Geneva, Switzerland: Memories and Stories by Senior Citizens (Translated)

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 | 

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 was located the minoteries de Plainpalais. 

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

We Cross Paths with the Musils by Edouard Oppliguer

April 1941. I was about to leave for a long “relief posting” at the foot of the Gotthard. We made the most of my last days of freedom by taking long evening walks through what was still open countryside between Cologny, Vandoeuvres, and Chêne. Jacqueline would arrive from Veyrier by bicycle, then we would set off on foot toward the Plateau de Frontenex. From there we took the very narrow Chemin de la Gradelle.

At the very beginning, on the right, in a chalet that still stands, was the “Pouponnière de Grange-Canal” of our childhood, with its nurses—qualified or in training—dressed in pale blue. They were familiar to us, as they regularly came to post their letters at the station and did not disdain a bit of flirting with the young customs officers.

In April 1941, the nursery had moved to new premises on the Route de Chêne, at “Les Grangettes,” the first stage of what is now the clinic.

A place for walking, just steps from home, one can still dream of today: evening falls, silence, a true scent of the countryside, and the Bernese mountain dog from a nearby farm accompanying us part of the way.

Walkers were rare; often we were alone from one end of the path to the other. Yet one evening, we saw another couple approaching us, about the age of our parents, at first glance. Following old rural custom, we greeted them. The woman smiled at us, the man lifted his hat. His face was not unfamiliar to me.

Shortly before, I had seen him in deep conversation with Professor Askenazy in the Salle des Abeilles at the Athénée, while we were waiting for the invited speaker of the Geneva Society for German Studies.

I did not know who Professor Askenazy’s interlocutor was, and I would remain ignorant for a long time. I learned his name, but without connecting it to our walker on the Gradelle, when Claude Royme introduced The Man Without Qualities. A photograph, a few words read about Musil’s stay in Geneva, alerted me—but I drew no certain conclusion.

It was in 1981, when the Diaries were published, that I recognized the Musils in that couple of walkers. Notebook 35 of the second volume is devoted to the Musils’ forced stay at Grange-Canal. “Les Grangettes” and its director at the time play an important role there.

I read at random: “Behind all this (Musil has just described his garden in meticulous detail), now caught in a delicate mist, rises the brown-ochre nursery under its dark red-tiled roof, flanked by large birches and a kind of cypress; a solid building…” “In the afternoon, we took a walk along the Chemin de Grange-Falquet, Chemin de la Gradelle, Chemin de Grange-Canal…” “On Christmas Eve, we spent three-quarters of an hour at the nursery. The back of the refectory had been cleared. The nurses in blue and white were sitting on the floor, each with her infant in her arms. Around the room, on shelves, were packages that were distributed.

A beautiful tree. A piano. Christmas carols. (…) A singular harmony between the discreet cries of the children, the laughter, and the candlelight. The dominant impression, beyond the exoticism, was of great naturalness in festive dress—the celebration of a particular kind of family.”

When haymaking season came, the young women spread the hay. There were still meadows along the Route de Chêne. The Wahlen Plan was developing, land was being plowed everywhere (even Parc La Grange did not escape it); moreover, not a blade of grass from the remaining meadows was to be wasted. Musil notes, with a descriptive precision that often brings him close to Georges Perec in his Diaries: “A pleasant scene at haymaking time in the garden: Barbara with three or four pretty nurses. Blondes, and one dark-haired. One in very short culottes, modest, with fine but ordinary legs and broad tendons at the back of the knee.” I remember that dark-haired one—her first appearance before the mailbox at the Eaux-Vives station.

Having gone the other day to the clinic for an examination, I spent a long time in the middle of the parking lot reconstructing Musil’s Grangettes, the Grangettes of 1940 as I had also known them. Standing on the asphalt, I was, in my mind, in the meadow dried by Barbara and the young women, for in my estimation that was the spot from which Musil could see them from his home.

