Author Archives: Claire Murray

More Voices from the Past

When I was thinking about my blog post for April, I had several ideas. But one gripped me and wouldn’t let go. It came from other letters I’d read and copied when I was in California last month. This time they were from my mother’s side of the family.

In Europe in the late 1930s and early 1940s, Hitler was annihilating the Jews as fast as he could. Grandma’s oldest brother, Abram Bonomi, was Jewish, born in Romania but an Italian citizen. He been knighted by the king of Italy and now he was stuck in Beirut without papers, and trying desperately to get to his family in the United States.

Grandma and Papa were doing everything they could think of to get him a visa to come to America. They weren’t having much luck. My parents were dating at the time and my father offered to help.

The letters are so frustrating. Apparently my father had written to his senator, Hiram Johnson from California, asking for help and saying that he and my grandparents would be financially responsible for Abram when came to the United States.

On February 5, 1941, Leslie Reed, the American Consul in Athens, Greece, writes back that “The records … show that on two occasions during … 1940 Mr. Bonomi called at the Consulate General requested a visitor’s visa to proceed to the United States for the purpose of travel and for visiting his sister Mrs. Clara Wein, 1855 Pacific Avenue, San Francisco. In the course of these interviews it was established that Mr. Bonomi had no fixed domicile in Greece and no occupation or interests which would require his return to this country or to Roumania, where he had formerly been in business, and that as a retired businessman with near relatives in the United States the inducements would be rather toward strengthing his ties in the United States and prolonging his sojourn there. Accordingly it was decided that Mr. Bonomi could not qualify under the regulations for non-immigrant visas.”

From reading the letter, I get the impression that the American Consul thinks he has all the time in the world. It doesn’t seem to faze him that there’s a world war going on, Greece is falling to the Nazis, and this man, as well as others, desperately needs to get out.

On June 10, 1941, four months later, never having been contacted by Leslie Reed, Abram writes from Beirut “My Clara dear, my dear Josephine (my mother), my dear Julius” that “the Palestine Government refused me the entrance visa, as there arrived a disposition from the Foreign Office, not to accept any Rumanian, who left after February 15th.”

He says he cabled my grandparents in San Francisco on June 2 but received no answer back. He “cannot continue to remain here, as my means are very anemic and I am not allowed to accept a position because I am a stranger. Besides, I am continually asked to leave the country, as they do not want us.”

He goes on to say that “The Mexican Counsul over here cannot understand why you did not succeed yet. If I get an engagement over there with a Company which needs me as specialist, the immigration visa is quickly granted. In case one wants to go there as a tourist for six months, he must have over there a deposit of 200 pesos for his monthly expenses (that means about 40 per month, total 240) and the visa is quickly given. If somebody goes there for six months, he easily can arrange to remain more. All other ways are difficult – he says.

Well! I’m sure you know quite well what can be done. Otherwise nothing new. I hope you are all well.

With best wishes,

Abram”

After that there are more letters to the person in charge of visas in Beirut, to the representative from California, etc., etc., etc.– all very bureaucratic and proper documenting the fact that they were doing nothing.

I keep thinking, what must it have been like for him, older, in his sixties, running out of money, not allowed to work, knowing he had family in the U.S. that wanted him and would take care of him and no one, no one would give him the paperwork he needed?

Only when they were prodded by Washington, would they do something. But only if Abram would come them. How was he to know that if he came back a third time, he might actually get the precious papers? They never looked for him, assuming he was no longer there. But he was for four more months at least, February through June and maybe even longer.

During this time, Grandma and Papa were frequently writing letters to Abram in Beirut, to the Red Cross and sending telegrams.

The saddest letter is the last one, written to Abram in care of the “Hotel Diana, Ekali (Athens), Greece, Europe”. My mother writes how much she misses him and of her coming marriage in August. My grandmother writes how they haven’t gotten any mail from him in a long time and “are very anxious to hear from you.” My grandfather’s ends with “We haven’t heard from you lately and hope to receive good news from you real soon.”

Stamped on the envelope is the message, “Return to Sender    Service Suspended.”

A Voice From Long Ago

Last month I wrote about how hard it is for me to find things to write about. Ever since then, everywhere I go, there’s a little voice saying, “Maybe you’ll find something to write about here.”

