April 12, A Day to Celebrate

A Day to Celebrate

Daughter Alicia writes:

I try to find enjoyable adventures and events for my mother… but this time, she was the one who told me about an upcoming fundraiser for a local orchestra that puts on wonderful musical programs during the year:  Sinfonietta.  So I arranged for us to get tickets, put on afternoon-in-the-garden-tea-party attire, and go on a Sunday afternoon.   Across the globe another event was happening on this day:  a commemoration of the date of liberation of the camp where my mother, along with 2000 women who had surrendered to the Germans after the fall of the Warsaw Uprising in October 1944, in Oberlangen, Germany.  Such a trip to that commemoration ceremony would have been just too much to undertake, although we did send a short video of my mother speaking about her experiences in that camp to the organizers and the mayor of the town.  We were told that they would screen the clip for the 200 or so people who would be attending the ceremony.  I was delighted to have something far more entertaining and uplifting for us to attend on this day.  My mother describes it below:

Nika writes:

April 12 is a very important date in our lives:  On April 12, in 1945, I was liberated by Polish and Canadian forces from the Prisoner of War camp in Oberlangen, Germany, the very day that  President Roosevelt died.  We heard that sad news of the American President’s death just as we were happy and relieved to be liberated and free.  On April 12, 1976, my granddaughter Tali was born in Israel.  Now she is the mother of baby twins.  To me, a miracle of survival and continuity.

Not long ago I went a little too early to our library branch, and next to me was sitting a pleasant lady also waiting, and we started talking.  This is how I found out that there would be a garden tea party at a lovely home in the Village of Oak Creek very near where I live, to support the local Sinfonietta.

 

Both Alicia and I enjoyed it very much -  meeting  old and new friends - in  such breathtaking surroundings, listening to two ladies playing the violin and cello.  All the decoration, the preparation of scones with clotted cream and lemon curd, tiny sandwiches, and array of desserts, served on elegant china, even the serving of tea into our beautiful, dainty tea cups - all the work was done by volunteers!  A fashion show of hats and beautiful clothes added to the festive atmosphere. And of course everyone dressed in some kind of “garden party” attire.  I wore a turquoise handmade jacket with Native American motif that I had acquired at the famous La Posada Inn in Winslow, and wore a matching turquoise cowboy hat.

  

All this we would have missed had I not been too early before our library opened.

Speaking of “bashert” (meant-to-be), one seat next to me was vacant, and suddenly Joella Mahoney sat down there.  She is the woman painter I most admire in Sedona.  We talked and laughed and enjoyed each other’s company!

Wow - how can I be so lucky?!

  Blog #26 – Treasured Memories

Where have the years and decades flown? I know I am getting old because I started finding things from long ago, as I was cleaning out drawers full of memories, pictures, letters, and cards.

Pounds of paper got discarded, and still there is enough left for my children to throw away piles later!

One item in particular grabbed my eye: a note written on an envelope 70 years ago by Diana, a lady from the British army who visited our prisoner of war camp in Oberlangen, Germany, after liberation in April of 1945.  I had to go to the Polish Embassy in Belgium to get my original name back after I had been living under a false name with bought documents to save my life.  Only at the Polish embassy there could I get my original name of Bronislawa Felicja Kohn back so that I could then get a passport to go to the United States.  But where to stay when in Brussels? This kind lady, Diana, gave me the address of her aunt in Brussels who would offer me a place to stay.

Mme Witouk's address

Major Mersch, a Belgian liaison officer to Canadian and Polish  forces who found us at that camp and liberated us gave me the address of his wife in Boisfort, a suburb of Brussels, just in case I needed it.

    

So there I arrived in Brussels, soon after leaving the camp where just a few days before I had been sleeping on a straw mattress with a thin blanket.  

I came to Madame Helene Witouck’s palace in Brussels where I was given a lovely room, and slept in the most luxurious bed with a very fluffy, warm comforter, and took a bath  in a golden bathtub, the old-fashioned kind with animal legs, which stood in the middle of  a big room.  Unfortunately,  the old caretaker of the household was the only staff left since all the others had to join the army, and he had to go to sleep at 9 pm. 

