Gary Goldstein
My mother was born in a village in Hungary in 1924 as Iboya Goldstein and later became Vivian Goldstein when she married our father, Leo. But she never finished high school because the Germans threw her family into concentration camps, where she lost her mother and brother. But mom was more than a survivor of Auschwitz. She got married, had three children, the first of whom succumbed to illness, and became the foundation of the family for the next 70 years. She was always there when there was a problem facing one of us. She not only gave advice, she gave herself.
When I was in New York City in the late 1990s, I was overwhelmed with work and stress, and did not stay in contact with my parents. So one day, as I came home from work in Manhattan, I saw my mother standing at the bus stop in Middle Village, Queens, outside my apartment, patiently waiting for me to get off. When I did, I asked her why she traveled 1,100 miles at age 75. “We didn’t hear from you, so I came.” She cooked and cleaned for me, she bought groceries and other supplies, she talked with me about things. She was my mother even in middle age. And she remained that till the very end.
Even in her 90s, my mother enjoyed life – she loved good food, and horses, and music. I was able to provide her access to good food and music, in live concerts locally and by playing DVD’s of MGM’s great movie musicals, from Singing in the Rain to Gigi to Funny Girl to the Sound of Music. She got to see ballet on stage and theater musicals and even a few Hungarian movies, which she told me she still understood. She also loved really good perfume. Her question on weekends was: where are we going today? And usually said after going through Mizner Park and Butterfly World and Morikami Gardens: that was a nice adventure.
Did I say she was a sweet gentle soul? She was always that, and we love her for being herself for 95 and a half years. God bless you. --Gary Goldstein