Link to Family Tree to understand family relationships.
First page of letter from Hilda Firestone
San Francisco, Calif.
Feb.23, ‘46Helene dearest,
I’ve always considered a typewriter a most impersonal machine, wholly inadequate for an expression of any emotion deeper than a plea for payment of a laundry bill. But in this case it’s my deep affection for you that prompts me to use it, as I feel that it’s hard enough for you to struggle with the English language without having to decipher my hieroglyphics, which, which my best friends tell me would strike terror to the heart of the most eminent archaeologist alive. Of course I regret not being able to write in your own language, But Paul long ago stopped my lessons in despair, and I consoled myself with the thought that I can at least understand a tiny bit of German, till one night not so long ago I convulsed a room full of people by thinking that “ich grolle nicht” meant I don’t growl [actual meaning: I bear no grudge]. So much for my linguistic ability.
But neither in German nor in English could I begin to make you understand what it means to me to be able to talk to you in this way. It seemed so hopeless for so long a time. You know, Helene dear, that you go back to some of my earliest childhood memories, and so in some very sweet and undefinable way you belong to me, along with other lovely scenes of so terribly long ago. With grandfather, for instance, and with a picture that used to hang on his bedroom wall, and which later on turned out to be Paul and Robert. You will see it when you come - you probably remember it, a group of adorable, wistful, blond children with a fat comfortable-looking grandmother and a somewhat stern father sitting in their midst. The grandmother looks as if her sole purpose on earth is to stuff them with lebkuchen, but the father, I suspect, was unduly interested in their report cards. (I’m afraid my typing is as confusing as my own hand). You are identified particularly with a most beautiful book of German folk songs, which you sent me, and from which I derived my idea — now long shattered, I’m afraid — of God as a very benign person. The book contained a picture of him, sitting on a cloud surrounded by baby angels. The song it illustrated was “Weiss du wie viel Sternlein stehen” which was always my favorite. There was another book, too, but that, I believe, was from your mother, so I mustn’t hold you responsible for all the sleepless nights it caused me. That was about a little girl and a little boy who seem to have been everything they shouldn’t have been, and the punishments inflicted upon them were almost worthy of Hitler. There was a picture, I remember, of the girl with her dress in flames, the fire mounting to her hair, and another one showing her being put through a wringer, and being ironed out with a hot iron, and her brother or playmate — whoever he was — had hay growing out of his nose and ears, and rats and mice romping around in it. I’ll show you that, too, when you come. We can have a good laugh over it. Shall it be with afternoon tea, or do you think you could be sufficiently American for a cocktail, or better still, a whisky and soda? That seems to be Robert’s favorite drink as well as mine. I like the relaxation it brings to taut nerves at the end of the day. Robert is another bond in common, Helene. I began to write to him six years ago, merely to tell him all about Paul and now I find that I’m doing it only for my own radiant joy in the friendship. For I find in Robert a capacity for affection and tenderness that I yearn for. It is strange, is it not, that the most profound spiritual happiness I have now is from a man I’ve never seen? The children seem to have forgotten to tell you that I’m now alone. Nathan died in September, ‘43. I had known for years that he had a heart condition, but I kept lulling myself to sleep with that oft-repeated nonsense about people with heart trouble outliving everyone else. At the end he was gone in less than an hour. When I say I’d lulled myself to sleep I’m not being entirely accurate. For six years I’d been worried every moment of the day. When he was working at nights, from the moment I expected him home until he was in the house I’d stand at the bedroom window watching headlights coming over the hill. When he was resting during the day, I’d tiptoe into the room to listen to his breathing. At symphony concerts if he came on the stage a minute later than I expected him to, I was ready to go backstage and see if he was well. He was my husband and child all in one. But ironically, the last day, I paid little attention to him. It was fearfully hot, and everyone was more or less miserable. When he complained of not feeling well, I made very light of it, and merely suggested that he see the doctor for a check-up, as he had a quartet concert a few days ahead. I went to the doctor with him, and at three o’clock the doctor pronounced him perfect. Fifteen minutes later I had a little errand and left him in the car. I was gone less than five minutes, and when I returned he was unconscious. That was all. The thing that couldn’t possibly happen to me had happened, and I felt as if nothing would ever again be important. But gradually all the old zest for sheer living is returning, the old desires, the old curiosity, the old sense of joy in just a spring day. So here I am. You are the one person ono earth to whom I should never speak of anything but happy things, but I have a strange feeling that when you are in San Francisco you will be the one woman to whom I will be able to speak unrestrainedly. I’ve never been very close to women. Nathan used to say that one has only a certain amount of love to give and that my entire supply went to the few men who were important to me. My friends all know me. Only a few days ago one of them called me up and coaxed me to come out to lunch, and when I tried to beg off (because I hate to eat lunch) she said maliciously, “Really, I should think you’d come out once in awhile when my husband is not at home.” It’s not that I don’t like my women friends, just that I don’t trust them, with a few notable exceptions, and it’s perfectly true that I prefer them at night when their husbands are with them.
