Clara's Stories: Remembering

It is 1994. I’m 80 years old. I’ve slowed down and have time to look through my old scrapbooks and photo albums and the piles of stories I wrote. Some stories were published. Some were not.

I asked my husband Rolland Metzger to move the files and boxes filled with my writing into the dining room and to pull down the scrapbooks and photo albums from the closet shelf. They’re on the floor and on the dining room table -- no room for dinner but who cares? I was never much of a cook; the best I can do most nights for Rolland and me is to heat up a can of spaghetti and meat sauce or a can of soup or throw together some sandwiches. And thankfully he is OK eating my meager offerings at our small kitchen table.

The first thing I find is my Theodore Roosevelt High School graduation yearbook from 1932. When I  look at my graduation photo, I remember . . .

My first name was Clara in the yearbook, and also my few high school activities (Civics Club, Spanish Club, and G.A.A.) were listed, as well as the college I planned to attend, the University of Illinois. And in the yearbook by my photo was an inscription I wrote, which reads: "Luck success & what not to All --  Clara Le Brint Topsy,"  My nickname in high school was “Topsy,” given to me by friends because my hair usually curled every which way. 

I never went to the University of Illinois (in Champaign/Urbana); it was a pipe dream. Instead after high school, I went to Crane Junior College, sadly only for one year. Around the same time, I changed my name from Clara to Claire which seemed to me more American, more grown up. However, today thinking about my birth name Clara, I remember two romantic encounters I had with very different guys when I was in my late teens and twenties. They both called me Clara; they considered it (and they  considered me) romantic, fanciful and fascinating. And at the time I most certainly was!

Rolland and I live in Dixon, Illinois. But Rol has a home in Chicago and we used to visit there regularly. Not so much these days. I used to be busy working, writing and getting some stories published, volunteering, helping friends, meeting new people, and traveling to Chicago and other far-off places. But I’m not doing that anymore. I’m old and more tired these days then I used to be. These days, I don’t have much to do except visit with friends at the Dixon Senior Center or with Rolland when he’s at home. Rol is eight years my junior and still out and about with activities, hobbies, and paid work as a part-time accountant and tax-preparer.

So I sit at my dining room table picking up one thing and putting it down and picking up the next thing. Nothing is in order but I find many treasures, including a three-page handwritten biography written in 1991 by a Dixon friend, titled The Life of Claire Metzger. She asked me lots of questions about my life and wrote this story, as a way of honoring our friendship. Right away, two little white lies jump out at me – the year of my birth and my age when I met Rolland. Here’s what she wrote. 

The world was blessed on April 5, 1933. Claire Metzger, formerly Claire LeBrint, was born in Chicago, Illinois.

 …When Claire was 34, she met her husband-to-be Rolland Metzger at a Jewish Temple. They didn’t mean to meet; actually, Claire was there to meet another boy to watch a play, but she was stood up and Rolland came up to her and asked if she wanted any coffee, and they both stayed for the play. After the play, Rolland asked Claire if he could walk her home because they had found out that they actually lived on the same street and she accepted. So every time Rolland came into town they would see each other.

My dear friend and biographer insisted that my life story start with my birth date including the year, which I told her was 1933, even though I was born in 1914. She also insisted that we include my age when I met Rolland. I fudged that one too. We met when I was 46, not 34! I never told anyone in Dixon my true age; I told them I felt “ageless.” My Dixon friends and admirers thought I was younger than my real age, so there was no harm done.

Whew, I’m glad the truth is finally out. I’m an old lady now so what do I care if you know my exact age. To keep it straight in my mind and help you, dear reader, know the significant dates in my life, here they are:

 April 5, 1914: I was born on the West side of Chicago.

 June 14 1922: Rolland Metzger was born.

 Winter 1959: Rolland and I met at a Jewish Singles event in Chicago.

 March 25, 1967 Rolland and I married. I was 53 and my young bridegroom was almost 45 years old.

Starting a few years after we met, Rol repeatedly asked me to marry him and I put him off. I had been single for a long time and had pretty much given up on marriage. Of the Jewish men I met, either I rejected them or they rejected me. When Rolland came along, being indecisive by nature and having made a nice life for myself as a confirmed spinster, I couldn’t make up my mind about marrying him.   Finally, in 1967, I decided “yes.” He was too nice a guy to let go. But I was plenty nervous, and ten days before we married, I shared some of my worries with him in a note that I discovered in my piles and files.

 

In case you can't read my handwriting, the note says: "Please never ask me to make a decision late in the eve -- or night -- It wearies me, and invariably I feel pressed and pressured. Probably you do too? So I beg you -- in all things don't set deadlines or rushes lest good judgement gives way to exasperation and error."

After we married, I never had to “make a decision late in the eve,” but sometimes, especially when we were planning trips (for tax conferences or to visit family out of town), he did “set up deadlines” but his good judgement ensured there were few insurmountable errors. Also after we married, with my dear husband's love and encouragement, I became a professional writer.

Claire LeBrint Metzger, of blessed memory, is Betsy Fuchs' aunt. For more Clara stories, you can purchase the book: Twists and Turns There Once Was a Dream, an imagined memoir based on the life of Betsy's Aunt Claire.

