When my mother Rosie came to this country in 1946, she was an almost 14 year old girl who had left a tiny village in Hungary to begin a new life with her parents and younger brother in the huge, bustling city of New York. Talk about culture shock. She’s told me many times that for awhile after she arrived, she was so miserable and homesick for her little town that she felt like “jumping into the East River”. Not that she ever would have really done it, but what “saved” her – or rather, who – was another girl of the same age, also named Rosie.
The other Rosie who became my mother’s best friend and confidant was Rosie Wagner – and she also eventually became my baptismal godmother. She was the daughter of friends of my grandparents, and they all lived in close proximity to one another. So Rosie was one of the first people my mother was introduced to.
My mother couldn’t speak English when she got here, so Rosie slowly helped her learn the language – including slang and curse words – as well as things like what clothes were fashionable, and how to smoke a cigarette. Thankfully, my mother never hooked on to the habit of cigarette smoking, although my other Rosie did – and unfortunately continued on throughout the remainder of her life with the addiction. I called my other Rosie “Kuma” which is Croatian for godmother. My Kuma one day discovered a small lump on her neck, which slowly grew so large that she looked like she had the mumps. It was discovered that it was cancer of the lymph system, and chemotherapy was immediately begun. And when that didn’t work – radiation. It was burned into her neck in an attempt to stop the cancer in its tracks right there and then. But it didn’t work. The cancer eventually spread throughout her body to all the lymph nodes. She had lumps under her arms, behind her knees, all over her back…
On December 9, 1978 the cancer won. I lost my beloved Kuma, and my mother lost her best friend. Rosie Wagner (now Klecar) was just 46 years old – the same age my mother was about to become at the end of that month. The evil disease took her in less than a year. In about 8 months – she was gone.
She left behind a husband and two daughters, one of which was about my age and the other who was a few years younger. I was 17 when she died. I will never forget the sight of my mom at the wake – literally throwing herself on Kuma’s body in the open casket – grabbing on to her, and actually wailing. Shrieking even. Begging her best friend not to leave her. Part of my mother’s life was going with the girl who “saved” it, oh so many years before…
I still have the last birthday card that my godmother gave me for my Sweet 16. Years before that, she had given me a necklace from Avon – a gold-plated chain, which held a pink heart with a keyhole in it at the end, and a little key hanging next to it. It wasn’t anything fancy or expensive, but I loved it. I had held on to it for years after, keeping it in a special spot in my jewelry box, mainly for sentimental reasons. Because it was from my Kuma.
I remember her being a tough but gentle woman, with a somewhat raspy voice, probably due to the chain smoking. She liked her drinks too – mostly beer like my mom, but I seem to recall her enjoying a glass of whiskey now and then. I remember a hearty laugh, and a woman who did not have the easiest life. But she worked hard and played hard, and tried to take everything in stride, with a mischievous grin and a twinkle in her eyes. I don’t think she ever really changed much from the 13 year old girl who helped another 13 year old girl eventually learn to love her new country – and taught her what it was to be a teenager in America.
I’ll always be grateful to Rosie for loving my mother, for embracing her and looking out for her when she came to this country. For welcoming her and offering her friendship, which eventually spanned over three decades. But I will also always have fond and warm memories of the woman who wound up being my godmother – my Kuma. She loved me too.
Oddly Enough 