So I was given a curfew of having to be home before 9 p.m.  

My first taste of freedom, and I couldn’t go out in the evening?!   

I wanted  to go out with Eric Langford Brook, a British Major who followed me from British  Headquarters and wanted to show me the lovely city, and take me out to dinner after all these years living in fear and danger.  So I had to leave elegant Madame and go to find the other address out in the suburb. What a delightful surprise: Simone Mersch, whom I called “my Belgian Mommy” received me like a loving relative.  I remember her saving a white roll for me for breakfast and telling her son, “Give that to Maria. She hasn’t had good food for a long time.” 

  

It is a long story but now I am reliving everything as I look through these old letters and photos.  Who will care for all this or know who these people are in the photos when I’m gone?  Well, it gives me pleasure now to look at them and remember.  Others will have to deal with all this stuff in the future.

Life Begins at 90 #25 Daily Adventures

Daughter Alicia writes:

Nearly every single day I get an email from my mother Nika telling of an adventure.  On the way to the library,  in the pool, at lunch, or at the store shopping, she meets people. They help her with groceries, or give her a ride, or engage in a long conversation.... and usually they end up visiting her at her home in the Village of Oak Creek near Sedona.  They look at and admire all of her paintings in her colorful, bright apartment.  Intrigued by her and her accent, they ask, "Where are you from?" and there starts her story... but after a very brief introduction, she says, "You'll have to read the book."  

By then, there is no choice.... they buy the book "From Miracle to Miracle, A Story of Survival" that I wrote based on her amazing and miraculous survival during World War II.  she makes new friends and touches people by her vibrant zest for living.  At 94, she truly is young in spirit.

Here is but one example of the delighted emails I receive almost daily - no edits - just in her own voice:

All I did  walked  this morning to return films  to our library-  and see a man sitting on the back of the truck-asked him to take my picture on his cell phone-and have now  beautiful 2 new friends  his lovely wife  Zoe  and Bill. I will get from Bill the book his mother has written when she was 90  - came over from Italy.They walked me home to see my paintings  and will send me from Oregon  when they return home  a book Bills mother  has written   -  arrived from Italy as a young woman  - the book she has written at 90. Should be interesting to compare notes!
I told you-  the minute I leave  home  adventure  is waiting – how lucky.  Baci  and pl write  your adventures .  Nika smiling 

I am sure   it was “bashert”  meant to be.  I am so lucky-    

Baci,  Mamusia

#24 Life Begins at 90 BITING

Blog 24 – BITING

This time I have written about a problem - only to be read by people who do not complain ….

    

Nothing in our body was programmed for so long, to live past 90?! We have artificially, through brilliant inventions, managed to repair most anything.

I have had a new hip and both knees replaced,  a face lift 20 years ago to look younger; we concoct all kinds of ugly green drinks to swallow to clean up our  liver and stomach (sort of a roto-rooter for our clogged veins) thus permitting our heart to beat much longer then it was designed for.

What I am concerned about is my teeth -  biting in particular.

Remember biting into an apple when we were young? No problem,  just  fun!

Well, do not try it now please. Also, a nice bagel with cream cheese and lox?  Rather ask the nice man to cut it for you into smaller pieces and just pop it in.

    

I just returned from my very capable  dentist (many diplomas hanging around  for reassurance)  and found out that I grind my teeth in my sleep,  and therefore my teeth  break in places or get slowly worn down.  By the way do not try to shop around for a cheaper dentist - there is no such person around.

They have in the office a list of repair prices.  So pick one you like who is an interesting person, with sense of humor, and knows his business.  Why settle for less if the price is the same?

  

In Summer I have my teeth cleaned by a modest dentist working alone in Cape Cod without a big office or assistants to help, yet the prices are almost the same..

This awareness of the dangers of biting into something hard continued for many years until last summer when I forgot my own advice and have bitten too many times into hard food.

