Obituary: Esther Goldberg,1930-2014. Survivor of the Holocaust, Esther Goldberg, died quietly in her sleep April 12th at Huntsville Memorial Hospital after a short illness. Pre-deceased by her husband of forty years, Bernie Goldberg, Esther was a philanthropist who quietly supported many charities and groups, both local and internationally. A private funeral was held and Esther Goldberg has been interred, honouring Jewish customs. Donations in her memory can be made to her foundation at the RBC bank on Main Street. For the full story about the Esther Goldberg Foundation and the projects it supports, see page eight.

Dear Essie;

I wish I could talk to you right now and say all the things that are running through my head, but I can't, and now I'm wondering if I ever knew you at all. You're my Essie, not this dead woman they're writing about in the newspaper.

There's so much I took for granted; things that should have made me suspicious or curious--made me wonder about the life you lived before you moved to Huntsville. Maybe I thought you were born old and mean.

I sure thought you were mean. When the guys were playing ball and we broke your window, I can still remember how you marched out to the porch, the screen door slamming behind you and a string of Yiddish echoing off the lake. They ran. Me? I was stunned and stood there staring, thinking you looked like a witch. I was sure you'd mount a broom and chase down my buddies. Except for a little French I learned at school, I'd never heard a foreign language before and it didn't sound too pretty. You called me a schmuck.

You made me work off the cost of that window, even though I didn't break it. When I protested that it was Jimmy that hit the fly ball, you told me I was guilty by association and forced me to pick six rows of beans.

"Why didn't you run," Jimmy said the next day when I complained. "You could have gone swimming with us instead of listening to that Kike."

I'd never heard the expression 'Kike' before and didn't want to admit my ignorance to Jimmy, the coolest kid in town. When I asked my mother what it meant, she slapped me right across the face. My mother never hit me, but she smacked me hard that day.

Jimmy was also the kid that told everybody the tattoo on your arm was a dog tag, "on account of the Goldbergs are runaways from the pound." I learned not to ask questions, still remembering the smack my mother gave me, but then one day Mr. Goldberg came into our classroom during history and started telling us about the Holocaust. After that, I didn't need to ask anymore questions. I knew a lot more than any ten-year-old needed to know. That's what the other kids' parents said when they complained about the lesson.

Even though I never mentioned it, Dad made a big deal about saying we should be grateful to the Goldbergs--how they reminded everybody that some things should never be forgotten. "It takes courage to survive," he said. He never mentioned it again.

Slowly the images that Bernie left in my head that afternoon ripened into understanding and compassion. I only have you to thank for that, Essie--among other things. When my young eyes misted over, drifting into pity at the sight of those numbers, you cracked me across the head and sent me into your garden to dig up potatoes. You called me a lummox, and as I fumed going to the shed for the shovel, I wondered if you were the one who taught my mama how to smack me around.

I got pneumonia after falling through thin ice. Bernie saved me, crawling across the lake on his belly with a long stick, pulling me out. Running from your cottage with blankets, your mouth moving faster than my ears could hear, I thought you were going to hit me again, but you were crying. I didn't get it, but I was too cold to try.

You came to our house and sat beside my bed, spoon-feeding me home-made chicken soup. Up until then, I thought soup came from tin cans. As soon as I got better, you taught me how to boil the chicken and chop up onions until my eyes felt as if they were on fire. "I won't always be here to make you soup--chop-chop," you commanded, ignoring my complaints.

Essie, I would have made you soup, if I'd known you were sick. You taught me how to cook, and not just fry eggs. I made a brisket last week for the guys in the dorm--in a crock pot, can you believe it, Essie? Yes, I seared the meat--on my electric frying pan. You taught me how to make something out of nothing--latkes from potatoes--noodles from eggs and flour. You told me I should understand hunger to appreciate life.

There are so many things you said to me that you thought I never heard. I remember finding your Christmas gift under the tree and when I thanked you, you told me Jesus was a good Jew. When I asked why you never had children, I still remember the sadness on your face, but you smiled and hugged me. "God would never punish me twice." You swore you never lied, but that day, somehow I knew you didn't tell me the truth.

What else didn't I know, Essie?

When Bernie died, everybody was talking about the fancy cars that drove up Main Street, all coming to pay their respects. They say a Rabbi came all the way from Toronto to preside over the funeral. People said you were rich, that you owned a factory in the city and moved to Huntsville to retire. Why did you keep me from visiting you for over a week? Did you think I was too young to understand?

Did a Rabbi drive up from Toronto to give you the kind of blessings you deserved?

Mama told me yesterday that you paid for my university tuition. I didn't know. She said you told her it was 'back pay,' swearing you cheated me for years, never paying me for pulling carrots and stacking firewood. No, Essie, if you hadn't stood over me barking about what a lazy bum I was, I'd never have learned how to work. How can I ever find the words, the gratitude for moulding me into the best of me?

Does Jimmy know you are holding the mortgage on his two-bit garage. That bastard never said a kind word about you. To Hell with your preaching about responding to hate with love. When I get back in town, the first thing I'm going to do is beat the living crap out of that piece of shit. He didn't know--he'll never understand.

I can't imagine a world without you, Essie. You took a kid and turned him into a man, the kind of man that can look in the mirror without shame.

Maybe you can hear me. Can you hear me, Essie? Do you know how much I love you?

I'm coming home soon. Mama says the cottage is empty, but I know where the shovel is and I'm going to bury this letter where it all started, right in the middle of the garden where you planted beans.

Your loving lummox,

Robert