Six years tomorrow

He was eight years old when they finally made it to Ellis Island. It had taken them nearly a year to get there. Their journey started in Poland. I believe Krakow, but I’m not 100% sure.**

His grandfather had been talking about leaving for months, years even. Trying to convince the family to come with him. He had money, he could pay everyone’s way. Old crazy man is what they said to him. The German’s won’t come here. If they do, we’ll pay them. Not sure why they believed that would work, but they did.***

The boy was not yet seven when his father was killed. Killed is the nice word. Murdered is more accurate. They were Jews. In Poland. In the late 30’s. He was shot coming out of the temple. He’d been talking to the Rabbi about performing a Bris on his newborn son.

The next week, was when they left. They left at night. Hidden by a friend. A non-Jewish friend. The boy, his mother, his new baby brother and his grandfather, were the only one’s who left. The grandfather had convinced his daughter to leave it all behind. To leave with him, to save her sons.

The friend drove all night. He took them to another friend. After a few more days, they were taken, again at night, to another friend. Sometimes they stayed places weeks, sometimes days. It just depended on where the Germans were in the moment.

When they arrived in France, the grandfather “lost” his passport. A man his age wasn’t allowed passage to America, so he pretended to be his dead son-in-law. It took them a few months to get new papers and then a few more months to get on a ship to America. This was before Internet, hell even before television. The grandfather had tons of money, all on his person (he was a loom builder and a weaver. He wove the money into the lining of all of their clothes) but he wasn’t able to speed up the process.

Upon arriving on Ellis Island, the grandfather once again “lost” his papers. He claimed entry in his own name. Being that he’d already made the trip and was perfectly healthy, he was allowed to stay. They weren’t happy with his age, but they let it go. (whatever. The man lived to be 105 years old.) He changed their last name, left their religion behind and became Americans.

Eight years old. The little boy was eight years old. All innocence he’d previously had was completely gone by then. He’d watched his father get shot and subsequently buried. He’d helped his grandfather and his mother with his baby brother. His baby brother is a whole other story. He was well…now we’d say disabled. Brain damaged is the reality. The doctor who had delivered him and used too much force with the forceps is the story. No idea how valid it is. He was emotionally stuck at three years old, until the day he died at 27.

The little boy was a bit of a schmoozer. He’d learned some tricks on the boat. He’d found his way to get by in life. The bullshit. He was great at it. He could sell you your own mother if he wanted too. Even if he’d never met her. He was hardened by life. By the circumstances beyond his control. Nothing could change that. Not the little house in New Jersey that his mother and grandfather bought. Not the man who came into their lives a year later. The man was a great man, but the little boy was already hardened. He’d seen too much.

He wasn’t a bad person. He didn’t grow up to be a bad man. Just one who was constantly looking for the easy way. The easy money.

He worked so many different jobs and had so many different careers that I couldn’t even begin to name them all. I know he was in the Air Force during Korea. I know he once was a radio jockey for a few years. The rest is hazy. In his early twenties, he met a woman who was a bit older and eventually married her, once he got her pregnant. He left her after seven years of marriage and right after their forth child was born. He was at times a bit abusive. He was a womanizer. He was an occasional drunk. He was the guy who would call his kids, tell them he was coming and leave them sitting on the front porch.

Then I was born. See, that man…the little boy, the man he became; he was my grandfather. My father was his first born and I was his first born grandchild.

With me, he became a new man. A man who made promises and kept them. An involved participant in someone else’s life. A baby-sitter, a playmate, a soft spoken disciplinarian. He was patient and kind and willing to do anything for me. He was open with his love. For me. For my brothers. He took the term grandfather very seriously.

My grandfather had a hard life. When he came to this country he was a boy. But a boy who’d lost all innocence. In me and my brothers (and later, my cousins) I believe he found it again. His innocence. He took us to parks and zoos, he bought us toys and art supplies, he made special desserts just for us, he took us to double feature movies and restaurants where you could color on the table cloth. He always colored and played with us.

Others would tell you another story. His children for one. My grandmother, before she died. They weren’t all able to forgive. I understand that. You make your bed and you have to sleep in it. It is the way of the world. But sometimes a man, a scarred damaged man, gets a chance in a small little girl. And he took it. He took his chance. Every day, I’ll remember him. I know the things other people say about him. But I also know the man he was when he died. A good man. A honorable man. A man who regretted and tried to make amens for his prior life.

One thing he always said to me is this: you have to own up to your mistakes. Apologize and then move on. It’s the only way to live. He was right.

I could tell you only the good things about him. I considered it. In my life, he was a good man. I could tell you a million stories that involve him. I could share all the wonderful things and gloss over the rest. I don’t want to though. Each of us have things in our life we regret, things that make us who we are. I know I do.

If I just told you the wonderful things, I’d leave out the important things that made my grandfather who he was. A piece of him would be missing. That wouldn’t really be honoring him. He always looked at all sides of things and in sharing about him, he’d want me to tell you the whole thing.

Tomorrow my grandfather will have been gone six years. It is partially why I don’t like Halloween anymore. It was forever ruined by one phone call. The initial phone call had come earlier, nine days to be precise. But the day before Halloween, six years ago, I lost one of the most important men in my life.

Grandpa Elliot, I will never forget you. I miss you every day. Love you. -Melissa.

**Getting any details out of any of them was not easy. They didn’t like to talk about it. Any of it.

***My grandpa, his brother, mom and grandfather, were the only family that survived. There wasn’t a ton of family, but the remaining few died in the camps.