Geneva, Switzerland: Stories by Senior Citizens (Translated)

Here are some of the translated stories: 

Carouge
By Michelle Dethuren

I was born on Rue de la Filature in 1943 and lived there until 1965. I remember my childhood in this neighborhood as a time when games and the street were one and the same. “Can I go play?” implicitly meant “in the street,” where all the children gathered.

Many of our games—hopscotch, jump rope—were played on the sidewalk, but others, like ball games, took place in the street. I have no memory of being afraid of cars or of receiving any warnings about them.

I remember one winter when it snowed enough for us to go sledding in the upper part of the street (between Rue Jacques-Dalphin and Rue Saint-Victor), on a slope barely worthy of the name. I also recall skating in the street on icy snow.

It is difficult for me to date these memories precisely. They probably date from before 1953. It was a time when our father, who was a delivery driver, would park his van in front of our building when he came home for lunch at midday. Parking was never a problem, as very few people owned a car.

Rue de la Filature was home to modest families. Until I was twenty, in 1963, I kept hearing the same jokes when I said I lived in Carouge. One of the classic jokes was to ask whether we had passports, because there were so many seasonal foreign workers in Carouge that crossing the Arve was considered like leaving Switzerland.

These seasonal workers fascinated me. Wasn’t it said that eight or ten of them lived together in run-down apartments with no comfort at all? From the window of our apartment, I would try to make out what was happening in the building across the street, which housed many of them.

At the bottom of Rue de la Filature, there was a coal shop owned by the Trémège family. Coal deliveries were made with a cart pulled by a horse. Was it the blackness of the coal? Was it because the lower part of the street seemed darker to us? Or something else? I don’t know, but I remember the sense of fear that the lower end of the street (near Rue Vautier) inspired in us. We never went to play “that far down,” and the children who lived there would come up to play with us, about fifty meters higher, near the Mermod shoe polish factory, whose large gold-lettered sign on the façade served as a target for our ball games.

A little further up, at the corner of Rue Saint-Joseph, there was—and still is—the Café du Poids Public. It was a functional public weigh station, where all sorts of vehicles were weighed, as well as horses and bulls during the annual markets held at Place du Marché.

Along the façade of the Poids Public building, there were iron rings used to tie up the animals.

The Poids Public was a lively café, and very often—especially on Saturday nights—shouts would wake our parents, who were amazed that their children had managed to sleep through the terrible noise they complained about.

At the opposite corner, where there is now a solarium, there used to be a fish shop. Directly across from it was a second-hand furniture store—not an antique shop, but one that sold very simple, inexpensive furniture. A little further up, where there is now a business related to real estate, there used to be a grocery store.

Or perhaps it was next door, where there is now a shop devoted to personal development. At the corner of Rue Saint-Victor, opposite the Café des Négociants—which already existed—there was another grocery store, and where there is now a children’s clothing shop, there used to be a butcher.

Unfortunately, it is difficult for me to remember all the storefronts. It is true that many new shops have been created in Carouge where there were once ground-floor apartments. And of course, there were no physiotherapy practices, no insurance offices, no dog grooming salons, no graphic design agencies, and no shops selling oriental objects.

All the shops were connected to everyday activities and needs.

See the original: Carouge

Sephardic Jews in Geneva
By Irma Mazliah

My husband came to Geneva in 1908; he was one of the first Sephardim. There was not yet a Sephardic community—only a few families living on Rue du Cendrier and Rue des Étuves: the Lévy, Seni, Gérson, Sultani, Benaroya, and Vaëna families.

At the time, the political situation in Turkey was very unstable. Jews who had means—bankers, grain producers, owners of Oriental carpet shops, antique dealers, and so on—remained in Turkey. The poorer ones left for Palestine.

My husband’s parents could not make a living in Turkey. For example, they had to send their children to school but did not have enough money. So Mr. Seni, who was already living in Switzerland and traveled back and forth to Turkey, told them to come here because schooling was free. It was also possible to buy furniture and pay in installments, and so on. My husband’s father was a cabinetmaker, a profession valued in Geneva. But even at that time it was already difficult to find work, although he spoke French well.

As for me, I came to Geneva on a pleasure trip in 1928, to spend two months with my aunt, Mrs. Ariel. My sister married Mr. Adato, who was a practicing Sephardic Jew. Then I returned to Turkey.

