Champagne in a Cellar

July 13, 2016 - accent chair

Something identical had happened in my possess family, where my father, too, didn’t wish to speak about a Jewish ancestry. One day my hermit came home from propagandize and used a offence in articulate about a Jewish student. My mom was dissapoint and felt she had to tell him that what he had pronounced wasn’t acceptable. It was afterwards that she told my hermit for a initial time that members of his possess family were Jewish. we don’t remember that happening. we don’t even remember conference about it when it happened. My hermit doesn’t remember it. My relatives told me about it later, after we had confronted them with my possess find as a teen that, as we put it to them then, we was Jewish. Even nonetheless my mother’s relatives were named Stein and ran a delicatessen after immigrating from Hungary in 1955, we hadn’t clued into my family’s stock until someone outward a family told me about it. My difference dissapoint my parents. They didn’t wish us to be anti-Semites. But they also didn’t wish us to be Jews.

“It’s incredible,” Bozsi told me. “It’s a same.”

She described how formidable it had been to immigrate to France, and wanted to know about my parents’ knowledge immigrating to Canada. She hadn’t felt accepted. She was someone who felt she wasn’t French or Hungarian, not Catholic or Jew. That seemed so familiar. While my relatives felt proudly Canadian, they weren’t like my friends’ parents. Whenever we crossed a limit into a United States or returned home to Canada, even when they handed over their Canadian IDs, they were asked, “Where are we unequivocally from?”

They were Canadian and nonetheless still had Austrian and Hungarian accents. Of march we was innate in Canada, yet in facile propagandize teachers felt a need to have me taken out of category to work with a debate pathologist given we had picked adult my parents’ pronunciation. Vancouver was a finish of a line in Canada, and distinct a incomparable cities of Montreal and Toronto, not a place with a inundate of post-war immigrants. My relatives were supportive to not hire out. When they combined a lavatory to accommodate my mother’s relatives in a residence on a tree-lined city street, a Canadian family conflicting a travel complained to authorities, lifting questions about either we were going to change a impression of a area and spin a home into a rooming house.

Despite a loathing they had gifted in Hungary, both Bozsi and my mom still hold an love for their internal country. Bozsi surrounded herself in her residence with tiny things from Hungary, usually as my mom had. She told me she secure for a Hungarian soccer group when it played a French. She lived in between worlds, a judgment that became a thesis of her book. Her initial pretension had been, “Tu seras une chauve souris, matriarch fille,” what her rabbi in Budapest had cautioned her when she came to tell him she wanted to modify to Catholicism. He meant that she would be like a bat, conjunction a bird nor a mouse, or in her case, conjunction a Catholic nor a Jew.

Bozsi’s strange book manuscript, featuring a imitation of her as a immature woman. (Elisabeth Lanussé)

The some-more we talked, a some-more certain it seemed that we had to go and accommodate Bozsi in person. But we was apprehensive. What am we doing? What am we awaiting from visiting someone who is 93 years old? Could we unequivocally have anything in common after 70 years yet any hit with my family? Would it unequivocally assistance me know some-more entirely what it took for my relatives to tarry and start again? Would it unequivocally assistance me know them better? we didn’t know. But we wanted to find out.

So we went.

*  *  *

You can’t be certain where any hunt will lead. But in this box it brought Judith and me 5,600 miles conflicting a ocean, a scarcely 11-hour flight, from San Francisco to Paris. And afterwards a few days later, with Nathalie fasten us, 375 miles by train, a some-more than three-hour ride, from Paris to Bordeaux. And finally, after assembly a daughter Hannah in a Bordeaux sight station, a scarcely 90-mile expostulate to a Atlantic Coast review city of Royan. The 4 of us found ourselves cruising down a highway past dumpy timberland and vineyards, and afterwards along a slight French nation road, past a mill buildings and Gothic churches of tiny French villages, passed still on a Saturday evening.

As we drove, we suspicion about how a search, or seeking an answer to a question, can open doors in startling ways. we never illusory perplexing to find what happened to Dr. Lanussé would lead to anything yet something straightforward: He returned home or he didn’t. But a hunt had taken on a life of a own. we couldn’t stop.

