Where the Lilacs Bloom Once Again

Prologue

Dad,

It’s been twelve years since you left us. It’s still so painful. Not a moment goes by that I don’t think of you, remember your loving and powerful brown eyes, and wish to feel your familiar embrace again.

I write, I hurt, I cry. I know that tears and pain will accompany this book, as they have been an inseparable part of our family’s history.

“Promise me,” you said, “that our family’s stories should not be hidden any longer. Their voices must be heard.”

I, your faithful daughter, have listened. I vowed to write. I made the commitment to tell.

I will never forget the last time we sat together at the local Panera coffee shop in Rockville, Maryland. It was a bright, sunny day, in June 2009. I was a young mother, and you had just turned 70.

“Daddy,” I said, “tell me Friddie’s story again.” And you did.

I keep the cassette with the sound of your voice in my top drawer. I keep the notebook with your original drawing of our family tree in my jewelry box, now wrinkled with lines of folding and unfolding.

The warm rays of the sun caressed us. We talked about life in America and in Israel and, once again, you told me “The story of our family,” as you called it. “The story of Friddie,” you said, with sorrowful eyes. As with so many final moments, who knew it would be the last time I would hear it from you?

Do you remember when you took me on a trip to Ro- mania in 1998, a few months before my wedding? We wandered through the streets of Bucharest, breathing in the smell of sweet garlic and listening to the mingling of car horns and gossiping mothers. On our walk, you first revealed the “secrets” to me.

I didn’t say anything back then, because I didn’t want to spoil the moment, but Mom told Miki and me the family stories years ago. She wanted us to appreciate the simple life and find joy in the small things around us. That time, in Romania, when I heard it from you firsthand, I was in awe.

You brought me to your childhood house on Georghe Manea Street in Bucharest. It was a simple, single-family home, surrounded by a high brick wall, the roof like a pointy red hat sitting contentedly on top. The pink roses blooming in the garden filled my nose with a sweet aroma, intertwining with the smell of baking apples and cinnamon from inside. So simple and yet—I could see nostalgia in the creases on your face. We stood there, watching the mother pull a plăcintă cu mere1 from the oven and, for the only time in my life, I saw you shed a tear.

Did you remember your childhood? Did you feel a sense of longing for your parents, the same stinging pain I feel for you now?

I will not burden you with more words. I promised to write, and so I write. I promised to tell our story to the world, and so I will.

Your memory accompanied me along this entire journey. I hope you are proud of the result.

I miss you.

Your daughter,

Roni

CHAPTER ONE

Friddie, 1937, Bucharest

Friddie stared outside her window, overlooking Cişmigiu Gardens. The lilacs and peonies flashed their wonderful display of purple and pink across

the grounds, and families strolled across the pathways, fingers stroking the delicate petals. Friddie adored the view of the flowers, though she no longer went there to feel the smooth petals between her fingertips, as she had when she was a child. She had just turned eighteen the week before and was still living in her parents’ modest two-bedroom apartment, in the heart of Bucharest.

Friddie brushed her charcoal-black hair, trying to straighten out her impossible curls. The city bustled with life: merchants loading their goods, black cars and horse-drawn carriages speeding down the roads, fruit sellers balancing two baskets with a long wooden pole draped across their shoulders. The laughter of happy shoppers chatting in the middle of the street floated up to her ears, even though she was on the third floor. Friddie smiled.

A little hat shop was right underneath her window. When she was young, she enjoyed watching the men who frequented the store. By their dress and manner of walking, she would imagine who they were, and which hat they were about to purchase. A skinny man with slender shoulders was obviously a bookkeeper, likely married to a squat woman with a broad physique, who made her husband’s life miserable upon his return from work. Such a person, according to Friddie’s imagination, would buy a tall hat, to give him some protection. She would tell her mother her tales of the men in the little hat shop, their laughter ricocheting around the kitchen.

Sometimes, handsome men visited the store. Their faces were clean-shaven, no beard or mustache, their hair short and modern. They reminded Friddie of those hard-working traveling businessmen, the ones she would read about in French magazines. She would rest her chin on the windowsill, close her eyes, and dream of her prince, who would one day carry her far away to mysterious and distant lands.