My mother-in-law, when she heard that there was a young woman ready to marry, quickly came to fetch me. I returned to Geneva in 1931, for a second visit. I became engaged immediately and married in 1932. The first time, my husband said: “I would like to go out with you, miss, if you like me.” And that was how it happened—I was married for forty years and had two children, a son and a daughter.

— From the publication Acuerdos by Mrs. Ida Dery of the social service of the C.I.G. See the original: Les Séfarades à Genève

CIA or KGB
By Edouard Oppliguer

The Cold War was taking shape, in the vagueness that generally marks the beginning of a new situation. Positions were not yet clearly defined, as they soon would be; this left individuals a modest margin of freedom. That spring, there was a conference on forests at the United Nations, the subjects not yet as clearly delineated and assigned to the various branches of the organization as they are today.

Struggling to make ends meet, which was common at the time, we were delighted that I managed to land, very temporarily, a position as driver for the Romanian representative. He was a man of great culture, passionate about Goethe—and I can still see myself in Lucerne, driving him to the house where Goethe had stayed.

Within a few days, I became more of a secretary than a driver, drafting his speeches from the notes he provided. My familiarity with forests was very useful—I should say our familiarity, since Jacqueline, a true Morclanne (from Morcles), also had the forest in her blood, so to speak. As was customary, the delegations hosted receptions in turn.

So here we were, one late afternoon, at the Soviets’ place on Avenue de la Paix. A great calm, few cars except those of the guests; at the entrance, a single gendarme in the gray-blue uniform of the time, with a tall kepi.

Above stood the headquarters of the ICRC; below, the Palais des Nations; in the distance, Mont Blanc gradually turning pink, notched by the dark triangle of the Môle.

I was there in two capacities: as president of “Travail et Culture,” having received an invitation, and as the Romanian delegate’s driver. An ambiguous situation which, as I write now, makes me think of Robert Walser.

It is said—though this should be verified—that he would sometimes answer his door as a valet, usher in the visitor, withdraw, and then reappear as Robert Walser. I moved about, chatting as a president, then joined my fellow drivers gathered behind the building.

One of the Soviet drivers, who had been a tank soldier at Stalingrad, had a huge tin of caviar within reach, set on a windowsill, and served it by the ladle to the others. To accompany it, he offered generous servings of Chianti, which he loved. The conversation—a mixture of French, German, English, and Russian—was lively. And for me, in a very down-to-earth but meaningful way, the Cold War truly took effect when the drivers from opposing camps, on orders, stopped speaking to each other.

This would be an opportunity to study the mechanisms of psychological pressure. That would take me too far afield, though we will encounter some elements of it again. I reappeared as president on the other side. One had less fun there, naturally. But although the atmosphere was not as warm as among the drivers, it was not yet as cold and stiff as it would soon become.

A beautiful young blonde woman, very elegant, dressed all in black—a fitted dress and a wide-brimmed hat, in short, with the air of a Hadley Chase heroine—was the center of a circle of admirers, dazzled and charmed by the cascade of her laughter. This milieu is very gossipy, perhaps the most gossipy I have known since my parish of Eaux-Vives. Whispered comments were circulating rapidly.

Who was she?

Where did she come from? A mere gatecrasher, perhaps?—there were always some in those days, as security at the entrance was lax. One hypothesis began to circulate among the more informed, or those who thought themselves so: a girl from the CIA, according to some; from the KGB, according to others.

One or the other?

Or neither?

Or both?

I can still hear that cascading laughter, as Mont Blanc shifts from pink to mauve. If I remember that laughing blonde woman, it is no doubt because women were rare at such gatherings: a few wives, two or three pretty secretaries… It was still a period that would later be called “macho.” Has it really disappeared?

And I recall another scene, in Bern, at a different reception. A largely male assembly, with Federal Councillor Max Petitpierre surrounded by admirers; in the background, the Chinese ambassador’s wife in a sumptuous gown—it was not yet the time of work-blue uniforms—and Jacqueline, seated on either side of a chest, absorbed in a game of dominoes.

See the original: CIA ou KGB

On the Way to School
By Georgette Graff

It is about the streets of the Old Town that I am going to speak. They evoke for me the memories of my childhood: every day I would walk along Étienne-Dumont Street (formerly called “Rue des Belles-Filles”… quite a name!) on my way to Brechbühl School. A few shopkeepers had their stores along this street, which gave it a certain liveliness.

