It’s December 15, 2025, and we’ve gathered at our kitchen table to celebrate my grandpa Mordecai’s birthday—though he’s more commonly called Mike or Misha.
Our dinner, in true fashion, becomes a place for reflection for all his major milestones since his birth in 1936 to Jewish parents in Zarasai, Lithuania.
My grandpa was three when World War II began in Europe. His father, Joseph, joined the Russian army, while he, his mother, and his sister escaped to Uzbekistan. There, they lived in such poverty that at age six, his mother looked for a place to bury my grandfather as his death seemed near.
They were saved by an uncle named Shlom Mayer, who arrived from the military and slowly began feeding my grandfather wet breadcrumbs.
After the war, they moved to Vilnius, where they were reunited with their father, who had also narrowly escaped death. My grandfather began school, and when he was 18, he joined the Russian military, serving as a firetruck driver for the majority of his three-year term.
At 25, he met and married my grandmother, Rozalya (friend #30). My father was born shortly after in 1964, and my aunt was born in 1972. They immigrated to Israel that same year.
In November 1981, my grandfather achieved his lifelong dream of moving to Canada—in his own words, a quiet, multicultural country where they would be accepted. In Canada, he worked as a maintenance mechanic and in 1984, he started selling used cars with my father.
I was his first grandchild and the first Canadian-born member of my family on my birthday in August 1997.
My grandpa, now at 89, displays his pragmatism.
“What are you most proud of in life?” I ask.
“I am very proud that I’m a very good mechanic,” he replies.
“His profession,” says my grandma.
“How did you learn to be a good mechanic?” I ask.
“In the Russian military, they sent me on a course to learn how to be a mechanic. Then, when I finished the course, I worked as a military mechanic, and I saw that I could do mechanical work on any car,” he says.
“And what’s your advice to the young generation?” I continue.
“Don’t do hard physical work,” he says.
“If someone had asked me,” says my grandma, Rozalya, “I would say, ‘Never put yourself down, always be confident in yourself. Don’t think that someone’s better than you and that they can do something that you can’t. There’s no reason to think like that. That’s the first thing.
The second, never be too good to people and don’t believe everyone. Some deserve your kindness, some people don’t. People will use you if you’re too good to them.”
My grandma goes on to explain that she believes the most important step in life is marriage. “Marriage can make you lucky, or it can make you very upset,” she says.
“When you’re looking for a person to live your life with, the person has to be good-hearted. That’s the most important. It doesn’t matter if he’s tall or short or whatever people look at. That’s not important. Kindness is important and a good heart.”
My grandparents’ marriage is a testament to this advice. They have different interests—my grandma prefers to talk politics and art, and my grandpa is simpler, prioritizing his work and a home-cooked meal. But for over 60 years, they’ve made their love work.
“Who was your best childhood friend?” I ask my grandfather.
“I had a Jewish friend. His name was Leon, and when people started looking at how to leave Russia, he found a Russian girl and married her and moved to New York,” he says.
“When did you meet him?” I ask.
“I was 16, maybe 16.5, and he was the same age,” says my grandpa.
“Why did you decide that he’s your best friend? What made him your best friend?” asks my mom.
“I didn’t have many friends in Canada. From what I had, I consider him one of my best friends,” my grandpa says.
“Did you make any friends in Canada?” I ask. “Or was it difficult?”
“Not really,” says my grandpa.
“Why not? What about Sonia and Misha?” says my grandma.
“Sonia, Misha, they are people I know,” says my grandpa. “Not very close friends.”
“What do you consider a close friend?” I ask.
“A close friend is someone who we were friends either at work, for example, or after work. And if I need something, he looks after me, or I look after him. That’s a friend,” says my grandpa.
“I’m eating too much,” says my grandma.
“So stop eating,” says my grandpa.
“It’s okay,” says my mom.
With each immigration, my grandparents lost friends—especially at a time when communication was difficult. Now, they have friends whom they call to wish a happy birthday. But it dawns on me that they’ll probably never physically see these friends again.
“Did you ever want to meet Leon?” I ask of a man he hasn’t seen since his early 20s.
“I would want to. But he doesn’t come to Canada,” says my grandpa.
“We don’t know where he is,” says my grandma. “New York is big. We don’t know his phone number, we don’t know anything.”
“What about the Polish guy you were friends with?” I ask.
“I was his friend before the Russian military, but then we were put in different bases. After the military, we lived in the same neighbourhood and worked in the same factory for textile machines,” says my grandpa.
“And when did he go to Poland?” I ask.
“He left in 1958. The Russian government let the Polish people who lived in Lithuania go to Poland. He left, and that’s it. But I was writing him letters and he to me. I went to visit him in 1969. I drove to Poland, and he married and had one boy. He was a very nice, honest person,” says my grandpa.
“You shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the feelings of the stranger, having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt.”
—Exodus 23:9