My Incredible, Improbable Parents | by Warren Goldie
First Person Essay
Dec. 21 — my mother’s birthday. Dec. 21 — the day my father was buried. He died on Dec. 20, 1983 of colon cancer at the age of 56.
Though I grew up in an ordinary suburban neighborhood just outside Baltimore city, there was nothing typical about the vibes whooshing around our dinner table.
My mother Fritzi was born in the Transylvanian Alps of Romania in 1926. She and my father, Harry, married in 1952. They were so devoted to each other that when he died she declared that she would never go out with another man. She never did.
My father grew up in an orphanage in Brooklyn, New York, even though his mother lived only a subway stop away. The reason was that her husband, Joseph, my grandfather, had lost his business in the Crash of ‘29 and decided to depart the planet rather hastily, thus leaving his wife alone with no means of support.
And so, Tibbie found herself with three boys and a Great Depression on her hands. And even though she had converted from Judaism to Christian Science a few years earlier, she would discover that religion wasn’t going to help much. The money ran out.
She decided she could only afford to raise one boy, and kept Arthur, the oldest, giving up Buddy and Harry, my dad, to a nearby orphanage. The two tykes possessed all the survival skills that any three- and five-year-old have, which is to say, none at all. The boys toughed it out, surviving a string of foster homes into their late teens.
Fritzi, on the other hand, some 4,800 miles away in Romania, was living a very different kind of life — a fun, carefree childhood. Her parents, Rose and Wolf Perl, were loving and generous. The youngest of six (five girls and a boy), Fritzi was masterful at her primary childhood occupation: dodging kisses.
The Perls lived in a picturesque village a few kilometers south of Ukraine. The Perl children skied and climbed and swam in streams clean enough to drink right out of. Until the Nazis showed up in 1944, Visuel de Sus was an excellent place to be.
Some years earlier, Fritzi’s oldest sister Estie saw disaster looming in Europe, as many did, and wanted to leave. So, when a dashing young Cuban guy vacationing at a local hot springs met her and fell in love with her — and later proposed from Havana by letter — she boarded a ship and sailed off to marry him.
I’ve heard it said that courage is doing something difficult by choice rather than out of necessity. I, for one, count my aunt Estie as one brave woman for taking that one-way trip across the pond. (All turned out well.)
In 1944 the fateful Nazi train pulled into my Mom’s hometown of Visuel, bringing the hiking and skiing and dodging kisses to a grinding halt.
Just moments before, Fritzi’s brother Anci had run (literally) north into Ukraine where he became a conscript in the Russian army. After the war, he walked across a good piece of Europe and made his way to Tel Aviv to start a new life. He married my aunt Rozi there and had two daughters, Leah and Ziva. My cousin Ziva was runner-up for Miss Israel, back in the day.
Many of my mother’s family died on the transport train to Auschwitz. The tragically unfortunate part of it was that the Nazis had arrived in northern Romania very close to the end of the war; a few months later and none of this would have happened (would I have made a good Transylvanian?). My mother’s family were that close to escaping, scot free.
So it went.
My grandmother Rose and her four daughters stepped off the train at the gates of Auschwitz where Rose chose to “go left” to help a friend’s family. Wrong move. Going right meant working — and living. My mother’s sister, Shari, clinging to her son, went left as well, to the same fate.
Which left Fritzi and her sisters Piri and Susie in the barracks at Auschwitz – for four months. I don’t have to tell you that story; you probably have an idea. A few months later they were sent to a munitions factory in the Fatherland itself to work as slave labor. But at least that meant staying alive.
At war’s end in 1945, my mother contracted typhoid fever and was quarantined for several weeks. Her brain heated up pretty seriously and she almost died. After she recovered, she discovered sizable gaps in her memory. She has told me on more than one occasion that that is probably a good thing.
The three surviving Perl sisters made their way to a DP (displaced person) camp in France.
