My Mother Spoke Volumes
I.
My mother told me stories when I was young
the cadence of her voice is what I remember
when I grew up my mother told me stories
in a single sentence
she spoke volumes in that short space
one day she waxed nostalgic over suitors
that came to her mind
the time was when my mind in her mind
should have turned to such things
my mother said she could have married a doctor
if she had stayed in her native land
that was to contrast with the carpenter she married
here in America who was my father
I thought about what my mother said and soon
it came to me: Joycean epiphany
If my mother stayed in her native land
she would have been dead and I not born
I chose not to enlighten her, she chose not to take it further
but there were other times and other days
II
I remember three ladies who came every year
to our home: they were elegantly dressed in black
long gloves, hats perched perfectly on their heads,
veils that suggested mystery, beauty and style
I was still a child, but old enough to
notice my father left before they came
my mother polished her silver and her special
almost always unused silver tray
washed the few crystal glasses that would soon be filled
with a deep green luminescent elixir
when the ladies came, each greeted my mother
a kiss on both cheeks—and took her hands in theirs
they sat on our sofa in the only large room in the apartment,
with their hands gracefully across their laps
their skirts finding the exact point to drape over
their elegantly crossed legs
I cannot remember where I watched from
nor do I remember being addressed
but I remember listening closely to the sonorous sounds
and carefully enunciated words that came from their lips
their story lay in a slim volume that sat between them on the sofa
that they touched with great tenderness as they talked.
after they left, my mother told me part of the story of the three women
who had graced our home for those few hours.
my mother called the sisters maiden aunts—
the words used to describe unmarried women respectfully
elegant, rich, mysterious and beautiful, my mother said,
they were much admired and respected in what she called "the old country"
I noticed the slim volume with its simple title: The Family
was left with my mother and now lay on her lap—
as my mother spoke, she touched the book as her aunts
had done a short time before—her eyes seemed to be looking out
at another world
her words, though soft, had much sadness. I noticed, too,
my mother's voice had the same articulate speech patterns
as those well spoken sisters—which I would later try to emulate
the thin volume lay there and spoke to me through my mother
after her aunts were gone—until my father came home
and then the book mysteriously disappeared somewhere in reach
of my mother and out of the reach—and sight—of my father
Recently I took that book—which I found among the things
my mother left for me—and that has resided in all the places
I have since lived—down from one of the shelves
I scanned the many very large family photographs
on the pages in the slim volume left in my care—
so many families there in another time, another place
not a part of my life, but part of my heritage
I still turn those pages, but cannot find where
my mother fits into the photographs
the volumes she spoke in the few words after the aunts left
and before my father came home were not enough.
III
I met my mother and father in Europe one time,
after the war and when I was grown
in Budapest, my father took me everywhere
spoke with remembrance of things past about
the beauty and joy of this city—and also the tragedy
he could not say enough—
my mother told me no stories when we were there
in the "old" country; nor did not show me the house
in which she grew up—
she did not once mention her revered aunts nor "the family"
from which, I was by then sure, she came.
only when we were back in America, did she tell me
a Cardinal spoke to her when he visited her school in Budapest
she described how he took her beautiful child face
in his huge, baby soft hands and said too bad she is
not one of us to the school principal
she stopped there; that was her story...she left me
with visions, imagery and mystery of a world I did not know:
Joycean epiphany, a paradox: she wanted me to
know but she did not want me to know
the stories she told to her daughter who bore her
face and form about her life in Hungary—
the family's lives in Austro-Hungary—before they had
to leave may have been carefully chosen
perhaps she feared to say more until we got back to America
and an ocean separated us from her former homeland.
the story I understood intuitively after that trip answered the question
of why she married the carpenter and not the doctor in Budapest—
and why perhaps my father a "skilled" carpenter, but also a master of
the Viennese Waltz, was an acceptable mate here in America
—but not to the three maiden aunts. who represented the
"old country" elegance that my mother had been a part of
here, it was my mother's silence that spoke the volumes.
IV
the week before she died, my younger son and I
took her out for her 81st birthday
we found a place that appeared like a mirage.
in a town we did not know we came upon a small hotel
much like the eloquent European hotels where
my parents took me to dine when I met them in Budapest
The waiter (at lunchtime) led us into the interior
where soft lights flickered on the tables
pristine tablecloths and lovely dinnerware and
one could imagine, crystal goblets.
"What would you like," I asked my mother
"Everything," she replied
the waiter seemed to understand her shorthand well.
"shall I get madam a cocktail," he asked in a most respectful tone
...and so the meal began
between the cocktails, the hors d'oeuvres, a delicate bowl of soup
the elegant lunch, fresh rolls, and of course, pastry that rivaled
the pastry of Vienna—the home of my mother's father's family.
my mother told stories that had not been finished and some that had never been told
my mother could not seem to talk fast enough—
so much she wanted to tell
my mother was in her own world—the world of the Budapest of her youth,
the world of the "Norma" Forest, the world of elegance, gaiety and joy
my son and I needed only to supply a word or two
to connect one story to another, in quick succession
my mother talked of that time in her life without me, when it was her life:
not mine, or my sister's, or her husband's—but hers
as she talked, my mother's charm, grace and eloquence were mesmerizing
her voice was lyrical; in the lighting, her looks were that of a young woman
It was the last conversation we had...and a treasure greater than the one
from the book that lies on a shelf somewhere in one or another home untold.
V
in a week she would be gone, but my mother still
speaks to me through the volumes of stories she left me.
recently I have started to put together a collage
for my children and their children
I have found pictures of my beautiful, elegant young mother in the album
that she left in my care: her look one of classic beauty and poise
as I moved through the album, a sepia-toned portrait of a beautiful lady
hair carefully coiffured, fashionably dressed, wearing a small gold heart
caught my attention
her eyes are mine, my mother's and my granddaughters'—
this mystery needed to be cleared up
a solo trip to Budapest, to Prague, to Vienna
brought no answers. On my return to America, another photograph
from my parents' album spoke volumes in a new and mysterious way:
from pictures of a cousin whose parents I remembered calling aunt and uncle
I remembered admiring a daughter from a child's eyes:
seeing her as a young woman, then married, and later with a child.
I left many messages on telephones of people I did not know and said:
this is Norma Roth, daughter of Irma Roth and I am looking for...
daughter of Aunt Helen and Uncle Dave
I traced this cousin and suddenly there was a message:
"Norma—is it you," the phone message said from one coast to another
back and forth the pictures went, the identification: "No," she said
of that elegant lady with the gold heart: I thought was my grandmother:
"that is your mother's grandmother—
and the gold heart—well I had one like that, too."
"How could you know," I asked, "How could you possibly know"?
I asked her—incredulous at her comments
the words came back gently: "I was your mother's
flower girl at her wedding," she said softly
Epilogue:
now my mother's grandmother, my great grandmother stands on the mantle
next to my young mother, myself and my granddaughters—
the family resemblance is unmistakable! my mother left her pictures
and they continue to speak volumes
the clothes she wears are elegant and fashionable—
they seem to have survived the dramatic journey with her
Now her photographs speak to me as once her stories had:
"I was beautiful," they say, " I was elegant and belonged
to a special class: life was mine—then it ended."
my mother spoke volumes through the stories she told;
sometimes in single syllables, sometimes in a word or look
sometimes in bits and fragments
epiphany: endings are also new beginnings—my mother told me the
stories she wanted me to know—and left the rest across the ocean
in the end as in the beginning the volumes my mother spoke were enough.
