In late summer of 1969, my Grandma and her second husband, Jack, moved to the canyon where I lived on the west side of L.A. into a 1920s Spanish Colonial Revival mansion. Their house was just around the corner from ours, and I spent many hours at Grandma's. Quite typical of southern California architecture, the house was stucco with a low-pitched clay tile roof and terracotta ornaments. In the interior courtyard were a Roman arcade and several small fountains, as well as a well-tended garden.

Entering the house through a two-story turret, bright red tile on the entry floor and brightly colored decorated tiles on the stair risers to the second-floor greeted guests. The entry door and casing, the wide plank floors and baseboards were all a deep dark brown. Exposed beams were decorated with brightly colored elaborate hand-painted designs. Jack was a major political wannabe, so he needed a large house for entertaining. Its 15 rooms offered many spaces for privacy, over-night guests and exploration. It was a bright and beautiful house — except for the closet.

The walk-in closet was on the second floor, built-in at the end of the hall, and was approximately ten-by-ten. A bare 40-watt light bulb that turned on with the pull of a string hung from the ceiling. The walls were a drab gray drywall — not stucco. There was no ventilation — the room was in the house but completely isolated from it. There were no clothes hanging in the closet, but it did contain several folding chairs and a locked unadorned steamer trunk that sat in the corner and was about the size of a dorm room refrigerator. I tried moving it, but couldn't. I asked Grandma about the closet and the chest. She said that I was too young to understand — an incentive for a 13-year-old boy to dig deeper.

Grandma was a stocky, driven woman. Her piercing blue eyes could out stare an owl. More than once, it alone sent me home. Her wavy silver hair was sometimes blue. At the time, I didn't know how she did that. Grandpa died a few years after the divorce — Grandma was very lonely until Jack came along.

 She could be sweet and loving yet stern and demanding. She was born in Chortkov, Poland. She never talks about it, but when the Germans declared war on Poland in September 1939, pogroms became more frequent and more deadly. Synagogues all over Poland had been destroyed. The family was terrified — afraid to leave their house for fear of being murdered. An aunt living in Chicago secured an Affidavit of Support from the Immigration and Naturalization Service, which allowed Grandma's family, including my Mother, to enter the United States. Jack said that she still has nightmares and she often locks herself in the closet.

 One day Grandma caught me trying to break into the trunk. "Sammy, what are you doing?" I told her that I just wanted to see what was in it.

"I told you before that you are too young," she said.

"But Grandma, I'm thirteen — I'm about to have my bar mitzvah — I'll be considered an adult."

"That's only in the Jewish tradition. You are still too young to know about this closet and that's the end of it."

 So, I let it ride — until the next year. I reminded Grandma that I was now fourteen and much more mature than the year before. I told her I was ready to find out about the closet. She stopped what she was doing and looked off into space for a minute, as though she was in a trance. She snapped back and said, "Sammy, have you ever heard of Spiritualism?" I said that I had not.

 "It is the belief that spirits of the dead communicate with the living through a medium at séances," she said.

 "Grandma, do you believe that?"

 "Yes, I do. And I have attended many séances."

 "Jews don't believe in ghosts and mediums," I said.

 "Oh, but we do. So, tell me what's a dybbuk? I'll tell you what's a dybbuk, it is a ghost that is a lost soul of a dead person that inhabits the body of a living person and can speak through that person — like a medium," she said.

 "Dybbuks are superstition from the old country. Besides, the Torah commands us to not go to mediums," I said.

 She added, "So, what do you think the prophets were? They were mediums that had visions and dreams in which God spoke to them and gave instructions."

 She had me there. I didn't know how to counter her argument. I needed to talk to the rabbi.

Hearing this, the look on the cook's face was dubious — with a little bit of terror. She left the kitchen.

 Then Grandma said, "Would you like to go to a séance?" Her question hung in the air like the smell of bad fish. I didn't want to disobey a commandment. Although I wasn't sure, it could happen — I didn't want to be cut off from my people (the punishment for disobeying this commandment). But I was curious. Besides, Grandma had been going to séances and she hadn't been "cut off" from her people. I thought there must be a loophole. There is always a loophole. So, I said, "Yes. Where do we go for this séance?"

"The closet," she said. I became nervous; what if there really were ghosts? Looking for excuses to delay the séance, I asked about a medium — she said that she would be the medium. Up the stairs we went.

 Once inside, she turned on the light, closed and locked the door. Without ventilation, it became difficult for me to breathe. We sat down and she began to explain that she didn't know who would visit or if anyone would visit. I asked what she meant by "who would visit." "The spirit," she replied.

 I asked about the chest, would she open it? She looked at me and said, "It is filled with accessories for different séances. I don't know if you are ready for what's in the chest." I was persistent — suggesting that she might need something from the chest during our séance. Grandma was as stubborn as I was persistent. And the chest remained locked.

 She turned off the light and took my hands. We sat across from each other silently for what seemed to me like an eternity. The ten-by-ten closet felt cavernous and so dark I couldn't sense the walls. Her hands began to vibrate and her breathing became labored. There was an unexpected chill in the air and the smell of something burning. I could hear someone — or something — moving about. I squeezed Grandma's hands hard.

Without warning, Grandma began to speak in a little girl's voice. "Hi Sammy, I've waited a long time to speak to you again," said the little girl. I think I must have stopped breathing because I couldn't say a word. I broke out in a sweat. My hands were trembling. Every muscle in my body were so tight they burned. I wanted to scream, but couldn't. "Don't be afraid, Sammy," she said. "I won't hurt you — I'm your sister." I finally blurted that I never had a sister. "Oh, but you do," she said. "I was born two years before you. I was so excited when Mommy and Daddy brought you home. I would play that I was your mommy. I really miss you," … her voice trailing off she uttered, "Grandma is not doing well. I must go now. Maybe next time I will let you see me."

 That was it. Grandma quietly said that she was tired, turned on the light, and we left the closet. Grandma's face was ashen and dripping with sweat. She went to her bedroom and closed the door behind her. I went home and did the same.

_______________

Mother was very beautiful. Her dark tightly curled hair perfectly framed her round face. She was kind and charitable, doing a great deal of community volunteer work. She and Father were married young, and she told me things were especially rough at first. However, by this time he had a successful law career. No longer needing to work, she had plenty of free time for her volunteer work. 

That night at dinner, I asked Mother about my sister. I wasn't very subtle. "Mother, why don't we have any pictures of my sister in the house?" Stunned, her face went red. Her dark blue eyes turned to Father signaling to him that she needed help. Father wanted to know what made me ask that question. I told him that it just came to me that I had a sister. "Do you remember her?" he asked. I said that I didn't, but that I wanted to know about her — what happened to her.