Royan, strategically located during a mouth of a Gironde estuary, is a white city. White buildings. White stones. White walls. It was broken by British bombers in Jan 1945 and rebuilt, in complicated style, after a war. This year, in early April, a beachfront hotels and restaurants felt half-abandoned. At that time of year, one can usually suppose a city that contingency come to life in a summer. Our Airbnb unit was conflicting a travel from a French arcade, games whirring divided with nobody to play them. A city where a French go to play. Vast outward cafes, dull now. Sand and sea.

We would learn after that a reason Dr. Lanussé landed there was that a friend, a associate doctor, had speedy him to join him in a rebuilding city, where he was afterwards a usually doctor. There was opportunity. The suspicion had been that Dr. Lanussé and his Hungarian bride would lapse to Bordeaux. But they never left Royan, not after employing an designer to pattern them a complicated residence full of light on what was apropos doctors’ row. Near a core of a town, not distant from a tennis bar and a beach, with a perspective of a sea from their bedroom, they changed in in 1951. Bozsi is still there in that bedroom today.

Hannah Temple stands outward of Bozsi’s residence in Royan. The doorway directly off a path is to Henri Lanussé’s former medical practice. They built a residence in 1951 and Bozsi has lived there ever since. (John Temple)

Bozsi had invited us and her children for aperitifs a subsequent day, Sunday around 6 o’clock. But that felt too prolonged to wait, and too grave an arise to accommodate for a initial time. So we suggested that we come progressing on Sunday, usually with Hannah, to contend hello. Bozsi embraced a idea. The subsequent morning a city was thriving, with a multiplying Sunday market. Cafes were open. Families were shopping. The marketplace gymnasium was surrounded by vendors outside, with flowers, fruit, vegetables, cheese, and outrageous trays of paella. We found white parrot tulips for Bozsi from a rancher who gave us despotic instructions about how tiny H2O to put them in. Hannah and we went on a way, withdrawal Judith and Nathalie behind, flowers in hand, to accommodate Bozsi in-person for a initial time.

There, watchful during a doorway of her white house, she stood, beaming, erect, yet a shaft or any aid. She was put together usually as my mom would have been. But she was some-more chic, French, in a white blouse and beige sweater, with dual china necklaces, one a heart and a other a swirling design. Her face, framed by bullion and pearl earrings, was ideally done up, brownish-red hair usually so. She stood smaller than we had illusory in a Skype calls, yet her gawk was a gawk we already knew, comfortable and tough, unhappy and twinkling.  

We kissed French style, once on any side of a face. And afterwards we did it again, and went inside a residence where Dr. Lanussé had also had his medical practice, with a possess apart entrance. Where they had lifted their 3 sons. Where she had been on her possess for some-more than 25 years. It felt uncannily familiar. Like my relatives could have spent their lives there. The vital room was filled with soothing light, filtered by wispy fate along a wall of windows, building to ceiling. The spin timber dining list was usually like a one in my parents’ house. The Persian carpets, a framed engravings on a wall, a objets widespread about, all reminded us of my parents’ home.

Bozsi sat in her high-back chair, and Hannah and we sat on a low couch. We had so most to say, a difference came pouring out. We had suspicion we’d come for usually 30 minutes, to mangle a ice. We finished adult staying dual hours.

Bozsi was excited. She had been digging by her photographs to see if she had one of my grandparents’ house. It was tough to suppose she could find anything given a state of her eyesight, so bad that she can’t even review a word of a vast imitation book of her possess book. Yet in a stacks of her aged cinema she suspicion she found something we competence wish to have. She presented me with a tiny brownish-red leather folder with black and white cinema a distance of credit cards in cosmetic sleeves. The cinema were from late 1944, of her and Henri hire outward my grandparents’ house. In one there was a third person, a skinny male she suspicion competence be my father. “Could it be?” she asked me. we took a imitation in my hands and knew right away. It was my father. There was no mistaking him. The approach he stood. His face. It was startling that a imitation of my father could spin adult this many years after in a residence in France where no one in my family had ever been, that it could tie dual strangers together 70 years later. Bozsi wanted me to have it. It was not to be a final benefaction of a memory from that era.