Twists and Turns: WEBBED FINGERS (excerpt from book)

 

Claire LeBrint Metzger at age 80,
the age of fictional Claire, narrator of the book
Twists and Turns  There Once Was a Dream

I was born with webbed fingers.

 I write this frightful six-word sentence and identify my condition the way they did in 1914 when I was born. Today in 1994, close to the end of the twentieth century, now that I have reached the august age of 80 years old, I announce publicly this deformity as my own. The medical term for this birth condition is syndactyly, a term I learned somewhere along the way. It is used to identify when a child is born with two or more fingers and/or toes connected by skin, fused one to the next.

 I was the fourth child born to my young immigrant mother in six years. Her eldest two daughters, Mary, four years old and Rose, three, were finally able to watch out for each other. But her only son George was not yet two.

 I was born at home, in our cold-water flat in Chicago’s Jewish West side. The midwife must have announced, “It’s a girl!” My mother was probably disappointed that I wasn’t a second son and might have been thinking, What do I need another girl for, I already have two, and this girl now, so soon after George?

 But at least I was healthy, wasn’t I?

 The midwife must have done the customary counting of fingers and toes. My tiny hands might have been closed into fists and if so, the midwife would have gently opened them and seen webbed fingers on both hands. Even if the midwife was familiar with this condition, she most likely would not have said it out loud to my exhausted mother. I imagine that the midwife quickly washed me, wrapped me up in a blanket and handed me to my mother and figured that the awful truth would come out soon enough.

 Of course, it must have come out when my mother held me for the first time, looked me over and saw for herself. On my left hand in place of a pinky finger was a tiny round nub of skin and then three tiny fused fingers. On my right hand, all four fingers were fused. Did she wrap her hands around my little deformed hands to hide them from her sight, only to start shuddering at the feel of all those bones connected by skin where my fingers should have been? As I write these words, I shudder imagining what it might feel like if I were the one instead of her holding my poor little hands.

 My earliest memories are from age four and by then my fingers were separated and the only thing that seemed strange to me was the little round nub on my left hand. I didn’t think anything much about it. Neither did my siblings and the neighborhood kids. We were too busy playing and fighting and running and taking care of our many brothers and sisters, and staying out of the way of our overworked parents. Important stuff like that.

 I was a bright little girl with older siblings and at age four I already knew how to count to five, which was an important number on the day that Ma took me aside. That day I felt special – I was one of five children by then and never got time alone with Ma. She pointed to her fingers and then to mine. I looked closely and saw that on each hand Ma had a thumb and four fingers, five all together. On one of my hands (the left one) I counted out loud three fingers. I didn’t count the pinky nub. Ma then pointed to my other hand and I counted five, a thumb and four fingers, just like she had.

 The fingers on my right hand are funny looking: four crooked fingers, all of them shorter than normal and two do not have finger nails. But at my young age, I didn’t know what Ma was showing me. I could tell she was upset, angry and sad when she pointed once more at my fingers and told me that the evil eye gave her a child like me to punish her, because as she said, “I left my dearest most loved mother, your grandmother, in the old country to come to America. I didn’t want to leave her all alone. She cried and I cried buckets of tears but she insisted I must go to get away from the pogroms.”

 I looked at my fingers more closely. They looked normal except for the pinky nub. I didn’t understand “evil eye.” The whole concept of evil was beyond me and I didn’t know the word “pogroms,” but I remember to this day the bad feeling I got that somehow I was to blame.

 Eventually as I grew older and learned more, I understood that the “evil eye” was a superstition Ma brought with her from the old country, and came to appreciate why my grandmother insisted Ma go to America to get away from the danger and death caused by the pogroms perpetrated by the Russian Cossacks and the Russian peasants who joined in.

 My parents never talked about when my fingers were separated, and I never asked. Why would I? During my childhood my fingers worked fine, so there was nothing to ask. At some point (I don’t remember when), I understood that the reason my fingers looked the way they did was that they had been fused when I was born. But even as an adult I never asked Ma or Pa about this because I knew it would open up old wounds and sad memories

 Surprisingly as early as 1902, doctors performed surgery to separate conjoined fingers and toes and they determined it was best to do the surgery on children between six months and two years old. Most likely my surgery was done before age two. However, before then I imagine Ma being reminded of her punishment every day when she bathed me and had to open my little deformed hands to wash them and when I perhaps learned to hold a bottle awkwardly or not at all. I imagine her horror, shame, sadness, and anger. And though she may have had women friends to go with her when I had the surgery, I’m sure during that time she missed her mother horribly, dreadfully. Ma’s closest female cousins lived in Philadelphia, too far away to be with her and I’m sure Pa was working extra hours to pay for the surgery. No health insurance in 1914-1915.

 Surgery was done, my fingers worked okay and Ma never mentioned them again after that one time. Maybe I’m making this up, but it seems to me that during my entire life, Ma treated me differently partly because of my fingers. Or maybe it was me. I tried always to be somewhat removed from her, not interacting if I could get away with it, even during the many years as an adult when I lived with her and Pa and my younger sister Perle. I can say this now after years of pondering my place in our family that I was trying to keep away the feeling that I was at fault for Ma’s sadness and anger. 

