Daniel Yves Eisner - My Real Hue

My Real Hue

A Memoir

Daniel Yves Eisner

Copyright 2017 Daniel Yves Eisner

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2017

ISBN 978-1-63568-835-1 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63568-836-8 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Prologue

No Nazi Sommeliers (Translated from French)

Imagine it! After decades living in Paris and raising a family there, suddenly you have to leave. They were terrible days, Danny.

Now this was still a couple years before they made you wear those horrible yellow stars with Juif written on them, but no one knew what was coming, not yet. I just had to quickly get my family out of there.

I piled your grandfather, your mother, and her sister into our car at dusk. Your grandfather had suffered a massive heart attack upon learning of the occupation, and in those days, heart doctors recommended nothing but several weeks bedrest. He wasnt much help to the rest of us. We stopped at his law office to grab a few things and hit the road.

On the way, we had to zig-zag through the Loire Valley, staying with a couple of friends that afternoon to sleep. We only drove at night with our headlights off. We paid dozens of bribes to people along the way, knowing the heftier sum we paid, the more likely theyd keep their mouths shut when the Nazis came. We passed through Poitou Charentes before we finally arrived in Aquitaine, where we had our summer home.

Usually, when we arrived at our villa in Arcachon for the summer, the three of us were all so eager. Your mother and her sister anticipated gawking at our neighbor Tyrone Power. He was an extremely handsome Hollywood movie star and often tanned shirtless on the beach. I looked forward to some time away from my husband. You see, your grandfather often stayed in Paris during the holiday so he could play high-stakes bridge with his cronies. I never approved of it but kept my mouth shut because I knew it was his passion and it gave us some needed time apart. Did I ever tell you that when he died in 1960, he owed his bridge buddies $35,000? He belonged to a very exclusive bridge group known as the Cavendish Club, where every member took an oath to pay all gambling debts no matter what. Their motto was Debt of the game, debt of honor. Needless to say, I wasnt thrilled about having to pay that off even before I knew how much his estate was worth. Anyway, when we arrived that June, your grandfather was with us. Normally, we looked forward to a few months in Arcachon enjoying the sunshine and the wine. The temperature was pleasant as usual, but this time, we walked up to the doors knowing it might be the last time.

I was sad, sure. I went through the rooms and took what I could carry. They said you couldnt bring much onto the SS Ile de France, but I didnt care. There were some things the Nazis were never going to get their hands on as far as I was concerned. I instructed your mother to take her big sister and do the same.

When I made my way down to the musty wine cellar, I already knew what I had to do. First, I grabbed just one bottlea precious 1921 Chteau Cheval Blanc, Saint-milionand set it down on the stairs. Then I turned around and got to work.

I tipped over our oak barrels. I smashed bottles against the walls and the ground. The wine sometimes splashed onto my clothes, staining my dress, but I didnt care. I was having a ball. You see, Dannythere would be no Nazi sommeliers. I wouldnt stand for that. They could take my country, but they would never take my wine!

When I finally brought the bottle upstairs and met your grandfather and the girls, they looked at me like I was crazy. I laughed. I looked like I had just been swimming in grape juice or blood. I washed up and changed into my favorite summer dress. Then we went back outside, got in the car, and left.

We made it to Le Port de Bordeaux and boarded the ship before we even knew where we were going. By the time your grandfather finally discovered our destination, Buenos Aires, I had found a wine opener. We started to pass the delicious Cheval Blanc back and forth as we set off.

By the middle of June, the German soldiers would march down the Champs lyses. By the end of the month, they would make it to the coast and to Aquitaine and our summer house. As the coast disappeared in the distance, I tried to imagine the faces of those Nazi commanders when they went down into our wine cellar.

I must say, Danny, 1921 Chteau Cheval Blanc was the most delicious wine I ever had.

Chapter 1

Long Beach Les Misrables

I sat with my head titled back, mesmerized. Plumes of True Blue cigarette smoke picked up the piercing fragrance of Cabochard by Gres as my nanny spoke to me in French, as always. I sucked the aromatic mixture deep into my nostrils. My younger brother Mitch slept beside me. I rubbed my small feet gently against the Oriental rug in our living room, hoping to keep the energy going, praying she wouldnt stop. Fortunately, my maternal grandmother had a deep love for storytelling. She would never stop, at least not voluntarily.

It wasnt only the tales of her harrowing escape from the Nazi occupation of Europe either. I was equally enthralled, if not more so, by her stories about Paris between the two wars, a period she referred to as la belle poque (the beautiful era). She told stories of Picassos days as a struggling artist in the Montmartre section of the city and how he hung his paintings in a pink-colored restaurant called Le Lapin Agile (the agile rabbit) in exchange for hot meals. Nanny revealed how the Parisian aristocracy, of which she counted herself a member, entertained themselves by visiting sleazier sections of town to see how the other half lived. These aristocrats visited gay and lesbian bars, watched prostitutes in action, and on occasion, partook in Pariss underground activities themselves.

People called Nanny a grand dame. Born in Poland at the turn of the twentieth century but raised in Paris, she was impeccably dressed, flirtatious, and extremely funny. Her sense of humor kept her afloat. Like many Jews fleeing Europe, Nanny, her husband, and their two daughters spent a year in Buenos Aires because of the immigrant quotas in the United States. In 1941, they settled in New York City. Because my grandfather had been a successful lawyer while living in Paris, they had been able to bring enough money with them to live comfortably until he began importing lace, a hot commodity at the time. Nannys heavy French accent made her all the more charming in America. She basked in the attention and talked as long as an audience was there to listen.

Nannys husband, my mothers father, died when I was young. Nanny told me many years later his last words to my mother, delivered with his final breath, were Occupe-toi de ta mere (Take care of your mother). Though she had a beautiful studio apartment on the upper east side of New York City, my grandmother spent nearly every weekend with us. My mother didnt want her to be alone, so Nanny had her own bedroom in every home we ever lived.

My earliest years took place in a fashionable part of the Bronx called Riverdale. We lived near friends of my parents from Eastern Europe, who immigrated when the Nazis invaded Poland. One of them, a Polish medical doctor, became my pediatrician and diagnosed me with eczema, bronchial asthma, and a number of allergies. She recommended we move closer to the sea where the ocean air would be good my health.

My parents took her advice. We moved to Long Beach, a popular beach resort town on the south shore of Long Island. To get there from the city by car, you crossed the Long Beach Bridge, the Atlantic Beach Bridge, or the Meadowbrook Parkway Bridge as it was sandwiched between Reynolds Channel to the north and the Atlantic Ocean to the south. Long Beach started in the 1920s as a resort to the rich and famous with luxury hotels running along the boardwalk parallel to the Atlantic. By the 1940s it developed into a residential community where my parents raised my brother and me.