I feel I could have titled the above photograph "Central European Immigrant Family," but I also think that, if one is going to employ stereotypes, it's important to get the correct ones, at least. So if it's not immediately apparent, let me point out that we are not looking at shtetl Jews (which is a category beyond respectable, having acquired serious romantic connotations), but a family of middle-class, assimilated, urban Jews (with shtetl roots). The man of the family, my grandfather, has been away for the last couple of years. Soon these five will take a train trip from Prague to Cherbourg, where they will get on a boat that will bring them to him, to America. They don't know that, where they are going, they will be economically less well off. They also don't know that leaving their comfortable home in Ungvár will in effect save all of their lives from the unsparing maelstrom of the Holocaust. The two boys, Joe and Alex, whose father wore a uniform of the Central Powers in World War I, will grow up and enlist in the US Army to take part in the liberation of Europe.
I find the photograph kind of haunting, although I'm not sure I would have this reaction in the absence of a family relationship. Is it because my mother occupies the central focus? Is it because I have personal knowledge of the way her life turned out? To me, the toughness of my grandmother is already apparent; my mother seems here, as she always seemed, so fragile in comparison. Some of grandma's toughness must have rubbed off, though, since my mother survived into her early eighties despite nearly a lifetime of bipolar disorder, originally diagnosed as schizophrenia, with symptoms including delusional paranoia, auditory and visual hallucinations, a history of nervous breakdowns requiring hospitalization, antipsychotic and antidepressant medication, psychotherapy and, very likely during the 1950s, electroshock therapy. Oh yeah, during that time, as a working single mother (my father died in 1949), she also managed to raise two boys-my brother and me.
Everyone in both of these photographs is gone, now. Sadly, Aunt Rosalind, my mother's baby sister, was the first to go. Uncle Alex, whom I see in the portrait above as equally terrified and defiant, died a few weeks ago. I knew them all, and wish I could have known them all better.