Two Families, Two Deaths, Two Women

View of Shelly Beach from Manly Beach, Sydney

My beautiful friend Julie joined me this week in an activity I’ve previously done only with my son or by myself.

On a bright autumn afternoon in Sydney, we walked from Manly Beach to Shelly Beach, and scattered red rose petals in memory of my first husband Gary and Julie’s son, Martin.

Two Families
Something magic happens when two families connect at every level — wives, husbands, children, values, and interests. I read a recent post by ‘Wandering Sheila’ and instantly thought of Julie and her family, with whom my family of three shared so much in Australia.

I could write a book about our two families’ interactions, but for this post suffice it to say everything began when, within a few days of our moving to Sydney, my son returned from primary school and said, ‘I have a new friend. His name is Martin. He and his family just got back from a trip to Finland.’ Thus began a priceless friendship.

I loved watching Martin and his older sister interact; their closeness reminded me of mine with my brother when we were kids. Among our families’ seemingly endless shared interests were the boys’ baseball (my son the pitcher, Martin the shortstop, the dads involved in coaching and umpiring); family bushwalks, beach outings, and countless barbeques; a passion for travel and reading (our best Aussie book recommendations came from Julie and her husband); special holiday meals; and parents who loved spending time with their children and getting together as a family. The two dads were both experts at DIY, did a lot of the family cooking, and could talk at length on subjects ranging from the local real estate market to international politics. Julie and I could talk at length about anything.

Two Deaths
In November 2002, with virtually no warning, Gary was diagnosed with advanced, inoperable gastric cancer. Julie and her family were with us at the hospital in the last weeks of Gary’s life. On the afternoon before Gary died, Martin spent time visiting him, then walked into the hallway and wept in his mother’s arms. He went home and made a pizza for his father to bring back to the hospital that evening for me, my son, and my stepson. Gary died late that same night.

In the months that followed, Julie regularly visited me on a Sunday afternoon. She would bring her knitting along and sit with me, letting me ramble on or be silent — a supportive, companionable presence.

In July 2005, two years after Gary’s death, Julie came over on one of those Sunday afternoons. Early Monday morning, she left an unusually short ‘call me’ message on my answering machine, but I’d already left for work and didn’t check it when I returned late that night. Tuesday morning, she rang again when I was in the shower. I noticed the blinking light as I was leaving and played back both messages, the second one a distraught, ‘Please call me.’ With rising fear I rang their home. Another close friend answered and I knew instantly something was terribly wrong. ‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘Some of the boys went fishing on Sunday, from the cliffs at Middle Head,’ she said. Martin grew up near those steep rocks, had played there all his life, and knew it well. Sunday had been a beautiful, clear day.

‘There was an accident. A fall,’ said the friend. Her voice cracked and she paused to breathe. ‘Martin died.’

Aftermath
In the terrible aftermath of that tragedy, I did what I could to comfort my friends and their daughter — which, as I knew from my brother Rob’s death — was sadly very little. My son had his 20th birthday and returned to university in the US, a courageous young man who had lost his father and then one of his closest friends in the space of less than two years.

Often, after a long work day, I visited Julie, her husband, and daughter, and sat with them at their kitchen table, all of us mourning and morose. I remember vividly one night when their daughter was out and I left Julie sitting between her husband and her brother. I drove home to my lonely house, weeping with sadness and frustration at the finality of death and the desperate, hopeless knowledge that in what seemed like the blink of an eye, two happy families were gone forever.

Two Women
Time passed, as it does. Days, weeks, and months turned into years. Julie’s daughter, with her degree in archaeology, worked for a time in Western Australia and is now in London. My son finished university and settled in Washington, DC. I was blessed to meet and then marry Clive, and we moved to the UK. Julie and her husband, still in Sydney, are in that pre-retirement transition stage, talking about what’s next with work, travel, and life in general. The only thing that’s stayed the same over the years is that after the two deaths, nothing for either family was ever the same.

