Image by Martyna Starosta

Anne Cohen April 10, 2014

Photo by Martyna Starosta

Editor’s note: Whether it’s a silver kiddush cup, a siddur that survived the Holocaust, or a wedding ring — heirlooms tell the story of our families. Please share your Jewish heirloom stories with us below by April 25. Several submissions will be featured in the Forward in May.

Forwarding the News

Thoughtful, balanced reporting from the Forward and around the web, bringing you updated news and analysis each day.

Terms(Required)

I agree to the Forward's Terms of Service and Privacy Policy

Email(Required)

In my family, we call our grandmother (at least) once a week. A reminder clinks around on my wrist almost every day.

When I was 12 years old, nearing my bat-mitzvah, my mom and grandmother sat me down and presented me with two gold bracelets — sturdy, but thin, carefully engraved with a vine-like pattern. “Don’t lose them,” they said. (Confession: I did, for about two years. Sorry, Mamie.)

My mother had gone through the same rite of passage, and my grandmother before her. The bracelets have been passed down from eldest girl, to eldest girl, brought to Montreal from Morocco, where my great-grandfather purchased them for my grandmother for her 7th birthday, in December 1944.

The gold engravers of Marrakesh were known for their craftsmanship, my grandmother recently told me.

Both my parents were born in Morocco, my father in Meknes, my mother in Marrakesh. In the early 1970s, when so-called “Arabization,” and nationalism forced many Jews to leave the country, my mother’s family followed.

My grandfather, who owned a series of factories, smuggled what he could out of the country. He never returned. My mother wasn’t allowed to tell her friends that they were leaving — they wished her a good two-week vacation, and never saw her again. But the bracelets came along (I like to think they were on somebody’s wrist, though no one can actually remember).

They were definitely on mine as my voice cracked mid-song during my bat-mitzvah, when my limbs shook as I eulogized my grandfather at his funeral, and as I write this now.

They’re a constant (and rather noisy) reminder of where I come from. Of my family, of my mother and of my grandmother, who wore them first.

Share Your Stories With Us

The Forward is free to read, but it isn’t free to produce

I hope you appreciated this article. Before you go, I’d like to ask you to please support the Forward.

Now more than ever, American Jews need independent news they can trust, with reporting driven by truth, not ideology. We serve you, not any ideological agenda.

At a time when other newsrooms are closing or cutting back, the Forward has removed its paywall and invested additional resources to report on the ground from Israel and around the U.S. on the impact of the war, rising antisemitism and polarized discourse.

Readers like you make it all possible. Support our work by becoming a Forward Member and connect with our journalism and your community.

This is a great time to support independent Jewish journalism you rely on. Make a gift today!

—  Rachel Fishman Feddersen, Publisher and CEO

Support our mission to tell the Jewish story fully and fairly.

$90 $180

$360

Other amount