The Grangettes: an oasis in the desert crossing that was Musil’s stay in Geneva. He died there on April 15, 1942. He was not supported as he might have been—or should have been—particularly, it seems to me, by the Geneva Society for German Studies and its president, whom Musil, in his diary, calls “the little pope.”

See the original: Nous croisons les Musil

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.

Daily Life by Roger Kehrer

Before continuing with my personal memories, I think it is useful to set out the general situation in Geneva and the habits of its inhabitants, so different from those of today. Public electric lighting was relatively recent, dating from 1896. The first installation was made for the Pont de la Coulouvrenière, inaugurated for the Exposition Nationale that same year.

Judging by a photograph of the rue de la Corraterie from 1906, electricity did not immediately spread at great speed, since one still sees in that street a gas lamp alongside electric lights. In homes, the countless devices we have today for comfort were still unknown, and electricity was used mainly for lighting. I also vaguely remember oil lamps and “becs Auer,” those gas mantles used for lighting.

Later, when my chatter tired my parents, they would say kindly: “Allons, ferme ton bec, Auer.” It should be added that the “poires” (light bulbs) were very expensive—about 2 francs—and did not last as long as today, so one carefully switched off the light when leaving a room to save both bulbs and electricity. I remember our first electric iron—a costly and wonderful novelty—replacing the two or three ordinary irons previously used, which had to be heated in the oven of the potager stove.

I would not fail to mention the taller irons, with a compartment in which embers were placed, allowing them to stay hot longer. Embers were also used to fill the bassinoires (a kind of long-handled bed warmer with a lid) used in the evening to warm beds. These two instruments are now found almost only with antique dealers.

For beds, one could also heat glazed bricks in the oven beforehand and then place them, wrapped in wool, between the sheets.

The potager [as stated above: refers to a kitchen stove not a small garden] was present in every household at the time, used of course for cooking, but also for providing hot water for dishes and even for baths, which were taken in a large tub placed on the kitchen floor, as bathrooms were practically nonexistent in ordinary homes.

For hot water, on the side of the stove there was what was called a bouillotte, near the oven and the firebox. This bouillotte, holding between 5 and 10 liters, had a small tap at its base (without safety), the cause of many burns for small children who came within reach!

There is no need to exaggerate what maintaining the potager (wood and coal) and its exterior appearance represented for the housewife. It was polished, in a way, with a special product to give it a black, shiny finish, and the copper or brass handles were polished with “Sigolin,” which I believe still exists. Many housewives even devoted a special day to this task, called “faire les jaunes” in Geneva.

This expression had greatly intrigued my mother when she arrived in Geneva from France, as she thought, hearing a neighbor mention it, that it referred to a culinary specialty! On that day, one scrubbed and polished the potager, the espagnolettes of the windows, the door handles of the bedrooms and entrance, the pots, the lighting fixtures, etc., since all of these were made of copper or brass.

During the cold season, the potager remained lit permanently, serving as heating for the apartment, with all connecting doors open.

When it was considered that it “felt good,” one could enjoy a full fifteen degrees! In more comfortable dwellings, there was a large ceramic corner stove (“poêle catelles” in Geneva), which provided a modest heat to neighboring rooms through grated openings.

Even more advanced, some apartments had real central heating with radiators, though supplied and maintained by the tenant, who had to tend the furnace. Naturally, central heating then spread rapidly and, by the end of the 1930s, it was widespread.

A word more on electricity: in my childhood, there were practically no wall outlets; what would they have been used for? For the electric iron or some rare other device, one used what was called a “douille voleuse,” the equivalent of a modern double plug, but which, instead of being inserted into a wall socket, screwed like a bulb into the ceiling socket. One first unscrewed the bulb, screwed in the “douille voleuse,” which allowed a plug on each side, and then screwed the bulb back into it. The wire hanging from the ceiling was quite long (at least two meters) and looped through a porcelain counterweight filled with lead shot and a spring, allowing it to be lengthened or shortened and giving some flexibility for lighting a corner of the room, for example.

