by Cathy Lamb
Chloe said, “Glory hell’s bees. I didn’t know this was going to happen.”
Kyle sat down in front of an easel and began to draw. My grandma, so elegant and dignified, told her story, quickly. There was one spotlight on each of them.
My grandma talked about how her relatives fled Odessa in the Russian Empire because they were Jewish and the pogroms were a threat to their lives, how their home was burned and a baby was lost, and then another after that. She talked about their escape to Germany, and how they started businesses, a leather goods store, a bakery, a department store. She talked about the hate that brought Hitler to power and how Hitler began exterminating the Jews.
She talked about her two uncles disappearing, her father being beaten, and how she and Renata had escaped via the Kindertransport to England. She talked about the Blitz, working as a nurse in a hospital, and a bomb from the Nazis hitting her home and taking Renata’s life. She talked about returning to Germany and losing her home, and knowing her family was all gone.
“This is what hate can do,” she said. “This is what racism can do. I couldn’t speak of what happened to my family for decades because I didn’t want to bring the darkness in. I couldn’t bring it in. I was afraid of it, afraid of what it would do to me. Now, as I am very old, I know I must speak of it. My family deserves to know what happened. You all deserve to know what happens when evil wins, or when a group of people turns against their own, or when the wrong person comes to power.”
Crying. All around us. I could hear people sniffling, muffling sobs.
“Sometimes life is so painful you think it will kill you.” Grandma paused, and those weighted words flew around the armory. “It was for me. I fought through it, not because I wanted to but because I had to. I had to live in honor of my family. They had lost their lives. I could not take mine. I wanted to help others, to heal, so that my life would mean something, to them and to me. I found love with Oliver, and we had our beloved Fire Breather, Dr. Mary Beth, and she had Chloe and Olivia, my Cinnamon and Nutmeg, and they had Kyle, Stephi, and Lucy. Teddy, Jace, and Zane joined our family. My family continued on. There was light after the darkness. And there is so much love here. So much love, right here, in Kalulell.”
My mother, tough woman, was crying. “Momma,” she whispered. “Oh, Momma.”
Chloe said, “I’m crying. Like a dang baby. Help me. I’m crying. Help.”
I cried, too. Jace put an arm around me.
“I want to tell all of you”—my grandma’s smile was radiant—“that it has been my pleasure to be a nurse here in Kalulell for sixty-five years. It has been my honor to serve you and your families. Most important, I want you to know one thing: I love you. I do. I love all of you.”
All around us we heard people calling out, “We love you, too, Mrs. Gisela . . . I love you, too!”
The lights went out. Total darkness, and we sat and waited, the crying magnified in the silence. Then one spotlight came on. It shone on Kyle and my grandma, standing together. She was proudly holding the drawing that her great-grandson had made of her. It was remarkable. It was perfect. It showed my grandma’s strength and courage, her wisdom, her beauty, and her elegance.
We all stood up and cheered. My mother kept crying, saying, “She is my thundering hero.” My sister shouted out, “Way to go, Kyle! Way to go, Grandma!” Jace wiped his eyes, so did Zane. Tough men know they can cry. It was a long, long ovation. A whole bunch of people climbed the stairs to the stage and hugged my grandma and Kyle. She hugged them back, smiling. Kyle allowed the hugs and patted their backs. Three times.
* * *
Later that night, after dessert, the award ceremony began. The bluegrass band came in third. A ballerina came in second.
Kyle came in first.
This time, it was my grandma who cried.
* * *
Winning the talent competition, along with my grandma, for Kyle, was huge. Kyle knew that he didn’t fit in. He felt it. He felt the loneliness. He had often been teased and bullied. But to be up in front of the town, to have them clapping for him, cheering, did wonders for his self-esteem.
He kept drawing people in town, especially people who “appeared to be having a bad day.” He was offered money, but he declined. “Mother said I must bring joy to people with my drawings, without compensation, so people can make my acquaintance and I can get to know them. I will continue as instructed. Mother’s advice is always correct.”
