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Maria Lasky (1928 - 2019)
Sep. 4th, 2019 12:12 amMy mom:
She was born in Traunstein, a small town in Bavaria, in 1928. She had three sisters and one brother, my uncle Heinrich. (I always reminded her of her brother, and she occasionally called me "Heinie" when she was off guard. I got second generation revenge, though; she occasionally called my nephew, Matthew, "Jackie.")
Her father, Josef, was an avowed socialist and the family was supposedly destined for Siberia if Hitler won the war. My mom survived an allied bombing run that destroyed an entire town. My grandfather had his own private war of wills with an allied pilot who buzzed the family farm. (Mom swears he saw the pilot smile at him from the cockpit, as if to say, "just messing with ya.")
My father was released from the camps in late 1945 and settled in Traunstein. They married and came to New York in 1951. She took care of him for 57 years until his death in 2008. My father never completely dealt with his trauma from the war; he took too many pills to damp down his anxiety, and it ruined his digestion. But he lived to 96 because my mother would not let his trauma destroy him.
My mom was the social center of the family. All the major holidays were at her apartment, and she would make roast beef with mushroom gravy, apple fritters or dumplings with vanilla sauce. (If we were all very good, she would also make a "yaptzak"--a traditional Polish dish that was two layers of meticulously hand-grated potatoes surrounding a layer of beef, slowly baked until the three layers merged into a uniform sensation. I can still taste it.)
She worked for the American Kennel Club for over two decades, registering purebred dogs--but she brought home a "yorkie poo"....a mutt.
She had her regrets. She had her faults. I wish she could have had a better relationship with my wife; but they're both stubborn women who (in their own way) do not give an inch.
She leaves behind my sister and me and three grandchildren.
True story:
One day, while she was working in the kitchen in our old place in the Dyckman Street projects in upper Manhattan, she was overcome with a wave of nausea and sadness and had to sit down or she would fall down. It was the very moment her own mother died back in Germany. My mother said she would sometimes feel the presence of the recently departed, as if they checked in with her one last time before leaving for parts unknown.
I'm a skeptic when it comes to paranormal phenomena, but I would like one of those visits now. Maybe tonight in the dim half-awareness just before sleep. It would be comforting.
She was born in Traunstein, a small town in Bavaria, in 1928. She had three sisters and one brother, my uncle Heinrich. (I always reminded her of her brother, and she occasionally called me "Heinie" when she was off guard. I got second generation revenge, though; she occasionally called my nephew, Matthew, "Jackie.")
Her father, Josef, was an avowed socialist and the family was supposedly destined for Siberia if Hitler won the war. My mom survived an allied bombing run that destroyed an entire town. My grandfather had his own private war of wills with an allied pilot who buzzed the family farm. (Mom swears he saw the pilot smile at him from the cockpit, as if to say, "just messing with ya.")
My father was released from the camps in late 1945 and settled in Traunstein. They married and came to New York in 1951. She took care of him for 57 years until his death in 2008. My father never completely dealt with his trauma from the war; he took too many pills to damp down his anxiety, and it ruined his digestion. But he lived to 96 because my mother would not let his trauma destroy him.
My mom was the social center of the family. All the major holidays were at her apartment, and she would make roast beef with mushroom gravy, apple fritters or dumplings with vanilla sauce. (If we were all very good, she would also make a "yaptzak"--a traditional Polish dish that was two layers of meticulously hand-grated potatoes surrounding a layer of beef, slowly baked until the three layers merged into a uniform sensation. I can still taste it.)
She worked for the American Kennel Club for over two decades, registering purebred dogs--but she brought home a "yorkie poo"....a mutt.
She had her regrets. She had her faults. I wish she could have had a better relationship with my wife; but they're both stubborn women who (in their own way) do not give an inch.
She leaves behind my sister and me and three grandchildren.
True story:
One day, while she was working in the kitchen in our old place in the Dyckman Street projects in upper Manhattan, she was overcome with a wave of nausea and sadness and had to sit down or she would fall down. It was the very moment her own mother died back in Germany. My mother said she would sometimes feel the presence of the recently departed, as if they checked in with her one last time before leaving for parts unknown.
I'm a skeptic when it comes to paranormal phenomena, but I would like one of those visits now. Maybe tonight in the dim half-awareness just before sleep. It would be comforting.