Paul has been a perfect comrade all this time and I shall always be grateful for his loyalty. Perhaps Robert has told you he hasn’t been too well. He, too, it seems, has a heart. I don’t believe it is an alarming case. it just requires care and rest, and above all freedom from excitement. The last is hard on Paul as you know he works himself into a lather over a piece of burnt toast. Yesterday we passed a store in which he saw a pocket adding machine that simply captivated him. I must admit I can’t get excited over such a thing, and when he asked me to share his enthusiasm I merely said that I personally prefer those pretty little colored balls on wires that the Chinese use to add up their bills. And you should see with what speed they do it in the Chinatown markets. Well, you should have heard the storm. He said he doesn’t see why I don’t burn candles, and look for a horse and carriage instead of a taxi, and why don’t I write my letters on rocks (they couldn’t be more illegible anyhow). Und so weiter. [And so on.] But on the whole we have fun together, and way down beneath the surface there’s a deep bond of feeling between us. When you and Robert are here I hope to see an enormous improvement in his health. You will be of his own world, an integral part of his immediate background. You will share his memories and traditions. It will make many things easier for him. As for Robert, I hope he will be happy in America. And I hope he will like me.
Harry is here at the house as you know. It’s a great joy to have him, as he’s gay, and young, and there’s always something to laugh about. He’s had and lost his first girlfriend and is none the worst for the experience — just a bit surprised that he’s alive. When I told him he wouldn’t die of the thing he didn’t believe me. Eva is extremely happy. Her husband is a nice, quiet, gentlemanly person. He’s not exactly scintillating. I’ve never heard him say anything except “please pass the salt” but I presume that in the privacy of their own apartment his conversational ability is somewhat heightened. The main thing is that Eva loves him and I think he must be good to her.
It’s quarter of one in the morning and I must get up early as Paul and I are leaving early in the morning for a few days in the country with good friends of ours, Adolph Baller and his wife. Do you happen to know them, too? They happen to be from Vienna. Adolph is Yehudi Menuhin’s accompanist. During the summer months they are at Yehudi’s place at Los Gatos, and tomorrow Adolph is giving a solo concert down there. I wish you were going with us. We shall think of you and speak of you, and keep hoping it won’t be long now before we’ll all be together, you and Robert, and Paul and I. Life could be very beautiful.
I assume that the original of this letter was sent to Helene while she was in Istanbul waiting for the money and papers to be able to come to San Francisco. When I found it somewhere in Harry’s closet, I felt like I’d been given a gift. It is beautifully written and tells us about the family over almost 50 years. We learn about Hilda’s childhood in the early 1900s in San Francisco and her feeling of connection to her cousin in Vienna – Helene was Hilda’s mother’s first cousin. It’s interesting to see how close Hilda felt to family members who she had never met. It appears that Helene and her mother kept in close contact with their relatives in America, sending gifts to their children in addition to maintaining a rich correspondence. It is wonderful that Hilda could connect one of her favorite children’s books with Helene. Apparently Hilda’s favorite song is still sung.
Hilda recalls a photo of Paul and Robert’s family hanging on the wall when she was a child. I don’t know if I have the photo she refers to, but this photo from Paul’s album shows the Zerzawy children, with their father Julius and their grandmother Rosa on the right. In addition, we see Helene the second on the left and to her right Mathilda, Helene’s sister and Julius’s second wife. I’m guessing Hilda recalls a different photo, because this one doesn’t make me think their grandmother was eager to bake cookies!
Zerzawy famly, taken probably between 1907-1910
We get a real feeling for Paul’s personality and that he has a bad heart. I was happy to see that he had such a good friend in Hilda and hope that this gave him comfort while he was separated from his brother and aunt. Apparently as in 1941, they are still waiting for Robert to emigrate to San Francisco. It is lovely that Hilda and Robert also became friends during the war and were able to share thoughts and emotions. We learn about Eva’s husband – for the first time, I got a window into my parents’ early life together.
We learn about Hilda’s emotional and everyday life. Her description of her grief at being widow is beautiful and real, expressing exactly what it is like to mourn the loss of a loved one over time. Her husband Nathan Firestone had been a member of the SF Symphony since its inception in 1911 and was principal viola at the time of his death in 1943. Although the page on their website about Nathan says he left the orchestra in 1941, if you scroll down to the name Firestone on the List of SF Symphony musicians, you’ll see he played until 1943.
Hilda is conscious of doing the one thing she has been told not to do – discussing unhappy subjects with Helene. Long after my grandmother’s death, my mother regretted not having encouraged her mother to talk about her experiences. In the 1940s, talking about the past was not considered the best way to deal with trauma. My grandmother was very conscious that no one wanted to hear about her experiences, although she was eager and willing to do so. Given Hilda’s and Eva’s comments, I don’t know whether people didn’t want to hear or whether they were trying to protect her from unnecessary pain. Perhaps a bit of both.
Hilda’s letter brings me to tears for all that might have been - her last sentence is touching and bittersweet: Life could be very beautiful.