While Friddie enjoyed Bucharest, it lacked that ancient feeling of other cities, like Paris. Her parents had told her of the Great Fire of Bucharest that in March 1847 had destroyed a third of the city. The Romanian government invited French and Swiss architects to rebuild the city. They designed the new city according to the eclectic architectural style of Parisian architectural motifs. By the 1920s, many called Bucharest “Little Paris,” or “the Paris of the East.” Nevertheless, Friddie dreamed of its Western cousin.

From a young age, Friddie and her parents would walk the streets of Bucharest to admire its architecture. They would walk through the city’s famous Arcul de Triumf, which stood in the city’s main square, as a symbol of Romanian freedom from the Ottoman Empire. They would shop on the city’s main street, Calea Victoriei, and explore the bustling boutique boulevard that resembled the Champs Elysees in Paris. Friddie would gawk at visitors from all over Europe, who came to shop on the famous street.

After World War I, the cultural and artistic life of the city flourished. Friddie could not wait to be old enough to experience it. Édith Piaf ’s French chansons flooded the streets, amusing club critics. Romanian theaters were in full swing, the Athenaeum concert hall hosted classical and jazz concerts. Huge ballrooms were flooded with hundreds of swing dancers doing the Charleston, Foxtrot, and Lindy Hop. Charlie Chaplin’s silent movies began to make room for ‘talkie’ feature films like The Gold Diggers and The Jazz Singer. Musicals were performed in theaters. The film Dracula was released and brought in curious visitors, seeking to find the lord of death. Residents frequented the stylish chic cafes, department stores, and lovely little shops, selling everything their hearts might desire. Modern cafeterias and authentic German, French, and American restaurants offered international cuisine.

Well-known fashion designers like Coco Chanel, Jeanne Lanvin, and Elsa Schiaparelli flooded the city in a wave. As Friddie visited the shops, she admired the Romanian women walking through the streets in the best of modern Parisian attire. Thin, bold, with sensual dresses up to the knees, revealing previously hidden legs. Short hair, cut to the jawline, highlighted their youth, recklessness, and thrills. Makeup and cosmetics became popular overnight.

The image of the ‘new woman’ blossomed. This woman was free and happy. She danced, she drank, she smoked. She took risks, she was independent, and had the right to vote in local elections. Single women were offered employment opportunities as secretaries or schoolteachers. While Friddie yearned for this freedom, she lacked the desire for a job. And since she did not want to work, she knew she was to take a different path.

“Fridda!” Her mother’s voice rose beyond the locked door. “Come on, Friddie, we’re late. We must leave now for the hall.”

Friddie ignored the increasingly frantic voice and continued to brush her hair.

Her wedding dress rested on the back of the chair, dangling from its hanger. The opalescent silk dress was embroidered with beads and lace sleeves, designed by her mother and tailored to fit Friddie’s body by her talented aunts. As the brush moved through her now knotless hair, she took a tally of everything her parents had sacrificed for her to have this wedding. The wedding dress, so meticulously made. The wedding venue at the Magnificent Hall, which had cost her father a fortune to rent. The symphony orchestra, famous throughout Europe, hired to play through her vows.

Friddie closed her eyes and tried to imagine which of the guests had already arrived at the ballroom. Her Tante2 probably were the first to arrive. Tanti Gisela, her mom’s twin sister, was likely wearing a luxurious dress adorned with jewels, with a fur stole covering her shoulders. Un- chi3 Victor would be right beside her, dressed in a tailored suit. Their mischievous son, Puyo, had probably already checked out all the ladies in the hall and offered each one a taste of the best of champagne. Friddie smiled. After countless attempts by Tanti Gisela to conceive (which almost ended her life), Victor finally agreed to adopt a chubby ten-year-old boy from the orphanage. As they were leaving the orphanage, the boy started crying for his cat. When they discovered the hairless beast, they were initially repulsed by its smell, but took it home anyway. About a week later, the cat ran away. To their relief, Puyo did not.

Tanti Zilli, Unchi Alexander, and their two children, Pinku and Yuly, had already arrived from their home in Constanța the day before yesterday. They were staying at one of the most luxurious and comfortable Athenee Palace hotels. Her Tanti Feiga and her second husband, Nicolai, had come all the way from the northern town of Piatra Neamț to attend Friddie’s wedding. Unchi David and his beautiful wife, Sophie, lived in Iași with their four adopted daughters but were unable to come to Friddie’s wed- ding. She re-read the telegram they had sent with their best wishes for her and her fiancé. Her fingers danced across the edges of the paper, wishing she too could be in Iași now, instead of here.