Earlier this month, when I was in California, I hit the jackpot. I read some letters that were found in my Dad’s office desk after he died. The letters were from his Dad. They sounded so full of life, like they’d been written just yesterday or last week. They were dated 1927. My Dad was 22. He was a senior at the University of Santa Clara. That was a long time ago.

I never met his Dad, my Grandfather. He’d had a stroke in 1933 and died later that same day. But, here he was, alive, charismatic and vibrant, speaking to me from the past. “Wow”, I thought, “Maybe I can get to know him after all”. I was thrilled and knew I just had to write about this experience.

Then I got cold feet. Normally I’m a pretty private person. I felt a little nervous and scared about the idea. But, then I decided why not?  So here’s my story:

Have you ever wondered what your grandparents or great-grandparents, that you never met because they died so long ago, were like? What they cared about? What made them smile? What traits you may have inherited from them?

As I read my Grandfather’s letters, I felt like he was in the room with me, having a drink and chatting. Hearing his voice speak across time, was very special and a little strange.

I knew he’d left Ireland in 1880 because he’d called a strike against the parish priest for breaking the contract regarding the ratio of journeymen to apprentices. He won but no one would hire him after that.

He was a carpenter and he went first to Chicago because he had a sister in a convent there. Then he went out to San Francisco where he founded the Carpenters’ Union, the Building Trades Council and later became mayor.

When I heard the family stories about him, I wondered, what kind of man was he? I knew his wife, my Grandmother. We called her Nana and she was kind of cold. Was he like that too?

Was I surprised! The letters from him to my Dad were warm and caring. He did not seem to follow the conventional wisdom that “Children should be seen and not heard”. He made it clear in many ways that his relationship with his oldest son and other children was very important to hm.

There were letters to my Dad when he was at the University of Santa Clara and trying to get into Harvard. There were letters to my Dad when he was back east in Law School. My Grandfather wrote about what the “family in the west”, as he called them, was doing, things like my Aunt Eileen’s 21st birthday and a planned vacation to Australia. He also told my Dad how much he missed him and looked forward to the next time they’d be together.

I felt a little strange reading these letters. It was almost as if I was spying through time on the two of them, sort of like a kid who sneaks into the living room, hiding behind the drapes so she can hear what the adults are saying. But it was also neat to hear my Grandfather talk in his own voice.

Afterwards, my Grandfather became real to me, not just a character from family stories, and it let me see my father in a different light. Instead of seeing him as the larger than life personality he became, I got a chance to see him as the son he once was.

It was also interesting to see the letters themselves. They were all typed on a manual typewriter and the pages, I guess there were no paper clips in those days, were pinned together with a straight pin, the kind you’d use to shorten a hem today.

I know I would have really liked my Grandfather if we’d had the chance to meet. I could feel his personality and spirit coming through the letters. By the end, I felt I was really getting to know him.

I was also struck by the fact that, of all the many letters my father had received over his lifetime, it was these letters that he chose to keep. I wanted to ask, of all the letters, why did you save these? But I’m glad he did.

Finding Something to Write About

I think one of the hardest parts about writing is finding something to write about, especially if you decide to start thinking of a topic at your computer. There’s nothing like that large, blank, white piece of paper staring back at you from the screen to drive all the ideas that were playing at the edge of your consciousness straight out of your mind. It’s the quickest way I know to get your mind to go completely and utterly blank.

When I go to bed at night I find it hard to fall asleep right away, so I’ve read a lot of articles on “sleep hygiene”. “Sleep hygiene” is all the things you can do to help yourself fall asleep, stay asleep, and wake feeling refreshed in the morning. There are a lot of articles out there. But they all start the same way, even if they use different words: Empty your mind, don’t think about all the things you meant to do that day and didn’t, don’t think about all the things that are wrong with your life and you need to fix, etc., etc., etc.

I’ve never been able to empty my mind. There’s always a thought or two buzzing around: I need to get the car washed tomorrow. I forgot to buy lox. I need to start rereading this book for my presentation to … You get the idea. My mind is busier when I’m trying to fall asleep at night than it is during the day when I can actually do something about these things.

So the one thing I’ve learned from all this is: Sitting down in front of that big, blank, white piece of paper on the screen is not where I should go when I’m looking for ideas.

I’m curious. When you’re looking for ideas for something to write about, what do you do? Where do you find the spark that gets you going?