I lost half of my front tooth which had to be fixed with a hot special bonding tool and compound.  Had to go to the dentist at the Cape who usually only cleans my teeth, (not my regular genius dentist in Winter).  “No problem,” he said.  “I can fix it.” He did-- and we hoped it will last to the end of my life.

Always the optimist, I ate happily, biting away on harder foods.

One sunny day recently in Sedona I felt something moving between my front teeth, so I visit my talented regular “problem fixer.”

“Am I imagining doctor something jumping around in my mouth?” 

“No-- you are not imagining it”  the dentist replied.

The whole filling put in a year ago did not last and had to be redone.

Now there were three people around me, giving an injection to feel comfortable and each one with all kinds of tools just invented.  One hour later and 300 dollars poorer out I go with a stiff upper lip and trying to smile.

Some repairs I have needed for my teeth are over 1000 dollars (and these are just small repairs).  My daughter promised to talk to our bookkeeper about deducting this from my taxes- not to worry.

As usual I started thinking of my home in Krakow Poland where my brother and I ate dinner with our parents at 2 pm each day. I remember always seeing next to my father’s dish cut up pieces of bread and I wondered why.  Now I understand -no biting!!!!!

All the same problems come to the one who managed to live past 90-  just hope the money will last – or maybe finally  to get  false teeth put into a  glass cheerfully at night?  Why bother with such trifles?  One should be grateful to have gifted, good-looking, kind  children and grandchildren.  I can walk, read, drive a car (during the day and not far), see friends, listen to  music….so much to be grateful for.

Just remember - no biting into a hard bagel!

  

- Nika Fleissig

Please Read My Blog Here:
http://www.lifebeginsat90.blogspot.com/

Order our book, From Miracle To Miracle: A Story of Survival (via PayPal):
http://www.FromMiracleToMiracle.com

Please view my art here:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/nikafleissig/

blog 23 Cooking

Life Begins at 90, Blog by Nika Fleissig

Sunday, March 8, 2015

All previous blogs were written triggered by some event that reminded me of the past. Today is no exception.

     

Yesterday I had lunch with two friends in an elegant hotel with a magnificent view, and the conversation turned to cooking and enjoying food.

The two educated, successful, retired ladies both said in unison,  “We never cook!”

Here goes what I remember vividly about arriving in the U.S. never having made a meal in my life, as I had had no opportunity to cook while growing up in my parents’ home… there was a maid who cooked.

And…during  WWII there was not much to cook!!  So here comes the end of the war and I arrive  as a total greenhorn in America, the Land of Plenty.

In Poland, a chicken was bought live and the maid, a peasant girl from the country usually, had to kill it and clean it – a big job.

Here I saw for the first time a chicken in the supermarket (there was no such thing in Krakow, Poland when I was a young girl…only small neighborhood little stores run by the families who knew what every customer ate and liked).

I see a clean, appetizing chicken wrapped in plastic ready for the oven. I could not believe my eyes.

   

Back to my married life  as a young refugee after years of war  and deprivation.

All was here in front of me and yet I had no idea what to do with it or how it is called by name -  the appetizing meat I saw.

Ladies in the neighborhood tried to teach me- and it usually ended in disaster. My husband, a metallurgical engineer who came to buy machinery in the U.S. before the War, had gotten stuck in the States with other people who had come to America  in 1939  for the Worlds Fair and could never return to their homes in Europe.  They all lost their families.  

Today I marvel at his patience.  I once wanted to make him a delicacy… I thought I was buying brains which cook up in a short time, and I bought lung instead which takes hours and hours of cooking and tenderizing.  To you this might sound like an awful dish, but truly it was a treat in Poland.  However, since I bought the wrong cut it had the consistency of rubber. The poor man said “not so bad” as he valiantly chewed this impossibly tough piece of organ meat.

Ah, but rescue came!   Fred had three assistants in the Loewy firm of heavy industry.  One of them was Howard Libby, in truth, not a great engineer but a marvelous  cook - this was a hobby he had acquired while living in Paris before the war  and taking rich ladies to the best restaurants.