Let us now mention a chore of the time: laundry. Quite an event! It was done in the basement, where there was a laundry room with a large stove used to heat a cauldron in which the laundry was boiled with soap—and later washing powder—as well as, depending on the case, “bois de Panama” or small balls of “bleu” to restore whiteness. Instead of a simple cauldron, there were also “lessiveuses,” enormous zinc tubs with a vertical pipe resting on a domed, perforated base, like in certain coffee makers. The water circulated continuously, pouring over the laundry and sparing the user from stirring it. Then came rinsing, which was no small task.

One can imagine that all these operations for the housewife, who also had to maintain the potager, prepare meals, and do the housework, represented an enormous day’s labor. On laundry day, it was best for the husband to remain as discreet as possible and for the children to be somewhat less unruly than usual.

But it was not over… The rinsed and wrung laundry had to be placed in a large wicker basket and carried up to the attic, where the “grenier d’étendage” [dedicated space in the attic to hang clothes to dry] was usually located—simply lines stretched between the walls. When I was young, few buildings had elevators.

The first of these were not electric but hydraulic. One entered the cabin and chose the floor by pulling on a cable that ran from top to bottom! One can imagine the pleasure of climbing four, five, or six floors with a basket of wet laundry. And also the number of baskets of logs and buckets of coal needed almost daily for household needs (cooking and heating), which had to be brought up from the cellar to the apartment.

The housewife’s revenge: this was the husband’s job and, when they were strong enough, the children’s as well. For convenience, my father had built a large cabinet with a trapdoor at the bottom, called a “charbonnière,” which stood in the kitchen (they were quite large at the time!) to store coal—three or four sacks that the coal merchant would bring up to the apartment instead of leaving them in the cellar.

Fuel was ordered (in summer, because prices were lower) once or twice for the winter, and the delivery man, carrying a large jute sack on his back, transported 50-kg [about 110 pounds] sacks from his cart to the client’s cellar. An anecdote: my parents, newly married, had to order their fuel for the first time—200 kg.

Having no experience, those 200 kg seemed like a mountain to them, and in preparation they almost completely cleared their cellar and even asked a neighbor if part of their coal could be stored there! You can imagine their faces when only four modest sacks were delivered.

As supplementary fuel, some households (including ours) still used old papers, newspapers, cardboard, etc. These were torn into small pieces, soaked for several days, then kneaded into large balls like snowballs and left to dry, saving some coal to “keep the fire going.”

Running water was installed almost everywhere; it was not the Middle Ages! But bathrooms were still rare and often equipped with rudimentary gas water heaters with a pilot light, the cause of many dangerous explosions.

If one preferred to extinguish the pilot light, the danger was almost as great when relighting it. As for comfort, there were no refrigerators, except in shops that needed them (butchers, dairies, cafés). Food was kept in a relatively cool cupboard under the kitchen window, cooled by a grated opening in the outer wall.

In summer, this was not very effective. In winter, natural cold was used by placing food on the outer window ledge—but beware of gusts of wind and frozen bottles!

If one absolutely needed ice, one had to buy a piece from a café or butcher, or watch for the cart of the “Glacières de Genève,” drawn by a horse, distributing large blocks of ice to regular customers, and obtain a piece from the obliging delivery man. We children also waited for that cart to catch a chip of ice—whether in the air or from the ground—when the delivery man used his pick. We sucked it with delight. What a treat in summer!

For private individuals, the telephone was still an exception. In 1920 there were only about 9,000 subscribers, and the system was not automatic; one had to ask the operator for the desired number, and the “demoiselles du téléphone”[the telephone ladies] connected calls manually. The first public telephone was installed at Place Longemalle in 1929.

Radio was in its early days. The more “scientific” children tinkered with wires, a cigar box, and mysterious components to build a crystal receiver—probably the ancestor of the transistor—which produced a mixture of crackling sounds in which, from time to time, one could distinguish a few words or notes of music.

