Andee’s loss represents a loss of my mom-proxy. When I had something that I wanted to tell our mother after her death, I used to call my sister. She understood the significance through our mother’s eyes.

 

My sister was three years younger than me, not a long time in adult years, but just enough in child years that we lived different lives. We shared a room growing up. I recall the argument at bedtime about the radio, on or off. I liked silence. She, music, perhaps reflective of her more gregarious nature. As the youngest child claiming her space, Andee honed her wit, a talent she carried throughout her life. It was a quality that drew people to her. She developed and nurtured deep relationships with friends and strong bonds with family. 

 

For much of our lives, our lived experience wasn’t in sync. When I was married, she was single. When I was single, she was married and raising a family, a foreign world to me at the time. We came together in times of crisis and could talk easily, but mostly we were busy living our own very different lives.

 

Ultimately, what brought us together and deepened our relationship, was our mother, an extraordinary person for whom we both felt a deep love. We had different relationships with her. I often would say “my mother” and Andee would correct me with “our mother” and I would advise her that we connected with different parts of our mother, hence my phrasing. I shared travel and art. Andee enlarged her life with grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

 

As we came together to assist her in her final years, we discovered a new relationship with each other in the process. I trusted Andee completely to do the right thing. I trusted her to act out of love. And I trusted her to be incredibly capable in whatever she took on. It was a mutual trust and it made us great partners. When our mother passed away, I didn’t want what we had built to end. We had been talking every day, working together with a common goal of supporting our mother. We did dial it back a bit after that, we weren’t talking every day, but when we talked it was a three-hour conversation. It changed how we understood each other, and it allowed for a deeper relationship than we had had up until then. And I wasn’t ready for it to end.

 

On her deathbed our mother told us she saw her late mother. It felt comforting as we faced that impending loss.I liked to think of her going from our love to her mother's love.

 

At the time, Andee and I had looked at each other, both recalibrating what we thought came next. We liked this version. They say it is a common experience as our brains assist us in a soft landing through our transition from life. In a world of so many marvels, I’d like to believe there is more to it. I have been thinking of that moment in recent days, picturing Andee with our mother in whatever form energy survives in the universe. 

 

When I lit my menorah that night, I said the Hanukkah prayer. Then I said another, wishing Andee a peaceful journey.

 

A Life Well Lived

I learned the news as I drove to a nature center to meet friends for a walk, a phone call telling me that my dear friend Dora Eiger Zaidenweber had passed away. Now this shouldn’t have been a surprise. She was 99 years old and in home hospice, mainly because of her advanced age. While she had many aches and pains that accompanied that age, she had a will that sustained her. Enough so, that even knowing that none of us get out of this alive, her absence still felt like a very strange concept to grasp. 

Dora was an unusual and impressive person. A Holocaust survivor and Holocaust educator, at age 99, she testified at the State Capitol on behalf of Holocaust education and was still presenting to classes on Zoom, an intelligent and well-educated woman with a graduate degree in economics from a time when few women pursued such paths, an immigrant to the United States who carved out a new life with purpose, a world traveler, the nexus of a close-knit

extended family and a person with a network of deep friendships. She faced obstacles and surmounted them, whether it was surviving the Holocaust or losing her sight. In typical Dora spirit she responded to this later loss by studying the Talmud by telephone, listening to the Economist on tape and with the use of a magnifying device successfully translating her father’s memoir from Yiddish.

There are people who we encounter in our life who shape us, take us in directions we didn’t anticipate. While we all are shaped by parents, sometimes we are fortunate enough to encounter people who play a pivotal role in our adult life. It is a different kind of shaping; we are less malleable, and it often requires sustained interaction to take root. Dora and I met almost every week for thirteen years. Long enough, consistently enough, for a deep relationship to evolve. 

 

In the almost 500 blog posts I’ve written over the past fifteen years, Dora is mentioned in 7% of them, obviously a significant presence. I met her in a surprising way. I was doing a website on the former Jewish community of Radom, Poland, one of my ancestral towns. A friend in Israel told me that he knew a woman from Radom who had a close friend from Radom who lived in my community. He sent me her contact information. It languished in my email box for several months. I then gave a presentation on artwork I was doing on Radom, drawing from a homemade film from 1937, a snapshot in time of the pre-war Jewish community. A woman in the audience told me that she had sat next to a woman from Radom at a dinner the prior night. She later shared that woman’s contact information. Of course it was the same person to whom I had not yet responded!  When I get information in stereo, I have learned to pay attention.