If God was now back on the Continent and bestowed a blessing on the Perl sisters, it came in the form of a friendly British officer who wrote a letter for the girls to “Luis Rosenthal Havana,” sister Estie’s husband. He received it.
Luis immediately sent funds to a cousin in Paris who arranged for papers for the sisters and bought them tickets on a ship bound for Cuba.
After the horrors of Europe, imagine what it felt like now: living high on the hog on Luis’s estate in Havana. Luis was a prosperous jeweler and a generous and wonderful guy. The girls played tennis, ate sumptuous meals and tried to forget the awful things that had happened to them.
One day Luis posted a letter to an old friend, a Hungarian named Alex Feigler in Brooklyn, New York. Alex had joined the U.S. army during the war and thus was automatically granted U.S. citizenship. Inside the letter, Luis slid a photo of his three refugee sisters-in-law.
Alex, a bachelor, was intrigued by Piri’s visage, drew a bold circle around it and mailed the photo back — and before you could say geographical undesirability the couple were married and setting up house in Brooklyn. Then my aunt Susie married Morris in Cuba. Not long after, many cousins started arriving in Havana — Daisy, Vivian, Robert and Lillian.
One day my mother traveled to the U.S. to visit her sister Piri in Brooklyn and met my father Harry on a blind date. He said he was an engineer. He wasn’t. He was only a lab tech.
Harry attempted to woo her with the poetry of Robert Service, not exactly appropriate material for courting, since Service wrote about rough men such as Dangerous Dan McGrew who tramped up to the Yukon in search of gold. But since Fritzi didn’t any speak English and Harry had a great voice, it was just as good as Yeats. They married six weeks later and she moved to New York from Cuba.
My father surprised everyone, including himself, by turning out to be a kind of scientific genius. But until he got married and settled down, he didn’t know what he was capable of.
My parents, my sister Rhonda and I lived in a brownstone on 41st St. between 15th and 16th avenue in Boro Park, Brooklyn, a warm and wonderful place.
Not having had much of a family, my father loved my mother’s large clan. Everyone was pretty tight back then. Piri and Alex and my cousins Sharon and Rita lived right across the street. We played punch ball, stoop ball and stick ball in alleys and on stoops and in the street.
All was good. But one could sense Europe seething below the surface. My mother and Susie never talked about it. At holiday feasts, Piri would start in with the hair-raising tales. There was the kapo (concentration camp guard) who made lamp shades out of human skin, and the line-ups and selections with Josef Mengele, one of the most evil doctors who ever walked the planet. (Piri passed in 2011, at the age of 90.)
While my father supported our family at a day job, he attended Copper Union college at night and earned a master’s in electrical engineering, inventing new ways to protect radars from powerful incoming signals. In 1962 Westinghouse made him an offer he couldn’t refuse and we moved to the Baltimore suburbs.
My parents loved their ordinary suburban existence. In fact, all they wanted was ordinary. On the outside, they were secure and happy. On the inside, the currents of their tragedies and traumas flowed unseen.
What was interesting, to me, was that my father was this incredibly brilliant, creative guy with an international reputation – in some ways not unlike my grandfather Wolf, who traveled all over Europe on business – and my mother was a simple, good-natured, completely nonintellectual woman. They were opposites. Yet enamored of each other. If they were seeking love today, I’m sure they would have clicked over to the next profile.
Not long after logging his 35th U.S. patent for yet another invention that would make Westinghouse millions (while he drew a modest salary) Harry was diagnosed with colon cancer. He died on Dec. 20, 1983 the way many cancer victims do: emaciated, drugged, shockingly different than what you had known. It is incredibly painful to see that happen to someone you love. My mother was at his side every day, often sleeping in his hospital bed with him.
The line of cars traveling to the cemetery for his funeral must have been a mile long. Many people miss him. Most of all my mother, who sometimes speaks to him in the early morning hours in that state between dreaming and waking, when the line between what is real and what is possible blurs, or maybe isn’t important at all.
Fritzi passed away in November 2016 at the age of 90.
More about my mother’s family (PDF).