What would today’s radio enthusiasts say? As everyone knows, this invention was called T.S.F., télégraphie sans fil. [wireless].

I cannot resist quoting a few “prophets” whose remarks show how incredible these inventions seemed at the time: Marconi’s wireless telegraph, television, and cinema were all dismissed as absurd or impossible.

T.S.F. reminds me of a personal memory: the 1921 boxing match between Dempsey (USA) and Carpentier (France) for the world championship. We children—and many adults—admired the elegant French boxer and hoped for his victory. We listened to the broadcast on the Place des Alpes, thanks to a receiver in a nearby apartment with open windows.

I still feel, incredible as it may seem, our disappointment when our idol was defeated. Phonographs were becoming more common, with horn speakers and hand-cranked mechanisms for playing 78-rpm records, often bearing the famous image of the dog listening to “His Master’s Voice.” Photography also became popular thanks to Kodak box cameras.

The streets were free, or nearly so, for our games, since there were still very few vehicles: a few horse-drawn trucks (those of Sauvin-Schmidt lasted in traffic until the 1950s!), the electric vans of the Post Office, those of the “Tribune” [the city newspaper] and of “Naville,” [the newsagents] and also the “Glacières” mentioned earlier.

See the origininal: La vie quotidienne

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

In Carouge by Bernard Dethurens

Carouge—small town or large village? The Carouge of our childhood, in the 1940s, was a large village, and the Rue de la Filature a small working-class street where people knew each other well.

Social life, shaped by the school, the parishes, and local associations, was intense. Evenings were devoted to all kinds of activities that have since been replaced by television. Rue de la Filature began at Rue Jacques-Dalphin, sloped gently down toward Rue Saint-Victor with its No. 12 tram, then crossed Rue Saint-Joseph and reached Rue Vautier.

The Clos de la Filature (today Avenue Cardinal-Mermillod) extended it and served an industrial area between the Arve and Rue de Veyrier.

We lived in a recent three-story building that contrasted with the neighboring two-story buildings in traditional Carouge style. Opposite stood the Mermod shoe-polish factory; next to it, the coal merchant Trémège with his teams of white horses; and the Poids Public, a well-known café which, at the time, was used daily to weigh all kinds of loads. The Coop was across from the café, at the corner of Filature and Saint-Joseph.

At the very top of the street, the locksmith Vincent made the neighboring windows tremble with the blows of his hammer. His forge blazed from morning to evening. With his tall stature and booming voice, Monsieur Vincent frightened all the neighborhood children. And there were many children: “true” Carougeois, many from Fribourg, and above all Italians, who gave the street a slight southern flavor.

The street was a constant spectacle. Workers—men and women—went to their jobs at the Clos de la Fonderie on foot or by bicycle, carrying their lunch pails. Children played soccer, marbles, hopscotch, and “it-is” [il-est] the Carouge version of tag [Perched Cat is a classic French children's tag game], like “cat on the perch.” Traffic was almost nonexistent. A few trucks and horse-drawn carts would occasionally disturb the rhythm of the street. Then, little by little, the more prosperous were able to buy cars. Vélosolex [French article with lots of photos] mopeds appeared.

In winter, the most vivid memories are the abundance of snow, sledding, and the passing of the triangular scraper that allowed us to skate on the hardened snow. A few drunkards added to the local color, as did the knife grinder eagerly awaited by all, the milkman who delivered milk and butter upstairs, and the wandering musicians to whom children tossed a few coins wrapped in paper.

In September, the Carouge fair [la Vogue de Carouge] set up on the Place du Marché and the Place du Temple. From our windows, we could see the swings rising above the rooftops of neighboring houses, moving to the rhythm of mechanical music repeated a hundred times into the late evening.

Yes, life on Rue de la Filature seemed pleasant to us, even though it was very difficult for our parents—but it was shared by an entire community: Carouge.

See the original: A Carouge

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

So ends this sampling of the stories being shared in French on histoires.net.