The siren was unmistakable – a cacophony of alerts from an iPad, several phones, and a rising wail outside the window. My three granddaughters, not yet two, four, and six, all knew the drill. Armed with bamba, markers and coloring pages we made our way to the mamad, their little bodies marching ahead of me. They take safety protocols seriously and urged each other to hurry up. They also knew that once I did my quick check of the news, I’d indulge them and let them watch Cocomelon and Arthur on my phone and so they were incentivized to get the process started.

I watched their sweet seriousness and wondered what they will remember from this time. Do they see my frayed nerves or only the endless piles of smiley pancakes that I produce for them? How will they describe me, their grandmother, to their children, or grandchildren?

And then, I thought of my own grandmother.

Growing up, it was as if there were two versions of her. One was the woman I knew: European, stocky and in later years, confused. She would sit by the dining room window staring out at the quiet street, occasionally humming a Yiddish lullaby. I’d sidle up beside her, nestling in her soft arms, studying her translucent feathery skin and the brown age spots on her hands. Together we’d settle into our familiar well-worn conversations.

She would show me the “Canadian Mizrachi Women Mother in Israel” brooch on the collar of her floral, silky dress and tell me how she raised money for Israel when it was barely a state. Often, she would name for me the streets of her hometown, Ciechanow, Poland: Yosselevitche, Plutzke, Guberne, Vayavushka, Varshafska. I never understood why this was crucial information to impart to me, but I would repeat it back to her nonetheless, like a sorcerer’s apprentice repeating an ancient incantation.

Another set of our conversation rituals centered on languages. She would open: “Shifaleh, how many lengwigiz do you spik?”

“One and a half,” I’d reply. “English, and Hebrew, sort of.”

And then, without fail she count out on her five thick fingers, “Ven I vas your ayge I knew five, five! Yiddish, Polish, English, Hebrew, Russian.”

Our conversations were so practiced that even after my grandmother stopped........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)