This photo, shot in Nov 1944, was carried from Budapest to France, where 70 years after we would find it in a residence of a widow of a alloy we was acid for. It’s a usually flourishing design of my father with a alloy and his wife. (Judith Cohn)

That night, her dual sons—the hermit who had emailed me that he was a son of Henri Lanussé, and a hermit whom we had not nonetheless met—would uncover us a Kodak camera Bozsi and Henri had perceived when they married. The camera that had been used to take a design of my father. A excellent specimen, with a leather case. A camera had been a dangerous thing to have in one’s possession, she told us. She had taken photos of a Russians, and when she and Henri attempted to make their approach to France, he had told her she had to chuck out a film. He was fearful they would be seen as spies. But they hold on to a camera, and somehow by their strenuous tour they hold on to those few photos of themselves—and my father.

Before we left, we asked if we could take her picture. We walked outside, to her tiny yard where she sat in a object conflicting a wall of her kitchen. Her face told me she had seen so much. She was beautiful. And sad. Funny. Brave. And strong. It was there, on what she called a Temple grounds, that she and Henri had their outward dining table. They had built it that way, she told us, to remind them of a one during my grandparents’ house. They had favourite it so most they wanted one of their own. They didn’t have a design of my grandparents’ house, yet they had remembered it, in stone.

Bozsi was always really stylish when we met over Skype or in person. (John Temple)

That dusk Hannah and we returned with Judith and Nathalie, this time to applaud a reunion. For Bozsi, it was a possibility to repay a affability of my grandparents, who had left them so most champagne when they offering them preserve during their home. There were 8 of us, one some-more than had been in a cellar. We drank to a arise and ate foie gras, a sign of something noted they had been means to eat in my grandparents’ house. They had a special Hungarian cheese, usually like my mother’s, usually this one was done with French cheese and ours during home had been done with Canadian. They cut adult sharp Hungarian sausage. We ate so most that we forgot altogether a special French cream puffs they had set aside for dessert.

Bozsi has told me that when she talks of a past she mostly sees in her mind’s eye a people she’s remembering. Her husband. My father. My mother. All there, as we laughed and common stories about a camera and a cheese, a foie gras and a champagne. We took pictures, to remember a occasion. Seventy years later, a survivor and descendants of a cellar.

Bozsi told us that she and my relatives had talked in a attic about staying together after a war. She pronounced my mom had always swore that they would get out of a attic together, that they would make it together. When Russian soldiers finally marched them out singular record during gunpoint, one of them joked, “See, we did get out together.”

Bozsi always sits in a same chair, that gives her authority of a vital room. While she has suffered a lot of loss, she hasn’t stopped laughing. (Judith Cohn)

The subsequent day it was a spin to take Bozsi for a internal speciality, oysters. It wasn’t prolonged though, before she felt diseased and ill and asked us to take her home. It was formidable for her to move. She was in pain. She indispensable to distortion down. The remarkable spin in Bozsi’s condition was jarring. Her health was distant some-more unsafe than we had imagined. My relatives had been during her side when her life had hung in a balance. Today a rivalry was aged age.   

We took Bozsi home to rest and went to a city’s museum, that had a timely vaunt about a fight years in Royan. we was struck by a endless list of manners a Nazis had imposed on a residents. Among a activities that were forbidden: holding bicycle handlebars with one palm and wearing makeup during college. Our conversations with Bozsi had centered around a fight years in Budapest. But a vaunt showed a conflicting side of her life, that a city where she had come to live with her father had also suffered, that she hadn’t found a uninformed start a approach my relatives had in Canada. That she still had to live with a scars of a war.

Bozsi introduced us over Skype to her granddaughter, who lives in India with her Sikh husband. Now Bozsi’s French granddaughter was carrying to make her approach in a new nation usually a approach Bozsi had. The man’s family were refugees, migrants from what became Pakistan. He told us that his mom is some-more Indian than he is, something we don’t trust Henri would ever have pronounced about Bozsi and France. We remained in a bedroom where she has her computer. Sitting on a guest bed, holding hands with Hannah, Bozsi spoke of her memories of her early years in Royan.

Hannah and Bozsi became really tighten during a visit. Bozsi would tell me, “Elle est adorable.” (Judith Cohn)

She described how she had no decent garments and told us she had looked like a vagabond. How uneasy she had been by a “USA Go Home” graffiti she had seen. How she had taken a conflicting hook and speedy an American family to pierce in on their street. How she felt like she didn’t have anything to do. How Henri didn’t wish her to have a piano. How he was going out any night with his friends. How it wasn’t a life she wanted, alone during home. How, before her boys were born, she had left Henri, and run divided to Switzerland, where she had cousins. And finally, how Henri came after her, earnest things would be conflicting and brought her home.

