La Belle Dame Sans Merci

Family lore, Austrian glamour, and the woman who taught me how to suppress a yawn at the opera

For the record: not Omi. Just Empress Elisabeth of Austria

Life isn’t fair. One grandmother gets reduced to peeling potatoes in an apron dress while the other arrives draped in grandiose glamour. But facts are facts, and the love was certainly equal. So here’s my ode to Omi, la belle dame sans merci, otherwise known as my dad’s mother.

Omi lived to be 101 and died by sheer will power when half of the family decided to put her in a home. I’m not calling it a nursing home because it was a home for the blind. They had space. The previous year she had tried to kill herself with morphine patches but didn’t succeed. She also couldn’t convince my uncle to gift her a little bye-bye pill. So she plowed on until she didn’t.

I know, this is a bit morose, so let’s backtrack to the juicy parts — whether factually accurate or not. Because Omi liked to embellish. A lot. At one point, her family owned a third of Austria. This could not be verified. But she definitely owned a room, whether at political affairs or captain’s dinners — she was fond of these, especially leisurely ones on the Rhine, past the Lorelei.

The Lorelei, singing men straight into the Rhine

Omi was born in Austria and when the Nazis came, she refused the Hitler salute and was punched in the head by a soldier. She was proud of that and so am I. She claimed she was buried under rubble at the Olympia Stadium in Berlin three times. At first it was just once, but the stories grew wilder as she grew older and even bolder. My grandpa, Opi, supposedly had to dig her out of the rubble. This also cannot be verified.

But it is true that they had to flee Berlin when it was getting too hot for Opi’s political activities. According to Omi, they sold jewels for bread soup and slept in haylofts owned by kind farmers while making their way South. In the South they kept fighting the Nazis and somehow lived to tell the tale.

But back to Omi.

When I was little, I was a little scared of her. She didn’t hug. We shook hands. She wore hats and gloves and a taxidermized fox around her neck. She was infinitely glamorous. She invented the best bedtime stories, giving the Brothers Grimm a run for their money. I still remember the one where two young siblings are whisked away somewhere on an ocean made of chocolate and whipped cream.

Scold’s bridle. German bedtime stories. You had to be there.

They were told that by no means were they permitted to have a taste. The naughty girl couldn’t resist and as punishment, she was fitted with a medieval mouth guard, like a scold’s bridle of sorts, so she’d never eat again. They threw away the key. Of course they did.

Omi was Italian dresses from Rimini and Persian rugs — so many, some ended up on the walls. That always impressed me as a kid. The rugs were also great for playing “don’t fall into the lava.” I always did. Omi had a magical garden with an old cherry tree and an even older walnut tree. We feasted, especially on Sundays, when the whole family converged for coffee and her incomparable Linzertorte.

When I got older and into an epic war with my mother, Omi became my confidante. She’d pick me up for lunch in her white Audi and we’d have a civilized meal and conversation. I don’t think she liked my mother much, coming from “humble origins” and being an immigrant and all.

A fox scarf, head and paws included, naturally.

Also, my mum was impossibly pretty and somehow that irked Omi, even though she lived for all things beauty. She had practical advice too. She taught me how to suppress a yawn at the opera. I still do this trick now and, no, I have never been to an opera.

She was a Dame. Which, in German does not mean what it means in Brooklynese. A Dame, jawohl die Dame, is a lady of refined looks and taste. I’m making that up but I think it’s pretty accurate.

Does it sound like I’m bragging about my grandma? OK, I’ll stop. It must be genetic.

But postwar glamour aside, she was tough. She showed no pain, never complained—you’d have to tear an arm off to make her wince. I once called her stoic — and meant it as a compliment — and that’s the only time we ever argued. Also, she didn’t like my ’90s transformation into a Riot girl with shredded Levi’s and Doc Martens. But she loved me fiercely and I loved her the fiercest.

In the end, she permitted hugs instead of handshakes. For Omi, that was practically emotional nudity.

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PS: Here’s the story about my other grandma:

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