As with most priceless friends, when Julie and I meet – usually over long lunches of champagne and dim sum — time and distance melt away and we pick up right where we left off. I adore my life in Felixstowe, but through no fault of our wonderful friends there, they never knew Gary — so it’s lovely for me to spend time with someone who knew him well, as Julie did. I knew Martin well, too, and we talk freely of them both — no holding back, no ‘you should be over it now’, no reservations.

This week, on a sunny autumn day in Sydney, we were just two women, standing and looking out to sea at Shelly Beach. Maybe others wondered why the women were scattering red rose petals into the water. Then they sat on a bench — sharing their history, marvelling at how they’d survived, remembering those they loved. A passing observer might have noted them turning their faces into the Australian sunshine, chatting and smiling, just enjoying a simple afternoon together.

I’m thankful every day for my blessings, which include my son and family and my wonderful second husband Clive. I give thanks to God and the Universe for my beautiful friend Julie, for her son Martin, for my first husband Gary, for Julie’s husband and daughter, and for two families who connected and had so many happy times together.

In love and remembrance.

Walkway from Manly Beach to Shelly Beach, Sydney

Steps Removed: Reflections on Being a Step-Grandparent

With Clive and his grandchildren, Australia

As our time for this trip in Australia draws to a close, I’ve been reflecting on my role as a step-grandmother to six children — my late husband Gary’s grandsons (ages 11, 9, and 5) in the US, and Clive’s grandsons (age 9 and 6) and granddaughter (2-1/2) in Australia.

How to Be a Good Grandparent

Numerous books and articles I’ve read describe and recommend two crucial aspects of grandparent-hood.

Firstly, being a grandparent is by most accounts a wonderful experience, not least because one can savour all the joys of young children at one step removed from parenting and its endless, engulfing, exhausting responsibilities. Secondly, most experts advise grandparents to focus on the positive, keep one’s mouth firmly shut regarding unsolicited ‘suggestions’ or advice, and let the parents be the parents.

Families – Blended and Global

Blended families are nothing new, nor are global families – blended or otherwise — with multiple generations scattered across the globe.

If being a grandparent is one step removed from direct parenting, being a step-grandparent is two steps removed. In my case, geographic distance adds yet another dimension to the step-grandparenting experience.

All step-families and global families face ongoing challenges, and I don’t have biological grandchildren to make a direct comparison. But based on my experience of recent years, I’ve found that being a step-grandparent offers unique gifts and opportunities.

(Lack of) Family History and Emotional Baggage

In my two main ‘step’ experiences, I came into the life of my stepchildren long after their parents had divorced and settled into their post-divorce single lives. I wasn’t around, or involved, in most of my stepchildren’s early family history, neither the happy times nor the traumas and dramas.   

The downside of carrying minimal family history baggage is that I can’t regale the grandkids with stories of ‘what your daddy did when he was a little boy’. But as a relative newcomer, I feel I can be a more neutral observer, an objective presence without the possible expectations, disappointments, or projections a biological grandparent might intentionally or unintentionally bestow. I can relax and focus on the young people, marvel at their developing personalities and character, and appreciate the present moments with them.

Roles Shaped by Individual Experience

Clive and me with Gary’s grandsons in the US

Like every biological family relationship, every step-relationship has its own dynamics. In the past decade, I’ve had to figure out my role as a step-grandparent in two distinct situations. I’ve had to learn how much to get involved (answer: mostly not much at all) and how much to hold back (answer: mostly a lot, with occasional lapses).

For me and Clive, it’s helpful that we each have adult children. We can ‘reverse the situation’ and think: if this were my child/grandchild, what would I want from my spouse in this instance? We value each other’s opinion, and often say, ‘Tell me what you think. What would you do?’ But many times we’ve found, as textbooks advise, the best approach for the ‘step’ side of the couple is to say and do very little and instead simply listen, provide a sounding board, and support.

As a step-grandparent, I’ve come to see my role as the traditional one of grandparent support but with certain twists.