This is an excerpt from the Betsy Fuchs' book: Twists and Turns There Once Was a Dream, an imagined memoir based on the life of Betsy's aunt Claire LeBrint Metzger.  

Twists and Turns: HIs Name was Arvid Lundberg (excerpt from book)

Arvid Lundberg was a political cartoonist with the Chicago Herald, whom I met briefly in 1937 and then again in 1940 when I was 26 years old and he was 38. Soon after we started seeing each other exclusively. Arvid was my first romantic love. We dated for three years and our relationship ended badly. After that, I never talked about him, not ever.

When friends and acquaintance asked me if I had any serious boyfriends in my younger years, my stock answer was, “I dated around but there was no one special. There were a few possible guys but I always found something wrong with them or they found something wrong with me.” This answer seemed to satisfy and they didn’t ask any follow-up questions.

But curiously over the years my older sister Rose, the family gossip, had dropped hints to her daughters about me dating a cartoonist when I was young. While I was working on this memoir, one of Rose’s daughters asked me innocently enough, “Aunt Claire, what stories are you writing these days? Have any of them been published lately?” 

I was always writing stories. Some got published so such questions were a usual part of our conversations. This time my answer was unusual. “These days I’m working on a memoir about my life as a single working girl and the adventures I had. Right now, I’m writing about a guy I dated when I was in my twenties named Arvid Lundberg.”

I expected a few follow-up questions, like “Who was this guy? How long did you two date?” or perhaps just a stunned “Wow, tell me more.” But I was flabbergasted at her response, “Was he the cartoonist who created the Little Lulu comic strip? Mom mentioned this but it was all hush-hush. She said you never talked about it because the guy was older and divorced and worst of all, he wasn’t Jewish and Grandma LeBrint broke the romance up and banished you to California.”

“Oh, your mom, she never was one to keep a secret, but I plan to spill the beans about the cartoonist in my memoir. Who knows if I’ll ever finish it, so for now I’ll give you the cliff notes version. I dated Arvid Lundberg from 1940 to 1943 when I was in my late twenties. He was a political cartoonist with the Chicago Herald newspaper. Years after we broke up, he became known nationally for his syndicated comic strip, not Little Lulu, but your mom was close. His comic strip was about a young girl named Pattie. Comic strips about adventuresome young girls were the rage in the 1940s and 1950s. Besides Pattie and Little Lulu, there were also the Little Debbie, and ‘nancy’ comic strips. Arvid was unmarried, not divorced, older than me and not Jewish. It would have been a shanda if I married him. So, my mother sent me to Los Angeles to get me away from him and that ended that.”

I added, “For the rest of the story, you will have to wait and hope that I complete my memoir, or at least the story of me and Arvid and the banishment” and I changed the subject.**

 

MY PURSUIT OF ARVID

1937 – 1940

I met Arvid Lundberg in 1937 when he gave at talk at my Northwestern University journalism class. He talked about Chicago and national politics and the impending threat coming from Hitler and the Nazis in Germany, illustrating his talk with a few political cartoons that he projected onto a screen at the front of our classroom. Looking at his provocative cartoons and listening to him, I thought, Here’s a man with great knowledge of politics and a wry sense of humor. He’s good looking in a dignified way and I’d love to get to know him. After his talk, I introduced myself and he said, “Let’s stay in touch,” or some standard brushoff. I took him at his word and over the next few years, I was casually persistent, sending him letters commenting on the cartoons I particularly liked. 

Today I’m looking at the Lundberg cartoons I saved, including one titled “Mayor Smelly’s Machine: And His Indispensable Team.” It features a cartoon representation of Chicago’s Mayor Edward Kelly and Cook County Park Chairman Patrick Nash. In the cartoon they are chewing on raw onions while looking at a statue of themselves standing on top of a large block engraved with the words “SOMETHING SMELLS ROTTEN IN CHICAGO.” A few little guys with different skin tones, half as tall as Kelly and Nash, are watching, looking dejected. They represent the Mayor’s constituents, the Blacks, Poles, Mexicans, and other Chicago ethnic minorities who propelled Kelly (and Nash) into power.

During the 1930’s and into the 1940’s, the Kelly-Nash Machine ran Chicago and built the powerful Chicago Democratic party which opened the door for the two Daley mayors (Richard J. and Richard M.) who ruled Chicago with a few interruptions from 1955 until today. Richard M. has a few sons so I expect the Daley dynasty will continue to rule for years into the future. Thinking about the Daley’s’ long reign, in the old-country Jewish manner, I am compelled to say out loud phooey phooey and pretend to spit, to express my extreme displeasure.

Paper clipped to the cartoon is a carbon copy of a typed letter from me to Lundberg, which reads in part, “Smelly is the perfect name for Mayor Kelly. Thanks for shedding a light on the arrogance of Kelly and of Nash who is the power behind the throne. They are gobbling up Chicago’s resources and forgetting about the little guys who put them in power. They smell to high heaven, and I hope they choke on the onions (I mean power) they are gobbling up.”