Hannah had beheld right divided that Bozsi’s residence felt like a home of her grandmother. Formal, yet lived in. Full of colorful potion and ceramics that seemed to enclose memories. Wood bookshelves, flowers, framed family photos and exuberant list lamps. Our conversations with Bozsi suggested how identical in so many ways a lives of my relatives and a lives of Henri and Bozsi had been after a war, even nonetheless they never saw any other or spoke again.

The biggest likeness might have been something that we couldn’t see. Both couples lived in a space in between. Their temperament was never straightforward, as people or as families. As a boy, we felt we lived in a conflicting universe from my parents. we would censor garments we wanted to wear to propagandize in a paper bag in a garage. we would change from a collared shirt and sweater my mom favourite to see me in to a sweatshirt or t-shirt with cut off sleeves, hacked with scissors in my room. we precious baseball. But my mom would tell me how most she hated a game. It worried her that GIs had played locate after a fight in Budapest squares. She suspicion it was undignified, disrespectful. Then she saw her possess son put on his ball uniform and burst on his bike for a ballpark, a place they never visited, even for a biggest game.

The life of an newcomer is a life of dual places, dual identities. And maybe that’s generally so for those who feel they have no choice yet to leave their internal land. In my parents’ youth, temperament was a matter of life or death. In a universe they sought for their children, they hoped it could be a choice.

Bozsi and we speak on her cot in a vital room of her house. (Judith Cohn)

That night, after Bozsi had rested, we returned to her residence so Hannah and Nathalie could contend goodbye. It was unpleasant for Bozsi. She called Hannah “adorable,” and pronounced she didn’t wish to remove her. we hadn’t illusory what it would meant to have one of my children with me as we met an old, aged crony of my parents. We had gifted a family bond together, and we could suppose how even after I’m left my daughter would be means to tell her possess family about a crony of her grandmother, how a story could live on, joining generations.

When we arrived a subsequent night to collect adult Bozsi to take her for aperitifs during her son’s house, she had a benefaction prepared for me. A bottle of champagne that she had sent her help out to buy after training during lunch that it was my birthday. we told Bozsi that one thing we wanted to do was make a video of her vocalization so we could share it with a rest of my family. My relatives had never been open with me about their past a approach Bozsi had. Through her, we had come to know them on a turf of their youth. Through her, we had seen a layers of their lives peeled away. we dignified a bravery and resilience of a people she suggested them to be. But we also felt their enterprise not to let me turn a plant had deprived me of something intangible.

As a child, we had felt my family was alone. That we was alone. Now we saw that her family and ours, survivors of a cellar, had an invisible bond. My daughter Hannah had seen a same, and we hoped my video could do a same for a rest of my family. Before we sat down, Bozsi went over to a list in her vital room lonesome in forged elephants. On a list was an elephant so tiny we roughly couldn’t see it. Bozsi picked it adult and pronounced she wanted to give it to me.

She explained that she had collected elephants as a immature girl. Back afterwards she had usually had 3 or four. Now she has dozens. People give them to her as gifts. Before she and Henri changed to my grandparents’ house, she had slipped a smallest of her elephants into her pocket. It has been with her a rest of her life. She told me she had it with her in her slot in a attic when she was with my parents.  She carried it as they crossed a solidified Danube. It sat during a heart of her collection today. She pulpy it into my palm and pronounced she wanted me to have it. It was her birthday benefaction to me.

The elephant Bozsi gave me as a birthday gift. (Judith Cohn)

It was a smallest benefaction and a biggest gift. we didn’t know what to do. Tears pushed during my eyes. Bozsi insisted. we took it. And put it into my pocket. Where it sits still today.

Before withdrawal for her son and daughter-in-law’s house, Bozsi and we sat in her dining room, bathed in dusk light. She spoke directly to a camera and told me she didn’t wish to remove us. “I wish to know a rest of a family, too,” she said.

We didn’t wish to contend goodbye that night. So later, we pronounced goodnight and came behind a subsequent morning. It’s adult to us not to apart again, she told me then.

When we returned home to San Francisco, we began to Skype again. In a initial session, she told me she had an suspicion for a new project: The Last Boat from Odessa, 70 years later.

* Translation of excerpts of Le dernier bateau d’Odessa by Eva Boodman.

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