Anyu,
You made me feel welcome to the family of three who endured so much in the face of external difficulties. When I walked into your home in Hollywood, up a path lined in Apu's rosebushes, there was this strong feeling that all would be well - a refreshing oasis - a place of calm. Later, knowing you better, I saw how you struggled to create delicious Hungarian pastries baked in a kitchen the size of a lot of walk-in closets - sweaters for everyone you cared for, in your original designs (perhaps the math talent came from you), and you struggled with these tokens to bind others in love and fidelity - to you and Armin and to each other - against your knowledge of how otherwise the world can be.
You confided in me and now I betray one of your confidences. When a doctor offered to remove the tattoo placed on you by those who claimed they could turn you into an object to be catalogued and then held for eventual killing - you survived - but refused to let anyone remove it. You wore it, you told me, for some of the good people only you had seen at their ends, for your parents and your mother-in-law whom you loved. You were a tiny woman, but in this you stood as tall as the Statue of Liberty.
We'll all miss the moment Pete returns from a trip to California, the moment he opens his suitcase in the front hall and says "Kids, we've got a present. Anyu's provided us with a fresh stock of diós and mákos" - the paired Hungarian loaves of walnut and poppy - whose name became in our home the password at the back door at night. "Knock, knock." "Diós mákos." And we'd be let in.
When we get to heaven, we'll say it and no matter how late the hour, Anyu will come and open the door for us in the place where all is at last love. Alleiluia.