I remember the shop of Mr. Tchin-ta-ni, “an authentic Chinese man,” who had taken refuge in Geneva at the beginning of the last century and who sold tea—every kind of tea. (Today, this shop is located at the bottom of Rue Verdaine.) My mother bought her tea from Tchin-ta-ni, and I have continued the tradition.

Other streets, whose names still ring in my ears, also come back to me: Rue Chausse-Coq, where a baker had his shop—you could buy “scraps” of pastry there for just a few coins. Near Place du Bourg-de-Four, there was the Jossaume stationery shop, where we stocked up on notebooks, erasers, and pencils. Nearby was the Jullien bookstore, which still survives in an old-fashioned setting despite the many bookstores in our city.

From Bourg-de-Four, we would take Rue des Chaudronniers, with its antique shops and a famous confectionery-pastry shop, “Cavillier” (if my memory serves me right). We would pass by Saint-Antoine Prison, which impressed us as children… and then arrive at the Promenade Saint-Antoine overlooking the boulevard, from where the Escalade procession sets off every year on December 11—a tradition so dear to the hearts of the people of Geneva.

See the original: Sur le chemin de l’école

Quai Charles Page
By Janine Payot

In the 1950s, as very young newlyweds, we lived in a building on Quai Charles Page, located between Pont Neuf and Pont des Acacias. Just a short walk from our home were the Plainpalais mills.

Often, very early in the morning, railway wagons mounted on long trailers would arrive to deliver grain to the mill. I would sometimes go and buy flowers from the horticulturist established at the foot of that yellow building, mysterious from the outside.

At first (in 1953), the neighborhood was quiet and pleasant. We often walked along the quays shaded by plane trees. On the way back, along the opposite bank—the Quai du Cheval Blanc—we would go from one bridge to the other.

From time to time, we would stop to watch fishermen wearing thigh-high boots. They ventured far into the icy waters of the river, searching for grayling, a fish from the salmon family which, I believe, has disappeared from this river in recent years.

Lush vegetation flourished along the still-natural banks, especially venerable willows whose light seeds drifted into the apartments. It was a lovely walk in every season. After the snow melted or during heavy rains, the Arve became very dark and turbulent. Later, a drop structure was built near Pont Neuf. It was both an attraction and a nuisance, as at night it kept us from sleeping until we became accustomed to its roar.

In March, the quay changed appearance and became an extraordinary parking area for visitors to the Motor Show, which was then held at the Palais des Expositions in Plainpalais.

From our third-floor apartment, we watched the ballet of gleaming cars, sometimes coming from far away. Wooden planks were placed along the sidewalk so that vehicles could park at an angle. Gendarmes in kepis ensured that they were properly aligned. We were fascinated. Few people around us owned a car.

In our building, only the caretaker—the man responsible for the heating—had one. As for us, we never imagined we might one day own a car. We did not go to the Motor Show; it was right there before our eyes. The “big American cars” were beginning to arrive, and elegant people stepped out of them. We spent hours watching them.

In front of the Palais des Expositions, a photographer took pictures of passersby (in black and white, of course). We have one in which we look like two children among the crowd of visitors. You can see that it was raining heavily and still quite cold.

By the time we moved away in 1958, traffic had become noisy. There were especially motorcyclists revving their engines at dawn, waking all the residents.

During those same years—the 1950s and 1960s—my mother ran a shop selling wool, lingerie, and sewing supplies, right near Pont Neuf, at the beginning of Rue de Carouge.

I remember that, along with the pleasant smell of freshly baked bread, rumors would sometimes spread early in the morning—from the bakery to the grocery store, growing at the hairdresser’s, crossing the street, whispered at the milliner’s between hat fittings, passed along to the furrier next door… They could be heard in the clamor of the garage, became topics of conversation in the two cafés facing each other, and intensified as noon bells rang in my mother’s shop.

Thus, one morning, word of mouth told us that the police were pulling a drowned man from the river. A fisherman had seen him floating in the currents of the Arve. The emotion spread through the entire street.

I speak only of this bank, because the river formed a boundary with the people on the other side of the bridge. Over there, after all, was Carouge—not Geneva!

All this is to say that this Plainpalais neighborhood felt very much like a village. Traffic moved in both directions along the quay, just as it did on the street where tram number 12 passed noisily.

In some of the older buildings, there were no bathrooms, and one needed a water heater to have hot water. Heating was by coal.

