Someday You'll Remember
The power of intergenerational stories
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
My maternal grandfather, Poppy, spent his life looking over his shoulder. Growing up in Poland, he learned that danger was never far. Decades later, he was still suspicious—of my teachers, my friends, my boyfriends. “Are they Jewish?” was always his first question.
When I was little, he and I would play card games on Saturday nights while my parents went out. He would suck on a coffee-flavored Hopje candy and begin: “I’ll tell you now, so someday you’ll remember. In the old country…”
His stories—about what he had left behind in Europe—were not easy for a child to hear. But they were not meant as entertainment; they were cautionary tales.
“My bubbe, may she rest in peace, had a tavern where Polish men came to gamble and drink. It was my job to carry those heavy beer barrels.”
I told him I imagined the tavern as a saloon in a TV Western. He smiled, making his mustache twitch, and readjusted his yarmulke.
“It was okay—until they got shickered.” He stayed quiet so long I thought he had fallen asleep, then explained: “So drunk they broke the chairs and jars and yelled in Polish about killing the Zyds, the Jews.”
Looking back, I can see that these perfectly crafted tales inspired me to write memoir. They contained spellbinding drama alongside dark humor. Each had easily identifiable characters that represented good and evil. Poppy’s Grandma Wang, who ran the tavern, was good. The villagers, who got into drunken fights and smashed her crockery, were bad. These stories rarely had happy endings. One—the story of Poppy’s brother—ended in his death at the hands of the Nazis.
In my childish imagination, Hitler—whose name was uttered with loathing, like “Haman” at Purim—was like a sharp-clawed cartoon cat, stalking careless mice. The mice had to be clever to evade his bloodlust.
Since October 7, I have often woken in the dark hours before sunrise—that cold, unforgiving time when there are no tasks to occupy my mind, no backlit screens to distract me from my fears. I think about my children and my grandchildren and the great-grandchild we are expecting in February. My blood runs in that baby’s veins. Along with DNA, we share a trait that much of the world mistrusts: we are Jews.
My little mice have lived threat-free for so long that I fear they have grown complacent. I want them to start looking over their shoulders—know that another hungry cat may be honing his claws around the corner.
I plan to share Poppy’s stories with my family—and to add my own. I’ll sit them down and begin: “I’ll tell you now, so someday you’ll remember.”
Lucy Iscaro lives in New York with her supportive husband and judgmental dog. The memories of her past, the hope for the future, and the stories she was taught inspire her.
Instagram: @lucyisc
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