I figured he wouldn’t remember me from letter to letter, so I reminded him that we met briefly when he gave a talk at my Northwestern journalism class in 1937. As I did in all my letters, I asked if I could talk with him about how to get into journalism. Looking at the letter, I realize how naive I was about Chicago politics. You can throw one set of bums out and another set gets elected. Kelly and Nash out, then the Daley boys in. But in the 1930s how was I to know?

One day in spring 1940, to my surprise and delight, I got a reply from Lundberg. Ma saw the envelope first, and when I got home from work, she handed it to me and asked, “Nu Clara why are you getting a letter from the Chicago Herald?”  It was from Lundberg! His last name was handwritten on the envelope above the Herald logo. I may have blushed or had a small secret smile on my face but I kept my composure and answered, “I’m not sure Ma. Now and then I write letters to the paper responding to some article of interest to me.” She seemed satisfied with this answer.

These many years later I can’t find the letter, but I read and reread it many times. I remember it was handwritten and went something like this.

Dear Claire,

Thanks for sending letters now and then. It’s nice to hear from someone who understands what I’m trying to get across in my cartoons. You asked if we might get together so I could give you pointers on how to get into the news business. Sure thing. Give me a call at (phone number, long forgotten) and we’ll find a time to meet.

Sincerely, Arvid Lundberg

 He gave me his phone number! He wanted to meet me! The next day I called the Chicago Herald and felt very important asking the switchboard operator to put me through to Mr. Arvid Lundberg. She asked about the nature of my call. I replied proudly, “This is Claire LeBrint and Mr. Lundberg requested I call so we could discuss jobs in journalism.”

Arvid seemed pleased to get my call and asked a few questions: Where I worked. My answer: At my dad’s print shop on LaSalle Street, across from the Chicago Board of Trade. What was my job. My answer: Office work, girl Friday stuff. How did I like the journalism classes, to which I gave a very short answer, “I liked them.” He suggested that we meet after work, downtown. I answered formally, “Yes thank you. I would greatly appreciate meeting you.” Arvid suggested we meet at Eitel’s coffee shop in the Northwestern Train Station just west of the Chicago River on Madison Avenue. The station was across from the Chicago Herald building and not far from Pa’s print shop. 

For about Arvid and Clara and more Clara stories, purchase the Betsy Fuchs' book: Twists and Turns There Once Was a Dream, an imagined memoir based on the life of Betsy's aunt Claire LeBrint Metzger. 

Twists and Turns: War Postcards from My Spanish pen-pal (excerpt from book)

My correspondence (since 1931) with my Spanish pen-pal Jesus was interrupted by the Spanish Civil War which started in July 1936. Though there were no letters from Jesus that year, I continued to write to him infrequently. I hoped to hear back even though I understood that the war slowed down (or stopped) mail between America and Spain.

 Then one fateful day in 1937, a postcard arrived. Today, many years later, I I'm looking at the postcard dated May 1937. 

 

When I see its provocative drawing of a red hood (which looks a lot like a white KKK hood) plus a flag displaying the Communist Hammer and Sickle, the encounter between me and Ma comes back in vivid detail.

Ma and Pa were immigrants from Russia. Ma came to America in 1905, from a small town near Odessa in the Ukraine. Ma was sent here by her mother to get her away from the frequent and ferocious pogroms against the Jews. For Ma anything and anyone Russian (except Jews from Russia) was bad and dangerous to our well being. She despised the Soviet Union (which included the Ukraine) and by extension Communism. 

Pa was from the cosmopolitan city of Kishinev, Bessarabia Russia, and like many young men at the time he had been conscripted into the Tsar’s army for fifteen years of service. By 1907, Ma and her American cousins in Chicago (on her mother’s side) raised enough money to pay the required ‘”ransom” to get Pa out of the army and bring him to the U.S. This arrangement was contingent on his agreeing to marry Ma,  his first cousin (on their father’s side). Before Pa’s conscription, he had been active in one of the many Jewish Socialist organizations in Kishinev. Pa was sympathetic to Communism, and after the fall of Imperial Russia, he hoped that the Soviet Union’s noble experiment with Communism would make a better life for all who lived there.

Pa wasn’t alone in his sympathies. In the 1920’s and 1930’s there was a strong Socialist movement in the U.S. and a smaller but devoted membership in CPUSA (Communist Party USA). Also, some Americans, including my sister Rose and her husband Len, supported the Republicans (“Reds”) during the Spanish Civil War. Support for Socialism and Communism all but disappeared in the U.S. when the world learned of Stalin’s ruthless totalitarian rule and when the Red-scare perpetrated by McCarthy happened in the 1950s. 

 The red postcard arrived during the day while I was at work, and Ma saw it first. When I got home that evening, she was at the door waving the postcard at me, yelling, “Clara, Clara why are you making tsuris for our family by still writing to that man, that goy who I see now is a Communist and a Russian sympathizer?”

 I grabbed the postcard from Ma, excited to get something from Jesus, but like Ma I was shocked by the drawing. I knew that Trajeta Postal de Campa translated to “Campaign Postcard.” On the back of the postcard there was a pre-printed section on the top which started Condiciones Para Ganar La Guerra, “Conditions to Win the War” and ended: Del Manifesto del C.C. del Partido Comunista, “Of the Manifesto of the Central Committee of the Communist Party.” I’m sure that Ma looking at the postcard knew what Jesus was mixed up in, what with the Hammer and Sickle on the front and Manifesto! Partido Comunista! on the back.