Friddie’s favorite aunt, Tanti Rosa, lived in Bucharest and had been helping Friddie along every step of her wed- ding planning. Rosa was a talented, independent woman with bright red hair. Her husband vanished, assumed dead, at an early age. She always knew exactly what she wanted and how to get it.

Tanti Rosa came to Bucharest with her children, Au- rica and Adrian, to be close to the rest of her family. At first, she ran a small business, sewing and repairing women’s garments, out of their minuscule basement apartment. After a few years, Rosa realized that the delightful aroma from her stews and pastries not only enticed her children, and some curious street cats, but also curious snooping neighbors, who could easily become potential customers. Rosa had always loved cooking for her family and others, but only then realized she could support her children with her culinary talents. She opened the first catering business in Bucharest, and soon was overwhelmed with customers. “Fridda!” Her mother’s threatening voice boomed through the closed doors. Friddie continued to ignore the increasingly concerned voices outside and carried on brushing her hair. Her thoughts wandered once again, this

time to her favorite teacher.

“If only Mademoiselle Charlotte was here now,” Frid- die whispered, in between brushes.

Mademoiselle Charlotte was the only teacher at Frid- die’s private French school whom she respected. Many teachers were deceived by Friddie’s angelic face, fair complexion, flowing black curls, and innocent green eyes. Even her humble and naive parents were often tricked by her charms.

Despite the difficult financial situation of Friddie’s parents, who ran a textile shop on Lipscan Street and earned a nice but not spectacular income, they insisted on giving their only daughter the best education. As soon as Frid- die was old enough, they enrolled her in a private French school for girls.

Friddie despised it. But she soon realized that being stubborn and endearing could get her what she wanted. Cakes replaced the vegetable portion at lunch, skirts and school clothes were cut about ten inches above the knee at her request, and piano lessons were stopped even before they began. After many months of neglected homework, her parents hired private tutors to come to her house. Instead of learning, she charmed them to do her homework for her.

Mademoiselle Charlotte was not fooled by her, though. Friddie giggled as she remembered the worst scolding she had received.

She had cried, “I really didn’t mean it, Mademoiselle Charlotte. I am so sorry. The scissors just slipped for a second from my hands, while I was busy solving the math equations on the board, and some of Madame Tublero’s hair was cut while she closed her eyes. Will you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

The fiery eyes of her beloved teacher left no room for doubt. She knew the truth and punished Friddie accordingly.

Though harsh, Mademoiselle Charlotte was the only teacher who truly believed her students could control their own future. “You will find the answer within yourself,” she used to say. “Only you know what’s good for you. Only you can make it happen. I believe in you.”

Another knock pounded on the door. Her father’s voice broke through, gently urging her to leave her room.

Friddie finally put the brush on the windowsill. Her hair was flawless and silky, much like the wedding dress, haunting her from across the room. She sighed, watching women with their children walking through the Gardens. She wished to be far away, roaming the streets, like she used to when she was younger.

Even before Friddie turned sixteen, rumors circulated about her scandalous behavior. Friddie was often seen far from her fancy school, walking around shops, while holding a cigarette between her arching fingers. Friddie would wear makeup and engage in flirtatious behavior with men older than her by at least a decade.

No, this was not acceptable behavior for a modest Jewish girl, raised in a proper home. The rumors occasionally reached her parents, who would deny them offhand. Even when they deigned to ask her about them, they would cave in front of her blameless face and sparkling eyes.

Friddie was a professional when it came to putting on a show. She never forgot the small details of her numerous lies.

There were many nights when Friddie would ask, “Mom, Dad, is it okay if I go to my good friend Elouise’s house? We have so much homework to do, and we do not want to disturb your rest.”

Then, she would take her friend’s arm and, together, they would leave the apartment, dressed in the school’s official uniform. A few minutes later, they would find a hiding place under the stairwell and change their school clothes into evening dresses they had hidden ahead of time. From there, they would rush to the ballroom, practicing their moves in the alleyways.

Few men escaped Friddie’s remorseful bite. Her charming looks and rolling laughter left many aching hearts bleeding. She often ran into complications with jealous girlfriends, but all were convinced of Friddie’s innocence in the whole situation, blaming the man instead. Friddie’s confidence led her through life as if the universe were solely hers.

