When I was about 12 and my older sister 14, we visited our mother’s mother in Boston. Bubby was a widow who lived alone. We spent our time following her about her day-to-day activities and asking her about our mother’s childhood and our nine aunts and uncles. We didn’t live near them and were curious. Who’d been the leader of the seven girls, the most mischievous, the most helpful? Which boy was the most challenging of the three?

On a lazy summer morning, one such discussion cracked open a subject so tightly sealed we didn’t even know of its existence. The crack created a fissure so far reaching, our lives shifted to a point of no return. “Bubby, if Ma’s name is Tybe Rachel,” we asked, “why does no one ever call her that? Why does everyone call her Tybe?”

“Because Rachel was your father’s first wife’s name.”

Thinking she’d heard incorrectly, my sister said, “Bubby, I didn’t hear you.”

“Your father’s first wife. Her name was Rachel. And it would be insensitive to remind him of her. So everyone just calls your mother Tybe.”

The air in the room seemed insufficient to allow us to breathe and speak. My bubby realized she’d unknowingly sprung the lock on a secret. We stood at the edge of a precipice, not sure how deep the fall would be. “Bubby, what happened to Pa’s first wife?”

“Kinderlach, let’s not talk about it anymore. What do you want to eat for lunch?”

With that, the key was inserted once again into the lock and the topic off-limits. But our world had changed — someone else had been in our mother’s place before her. Did our father still think about his first wife? What else about his past did we not know?

In truth, just about everything — from the time he left the Mirrer Yeshivah until he married our mother — was wrapped in layers of secrecy.

When we returned home, my sister, Maryam, waited for an opportune time — when my father wasn’t home and my mother wasn’t busy with one of the little kids — to verify and clarify the taboo topic. Seeing my mother prepare herself a cup of coffee and cut herself a slice of chocolate cake, Maryam followed our mother to the kitchen table.

Glancing up as she reached for the New York Times, my mother watched as Maryam settled down across from her. I sidled up next to Maryam, not wanting to speak, but very much wanting to know.

“Maryam, did you finish hanging up the laundry?”

“Yes.”

A slight hesitation, and then she went for it. “Ma, when we were at Bubby’s, she said that Pa had been married before.” My mother’s coffee, halfway to her mouth, spilled onto her plate on the table. She emitted a sigh that emanated from the nethermost reaches of her being. Looking at Maryam and myself, as if sizing us up as to our capability to deal with the truth, she nodded her head in affirmation and emitted an almost imperceptible “Yes.”

Having gone this far, Maryam wasn’t about to back away. “What happened to her?”

“She was killed in the Shoah.” My mother became busy sopping up the spilled coffee.

“They had kids?”

My mother’s hand stopped moving, and once again looked at us, this time for longer. “They had two children. A girl and a boy. They were also killed. And you are never, ever, to discuss this with your father. Do you understand? Never! And don’t tell the younger kids. They’re too little.”

“Ma, Pa came to America right before the war broke out. Why didn’t they come with him?”

“Someone had sent Pa a ticket to come to America, and he came to make enough money to bring his family. But the war broke out too soon. They died and Pa lived. He never forgets that. Remember, never speak about it. There’s too much hurt.”

And that was the extent of our knowledge for years. We harbored so many questions that never received answers; they just bred more questions. How old were the children? What were their names? Who was older? Where did they live when my father came to America? How did they meet their deaths? How did my father find out they’d died?

Time passed before we pieced together bits and pieces of odd conversations we’d been privy to over the years and realized that Sam was our father’s brother-in-law — Rachel’s brother. As we matured, we realized what a toll this weekly ritual must have taken on both our parents. My father, always revisiting his loss, never putting it to rest. My mother, having the specter of another woman follow her in her own home.

We grew up with the unspoken expectation that our father, so much senior, would be the first to part from This World. But Hashem has His plans. My mother had a weak heart, and when her blood pressure dropped precipitously, she was sent to the emergency room.

I arrived to be with my parents. At first, she was diagnosed with an infection. Then exploratory surgery was ordered. Ten minutes into the surgery, the doctor came into the hallway, looked sadly at my father and pronounced, “I’m sorry.” At the age of 63, my mother had been called back to her Maker.

In shock, I looked to my father, trying to fathom the import of those two words. His head turned downward, shaking back and forth, he uttered two words laden with unspoken pain: “Noch amohl. Again.”

My father insisted he wanted to live alone. We set up a roster so that someone visited most days, but we all worried about the fact he lived by himself.

Months later, he suffered a heart attack. As gabbai of his shul, he would arise early and open the shul and prepare it for Shacharis. The next person arrived to find my father collapsed on the floor.

Baruch Hashem, it wasn’t fatal, but it convinced all of us that my father shouldn’t live on his own. I told my father that until he fully recovered from the heart attack, he must stay with me. This time he acquiesced.

The spring weather sent messages of renewal and hope. My husband and I accompanied my father as he took his first tentative steps around the block. There was something on my husband’s mind since the heart attack, and he took advantage of the balmy backdrop to bring up a difficult issue.

“Shver, we’re so thankful to Hashem that you’ve recuperated so nicely from the heart attack,” he said gently. “But when it first happened, I realized there is something that your children need to know — and you’re the only one who can tell them.”

My husband pulled up in front of my father and continued. “Your children from your first marriage. They’re half siblings to your other children. And they don’t know their names.”

A determined voice emanated from my father’s frail body. “I don’t want to discuss it,” he said and shuffled on.

“You should live for a hundred and twenty years, Shver, but when you’re in Olam Ha’emes, there won’t be anyone to say Yizkor for them. It’s for them!” my husband pleaded.

My father came to a standstill. Without looking at either of us, just staring at the ground, he said, “Masha and Moshe. Named after my shver a”h. And now don’t ever ask me about it again!”

I don’t think I’ll ever truly understand the pain and suffering that my father lived with. So many questions remained, but we kept our part of the bargain and never again approached the subject.

Soon we’ll mark my father’s 23rd yahrtzeit. About two years ago, Sam’s eldest son contacted my sister Yocheved. Upon clearing out his Aunt Sylvie’s home — Rachel and Sam’s elder sister who’d come to America before the war — he found a postcard with a picture on its back. It showed a beautiful woman with a little boy and a girl. The boy had my father’s eyes. On the back of the photo was written, “Your loving sister, so you shouldn’t forget me.”

It must have been a photo of Rachel and her children.

Yocheved scanned the postcard and sent it to all us siblings. We were mesmerized by it. The person who’d haunted our lives stared out at us. Our curiosity was stirred, boiling over.

We wanted to know all about her and the children. What was Rachel like? Bright, talented, funny, a good cook? Were the children like her or like our father? Was our father a different father to them than the one we knew? Had he had time to play games with them?  Had he been as proud of them as he was of us? Had he worried less and laughed more with them? What was the parting like when Rachel stayed behind with the children and our father left for far-flung America?

We don’t know the answers to these questions. But what we do know is that even though we never met Rachel, we won’t ever forget her.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 748)