A Child Is Born

   In a short while, I will be heading over to my dear friends' house to celebrate our Christmas Eve tradition.  The Jankiewicz family is near and dear to my heart. I first taught Susan in 1999, when she was in fifth grade. A shy Chinese-American language student, she gave me no foreshadowing of our future friendship in that opening year of Holland Brook School. But somehow, by the time she was in 8th grade, I was going to her house weekly to teach piano. She and her younger sister Sharon were quick learners and eventually surpassed their piano teacher. But what they gave me was even more precious than the music we shared (and still share) together. They gave me their childhood and reminders of my own.

    Outwardly, our cultures are so different. We are all third generation Americans, but they are a blend of Italian, Chinese and Polish heritages and I am an Eastern-European mutt (who looks Romanian.) They are from a devoutly Catholic family where a beautiful spiritualism and sanctity runs through every action and moment of peace. They go on retreats as a family!  As for me, I come from a secular family where social action matters but where we each have our own connection or disconnection with religion and we are usually better off not talking about faith matters (except for an undying faith in latkes and matzah brei.). 

     In our hearts, though, I connect so deeply with the Jankiewicz clan. Their walls were lined with books and I knew immediately that we shared an international culture of intellectualism. Mom teaches science fiction, and the father, Ed, introduced me to Stanislav Lem. Jangie, the mother, is pragmatic and driven; she always gives me sound advice and wisdom when I need it. The Jankiewicz dining room table is like my family's one: a meeting place for books and homework and projects and ideas.   And we share a great, timeless love for music. Even without words, we connect so deeply.

  So, it was in my role as a honorary Jankiewicz that I began to attend Christmas Eve services. Equipped with my viola and some holiday cheer, I join the family at Our Lady of Lourdes church each year and feel part of something larger than myself. At first, I was in awe of the sheer number of congregants---and marveled that they had more than one mass each week. (In my cozy congregation, we celebrate a weekly minyan...) Then, I was profoundly moved by the acoustics of the building. "Music Ministry" is taken seriously by Christians, or so it seems to me, and Jim Cole, their musical leader, is an immensely talented leader who makes the most of choruses, orchestras and handbells. The sound is tremendous! I am always honored to be included.   

  My beliefs are different from that of Christianity. For heaven's sake-- they are different from mainstream Judaism too! But the deep adoration of a baby Jesus is not lost on me. Many years ago, someone told me that I could replace Jesus's name with "Moses" in many of the carols and still have a sensible and passionate song!  "Away in a manger no crib for a bed, lay little lord Moses asleep in his bed..." Especially in adversity, babies give hope.  When they grow up into adults who shed more kindness and wisdom into the world, we are lucky.  

  Because I am emotionally preparing myself  for my visit to Auschwitz, I began thinking about birth in adversity this morning. Beyond Moses, beyond Jesus...were there children born in Auschwitz  who survived?  Because I am Emily, I did research and learned that yes, there were two: Angela Polgar ( born in December just before liberation) and Gyorgi Faludi ( born on the day of liberation.)

  I don't plan to write Angela Polgar's story here on my blog, but a simple Google search will bring up a few poignant articles about her  mother's attempts to give her as normal a childhood as possible, by not talking about what happened. I was touched by listening to parts of a recorded interview between mother Vera Bein and her granddaughter, Katy. What do you tell, and what do you leave unsaid?   This isn't exactly a "Go Tell It On The Mountain" birth... But it is still a case of survival against the odds.

My youngest sister is, to me, a miracle child. She was born in 1983, the child of a heroin addict. When Melinda came to my family in November of 1984, we didn't know much of her past, but my parents were determined to give her as healthy and happy of a childhood as they could. Mel graced us with her dance and her humor, a sassy attitude and oh so many apology cards. We played Canasta and Phase 10 with such vigor, and I loved going for long walks with her. Melinda lived for almost 24 years and my relationship with her has helped define me and my passionate philosophy.  But today, when I am with my bonus "sisters" in New Jersey, and when I think about miracle children, I think of her.

Children are miracles. We are miracles. Thank heavens for this life force that gives us the strength to go on. 

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate.  

A joyous celebration of human resilience to all!