One day Howard said to me, “I love and respect your husband, and this cannot continue. I offer to come every week end and teach you to become a gourmet cook.”

     

And so it was.  We started at the beginning.  When I was very good  he invited me to NY apartment (no worry, he was gay), and prepared a feast which I thoroughly enjoyed and asked for the recipe. The sauce alone took 3 days to make  -  “Poulet en Cocotte” by name.

One day when I felt I learned enough to dare inviting a senior vice president of General Electric and his wife who had been introduced to us to dinner, I decided I was going to cook the elegant and tasty chicken dish I had just learned how to make.  Every other person at the table ate it with great pleasure, but Mr.Young's plate had all the chicken still untouched.  He kind of pushed it around, but I could tell he had not really eaten any.

Usually I had something small prepared in case someone did not like what I made-but this time I was so very sure of my offering that I had nothing else prepared.

The story goes, Mr. Young told us that as a young employee of General Electric he had had to travel a lot. There was the inevitable undercooked chicken served with blood showing, and since then he had vowed that anything F.O.W.L. he would not touch.  Forget it.   

When my children Alicia and Willy were more grown up, every time something especially good tasting was served and they oohed and aahed and complimented me, I looked to heaven (as Howard had passed away) and said to myself, “Thank you Howard!”

When  I got stuck painting something very frustrating and  difficult, and needed to accomplish something, I looked in my Gourmet Magazine to find a delicious  sounding recipe.  I made it and then worried who to invite to eat it with us. In America at the time the normal dinner was steak and potatoes, but I wanted something with more taste, sauce, spices, finesse.

Cooking enriched my life.  Now as an old woman I rarely cook any more…   my daughter took over.  I am left with memories and funny stories.  

I thought this will amuse you on this day of the Purim spiel where everyone in the synagogue dressed up in costume and had a great time, as a cast of members retold the story of Esther with a British updated twist and songs adapted from Beatles and other British songwriters.  I am sure each one of you has a similar story to tell about the beginnings as a housewife.   I would appreciate your comments.   Shalom!!!!

Life Begins at Ninety #22 Courage

Nika’s Blog Life Begins at Ninety    #22 COURAGE

As we know, the Wizard of Oz doesn’t exist and cannot give us courage, a heart, or a brain.  In that case, when we grow up we have to find out where the quality of courage is and how to acquire it.

When you are very young you have no power.   When you become a teenager or young adult suddenly situations arise where you have to fight for something. Nothing comes by itself. Or, you have the choice just to let things go as they are, and then either complain or accept it. To find out who you really are only happens through adversity, I think. When you see injustice, do you look the other way or object to it, or fight for what you believe in? I believe this courage and strength to fight and challenge and object for what you believe is right stays with you the rest of your life... this strength. That also fits when you are married; fighting for your children.  e.g. In Europe and Switzerland, punishments are pretty old fashioned.

Here is a small example from our family life. When my son and daughter were in Gstaad, Switzerland, in a kinderheim (“children’s home” boarding school or summer camp) as young children, the supervisor punished my son, then 6 years old, by putting him to bed during the day. These mademoiselles took care of children for many years, as this was a very established boarding school year round.  I asked myself if I had the courage to tell them they are wrong.  I decided to fight for my son.  I said,

“I do not want to teach you your business, but there are many ways to correct a child.  I love my bed, and I don’t want him to hate his bed forever.  Could you find a different punishment?”  So here is what came of it – my son was put to clean the mud from 30 pairs of hiking boots.  I must congratulate the lady in charge. Instead of being angry she said, “I never thought about it that way. Thank you.” 