When an eighty-nine-year-old neighbor lost her ninety-five-year-old husband, Kyle walked to her home and drew a picture of them together, from a photograph, their red barn in the distance. When a firefighter broke his leg when he fell out of a burning home, Kyle went to his house and drew a picture of him, his wife, their five children, two bunnies, three horses, and four dogs to bring “goodwill.” “That one took a long time because the animals refused to sit still for long.”
Kyle will have a bright future. More important, Kyle has a place where he has a home.
It’s all most of us want. A place, people, we call home.
* * *
Dinah nodded at me, camera at the ready. She had wrapped her pink hair up in a purple-flowered headband today.
“Hello, everyone. My name is Olivia Martindale. Welcome to Cooking with Olivia on Martindale Ranch in Montana. Beside me is my husband, Jace. I had to bribe him to come on the show.” I smiled. My bribe was that I would stay in bed with him all day on Saturday while my mother and grandma took the girls horseback riding. “Today we’re making ribs, but we’re using a special sauce. This sauce was developed by Jace’s grandfather, Ricardo Rivera. Jace, tell us about your grandfather and the sauce.”
Jace talked about Ricardo, how he’d grown up poor in Mexico, one of ten kids, how he’d worked in the mines for years, saved his money, became a citizen, and bought the land we’re on today. He talked about how Ricardo worked as a farmer and a rancher, was married for fifty-one years to a local Kalulell woman—his grandma, Eleanor—and they had his father, Antonio. Ricardo gave the recipe to his son, and Antonio gave it to Jace. “This is Ricardo’s recipe we’ll be using today. It’s called Ricardo Rivera’s Ribs.”
He was so handsome I wanted to eat him up.
We made the rib sauce together. We brushed the sauce on the ribs, and we chatted about the ranch, what our clients love to do here, the campfires and snowshoeing, the lake and the game room, the afternoon cookies and wine during dinner.
I smiled serenely. Jace smiled like a cowboy. The man was simmering hot. Dinah turned the camera off, we put the ribs in the oven, Jace and I went home for a couple of romps in bed, and I told him I loved him. We came back for the rest of the show when the ribs were done, Dinah holding the camera, and we showed everyone what the ribs looked like cooked, which was totally scrumptious.
Funny thing, though. Jace had not told me that my hair was a wreck when we went back to the kitchen to do the second taping. Maybe he didn’t notice. It was quite clear by my pinkish flush, silly smile, no lipstick, and my mascara slightly smeared that we’d been messing around. I looked like I’d just gotten out of bed. Which I had. If that didn’t seal the deal, when we watched the video later, after it was already up on our website, Jace had lipstick on the left side of his mouth and a full kiss on his right cheek, and my blue blouse had been rebuttoned wrong. I also forgot to put my white chef’s jacket back on.
When we were done, I said, “Thanks for watching Cooking with Olivia and Jace at Martindale Ranch in Montana!” I smiled into the camera, trying to be serene and calm, poorly buttoned shirt and all.
* * *
“You all have to write your favorite recipes in our family cookbook,” Grandma said, her hands on the leather cover. “See all these blank pages? They’re for you to fill, Mary Beth, Olivia, Jace, you put your grandfather’s rib sauce recipe in here, Chloe, Kyle, Stephi, and Lucy.”
Grandma turned and glared at my mother. “I don’t want you to use that chicken scratch you usually write in either,
Fire Breather. No one can read your writing. It looks like a drunk bear picked up a pen and tried to kill the paper. You write neatly, Mary Beth.”
“I’ll be sure not to write like a drunk bear,” my mother drawled, taking another sip of wine. “Unless I’m drunk. I love this wine.”
“And you, Cinnamon”—she turned to me—“don’t put your most complicated recipes in, the ones with a hundred different ingredients from all over the world where you have to cook for three days straight and not sleep. Put in your favorite recipes that a normal woman could cook. And, you, Nutmeg”—she stabbed her finger at my sister—“you don’t cook much, so you’re going to have to make something up.”
“I cook,” my sister said, but it was weak. She bakes cakes, but dinner? Eh. She slammed a hand on the table. “Sometimes. I shoot better than I cook. I fly a helicopter better than I cook. I stick IV lines in better than I cook, and I’m proud of that. But I do cook.” Her voice fell off.
Kyle wrote something in his Questions Notebook.
