It was a beautiful spring day. The sun was glistening; a beautiful breeze danced through the trees, and the grass was a vibrant green that made the whole backyard sparkle. My parents were sitting in chairs on the deck, and I was lying on the grass next to my dog, Yodle. I had my head propped up on his belly, and it was precariously placed on top of the schmatta.
Fast-forward to three years later, when I came down with strep throat in second grade. I was sick in bed, and my mother handed me a schmatta to hold and lay with. Later that year, I had a bad dream and was sobbing, so my mother gave me a schmatta to squeeze and cuddle next to me. I remember the word schmatta used a lot when we went to my grandmother’s apartment in Brooklyn, especially as a young girl. We used it in my house as well, but even more so in my grandmother’s.
My grandma Ingrid immigrated to the United States with my great-grandmother, whom I call Mutti in 1940. They came here from Vienna, Austria just before the Holocaust had begun. My great-grandfather was put in a concentration camp, but eventually escaped to Poland and joined my grandmother and Mutti here in America in 1945. With just a few belongings, they packed their lives up from Austria into a small suitcase and set sail for America. Of these vital belongings were a couple of small cotton cloths called schmattas.
A schmatta is a small piece of thick cloth, smaller than a hand towel but larger than a washcloth. When it gets dirty, it just needs to be washed as any piece of clothing might be and it’s as good as new, but never put in the dryer (as my mother wags her finger at me). The origins of the term schmatta are Yiddish, and usually refer to old or torn pieces of clothing. However, in my family a schmatta is a multi-use object. We don’t really use it in the context of battered clothing. Our uses of schmattas are much more personal and rich in emotion. Although it may be used for cleaning, we use it as a source of comfort, as a blanket, a cover for a pillow, and anything else you might think of.
I remember as a young girl I would turn to my schmatta to help calm me down, almost like a blanket or stuffed toy some children have. I would hold it when I was sick like a teddy bear, or I would rest my head on top of it when I was ill. If I were crying or upset, I would squeeze the schmatta and hold it close to my heart. This was how my grandmother used the schmattas as well. Especially while transitioning to a new way of life in an unknown country, the schmatta provided her with a sense of ease as it did for me when I was little. The schmattas have been passed down through my great-grandmother, to my grandmother, to my mother, and to me. Surprisingly, they have endured and lasted through the years. Looking back on my childhood, I was very close with my great-grandmother. She was someone I could always talk to, and I loved her very dearly. Since we only saw her a few times a year, schmattas gave me a connection to her although we were physically not together. They are a symbol of a journey to a new life, a culture, but most importantly, a symbol of family and love.
