When our mother died in 2004, it was probably my life's most profound loss. As anyone who has lost their parents can tell you, life just feels different afterward. Since mom treated most of her life before we came along like the painful secret that it was, we never knew much about her family except the shadowy details she would scatter before us from time to time. Every now and then she would bring out yellowing photographs of people who just by looking we could tell were very different from the people we knew as family. "This is my Papa, your grandfather", she would say. "And this is Mama, your grandmother". "Here is baby Lyudmilla... and my grandmother Feodosia...." We knew that mom's childhood was very happy and that her happiness was crushed in a very sudden, brutal and horrific way, but before she began working on her memoirs, we knew precious little about these people from whom we came. Considering what Mother had endured, I was never quite sure if she was withholding what she knew, or if going back to the past was so painful for her that it created some kind of cognitive dissonance. I knew, for instance, that my Grandfather was from Poland, and that he was a photographer and a painter, and that my grandmother Anna was gifted musically and loved theater. But beyond that there were huge dark holes that would keep me up at night as a child, wondering. Mom never came right out and said it, but the understanding we had was that somehow the people in the photos were probably no longer with us. We just assumed that they were swallowed up in the horror of the war, never to be seen again. This was not the case however. Our grandmother Anna made her way back to Konstantinovka after her time in the German labor camps with two broken arms and a new husband.
She lived there and taught music until 1975, when she died of cancer. That she and Mother lived parallel lives, each not knowing the whereabouts of the other for 30 years is one of the saddest things of all. She is buried in the family section of the local cemetery just outside town. 
The photo on her rusting grave marker is the one Mother loved best. I grew up looking at this very picture and wondering what my grandmother was like, and if she would like to have known us as much as I wished I could have known her.
Below is a picture of our grandmother the music teacher taken sometime in the 60s. We had never seen this particular photo. It was a gift from our wonderful Ukrainian cousins.
A lot of our family did indeed succumb to either the war or the ravages of time we all know and must deal with, but some of our mother's family, the people in the pictures, are thriving in their 70s with children and grandchildren throughout Ukraine, Belarus, and Russia. The kind and proud lady who hosted us during our fascinating stay in Ukraine was the baby girl in the frilly lace dress whose picture Mom often showed us. Baby Lyudmilla( Mom's first cousin) grew up and raised a family of her own. A daughter Irina who gave her a grandson named Dima. Lyudmilla Perfilova is rightfully proud of herself as the Matriarch of her family and a successful economist at the local metal plant where she has worked for the last 35 years. Quick with a smile and a loving scolding, Cousin Lucy made sure we knew we belonged there as part of her cherished family. My mother and I were extremely close in this life, and it's hard to describe, but in being here in the sphere of Lucy's love and tender care, I could feel my mother's spirit for the first time since we last hugged. Looking into Lucy's sparkling eyes, it was as if a part of her was right there next to me.
Here is cousin Lucy showing off one of the many awards she recieved as a premium and valuable worker.
When a family heart comes together, it's a beautiful thing.
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