  Ma was pacing back and forth and said in a trembling voice, “Wait til Pa comes home and we will put a stop to this thing you have with that man. You told me you were no longer writing to him and now, he writes about being a Communist. You must burn this postcard. It’s gerferlekt (dangerous) for us to have it.”

 I snuck a quick look at what Jesus wrote. His brief message contained the usual chiding and questions and reminders: “I haven’t heard from you lately… Write soon… How is your writing going? Send me something of your work…” Nothing about the war. But there was a censor’s stamp on the front of the postcard, so all he could write was pleasant innocuous things.

 Pa came home, late as usual. He worked long hours at The Central Press which was located near the Chicago Stock Exchange. During the Depression, especially after Franklin Roosevelt became president, Pa and his Swedish-American business partner LeRoy Dickenson got lots of work from stock brokers. Then as now, except at the beginning of the Depression stock brokers make out like gang-busters. I wish I had been more of a risk taker and had invested in the stock market during my lifetime. I could have made out like gang-busters too, or I could have lost my small financial nest egg. Woulda, coulda, shoulda. Water over the dam, as they say and in the 1930’s I was glad to be working, contributing to the family’s finances, with a little money left over to buy a pretty dress now and then and to pay for my evening journalism classes at Northwestern.

 Ma gave the postcard to Pa and shared her fears about Jesus, not ever calling him by his name. Pa looked at it carefully, quietly. Pa was always quiet when Ma began ranting. He was mild-mannered by nature and kept his opinions, this time about the Soviet Union and Communism, to himself.

 As always Ma’s word – along with Pa’s silent assent – was final in our house. Like Pa, I stayed quiet. But I continued to write to Jesus. Our correspondence made my life interesting and his flattery and support of my writing nourished my spirit. And I was intensely curious to learn more of his experience in the Spanish War.

 Perle, who was four years my junior, listened to Ma’s ranting from her room. Perle was quiet like Pa and often stayed out of sight. Perle was about to graduate high school and would be helping Ma around the house during the summer. She never went against Ma directly, but agreed to be my co-conspirator and intercept any additional mail from Jesus.

 One month later a second postcard arrived. Perle set it safely aside for me. 

This postcard was dated June 19, 1937 and I am surprised that what Jesus wrote about the war got past the censors.

Esteemed friend Clara: Taking advantage of a forced rest by means of an inopportune gunshot wound to my arm, I hasten to reply to your letter. I don't ask that you pardon my tardiness since you will understand the circumstances we Spaniards find ourselves in, and I do hope you will not blame me.

 You needn't be distressed for the fact that it takes me longer to respond to your letters than I would like, but given that, don't cease sending me letters which I await anxiously. As regards my being able to write to you, now I must limit myself to a brief reply as they need to use the typewriter.

 Continue sending your letters to my house [in Madrid] as that is how I have been receiving them in the past. I will always appreciate you. Jesus

I pardoned his tardiness, but was distressed about his “inopportune gunshot wound.” I have no other letters or postcards Jesus might have sent during the Spanish Civil War.

For more about Clara's pen-pal Jesus and more Clara stories, purchase the book by Betsy Fuchs: Twists and Turns There Once Was a Dream, an imagined memoir based on the life of Betsy's aunt Claire LeBrint Metzger. 

Twists and Turns: Early Memories of My Siblings (excerpt from book)

           

In the early decades of the twentieth century, some professional photographers traveled the neighborhoods, bringing ponies to fancy up the pictures. Families paid extra to show off the kids on and around the pony. “What a photo to send back to the family in the old country,” my mother would say, adding “Won’t they be impressed!”

After our family got a Kodak camera in 1924, we took our own photos, at home, at Lake Michigan, anywhere and everywhere. But before then on a few rare occasions, we had formal photographs taken by a professional photographer. In one, I’m sitting happily on a pony with a tooth gapped-grin on my face, wearing a long-sleeved slightly oversized white dress with a peter pan collar.

In front of me and the pony, my older brother George stands, wearing a white shirt, dark colored knickers and athletic shoes. Next to George are my “twin” older sisters Mary and Rose. They weren’t twins, but that’s what I called them. They were one year and a few months apart in age and different in stature and looks, but like twins they lived in their own shared world, to the exclusion of everyone else, especially me. The photo isn’t dated but I would guess I was 3 1/2, George 5, Rose, 6 1/2 and Mary 8. The twins are both in white knee length dresses, with white stockings and they are holding hands.  Around the same time, the twins, at the insistence of our fully Americanized same-age cousins, learned how to stop speaking English in a Yiddish sing-song kind of way. And the cousins taught them how to dress properly for school, in bright white starched and ironed blouses, clean pressed skirts, with their shoes polished daily. 