Daughter Alicia adds:  “I’ll never forget that morning at the kinderheim coming to breakfast and not seeing my little brother in the dining room. I searched, and finally found him down in the cellar where they kept all the hiking boots lined up, caked with mud from the last excursion.  There was Willy, a tiny 6 year-old in a bathrobe, with a brush and cloth, cleaning off the hard mud from rows of heavy boots.  He looked up at me with a pitiful expression, and my heart melted. But he finished his task, and came up to breakfast, proclaiming that he now knew how to shine boots the very best way. I was proud of how he handled it.  I never knew that our mother had talked to the mademoiselle in charge (she was a bit frightening, at least to us) to alter the punishment.  We did have fun there most of the time, learned some French, took incredible hikes in the surrounding mountains, and adjusted to what we thought were odd customs, like how to hold one’s fork and knife; keeping the same cloth napkin in a ring for several days, taking naps every day outside after lunch….  By the way, I was always careful to scrape mud as much as possible off of my boots when returning from a hike after that, although Willy never had to shine them up again.

During their growing up years these situations came up often in the children’s regular school, and you have to pick your battles….not complain about everything.  But I found that I had fought injustice since I was little. Now... does one learn this or is it an innate quality?  I am convinced that everything we have is in us; only the situation calls for action and then you find out who you are... brave or afraid.  I have a feeling this also applies in business and in every relationship. To stand up for what you believe in takes courage... and yet you also have to know when to bend and have a sense of humor... what is important and what is not.   It is easy to blame other circumstances and people when one doesn’t succeed in some effort... it could be because you lacked courage. Never blame other people.  Rather, look inside of yourself.

When the Yom Kippur War broke out in 1973 in Israel, my husband Fred wanted to send a ticket for Alicia to return home, as she was living and working in Jerusalem at that time.  I said, “We shouldn’t interrupt her decision-making as an adult.  She has to experience real life.  I forbad him from sending the ticket.  Remember he had lost a wife and child in WWII. My daughter as an adult had the right to make a decision. 

Daughter Alicia adds:  If you can believe this, I felt almost a sense of relief when that war broke out.  Now, I was much much safer in Israel than my mother had been in Poland during the Second World War, but it was a war nevertheless.  In some unconscious way I had been paralleling my mother’s life in my mind.  When I was 18, I went off to college, but somewhere in my mind I was aware that these were the years my mother was in the shadow of war.  When I was 25 and already a teacher of French in an upscale Connecticut high school, I asked myself, “At this age, my mother was liberated, came to the US, started a new life after losing her whole family, and here I am teaching rich kids French.  What am I doing for my own people?”  A few months after that, I made arrangements to spend six months on a kibbutz, learning Hebrew and exploring what life is like in Israel.  At the end of the ulpan work-study program in Israel, I moved to Jerusalem, signed up for the government tour guide course, and began work at the one Israeli television station that existed at that time.  When war broke out in October of 1973, I telexed my father at his office that I was staying.  I cut my hair short, took over several jobs at the TV station since most of the men were called to the front, helped the mothers with their children in the apartment building where I lived, cleared and prepared the safe area under the stairwell in case of air raids, and felt that finally I was proving myself. After that I felt I was an adult, and ready to marry.  In 1974 I did marry Itzhak Magal who left the kibbutz and worked in TV and film.  We had two children in Jerusalem before moving to Los Angeles in late 1978. I showed a different kind of courage from my mother, and am still learning on which occasions to stand up for justice, in our family, congregation, community, and larger world issues.

- Nika Fleissig

Please Read My Blog Here:
http://www.lifebeginsat90.blogspot.com/

Order our book, From Miracle To Miracle: A Story of Survival (via PayPal):
http://www.FromMiracleToMiracle.com

Please view my art here:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/nikafleissig/

#21 Trusting Your Own Instinct: Two Stories - Skiing during the School Year, and Coal during the War

Nika’s Blog #21 Life Begins at 90:  Trusting Your Own Instinct

Every blog posting I have written is triggered by some event close to home. My memories are buzzing in my head ---- looked at now from the perspective of advanced age.

In the world in which I grew up, the father was the head of the family; mothers did not work but had enough to keep them busy training help and supervising the upbringing of children.

To question authority was unthinkable. A little child had to be quiet and obey.

Here I come, a born fighter, but had to keep what I think to myself most of the time.

