My Grandmother - Vera

My Grandmother was pretty bad-ass.

She would hate me saying that. She hated profanity in general, but that's pretty much the only way to describe her.

At the time when she passed, she was the center of a community and church, was grandmother to about 16 children, owned her own home, could play poker, drink, smoke cigars, cook an 8 course meal without batting an eye, spoke 8 languages and played three instruments. 

She was born in a war torn Eastern Europe. She was well educated and refined, married, and had seven children. Then WWII broke out. Her and her husband stole the kids through the night, walking in ditches and through forests, moving west for France.

Her boys were drafted into Nazi army service when they were caught in south-eastern Germany. Her husband, her children, and herself were put into a displaced persons camp, considered to be enemies of the state due to their Russian heritage. Her husband was forced into Nazi service due to his advanced degree, and was never seen again. 

She kept her remaining children - three girls - and herself safe and fed in the camp, until breaking out one night. Almost the end of the war, they hid in Germany until the end of the war before moving to Paris, and then Miami, FL. She chose Miami as her port of entry, hoping for easier entry to the country. She worked there for a few years until saving up enough money to move the family to New York. She was employed as a cook in a little restaurant, among other jobs that she worked. The girls worked to support the house and they made their small family work. She saved every spare penny in a metal safebox under the floorboards in their tiny, multi-family shared apartment in Brooklyn, and when she had enough, they moved for the last time, to Chicago, IL. 

The house she bought in Chicago was an older Victorian period house. It was run down and in need of repair when she purchased it. She did the work herself, or in trade with skilled tradesmen in the community. The house never became anything glorious, but it was a comfortable and happy home, in good standing and fully repaired. When I asked her why she had such a large house but so few kids, she said 'I want as many rooms as I want people to visit.' She quickly became a leader in the local Russian Orthodox church and community. 

Everyone was welcome in her home. Sunday dinners frequently had a multitude of people denoted as 'aunt', 'uncle', or 'cousin' who I was never actually related to in any capacity. People would come over un-announced, but always welcome, usually carrying a hot dish or bottle to share. Everyone and anyone could turn to her for help in any way. She connected people across groups to help other new immigrants get work, housing, and child care. She gave advice and helped people transition through major life events with grace.

She ran her house and her life like the restaurant she used to work in - strong, direct, and in heels. No one would ever dare try and take advantage of her good graces, knowing the community there to support her. People did not come over too often or stay too late, respecting her time. Beds were always made, dinner served on time with full help and participation of everyone in the house, dishes done, yard cleaned. As she saved money, she would send for her boys who survived the war, and they would get their start in the U.S.

The house was warm. It's a bit hard for people to imagine that this is the only way to really describe her house. There were very few pictures on the mantle, and no family photos on the walls. Her dishes were stark white with singular colour bands. Everything was precisely, exactly, the right amount of what it needed to be. There were no special dishes or towels only for show, and everything matched by colour and simplicity only. There were no real toys in her house - there was chess, piano, and cards - and 'your imagination should be able to do the rest, unless you're stupid. My kids aren't stupid.' There was exactly one TV, primarily used for Bears football, and one radio in the kitchen, used for classic music and jazz while making Sunday dinner or news in the mornings. Coffee was exactly coffee, tea was only tea unless you were sick, and shoes were not tolerated past the entryway. Everything in her house was exactly the thing it was, and people could be exactly who they were, and that understanding and the warmth of an open door to friends who become family made it the best place in the world.

She was stringent and I used to never understand why she wasn't mad when I messed things up. I would frequently get my little girl heels full of mud playing soccer in a frilly dress and tights, my curls would get all knotted pretending to be a pirate queen (choice pretend character), and the number of scratches, bruises, and torn clothing must've been maddening. But anytime I did something I wasn't supposed to, she never got mad, she just made me fix it.

She took the time to explain complicated concepts to me in full, not dumbed down for my age. When I had to do my homework at her house, she would read my textbooks and when I would ask why, say 'being stupid is preventable.' She taught me to cook, press a bed, clean better than a hospital ward, play cards, the proper way to take a drink, and a cigar (though she never actually let me do those last two). 

Despite losing two of her boys in the war and her husband whom she loved dearly, changing countries more than once, moving and losing everything and not being able to go home, she was strong, she was happy, and she showed us all that anything is possible if you work hard enough.

I honestly don't know how she could stand us all...