With Gary’s grandsons in the US, I can share memories of the grandfather they never knew. The untimely death of a loving grandparent is surely one of life’s greatest sadnesses — nearly ten years after Gary’s death, I still feel the pain of his never knowing his grandchildren (the oldest was only 21 months-old at his death), and of them never knowing the man who would have adored them. Helping to keep Gary’s memory alive with his grandsons is a blessing for me and I hope will contribute in some small way to his grandsons’ knowledge of their grandfather.

In Australia, I can share experiences with Clive and his grandchildren, two of whom were born after Clive and I became a couple. I can take pleasure in watching their interactions, and perhaps give the youngest generation an enhanced appreciation of their grandfather. And in both countries, I can establish my own relationships with each child, as he or she grows and develops.

If and When …

As for my own son, if and when he has children, I can’t say I’ll be quite as objective in my grandparent role — as much as I know I must try. Like my mother, and her mother before her, I’m afraid I’ll be inclined to pipe up and speak my mind, even when I know that’s not the best idea. What can I say, other than it’s a mother’s perogative — at least in my family of origin.

I’ll try not to butt in too often, and in the meantime, will continue to enjoy my step-grandparent time with six little people in the US and Australia.

Bedtime – with my youngest step-grandchild, Australia

Cheers for now and more soon.

Australia April: Life, Love, and a Haircut

Clive and the Aussie gang in Felixstowe last Sept.

We’re Australia-bound this week, to spend time with Clive’s family: his daughter, son, daughter-in-law, and three gorgeous grandchildren (ages 9, 6, and 2-1/2).  We’ll also visit his mum, though, sadly, she no longer recognises us, and reconnect with a few close friends.

It seems that without us realising it, a page of life was turned and suddenly we’re watching Clive’s grandchildren grow up. Wasn’t it only yesterday our own children were in primary school?

Australia holds so many memories for me, such a big piece of my heart. It’s where I went in 1995 with my first husband, Gary, and our ten year-old son, for what was to be a two year assignment for my job. It’s where we fell in love with Sydney, and stayed. It’s where my son spent his formative years, where we learned what it meant to be a global family, to live with the ceaseless ache of missing loved ones in other places, the physical inability to be in more than one place — one city, one country, one continent — at one time.

For all the joy I felt in Sydney, it is also the place where Gary was diagnosed with advanced gastric cancer in 2002. It’s where he died in 2003, halfway into our son’s senior year in Aussie high school, just before the Australia and U.S. college application process began. It’s where I wept and grieved and stumbled and fell as a widow, more times than I care to remember.

And then, Sydney is where I met Clive, a music-loving Brit who has had his own past family sadness, and who made me smile with his self-proclaimed ‘warped’ sense of humour, his courage and determination and unique outlook on life. It’s where, early in our dating days, he invited me to join him for his birthday get-together with his family. That evening seems long ago now; his first grandchild was not yet two and is now nine. Clive’s children are now my step-children, and in addition to my three step-grandsons in Connecticut, I am blessed with three step-grandchildren in Australia. In a few short days, we’ll be reunited with them.

As always, we can’t wait to see and hug and spend time with everyone in person. Sometime in the midst of our busy days with Clive’s family, I’ll find a few quiet hours to visit the place where Gary loved to scuba dive and my son and I scattered his ashes in 2003. And on my very last afternoon in Sydney, I’ve booked a haircut and blow-dry at my favourite hairdresser. I’ve found a great replacement in Felixstowe, but as others may understand, sometimes there’s nothing better than having that long-time trusted person do your hair.

Shelly Beach, Gary’s favourite place, Manly Australia

Cheers soon and more from Australia.

A Dark Outlook? New Façade at our Paris Café

Our Paris local with new facade

What a surprise on our last morning in Paris.

We closed down the apartment, donned our backpacks, and made our way to the Métro. And there it was: our little café, netting removed, scaffolding being disassembled, and showing off a new — dark! — façade.