It may sound as though I am speaking of ancient times [adapted from the age of Methuselah], yet I am not so old.

See the original: Le Quai Charles Page

The Society of Sephardic Ladies
By Simone Skolnik-Ariel

In 1925, Mrs. Pinkhas founded the Society of Sephardic Ladies (or Sephardites), and I believe my mother, Claire Ariel, joined shortly afterward. She served as its president for many years, until 1956–57.

My mother would have continued longer had she not suffered from health problems. She often had to take medication in order to attend the society’s meetings and those of the workshop she founded, where clothes were sewn to be sent to Israel. This activity was even more important during the Second World War.

We even had the satisfaction of receiving moving letters from our sponsored children. The workshop was still active in 1991. It never failed, even though the society itself no longer existed.

As president of the Society of Sephardic Ladies, my mother would send gifts for weddings, bar mitzvahs, or engagements, and she always wrote a poem. She also wrote—probably in collaboration with Mr. Habib—an entire Purim revue in which almost all the Sephardim took part.

I myself was also a member of the society. I attended the meetings, which were held once a year, and from time to time I audited the society’s accounts. Each year, two women were responsible for checking the bookkeeping.

The Sephardic ladies also belonged to other organizations, where most members were Ashkenazi, such as “Les Dames de l’Est,” “Les Filles d’Esther,” or “WIZO.”

These societies organized bridge games, charity evenings, and activities to raise funds for Israel. As for us, we contributed through whatever means we could.

We held events at the Grand Casino, renting halls where we organized theatrical performances. We staged plays written partly in Judeo-Spanish, with characters inspired by Turkey—for example, the casamentiero, the matchmaker. At the time, many marriages were arranged in this way, since the community was small. It was necessary to create connections.

For many years, Mrs. Mazliah devoted herself to the Society of Sephardic Ladies. In 1991, being tired and with no one willing to take over responsibility, the society was dissolved. I believe there are still two or three people who remain active.

— From the publication Acuerdos by Mrs. Ida Dery of the social service of the C.I.G. See the original: La Société des Dames Séfarades

Professional Life
By Simone Skolnik-Ariel

My parents did not find work during the first eight months. I believe that everyone who arrived at that time had a difficult life. After exhausting their small savings, my parents tried to sell the few fabrics and embroidery materials they had managed to bring back from France. They then began doing what they had done in France—“la chine” (buying and reselling goods).

My father, who embroidered himself—which was rare for a man—would go to the market at Place de l’Île to sell embroidery, fabrics, lace, and items that women of that time, very fond of elegance, valued more than today.

If ladies asked him for a particular design, he could create it himself. My father may have been the only one selling fabric by the meter along with his own embroidery patterns. Later, three or four years afterward, he ran a small shop at Place Bel-Air called “Au Paradis des Dames.”

The Atmosphere

I know that on some Sundays, my father would go play cards or talk with friends at a society called Bikour Holim, which was a charitable organization.

Around 1920, my mother quickly began attending gatherings with local women, such as Mrs. Gérson or Mrs. Sultani.

Sometimes these meetings took place at our home. In the summer, we would go out for fresh air—there were dozens of us—often by the lake, at La Gabiule near Corsier. There was a restaurant where one could bring borekas and other Sephardic specialties, and even peel cucumbers, provided that drinks were purchased from the restaurant.

We picnicked frequently between 1920 and 1930, almost every Sunday. We held gatherings, played games, and sang. My mother, who had learned many poems in Turkey—she had attended the Alliance Israélite, spoke French well, and loved reciting—wanted to bring some liveliness. So she created small parodies of La Fontaine’s fables for these women. She embroidered, and made things related to the local women. And they were happy to have someone who could guide them a bit in their entertainments.

— From the publication Acuerdos by Mrs. Ida Dery of the social service of the C.I.G. See the original: La vie professionnelle

American Fragments Abroad
By Ardan Michael Blum

The subtle joy of being an American who grew up in Europe was in the small acts of retrieval. 

A Vectrex (video game machine) was carried over by visiting relatives, traveling from Los Angeles to Vandoeuvres. Stacks of Oreo cookies appeared in my room with an uncle from New York City who wanted me to be happy.

The Fourth of July in Geneva was the largest celebration of its kind in Europe. It had Pop Rocks, grape bubble gum, and root beer. America was assembled in fragments.