As a married woman  with 2  children I had  to relearn   how  to  behave and fit into this new society.

In winter in Poland we used to skate and ski. Poland has a strong, long winter. It was our custom during the winter even indoors to wear sweaters. Here in America I found the schools overheated, and the children half asleep in mid-winter instead of going outside and enjoying winter sports. 

I cannot help it that there is seldom snow on Christmas during the winter vacation, but there is usually a lot of good skiing in February, with warmer spring skiing conditions.   So when our children were in elementary and junior high school, I went to the principal of our children’s public school in White Plains, Westchester, NY, and asked to have them set free for 10 days during  the 2  presidents’  birthdays.  This was before there was a Presidents’ weekend in February.  Dr. Noyce, the principal, asked “What if all children would leave?”  I said, looking at these lethargic students in overheated school rooms, “I wish they could all go to enjoy Winter.  Each year we had the same exchange. After four years when I came again to get permission to take our children out of school, Dr. Noyce said “I wish you could take them all with you.”  Finally he understood.  

All these children would have come back invigorated and full of new energy, but the system did not allow it.        

Now thinking of Valentine’s Day, existing only in UK and US,

I admire the lovely custom of sending cards, flowers and candy and showing love. Slowly the rest of the world is doing it.

 

I found that we only enjoy a new environment and criticize things that make no sense when one is dislocated from the familiar.

Americans take many things for granted that only refugees from more dictatorial places admire and take advantage of.  The freedom to protest and to change things - what a luxury in this world!   I am grateful watching my grandchildren feel to speak and not to be afraid.   Happy Valentine  !!!!!!

 

---

(Daughter-in-law Wendy responded to the above story with admiration, saying I had “balls”!)

Somehow, while we were on the subject of courage (balls as Wendy calls it) suddenly I remembered a day during the war in Lwow, where I was working in an office under an assumed name.  My boss called me, and handed me a paper asking the German officials for a heating coal allotment, which in the very cold winter is a necessity.

   

Without any thought in my head I went to the given address, where I saw people shivering and standing in a long line around the block.  I had no idea why they were there.  I just climbed up the empty staircase on the left, and in a few minutes found myself looking at a German official sitting behind the desk. 

“Why are you here?”  

“I came to get a coal allotment for my office.”

You never heard such laughter from a serious looking gentleman and his entourage, as if I just told them a good joke.  

He replied in German, “Why do you think all these people are standing and waiting in line?”  I answered, “Well, in that case they will never get it.  I am already here. Why not give me the permit now?”    

--Yes, I got it!  When I arrived back in my office I handed the precious permit to my boss.  He said, “I knew you would get it!” 

Story of my life -- never follow the rules if  possible. Amen. 

But…how can you tell this to your children?

(A draft of the above blog led daughter-in-law Wendy Kohn to respond:)

That's exactly what I mean. I don't think Alicia or I would have done that and sometimes it worries me that we follow rules so closely.

How did you get so brazen, Nika?

Wendy

(to which Nika replied)

My Darling, you will never know --  

nor could any  normal  person in our usual life ever know –

how you would behave.  Let’s hope this kind of war and sick people will not be a challenge to our grandchildren. The Holocaust will be studied for centuries by psychiatrists all over the  world, and they will find no answer.

Genghis Khan is still studied today -   how a wild horde of people  showed up on their ponies from Asia and conquered everything  in their path. 

We are experiencing now global changes that no one ever expected.

Justice and lack of prejudices is a pure utopia-  although every church teaches kind and compassionate behavior as a vision to attain.

Enough for one day  -  I rarely am so serious.

Smile and do the best you can with what you've got.

Good luck from Mamusia Nika.   

Valentine 2015,  Sedona

PS When we least expect a miracle it might happen?   

  

- Nika Fleissig

Please Read My Blog Here:
http://www.lifebeginsat90.blogspot.com/

Order our book, From Miracle To Miracle: A Story of Survival (via PayPal):
http://www.FromMiracleToMiracle.com

Please view my art here:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/nikafleissig/