I snapped a few photos as we passed by. How I wish I could record progress in the weeks ahead, but we’re back in the UK, now looking forward to an upcoming trip Down Under to spend time with our Aussie family there.

We’ll just have to wait until our next visit to Paris, and hope once again to enjoy a kir at our Paris local. What’s happening inside is still a mystery.

Disassembling the scaffolding reveals the new dark facade at our Paris café

Cheers for now and more soon.

A Legacy of Beauty and Remembrance: Musée Nissim de Camondo, Paris

Musée Nissim de Camondo, Paris

Earlier this week, Clive and I visited Paris’s Musée Nissim de Camondo. In the days since then, we’ve often found ourselves returning to the story of the family whose sad, horrific history shaped our experience of spending time in what was once their home.

The first time I read about Musée Nissim de Camondo was in Edmund White’s ‘The Flâneur’ (2001). I know little about ‘decorative arts’ and tire quickly of stately homes brimming with historic furniture and all manner of objects — I’d rather explore the gardens and grounds outside. But White’s recounting of the de Camondos’ personal story grabbed me and I’ve had this museum on my Paris to-do list ever since.

Moïse de Camondo and His Family

Moïse de Camondo

Moïse, father of Nissim, for whom the museum is named, experienced great loss during his life and, sadly, his family experienced further tragedy after his death.

Moïse was born in 1860 to a Sephardic Jewish family in Constantinople, now Istanbul. His father and uncle became established, successful Ottoman Empire bankers, sometimes called the ‘Rothschilds of the East’. They and their families moved to Paris in 1869.

Moïse grew up in the family mansion at the edge of Parc Monceau, and developed a passionate interest in French decorative arts of the 18th century. At 31, he married Irène Cahen d’Anvers, 12 years his junior. Their son Nissim was born in 1892, daughter Béatrice in 1894.

When Nissim was five and Beatrice three, Moïse’s wife fell in love with the manager of the family stables and subsequently eloped. In the divorce settlement, Moïse was granted full custody of the children, who lived with him. Their mother converted to Catholicism and lived nearby. Moïse devoted his life to raising Nissim and Béatrice, and assembling his collection.

Love of Beauty and Decorative Arts 

Inside Musée Nissim de Camondo, Paris

In 1911-1912, Moïse commissioned a new mansion, inspired by the Petit Trianon at Versailles and custom-designed to house his artistic works. The mansion’s rooms are sumptuously decorated and many overlook the Parc Monceau.

Nissim shared his father’s love and appreciation of 18th Century works and was destined to inherit the mansion and its contents. Béatrice’s enthusiasms lay elsewhere, including a lifelong devotion to horses and riding.

In August 1914, at the outbreak of World War I, Nissim joined the French Air Force. He became a lieutenant, twice receiving the ‘Ordre de l’Armee’ for bravery in combat. Béatrice continued to live with her father in Paris.

A 1916 photo shows Béatrice and Nissim in a park-like setting. Nissim, in uniform, is smiling and appears relaxed and confident. Béatrice looks more serious, perhaps worried about him returning to the war. His arm is around her shoulders. They stand close, brother and sister together.

Béatrice and Nissim, 1916, the year before Nissim’s death in WW I

The photo breaks my heart, because the following year, Nissim was killed in aerial combat, fighting for France. Moïse and Béatrice led the mourning that followed his death. Nissim was buried at Montmartre Cemetery in Paris. I can imagine something of what Béatrice must have felt — growing up with divorced parents in an era when divorce was rare, losing a brother and only sibling, living with one grieving parent and no doubt helping to comfort the other.

In 1918, Béatrice married Léon Reinach, also from a family of distinguished Jewish bankers and intellectuals. At the time, Moïse wrote, ‘The marriage of my daughter was a great satisfaction to me.’ From the museum’s audio recording, we learned ‘there was no question of Béatrice leaving her grieving father alone’, so Léon moved into their home, occupying several rooms that had previously been Nissim’s.