In another professional photograph, taken before I was born, a very young Rose and Mary stand side by side. Rose has a serious look on her face; Mary’s is more quizzical. Rose is fair skinned favoring Father’s coloring and has a chubby baby face and fat arms. Mary who is a bit taller than Rose is swarthy, taking after Mother and if once she had baby fat, it’s gone. They are wearing not-quite-matching white dresses that hang almost to their ankles and large white bows in their hair. Most likely these dresses, and the ones we girls are wearing a few years later in the pony picture, were bought to last through growth spurts and were saved to wear only on special occasions. Mary and Rose have almost identical brown leather high-top shoes and are holding little porcelain dolls, also dressed in white. Just like the pony, these dolls must have belonged to the photographer. At home all we had were Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls that Mother made out of old flour sacks.

The twins got to hold the dolls. I got to sit on the pony. Lucky me! Or maybe lucky them because in 1921 Mary and Rose had a second professional photograph taken of the two of them, dressed like twins in matching outfits, looking self-assured and a bit smug, especially Rose with her head cocked to the side.

Neither George or I, nor three-year-old Perle had our pictures taken professionally in 1921.

The twins had each other and I had George, who allowed me to tag along as soon as I could toddle after him. And shortly after George went to full-day school at age six in 1918, I had baby Perle who was born a few months later. From then on until I went to full-time school in 1920, I had Perle to play with. When she was a baby, Mother let me feed her and dress her and rock her and when she got a bit older, Perle toddled around after me.  Perle was so much better than a borrowed porcelain doll or the home-made Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls.

So, in our family among the siblings, Mary and Rose made a twosome. And for a time there was me and George, then there was me and Perle.

Thinking back to this sibling configuration, I realize this is how we stayed into our adult lives. Mary and Rose together, the married women with husbands and children. George the only boy making his way on his own. And me and Perle, the two unmarried spinsters palling around, that is until 1965 when Perle tragically died too young at age 47 and 1967 when I finally married for the first and only time at the ripe-old-age of 53. 

For more Clara stories, purchase the book by Betsy Fuchs: Twists and Turns There Once Was a Dream, an imagined memoir based on the life of Betsy's aunt Claire LeBrint Metzger. 

Clara's Stories: 1930-1941 Jesus Pena de Alonso

I find fifteen letters and two postcards from Jesus Pena de Alonso of Madrid, Spain. Jesus and I were matched up by our foreign language teachers when Jesus was fifteen and I was seventeen.  Jesus’ first letter is dated November 5, 1930, the last March 11, 1941. He wrote in Spanish and I replied in English. We continued to write on and off after we both completed secondary school. For eleven years!

I don’t remember my Spanish anymore so I had my good friend and neighbor Alex Alvarez, a Spanish speaker and an avid student of history, translate Jesus’ letters into English. Alex told me some about the tumultuous history of Spain in the 1930’s and acted as a consultant to me while I wrote this story. Thank you Alex.

Just like in the U.S. a lot was going on in our two countries during the time Jesus and I corresponded. Of course, lots was going on in our young lives. It makes my head spin just thinking about it. 

In the U.S, we had the depression and FDR and the New Deal and the beginning of World War II. And I became a working girl, more interested in having adventures and pursuing creative endeavors than in getting married. In Spain, political unrest led up to the Spanish Civil War (1936-1939). Jesus attended University and then went to work in his father’s factory. He must have witnessed much of the war, since many of the battles took place in Madrid (the capital of Spain) and the surrounding areas. Jesus didn’t write during the war, and after our correspondence resumed, he mentioned the war only briefly. Who can blame him?

Looking at Jesus’ letters (and envelopes) today, I am struck by his beautiful script.

In his letters, Jesus addressed me as Clara, my birth name. I liked that.

For the first couple of years, Jesus’ letters were friendly and informative. I don’t have copies of my letters to him, but I can infer some of what I wrote in his letters to me. We wrote about our interests – his in football (soccer), swimming, and travel; mine in writing, journalism, and theater. He wrote me about “an ancient royal castle … converted into a museum” and sent me postcards of the beautiful salons in the castle. I wrote about the much younger skyscrapers in Chicago and sent him a postcard of the thirty-four story Tribune Tower. Today thirty-four stories seems like nothing, but in the 1930’s the new skyscrapers were amazing, tall, architectural marvels.

In 1932, I sent Jesus U.S. currency and he attempted to send me Spanish currency but couldn’t.

Dear Clara,

I had written a letter to you, but because I had sent along some currency, the Central Post office refused to mail it.

Alex explained that during the early 1930’s the Spanish government forbade sending currency out of the country due to the on-going political crises.

Jesus’ letters continued along this same line, breezy and conversational, until 1934 when we exchanged photographs. His was a studio portrait and I liked how he looked with his half smile, bedroom eyes (or so I perceived them), slicked down hair, and beautifully tailored suit. I was mildly charmed by the inscription that read (in translation) “To Clara as a token of my admiration and fondness Jesus.”

However, Jesus was majorly charmed after he received my publicity photograph taken for an amateur production of the play Death Takes a Holiday, in which I had the lead role of Graziela.

Claire LeBrint Publicity Photo 1934

From that point on his letters became romantic.

From October 1934

Beautiful Clara,

I don't know how you dare to call me a flatterer after sending me a photograph so superior to anything I may have imagined. Truly, the more I look at your photo, the more difficult it is for me to believe that you are an American woman, as the beauty of your eyes is not surpassed by the Grenadine dolls.