“You reheat, Chloe,” my mother said. “You get food from the store that’s frozen in bags and you throw it in a pan with olive oil and turn on the gas. An attempt is made not to burn it.”
“I don’t think you should be accusing me of not cooking dinner, Mother, as you often fed us hot dogs and Popsicles and popcorn for dinner when we were younger.”
My mother waved her hand as in, “I did not.”
We all laughed. She had served us hot dogs and popcorn and Popsicles for dinner often.
Kyle said, “Nourishment is important for the brain. May I tell you about the brain?”
Lucy said, pointing her finger up, “I want to be nourished with a hot dog.”
Stephi said, “Can we get a llama for a pet, Jace? I could make him a rock necklace with my collection.”
Jace said, “How about a bat monster instead?”
My grandma spoke, soft, sure, her voice filled with love. “I love to cook because it’s what my mother, Esther, did. It’s what her mother, Ida, did, and her mother, Sarrah, and her mother, Tsilia. It’s why our family cookbook is my most precious possession. It links us all, as a family, one to another, generation to generation. Through love and joy and heartbreak and loss. We’re all here. In this cookbook.”
Wow.
“One more thing,” she said to us. “I love you all. You are everything to me.”
Measure. Mix. Stir. Whip. Bake. I love my family. I love Jace.
* * *
Later, we ate dinner together. Jace bought takeout Japanese food, and we ate with chopsticks. It was noisy. It was funny, fun, relaxed. I kissed Jace and held his hand. The girls crawled on his lap.
At the end of the night I watched my grandma walk out the front door, the moon high, a warm breeze flowing through. Her scarf, with scarlet roses on it, fluttered in the wind. Soon we would all be able to plant our red geraniums, honoring Ida and Esther. I watched her walk toward her log cabin, then she veered toward the gazebo.
She tilted her head back and brought a hand to the sky. She waved.
Chapter 17
June 12, 2011
Kalulell, Montana
Gisela Gobenko Martindale, grandmother of Olivia
Martindale
Gisela Gobenko Martindale curled up in bed on a clear, warm night in the blue farmhouse and held her family’s cookbook in her hands. Earlier that day she had planted red geraniums in the flower boxes at the farmhouse and at her log cabin. She had run her hand over her husband’s lasso on the deck, then kissed his cowboy hat, nailed above hers. She put her hand on the red door, remembering. She smiled at the wagon wheel, then stared up at the weather vane in the shape of the sun because her Montana Man, Oliver, told her she was his sun.
She sat in the gazebo and watched the Telena River run by, the magnificent Dove Mountains in the distance. Oliver had known she would need this gazebo to save her sanity.
In bed that evening, Gisela wore a light blue silk scarf she had bought in 1945, here in Kalulell. It had red geraniums on it. She had not worn it until today.
Propped up against the pillows, she held her special cookbook in her hands. She was now at peace.
Everyone in her family had written their favorite recipes in the cookbook.
Her daughter, loyal and strong Mary Beth, her Fire Breather, had written a recipe for chicken soup called Don’t Be a Sickie, Be Healthy Chicken Soup. This was not surprising, as chicken soup did aid in making people well. As Mary Beth was a doctor, on the opposite page she had written down instructions for CPR, how to wrap a tourniquet, and symptoms not to ignore.
Olivia’s recipe was for bouillabaisse with lobster, clams, and halibut. She titled it Seafood Delight. She had included ten rules that a chef should always remember, including, “Never skimp on butter.”
Chloe’s recipe was for steak. “A real woman eats steak,” she wrote, “and this is how to make it so delicious you’ll moan.” Which is why she named it Moaning Martindale Razolli Steak. She wrote a passage about loving yourself for who you are and never buying into what society says is beautiful and what society says you should do. “Be your own brawling babe,” she wrote, “and never let a man railroad you off of your dreams.” She drew a picture of a curvy woman in a bikini.
Kyle’s recipe was for chicken cordon bleu. He said that the blend of chicken and cheese reminded him of the blend of math and science. He drew a picture, across two pages, of their family—she and Oliver, Mary Beth, Chloe, Teddy, Zane, himself, Olivia, Jace, Stephi, and Lucy. It was down to the finest detail, and it was one of his best pictures ever. Every inch of it reminded Gisela of Isaac’s drawing of her own family in Munich that he mailed to her and Renata in London.
