Tell Us About . . . A Memoir

My mother’s father—Nissim Cohen—married a woman named Rebecca (I don’t know her maiden name), who gave birth to Eleanor and her younger brother, Ralph. When Rebecca died after they had moved to New York, Nissim went back to Turkey in order to marry her sister, Sarah, who, at least in family lore, did not treat Rebecca’s two children well or want them around. Eventually, Nissim and Sarah emigrated from the United States to Argentina, where they had five children: Sam, Rebecca, Anna, Rachel, and Albert. In later years Mama would visit her siblings there, and at least Sam visited the U.S.

In adulthood, Bette would remember how Mama’s stories about her treatment had made her, Bette, cry, and she still teared up over them. Yet Mama also remembered her childhood in Smyrna fondly, and often spoke of having been educated well, as distinct from Papa, who had very little schooling. He too could speak a smattering of various languages, but Mama knew several quite well: Greek, Turkish, Judeo-Spanish, French, and English. She went to a French school run and taught by nuns—not to one of the Jewish French Alliance schools. As a child I was struck by all that multilingualism, and once I asked her, “Ma, what do you think in?” She honestly replied that she couldn’t tell me. That frustrated my young and literal mind, and I persisted, until she finally said that she wasn’t sure, but she knew she still counted in French, because that was how she had learned arithmetic in school.

I mentioned that Mama was born in 1900. That’s the official date, but it’s not certain. My cousin Claude believes she was born the same year as his mother, 1906. And Mama used to talk about having lied, I’m embarrassed to report, on some documents in later years, so that she could get Social Security benefits earlier than she otherwise would have (earlier, in other words, than she would have been legally entitled to). That also goes with stories my Aunt Julia (actually my parents’ cousin) told me after Mama’s death. They came to America together on the Madonna, arriving on November 13, 1922, as teenagers. Julia would rock with laughter as she told me about how she and Mama used to flirt with the guards on Ellis Island. (My mother was very pretty.)

Papa’s stories about Ellis Island were not as pleasant, and in fact they both talked about the fear the whole process of immigration could instill. Especially traumatic was the examination of the immigrants’ eyes. The medical authorities used a button hook to lift the eyelids of the immigrants, obviously a frightening experience in itself, looking for signs of trachoma, a highly contagious eye disease. If such signs were found, the immigrant’s clothing was chalk-marked with an E for eye, and the person was put aside and forbidden entry into the country—and would be shipped back across the ocean.

Papa had sent for Mama: they had never met before she arrived in New York. They were first cousins, but they planned to marry, and I suppose in some ways it was an “arranged” marriage. Apparently Papa fell in love with her right away, but it took her a while to feel that sort of affection, although he too, according to all the testimony I’ve heard, was quite good-looking: not so tall, but dark and handsome. (Dark enough to be called, for his nickname, “El Preto,” the black—a Portuguese word, interestingly.) In any case they married a year after her arrival, on November 10, 1923.

It’s hard for a child to know for sure, no doubt, but I’m confident they loved each other. I know with absolute certainty that Papa loved Mama, if only from—but not only from—his agony as a widower in later years. I must have seen too many romantic movies, but once as a kid I mentioned to my mother that she and Papa never seemed outwardly to show much affection for one another. (Outward affection for me was never in scarce supply.) One evening, I was supposedly asleep on the folding bed in our living room, although they knew I was still awake. They were at the front door next to the kitchen; Papa was about to leave the apartment to go somewhere. Mama whispered to him about the conversation she and I had had. They then made a point of saying some affectionate words, and they kissed each other goodbye. I knew it was a show for my benefit, and I felt a little bad about that, but I felt good about it too.