Her wrists were constantly doused with Eau de Parfum, emitting a lily, orange, and vanilla aroma. She wore fancy black-feathered hats, and her neck was decorated with white-golden necklaces, matching pearl earrings dangling from her ears. She often visited the most expensive fashion stores, treating herself to a new shiny hat or pair of leather shoes, while leaving the check under the name of one lover or another. Finally, she was a free Romanian woman. And she did not even have to work for it!

The one who unintentionally jeopardized Friddie’s life of pleasure was her cousin, Puyo. When he turned seventeen, he began to frequent the same dance halls as her. His friends, who were mesmerized by the mysterious beauti- ful young woman, asked, requested, demanded, and even begged Puyo to make an official introduction. He refused, carefully watching to try to make sure his cousin never got into trouble, which she often did.

One evening, Puyo was arguing with his mother about spending too much time in the clubs.

In a rush of anger, he shouted, “Why can Friddie go out at night and drink champagne with all these different characters, and I am forbidden to have fun? Is that fair?”

His mother’s reaction made him quickly realize he had betrayed his cousin. Unfortunately, he had no time to warn her of his mishap.

Gisela hurried to her sister the next morning. Elvira tried to deny the rumor at first, saying it was impossible. But she realized she should believe her twin, and talk to her husband, Isaac. That night, when Friddie tried to leave again, her parents stopped her at the door.

Friddie was too smart to deny it. She cried on her fa- ther’s shoulders and said, “True, this is all true, but am I doomed to live such an unfulfilled life? If I cannot enjoy my youth now when I am still young and pretty, when can I? When the time comes, I promise you, I will marry a man you will approve of.”

And Friddie kept her promise. The day after she turned eighteen, she showed up at her parents’ house and introduced them to Nelu. Nelu was a quiet and dignified man, a professional accountant, who grew up in a decent Jewish home and was no doubt in love with Friddie. With sparkling eyes, he told the story of how they first met in a coffee house. He promised her parents he would take care of Friddie as if she were a precious rose, support her with his endless love, and see to all her needs. He also promised that Friddie would never have to work a day in her life, which suited her. Her parents gave their blessing, and the couple’s engagement took place a few weeks later.

For a while, Friddie was happy. Nelu bought her gifts and took her to Bucharest’s best and most famous restaurants. They would go to the theater, walk through the Gardens, and go out dancing most nights. Even though Nelu kept working as much as before he had met Friddie, he

would always hurry home to his small apartment on Cal-omfirescu Street, only to leave just as quickly, to spend the evenings with his fiancée.

For a while, Friddie enjoyed his courtship. She would introduce her fiancé to her ex-lovers and friends, who appeared amazed at her choice. However, before three months had passed, Friddie felt boredom creeping into her heart. She missed dancing with strangers, wearing re- revealing evening gowns, and spending the night in the arms of different men. Most of all, she missed having the affection of more than one lover.

Despite her growing boredom, both of their families pressured her to set a date for the wedding. Nelu would look at her pleadingly, though he would never force her to do anything. Friddie tried to dodge.

“I’m still too young. I still don’t feel mature enough for a married life, nor bearing children.”

“All my sisters and I got married at the age of eighteen,” Elvira said. “Having children is a blessing and a mitzvah given to us by the Torah.”

After several weeks, Friddie surrendered. They set a date for the wedding. Friddie hoped her feelings would change.

The wedding day had now arrived, but the dread had never left her chest. Her only solace was brushing her black curls, which she began doing again through the increasingly hysterical shouts outside. Her guests were wait- ing in the ballroom. The orchestra had been playing for an hour. The food was ready, and so was the rabbi. Her parents asked, begged, pleaded.

“Please, Friddie, think about the family, think about our guests.”

At one point, she heard Nelu’s voice, begging her to come out. “I’ll be by your side,” he whispered, “I’m very excited too.”

Friddie brushed her hair, staring out the window. The white wedding dress still hung quietly on the back of the chair. Friddie could not find within her the inspiration needed to wear the dress, to wear the jewelry, to put on makeup, to perfume herself. Most of all, no one in the world could convince her to wear the doting smile required of a loving bride.

Mademoiselle Charlotte’s voice echoed in her mind. “Only you know what’s good for you. Only you can make it happen. I believe in you.”