Like Helene’s letters, my mother’s letter gives us a sense of all that was going on for both sender and recipient. She tells me about all that was happening in San Francisco, talks about necessary paperwork, refers to my recent move and to my planned trip to Vienna over Christmas break.
As my mother mentions, November 1978 was a terrifying time for San Francisco – within a few weeks, both Jonestown and the murders of Harvey Milk and George Moscone occurred. I remember wondering whether I would have a place to go home to and imagined what my life would be like if, like my mother did at the same age, suddenly I found myself having to live the rest of my life in France, far away from family and friends. The news did indeed make it to France. At the time, I was renting a garage apartment from an elderly couple. When I got home from school on the day Moscone and Milk were killed, my landlady told me that “the mayor of California” had been shot. I thought they were referring to Jerry Brown, but soon discovered the truth.
My mother would have been touched by these events by the mere fact of living in San Francisco. But in addition, she was employed by the city and county of San Francisco as a public health nurse, and these were people she thought about every day – many of the Jonestown victims might have been her clients when they were in San Francisco, and the city administrators were her employers. I don’t think it occurred to me at the time how much these terrifying events must have struck my mother to the core – she had escaped Europe to the safety of the United States, and her adopted home was feeling far from safe.
My dream of studying abroad included living with a family so that I would have the opportunity to speak French every day. Thus, I wasn’t thrilled to find myself living alone in a garage apartment. Fortunately, I met Marine, who was in one of my classes. We liked each other immediately and she asked her parents if I might rent a room at their house. She was studying English and thought it would be a great way to practice. Happily, her parents said yes. We were both only children and it was fun to each have a sister, if just for a few months. Today’s letter is the first my mother wrote to my new address.
Although she talks of making a phone call, the cost would have felt prohibitive -- at the time, she was reluctant to talk much on the phone to her brother just a few miles away in Berkeley, because even those calls weren’t free. I only recall one call from my mother while I was living there. I remember loving hearing her voice after months apart, but was shocked to hear that she had a German accent! I never heard it when we were. together every day, but after months apart, it was evident. As I think is common for children of immigrants, as a child, it always surprised me when people commented on the accent I couldn’t hear.
The discussion of the quest for a birth certificate brings us back to the main story of the blog. When Eva came to the U.S. in 1939, she did not bring a copy of her birth certificate. Almost 40 years later, my mother was 57 years old and was looking forward to retirement. She was afraid that if she didn’t have a proper birth certificate, it would be difficult to apply for Social Security.
A friend and I had decided to go to Vienna over Christmas break. Never one to miss an opportunity, my mother hoped I would be able to get a copy of her birth certificate while we were there, despite it being the Christmas holidays and the fact that I didn’t know any German. Ever the optimist! I don’t recall whether I even tried – I’m sure it was beyond my ability and courage. Happily, my mother joined me at the end of my year in Montpellier, and we took a trip together to Vienna, 40 years after she left. One of her goals was to track down that birth certificate – a story worth a post of its own.
My mother inherited her love of opera from her mother. Unfortunately, that love wasn’t part of my genetic inheritance. Happily, I redeemed myself by marrying someone who loved classical music as much as she did.
I think my mother became friends with Elayne Jones through playing tennis. She was a timpanist for the San Francisco Symphony and Opera and led an amazing life.
In a number of letters, the idea of running into or meeting someone in Europe seems natural and inevitable. I never did see or meet the people mentioned in the letters and the likelihood seemed far-fetched. However, at midnight on New Year’s Day in 1979 as we waited for the subway after attending a performance of Strauss’s Die Fledermaus, traditionally performed at that time of year, a voice from the shadows emerged and said “Hello, Helen Goldsmith” – it was someone who had been a housemate when we were studying in Berkeley. She was in Edinburgh for her year abroad. One of the eerier experiences of my life! And yes, I did indeed attend an opera – when in Rome…(or Vienna).
As an aside, my friend Marine and I recently reconnected after decades, through the magic of the internet. Our language skills our rusty – comprehension is good but speaking/writing is a challenge – so she communicates mostly in French and I in English.