The letter continued with a brief reference to the trouble in Spain “…the police have been using my car, they have even requisitioned many automobiles,” and ended with more affection and devotion towards me.

Furthermore, dear friend, I continue to maintain much serenity, as I have never had the joy of having at my side someone as precious as you. My most respectful tribute, Jesus                

Being compared to a Grenadine doll (from Grenada, Andalusia Spain) seemed a high compliment. Alex found a picture of a 1950’s Spanish doll and made a Xerox color copy for me. Color copying – what a marvel of technology. We both agreed that this must look something like the “Grenadine doll” Jesus referenced. What a compliment Jesus gave me!

Little did I know that Jesus’ romantic feelings would grow into an obsession and possessiveness toward me.

From February 1935

. . . I have a sister who was also taken with the idea of becoming a writer like you and who now has abandoned those ideas because she is soon to be married. Has the thought occurred to you of doing the same?

As you have asked me to advise you in the past, I hope you will allow me to advise you now not to leave the house, so you will find no diversions, you will speak to no one, you will be dressed in your oldest dresses. And if you will be following these suggestions, I believe that when the time comes, you will be spared the inconvenience of marrying the man who would have to murder your husband.

I knew that Jesus’ letters indicated he was “crazy-in-love” with me. But did he really imply that I should stay home, alone, away from all guys and that if I should happen to marry, he would come to the U.S., murder my husband and expect me to marry him? I thought Alex had gotten the translation wrong. “It’s right for sure,” he told me and added, “I even had a Spanish teacher friend of mine from Sauk Valley Community College double check my translation and she confirmed I got the crazy-talk right.”

You might be asking yourself why I continued writing to Jesus.

I was having fun doing some heavy-duty flirting in my letters to him, goading him on, encouraging his growing attachment to me. We girls did that kind of thing, and my girlfriends loved to read his crazy letters. It was our own personal soap opera and I loved being the romantic lead.

Besides, Jesus was far away, as he wrote in another letter when he was again pondering whether I was married or not, “If it happens that you now have a husband, tell him that he lives because of the distance between Madrid and Chicago.” 

There is so much in Jesus’ fifteen letters, and I was getting tired from reading them and thinking back to when I received the letters. But before I put them away, I decided to skim through the rest and a few sections of letters jumped out. First was the letter Jesus wrote after the Spanish Civil War ended.

From September 1939

. . . I am sure you can easily understand the many circumstances which have prevented my writing to you during these trying times.

And then I found the only letter where Jesus referred to experiencing the war, where he used the war as a reason to threaten my male friends. In my letters to him after the war ended, I must have casually mentioned the guys I was seeing (not seriously) and continued teasing him, flirting with him. No harm done, I thought. Not so for Jesus.

From June 1940

. . . As to those two boyfriends . . . after three years of being witness to war and guns and shooting and killings, they would not pose the same obstacles as was the case previously.

That letter frightened and shocked me when I received it in 1940, as it does to this day. His threats were no longer funny. The amusing soap opera had become a horror story.

It took me a long time to reply to that letter, as Jesus wrote in March 1941, when he chided me that he “was not able to read (my) last two letters because (I) didn’t mail them.”  True I wrote several letters that I tore up and I have no idea what was in the letter I finally sent.

But I finally was done with Jesus and wrote him one last letter. I remember that my message was short and to the point and it went something like this.

Jesus,

It is not acceptable that you continue to make threats against my gentlemen friends. You have no right to claim me. You are not my boyfriend, fiancé, nor will you ever be my husband.

This correspondence is over. Please do not write me anymore.

Claire LeBrint

Jesus Pena de Alonso of Madrid, Spain must have gotten my message loud and clear. He wrote no more letters and you better believe I was relieved.

But, as they say, it was fun while it lasted.

For more about Jesus and Clara's letters and more Clara stories, purchase the book by Betsy Fuchs: Twists and Turns There Once Was a Dream, an imagined memoir based on the life of Betsy's aunt Claire LeBrint Metzger. 

Clara's Stories: 1950-1962 Becoming a Published Writer

During the late 1950’s when I was in my mid-30's, I scrimped and saved enough to take one trip to Europe. We went to Paris, that I remember, and to Switzerland. Probably also to London but I'm not sure. In the postcard, I'm wearing the flowered dress, happily eating with friends I met on the trip.

But…my dream of becoming a published writer and my hope of finding a nice single Jewish guy to hang around with and possibly marry – neither was happening. That is, not until Rolland Metzger of Dixon, Illinois came along. He visited Chicago some weekends to get culture and to see if he could find a nice Jewish woman to woo and marry.

In 1960 we two Jewish singles met and started keeping company.

Rolland thought I was wonderful and amazing, talented and full of life. He believed I could do anything I wanted. He couldn’t convince me to marry him until 1967, but in 1962 he helped me to follow my dream of being a writer. 

I had discovered the Famous Writers School correspondence course, founded by Bennett Cerf, a well-known publisher/author, and other "famous" writers. I remembered taking the course, that was all. Then I found several workbooks from the course and I see the advertising flyer with this Bennett Cerf  quote,“Do you have a restless urge to write? If you do, here is an opportunity for you to take the first important step to success in writing.”