Dora and I had a bit of a comedy routine in how we retold the story. She teased me about hesitating to call her, imagining this old woman with a thick Polish accent. She put on the croaky voice of an old woman as she offered this version. I protested that I had been totally focused on preparing for an art exhibit of my work in London. The truth may lie somewhere in between. I was distracted, but I do hesitate to call people I don’t know, it’s an introvert thing, we introverts much prefer email. The one thing we both agreed on was that it was bashert (Yiddish for fate) that we met. I pantomimed fate tapping me on the shoulder as I looked the other way, then jabbing me in the ribs for not paying attention. We later discovered that my great-uncle lived at the same address as her grandmother in Radom, fate indeed!

 

We spoke on the phone for an hour and then I went to her house later that week and we spoke for five hours. Thus began a friendship with many late evenings of conversation. At first, I sought her input on the Radom paintings that I was doing. This was somewhat impeded by the fact that she couldn’t see them as she had limited vision. I described the images to her and asked what she recalled about a water carrier or young men playing chess in the street. As I completed that series of artwork, I contacted a friend at the Arts and Culture Center in Radom who I had met the prior year. I mentioned the work to him which resulted in an invitation to show it in Radom. Now I had a show in London followed by a show in Poland to plan for, it was my year of international exhibitions. As the paintings were small, I needed to build out the show, so asked Dora if she would be willing to show photographs of her pre-war and ghetto life, pictures that had been hidden in her family members’ shoes during the camps. She agreed, then noticing a wistful tone in her voice I asked if she would like to join me there. “Maybe,” she replied. It then dawned on me that I had only known her for three months. What if something happened to this then 86-year-old woman during our travels? The maybe became a reality in a way that assuaged my concerns when her son who lived in Boston agreed to accompany her one way if my husband and I could accompany her home. In Radom, I met more of her extended family who took the opportunity to join us there as well, to hear her stories first-hand in the place where they happened. 

 

Now that wasn’t our only trip together. Some years later I was making regular visits to my hometown in Central Illinois to see my late mother. To entertain myself while there, I did a genealogy talk for the local Jewish Federation. When they mentioned a need for a Yom HaShoah speaker, I suggested Dora. I had only to figure out how to partner her with her grandson in Chicago for the event and agree to accompany her on the flight home. Dora used to tell me that I made things happen and I guess I did. She appreciated that quality, a quality she too possessed and it formed part of our connection. We recognized parts of ourself in each other. One evening we sat in my car in front of her home. Speaking into the darkness, she confessed that she had been pulling back from her more public life, thinking that part of her life was over.  

Then she turned to me and said with a rush of emotion, "And then you came along and pulled me back in! " I wasn’t sure at first if she viewed that as a good thing, but she quickly assured me that it had given her back a sense of purpose. 

 

Dora, in turn, played an important role in pulling me back into the Jewish community. I had grown up in Reform Judaism but had not been engaged in the community for many years. Suddenly I was accompanying her to events within the Jewish community, meeting her extensive network and attending lively seders at her daughter’s home. While I had begun to step gingerly back in through family history and artwork, she pulled me into the center of things. Just as I made things happen in her life, she did similarly in mine.

 

Dora knew how to build friendships. She often told me that as you get older, you just need to find younger friends. She was the poster child for that approach. When we returned from our trip to Radom, I didn’t want our relationship to end, but it had largely been built around a project and I wasn’t sure how to reframe it. Dora took charge and suggested that we could go out to lunch together. Thus began a weekly get-together where we shared the events of our life in our deepening friendship. One day I mentioned an art exhibit and she expressed interest in seeing it. 

“But how will you see it?” I asked.

“You’ll describe it to me,” she replied matter of factly.  I learned that approach added a dimension to my understanding of the artwork as well. 

We exhibited her photos with my paintings in several venues and I created a series of paintings called Dvora's Story based on her stories from the Holocaust. They became the structure of new talks where she told those stories. I assisted her in talks, putting together slides and imagery to tell her stories, often interviewing her to provide a structure to her presentations.

 When her grandsons worked together on her father’s memoir Sky Tinged Red, about his time in Auschwitz, I sometimes functioned as a go-between, serving as her eyes for information that she needed to review and comment on. As I’ve written in this blog, I later interviewed her during the Covid years to capture her own story spanning seven generations of Eiger women. She extracted a commitment from me, to work on her story. In her final months, she reminded me of that regularly. In true form, Dora gave me a final gift with that assignment, a way to give back to my dear friend. And so, I will soon turn my attention to shaping her story, as I work with her family members to turn it into something to share within their family, and perhaps beyond.