Béatrice and Léon had two children, daughter Fanny in 1920 and son Bertrand in 1923. Though nothing would ever bring Nissim back to his father and family, I like to think that for Moïse, living with his daughter, son-in-law, and then two young grandchildren, might have granted him a measure of comfort to ease his grief over time.

At some point in 1923, after the birth of Bertrand, Béatrice and Léon decided it was time to move to their own home in nearby Neuilly, not far from Moïse. With the exception of occasional dinners for his arts colleagues, Moïse gradually withdrew from society and devoted himself to his collection.

A Father’s Memorial

Nissim and Moïse

In 1924, Moïse wrote to his lawyer with explicit intentions regarding the establishment of the museum. The official museum brochure quotes Moise:

     ‘Desirous of perpetuating the memory of my father, Count Nissim de Camondo, and that of my unfortunate son, air force pilot Nissim de Camondo, fallen in aerial combat on the 5th of September 1917, I bequeath to the Musée des Arts Décoratifs my town-house as it stands at the moment of my death. My town-house will bear the name of Nissim de Camondo, my son to whom the house and its collections had been destined.

     In bequeathing my town-house and the collections it contains to the State, my purpose is to preserve in its entirety the work to which I have devoted myself, the reconstitution of an artistic dwelling of the eighteenth century. This reconstitution is intended, in my mind, to preserve in France, gathered in particularly appropriate surroundings, the finest examples I have been able to assemble of this decorative art which was one of the glories of France, during the period that I have loved above all others.’

Moïse’s health steadily declined and Béatrice moved back to his home to care for him. He died on 14 November 1935. Like his son, he was buried at Montmartre Cemetery in Paris.

Béatrice ‘scrupulously fulfilled’ all her father’s wishes. The mansion and its contents were transferred to the Musée des Arts Décoratifs. The Musée Nissim de Camondo was inaugurated 21 December 1936, with Béatrice performing the honours.  A few days later, the museum was visited by Albert Lebrun, then President of France.

I’ve thought of Béatrice so much since visiting the museum and learning more about her history. At the time of the museum’s opening, she would have been 41 years old, Fanny 15 and Bertrand 12. She had now lost her father as well as her brother. I imagine her feeling a mix of sorrow and, perhaps, gratitude and pride — that she had fulfilled her father’s wishes and established a place that would remain sacred to the memory of both men, where she and her children and their children, too, could return in years to come.

World War II in Paris     

In the years approaching the Nazi occupation of France (May 1940 – December 1944), Béatrice apparently was not too concerned about growing threats to Jews. During the occupation, she continued to ride horses daily in the Bois de Boulogne and participate in horse shows with German officers. In 1942, she separated from Léon and, like her mother, converted to Catholicism. Fanny lived with Béatrice and Bertrand with Léon.

Roundups of Jews in Paris increased but Béatrice continued to ride horses and overall felt protected by her status and ‘the shadow of her brother who died for France’.  She also appears to have believed foreign Jews were targeted and she would be safe as a French citizen.

Despite Béatrice’s stance, she and Fanny were arrested, as were Léon and Bertrand. All were interned at Drancy deportation camp in France, ultimately unable to escape final deportation. In convoys of late 1943 and 1944, they were transported to their deaths at Auschwitz.

In Remembrance

The bottom plaque at the museum entry reads: ‘Mrs Léon Reinach born Béatrice de Camondo her children Fanny and Bertrand Reinach the last descendants of the benefactor and Mr Léon Reinach were deported in 1943-1944 and died in Auschwitz’

We found it impossible not to be conscious of this family’s multiple tragedies as we walked through the museum this week. Their recent history is intertwined with that of two world wars and the desire of one man to create a permanent memorial to his son. Less than ten years after his own death, his only surviving child and grandchildren also perished.