Even though many years have passed, I remember the excitement I felt when I contemplated his question and my answer, spoken quietly (to myself), a resounding Yes!

I lost my nerve until Rolland held my hand so to speak -- in reality, he sat next to me -- as I took the big step of enrolling in the course. I registered with the pseudonym Leva Missman, a very catchy name, don’t you think? I used Rolland’s Dixon address instead of mine in Chicago. I was apprehensive about attempting to be a real writer and needed the assurance that in case I failed, no one, not even the instructors, would know my real identity. I was grateful to Rolland for going along with my deception. 

 The first Famous Writers assignment was to answer the question “Why Do I Wish to Write?” The instructor returned my essay with some well-deserved critical comments. Oh boy, it sure stung to read criticism of my work. You writers out there will understand. Rolland had to hold my hand and sit by my side as I moved from being a writer-want-to-be to becoming a good, or at least a competent, writer.

The note identified with (1) includes great advice that I’ve taken to heart and reads:

“Use some contractions to provide a more conversational tone.”

Much about the course comes back when I find a folder labeled “Women’s Angle,” and I see the seven articles published in the National Informer newspaper.

Here's how it happened.

After my first essay, the pieces I wrote for Famous Writers were mostly about how women were taken advantage of at work, when shopping, by loan companies, and even at dancing schools. As I grew more confident in my writing, my instructor informed me it was time to submit my work for publication. He suggested I send one of my stories to the National Informer newspaper for their “Women’s Angle” column. The magazine’s motto was “Truthful News of All Facts of Life.” It sounded good to me. I submitted the story “How American Stores Cheat, Use and Abuse Female Shoppers,”[1] under my own name Claire Le Brint. To my surprise, they accepted it. I hadn’t heard of the National Informer and hadn’t seen a copy, but no problem. I was to be published and paid for my work. I was ecstatic.

A check came in the mail along with a letter indicating that my story would appear in the September 23, 1962 issue. When I got a copy of that issue, I was shocked. The banner headline on the first page was RED CHINESE EAT BABIES! with the subheading in slightly smaller bold print Innocent Children Victims of Communist Prosperity. I skimmed through the paper. Most of the articles were patently false like the cover story, or super-trashy like we find today in the National Enquirer. But you better believe I was very proud of my article, which was “Truthful News of one particular Fact of Life.” I pasted the article on yellow card stock so I could keep it forever and jotted down the date and name of the publication. On the back, I wrote the headline and subheading, then I tossed that tabloid paper in the trash where it belonged.

I was appalled by the newspaper and most of the articles. Rolland and I conferred and we decided I might as well submit more articles to the Informer. The readers, we figured, needed at least some “truthful news,” if only they could recognize it. I was being paid and published, no small feat for a novice writer. Here are titles for the rest of my Informer articles. [1]

·         Why Are Women Workers Treated Like Dopes?

·         How Dancing Schools Suck In the Suckers (wow)

·         Stupid Store Clerks Gyp Housewives

·         Housewives Ain’t As Smart as Retail Loan Sharks

·         FM Radio Becoming Lousy Just Like AM Radio??

·         How Business Places Hook Women on Free Gimmicks

So I, Claire Le Brint, had become a published writer! That was enough for me for the time being. Over the next ten years I was busy working, getting married, changing my name to Claire Metzger, moving to Dixon, getting used to Rolland, and traveling to Chicago with Rolland fairly frequently to take advantage of the city's cultural marvels.

But I will never forget the National Informer and my first big break. Can you blame me? What a story that is!

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For more Clara stories, purchase the book Betsy Fuchs: Twists and Turns There Once Was a Dream, an imagined memoir based on the life of Betsy's aunt Claire LeBrint Metzger. 

Clara's Story: A Working Woman's Dream (The Painting Went Up)

Aunt Claire's portrait hangs on my living room wall. 

Claire was a single working woman when the painting was done, by her friend Yasha Kaganov.

Along with the painting, I framed an article written by Claire about Yasha's portrait. I don't know where or when the article was published. I often look at the painting and contemplate what she wrote about her life in the article. I invite you to join my contemplation by considering the questions Claire posed and her reflections about "our working lifetime."

Did (Yasha) see me as creature made for sunlight and open places?
What am I doing in a closed-up little office and a tight little career girl apartment?
 I reflected. We are caught in the trap of the city, for years, for our working lifetime, but there is still hope, says the painted canvas, if we don’t forget there once was a dream.

Aunt Claire was my mother's sister. Claire was born in 1914 and died at age 88 in 2002. She was single until she finally met the right man, Rolland Metzger, and consented to marry him in 1967, after a long courtship. 

Claire was 52 years old and I was 23 when she married Rolland. From then on, until she died, we were close and she was  a big part of my life.

I knew of her life with Rolland but I knew nothing of her life as a single working woman, until Claire died and I inherited the painting, along with many published and unpublished articles and stories written by Claire. Among them was the undated, unattributed newspaper article, "The Painting Went Up." A better title might have been  "A Working Woman's Dream."

Claire's life is a story worth telling, with many ups and downs, or as Claire put it, "(My) life is so full of twists and turns."  

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