How the Death of My Great-Grandfather Changed My Life

If I lost an immediate family member, needless to say it would change my life. But I never considered the impact of losing a great-grandfather. Four years ago, I was a college junior in Boston. I left behind an enormous family in New York. My great-grandfather had been living in an old age home, and on my few trips home to New York; I never made the five-minute drive to see him in the nursing home. I always thought there would be a next time. The family joke was that he would be giving the eulogy at all of our funerals. But, to our shock, he passed away suddenly.

My sister had always gone to visit him. She exchanged letters and immersed herself in his world. A college sophomore, herself, she often drove down to New York from her college in Providence to see him. As someone very in touch with my cultural heritage, I to this day, question why I never picked his brain for more insight into my past. I come from the stereotypical Italian-American family, and pride myself on my ability to recount family history. I love hearing stories about my grandparents' immigration from Italy to New York City, and their attempts at finding the American dream.

In the middle of my junior year of college I was acting in our college's production of musical The Sound of Music. At the end of one particular performance, the actors playing the nazi soldiers had forgotten to remove their nazi armbands during the curtain call. A Jewish woman in the audience stormed the stage, demanding that the audience stop applauding and that the armbands be promptly removed. She did not want her grandchildren clapping for Nazis. There were child-actors in the production, and since my college was a Christian college, the cast was more or less all Christian. Most people acted in shock that this "crazy" woman would run up to a stage at the end of a performance like that. Suddenly, I felt angry, as if her story was not being validated. As it turned out, she lost both her parents in concentration camps.

The incident bothered me all night long. The next day I received a letter in the mail from my great-grandfather. Of all my cousins, for some reason, he chose to send me a letter with some money inside. I didn't even know that he had my address in Boston. His letter simply said that God was in control, and I shouldn't plague my mind with things I cannot control. He said I should be compassionate and understanding, willing to hear other people's stories. It couldn't have been more soothing after the previous night's incident.

I told some family members what had happened, and how Poppa (my great-grandfather) had sent me a letter as if he knew what had happened. It was at that time that I was reminded that he was Jewish. He was now a practicing Christian, religiously, but his heritage was of Eastern European decent, where immigrating to the US was essential in escaping Stalin's purges in Russia. Some people in my family believe that being "Jewish" refers only to one's religion, and therefore I was told I was one-eight Latvian/Russian. On only the rarest occasion was my Jewish heritage talked about by anyone other than my great-grandfather, who considered himself Jewish regardless of his practicing religion.

After receiving the letter, I decided to make the trip down to Long Island, New York, visit my parents, but also to pay him a visit. I would never get the chance. Shortly after I received his letter, he passed away. It was a complete surprise, since he was in perfect health for a man in his early nineties. The news of his death left me full of all kinds of emotions. Rage, anger, frustration and calm were all juxtaposed in my head as I tried to make sense of what his death really meant to me. It meant, that in addition to losing a compassionate and amazing human being, I had just lost the only tie to my own Jewish heritage.

His funeral came as I was in acting rehearsals for another play in Boston. I had the leading role, and missing rehearsal to drive to New York was not an option. Every other family member was able to attend. Most already lived on Long Island, my sister made it down from Providence and others trekked up from Virginia. I was sad to miss out on his funeral, but even sadder to know that I let a once in a lifetime opportunity pass me by without a second glance.

Now, I can recapture my Jewish heritage only through second hand accounts from family members, most of whom debate whether or not we can even consider ourselves Jewish by blood. His stories, his memories and his remarkable journey fraught with persecution and perseverance blew away as he took his last breath. My only consolation is that after the incident at The Sound of Music, he somehow knew to send me a letter in response to this incident that he never even knew had happened.

It's been four years since his death, and although I missed out on opportunities to learn about my family history, I decided that I would not let it cast a dark shadow over me forever. As a playwright, director and teacher of English to foreign students, I have the chance to make his story heard. I've learned to be more open-minded and tolerant, not just to other people, but also to my own family history. What was once a part of my unknown Jewish past is now proudly shared just as readily as my more obvious Italian history. So whether or not people believe I am Jewish by blood, or only Latvian, I now know about a rich history lived out by my very own great-grandfather.