Clive and I both felt drawn to the family’s story and to learning more about them. Today we visited Montmartre Cemetery, where Moïse and Nissim were buried. Their remains lie with others of the famille de Camondo in a humble vault. On this grey day we left a small yellow plant as a mark of remembrance to this family who gave so much to France.

famille de Camondo vault, Montmartre Cemetery, Paris

Visiting the Museum

The Musée Nissim de Camondo is located at 63 rue Monceau, 75008 Paris. From a practical standpoint, it is a pleasure to visit. The items in every room are clearly labelled and the audio guide is free and easy to follow.

I hope Moïse is looking down from above, knowing his museum lives on not only in memory of his beloved son but also as a living memorial to his entire family — here, in the heart of this great city, where their memory remains very much alive.

Despite the underlying sadness we felt there, the family’s story imbues the museum with layers of meaning and a deep impact. We will return.

Thank you, Moïse de Camondo and family, for your legacy of beauty and remembrance.

Peaceful snow-covered garden of Musée Nissim de Camondo, Paris

  Info sources:
    Musée de Camondo Official Site
    Wikipedia Moïse de Camondo
    Wikipedia Béatrice (de Camondo) Reinach
    Wikipedia French entry Béatrice de Camondo
    Pierre Assouline ‘Le Dernier des Camondo’, oft-cited in Wikipedia articles

Change of Plans in Snowy Paris

Eiffel Tower from slippery Trocadéro

March snow in Paris. No Eurostar. No UK friends to greet at Gare du Nord.

What else to do when the weather thwarts our plans than venture outside for a walk in the quartier? We last enjoyed a snowy walk in January, which seemed appropriate then. The 12th of March isn’t that late but still, today’s snow seemed out of place to me, perhaps because Saturday — was it only three days ago? — was so wonderfully warm.   

Dear old Ben Franklin, once again wearing a shawl of snow

Today’s snow doesn’t seem to be sticking as much as January’s did.  The wind blew us around, ice coated many footpaths, and compared to last weekend, hardly anyone was around. Everything feels quiet and rather subdued outside and even my colour photos look black-and-white.

Walls of Passy Cemetery

I had planned to run out for flowers this morning before our friends arrived, but waited until we were sure of their situation. Plants outside the shop are now dusted with snow.

Outside the flower shop

Work seems to have stopped at our little café. It just looks forlorn. Or maybe I’m projecting my own feelings onto it, wishing for a magical transformation back into a warm, welcoming space.

Our little café where nothing much is happening

Our friends D&J, having travelled as far as London, are safely back in Suffolk. With only a few days here and no Eurostar until tomorrow at the earliest, we agreed the best solution was to postpone to another time. There’s no couple more deserving of a holiday, and we hope they pursue their idea of doing a last-minute getaway in the UK.

As for me and Clive, we’ll miss spending time with them here but, as always, will enjoy filling our days in Paris.

Cheers for now and more soon.

Out in Paris — Sunshine and People

Luxembourg Palace and Garden, Paris

Today’s combination of weekend and sunshine seemed to lure Parisians outside all over the city.

Blue skies over the Eiffel Tower made it a great day for climbing (or taking the lift) to the top, or enjoying a Bateau Mouche ride on the Seine.

Eiffel Tower and the Seine, Paris

In the central areas of the city, we found ourselves surrounded everywhere by hordes of smiling walkers, shoppers, and café-goers. Getting together with friends B&D in Montparnasse made us smile, too.  

Cafe terrace Montparnasse, Paris

The Luxembourg Garden was as crowded as we’ve ever seen it, with all chairs occupied — facing the sun, of course — and the grand bassin dotted with children’s sailboats.

Children’s sailboats in the Luxembourg Garden, Paris

The quais and bridges of the Seine were equally packed, as pedestrians of all ages moved at a relaxed pace. From what we could tell, the entire city was making the best of a beautiful day.

Notre Dame Cathedral, Paris

We’re thankful for today and hope the lovely weather continues, to welcome our UK friends D&J when they arrive in Paris next week.

Cheers for now and more soon.