Jace had added his grandfather’s rib recipe. He had shown Kyle a picture of his grandparents, Ricardo and Eleanor, and his parents, Antonio and Clarissa, and Kyle had drawn them all.
Stephi had written a recipe for peppermint brownies. She drew butterflies in the corners eating the brownies and colorful rocks along the edges.
Lucy had written a recipe for cheese sandwiches. She drew a purple monster with a smile. Not a scary one.
Gisela touched the recipes that her grandma, Ida, had written down that were from Sarrah and Tsilia. She reread her mother, Esther’s, recipes, especially the recipes for cakes, and the recipes that her best friend, her sister, Renata, had written when they were in London together. She drew a gentle finger across the pictures of her ancestors, old and young, some who had lived a long time and some who had not, their deaths a crime.
There were pictures of a village in a far-off land, people on horseback, donkeys pulling carts, women with kerchiefs and shawls in the middle of a town square, lush gardens, homes with red doors, herbs and vegetables, red geraniums, sumptuous cakes and cookies. There were recipes written in the midst of tragedy and stifling fear, and recipes written with a light and joyous heart.
She touched the flakes of what had been a pink rose and blew them into the room. She held the two thin, heart-shaped gold lockets that Renata had bought for them to show their sisterly love; touched the white feather to her cheek they’d found in Hyde Park; and she held the red ribbons from Isaac and the sun charm from her mother. She reread the poems by her father and Renata.
The tin box with an old-fashioned picture of ladies in ruffled dresses dancing at a ball that had been hidden beneath the floorboards in their home in Munich was beside the bed. Gisela opened it and touched the two red and purple butterfly clips and the two charm bracelets that their parents had given her and Renata. She ran her fingers over the red pomegranate, a Star of David, a faux blue stone heart, a lion, a tree of life inside a circle, a four-leaf clover, a cat, a dog, and a key. Each charm given to them with love.
She held Isaac’s colored pencils. What an artist he was! And yet he studied math and science constantly and always spoke formally. He was so like Kyle.
Gisela kissed the small pile of lost letters from lost family members she had brought from
London to Montana that had been kept in the back of the cookbook. Letters from loved ones who were soon dead or dying, burned, gassed, tortured, starved, critically ill and withering away in concentration camps.
Gisela had let her family read these letters and the poems, from her parents, brother, grandparents, uncles and aunts and cousins. Even tough Mary Beth, her Fire Breather, had sobbed. But now they knew. Her family knew her truth.
She had shown her family the photographs that she and Renata had saved in the treasure box and in the cookbook, pointing out who was who. Everyone remarked at how much Renata resembled Olivia with their thick brown hair and green, tilted cat eyes.
Gisela held the small silver menorah in her hand for a moment, the menorah that had survived a firebombing in Odessa and a bombing in London, then picked up the cookbook again, the pages singed around the edges, and blood and tear splattered, yet filled with history, love, and devotion to family.
Gisela’s heart skipped a beat, then another. It was time, she knew it. She had done what she had thought impossible all those decades ago: She had survived. She had lived. She had loved. She had, she hoped, made her family back in Munich proud, by loving and caring for others. She would miss her beloved family here, but she longed to see the family that had gone before her.
Gisela could see a light, golden and warm, in the corner of her bedroom. It grew and grew until she saw the outlines of people. She heard talk, laughter. A few notes of a song. Yiddish. Ukrainian. German. English. The people were hazy at first, then she saw who they were. She smiled, she stretched out her hands, laughing, crying, overcome. She climbed out of bed, leaving the cookbook, the menorah, the photographs, the lockets, behind.
She was hugged and kissed by her sweet parents, Esther and Alexander; her brave sister, Renata; her brilliant brother, Isaac. She was hugged by her grandparents, Ida and Boris Zaslavsky, and Aizik and Raisel Gobenko, her aunts and uncles, Moishe and Zino found now, and all her cousins. Teddy, Chloe’s husband, hugged her tight.