TWO SOULS, UNITE
After surviving unspeakable tragedy, Helen and Sam Rosenbaum forged a union based on love, honour and respect for the fragility of life
SAM ROSENBAUM + HELEN ROSENBAUM April 25, 1921 – June 13, 1990; Dec. 12, 1927 – Feb. 1, 2021
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He lost his entire family in the Holocaust, yet when he watched her singing on stage, he saw family — a
When Sam Rosenbaum saw Helen Borenstein for the first time, she was on stage singing. They were both at a newcomers’ dance for displaced persons in Germany after the Second World War. Sam turned to the man standing beside him and said, “You see that woman? I’m going to marry her.” And he did.
Helen and Sam grew up in neighbouring Polish cities — Sosnowiec and Bedzin — but their paths only joined after the Holocaust. For years, as children, they were prisoners of the Nazis. At 18, Sam was a concentration camp tailor, making uniforms for SS guards. At 12, Helen was a cook at Auschwitz, Blechhammer, Gross-Rosen and Buchenwald. She smuggled potato skin scraps to keep her brother alive. Their parents perished; their childhoods dissolved. Then, in the pursuit of new lives, they found each other in Straubing, a small city in southern Germany.
They wed in 1947, supported by a group of survivors who pooled their resources together. In a community still reeling from unbearable grief, their wedding party celebrated love and life.
Helen and Sam had two children: Harry and Susan. In 1950, the family moved to New York, but Helen had her eye on Toronto. Her brother lived there, and she believed it was a good place to raise a family. Sam wasn’t as keen. Helen told him he could have all of their money and stay in New York, but she was taking the children to Toronto — with or without him. The verdict was final, and the family headed north.
They moved into an apartment above Richmond Kosher Bakery on Bathurst Street. Life was difficult — Sam was a department store tailor and Helen managed the bakery downstairs. Still, their home was filled with warmth and the fragrant aroma of Helen’s goulash beef stew.
At the department store, Sam often wandered into the women’s section to pick out gifts for Helen. One day, he spotted a three-quarter-length red coat. He bought it and personally altered it so that it would fit his wife perfectly. In Sam’s eyes, anything less than a perfect fit wasn’t good enough for Helen.
Eventually, Helen and Sam opened Sam’s Custom Tailor and Men’s Wear at Bloor Street and Ossington Avenue. Their relationship as partners, both in business and at home, was symbiotic. For a decade, Sam tailored suits in the back while Helen was the face at the front, ushering people in for “happy hour” coffees and homemade whisky sugar cookies. Their roles in the shop mirrored their relationship out in the world.
Yet their differences made them whole. Whether they were suiting up for a wedding or Helen was cooking Sam yushka potato soup, they appreciated the simplicity of being together. Helen was a chemist in the kitchen, continuously adapting her strudel, rolling it in jam or chocolate chips. But for Sam, it didn’t matter what she cooked. To him, everything was perfect. “He totally, totally adored my mother,” says their daughter, Susan Gurau.
When Sam was 69, he had a heart attack while driving along Bathurst Street. Helen was sitting beside him. He pulled over into a plaza parking lot and jammed his foot on the brake to prevent crashing. “I believe he saved her life,” says Susan. Helen tried to save Sam, too, by giving him CPR. He was rushed to the hospital, where he died three days later.
They were married for 43 years. With his lasting love, Helen lived for over 30 more. She died earlier this month at 94.
One of the traits Sam loved most about Helen was the one he encountered first: her voice. He lost his entire family in the Holocaust, yet when he watched her singing on stage, he saw family, a new family — one that would become the epicentre of both of their lives. Sam’s song of choice was “When You’re Smiling.” The lyrics — “when you’re laughin’, the sun comes shinin’ through” — truly reflected the way he saw her. In his eyes, Helen was always shining.
“Mom, go in peace and be with Dad,” Susan concluded her eulogy last week. Their love lives on in their two children, Harry and Susan; their six grandchildren, Shayna, Renee, Shael, Adam, David and Julia; and their 14 great-grandchildren. —