The Condo News print newspaper is published every other Wednesday. It is circulated throughout Palm Beach County, from Delray to North Palm Beach, and from Singer Island, Palm Beach and South Palm Beach to Royal Palm Beach, in Condominium, Cooperative and Home Owner Association Communities. For more information, or to have the Condo News  brought to your community, e-mail us or write to: P.O. Box 109, West Palm Beach, FL 33409. Tel:(561) 471-0329


Home

 

Food, Fun & Entertainment

 

Essays

 

The Clubhouse Gallery

 

Brag Book

 

Sports

 

Out & About

 

Decorating Concepts 

 

Gardening

 

Fit After Fifty

 

TCCA News

 

Local News

 

Veterans News

 

Gulf Wars

 

Ask the Lawyer

 

Letters to the Editor / Opinion Articles


Classified Ads

 

Real Estate

 

Display Ads


Ad Form

 

Advertising Rates  

 

Contact Us  

 

Condo News Online Special Features Page

SPECIAL   F E A T U R E S

On this page: 

• Profile in Courage

by Tina Chippas

• Meet Francoise Guillemain d'Echon "Francie"

by Bernard Weixelbaum


Profile in Courage

By Tina Chippas

We love heroes. They makes us feel good and hopeful that, in our world of chaos and self-indulgence, there are people who demonstrate gallant, selfless and audacious behaviors to help others—people who show us the way to a better humankind and we’re as proud of them as if we knew them personally.

A first-generation Greek-American, I was schooled in the great heroes of Grecian myths and lore. Homer, Plato, Socrates, Zeus and his family of amazing, often-mischievous children were topics for dinner conversations in my home. I guess I took it for granted that heroes existed, fictional and real. I knew I had heroes in my family: a father who, at age nine and parentless, came to America to work. At fifteen, he brought his four brothers to this country and at twenty founded a successful business. He demonstrated a work ethic and code of honor for his children to follow. We lost my brother, an Air Force belly gunner, in the Pacific. Surely, he was my hero. And I had a mother who epitomized all that was good and pure in helping others. Yes, I knew people I considered heroic, good people.

But I had never known my heroic grandfather, a Greek-Orthodox priest, until forty years after his death. Call it kismet, call it fate. I was in Berchtesgaden, Germany. I had just climbed flights of stairs out of the salt mine tour—the same mine where Hitler manufactured fighter planes deep underground for safekeeping. High up on a mountain, Hitler’s summer home, "Eagle’s Nest," as conquering American soldiers dubbed it, was visible from where I stood. I had a half hour before the bus tour resumed and I wandered into a tiny cemetery. In the fashion of cemeteries there, it was not an unpleasant place to be. With neatly tended, bright mountain flowers edging the plots, precisely trimmed trees providing shade and benches to rest—it was pretty and park-like.

I walked in a few feet more and stopped short. Large tombstones decorated the graves. On each tombstone was a portrait of a German soldier in uniform. I didn’t see the youthful or determined facial expressions of the soldiers at first—I only saw the swastikas and insignias. On hats, on armbands, on jackets. These symbols of the Nazi party seemed to leap out of the photographs at me. As a young child with three brothers in the army, a gold star hanging in our window and another brother wounded in France, that war was all too real and painful for my family. Hitler was a crazed demon to the little girl who saw her mother dressed in mourning black, weeping for the oldest son she would never see again, for the two she might never see again. I stared at the grim faces of Nazi soldiers and officers. I was chilled to the bone though a hot July sun beat down on me.

"Incredible," I said to a fellow-American tourist who had wandered in and stood beside me, "that we can see this so many years later and still be affected by it." He, too, stared at the tombstone photos and nodded silently. We stood, not speaking, a while longer and then turned to meet our bus. We exchanged names. His was Jacob. He was a Bostonian, traveling with his wife, Natalie. He asked the nationality of my last name and I told him it was Greek.

He looked at me and smiled. "I’m Jewish. I have a special fondness for Greeks. If it weren’t for a Greek Orthodox priest in Athens who hid my parents and helped them escape from the invading German soldiers, I wouldn’t be here!" I had the strangest feeling that I knew the answer to my question when I asked if he knew the priest’s name.

"Father Nicholas," he replied. It was, indeed, my grandfather!

Tina's grandparents 

Father Nicholas with his wife

Photo submitted by Tina Chippas

 Father Nicholas' role in the Resistance.

Destiny had placed Jacob in my life for a reason. I was in the midst of writing a curriculum on genocide for a school district and a holocaust center. It seemed to fit into life’s plan that I would learn about my grandfather’s role in the Resistance at this time. A trip to Plaka was in order.

Plaka is a village, oddly located in the midst of a bustling, modern Athens. The first construction workers came from the Cycladic island of Anafi, after the Greek Revolution in 1828. They built Athens’ main buildings and their own homes on the slopes of the Acropolis in their traditional island style and created this small village with whitewashed houses and narrow paths between them. On my first visit there, its original charm had not yet been sullied by vendors selling tourist trinkets.

Plaka today.

Photo by Tina Chippas

I was glad to escape the torrid sun and entered the cool darkness of the tiny church, one of the oldest churches in Athens, dating back to the eleventh century, close to the Acropolis. I looked around with heartfelt awe and respect. This was where my grandfather had been priest, where my mother was christened, prayed, and spent her girlhood. There were no pews, no chairs. Candles, in ornate brass candelabras, flickered and cast mysterious shadows. The scent of burning wax mingled with the incense. The power of icons, hundreds of years old, surrounded me. I was overwhelmed with a sense of coming home. I knelt, on the stone floor, the same stones where my grandparents stood when they married, baptized their children, where their coffins rested before they were put to rest.

The Church at Plaka, 

Athens, Greece

Photo by Tina Chippas

 

Inside the Plaka Church

Photo by Galen Frysinger

 

 

"My daughter." I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up into the bright blue eyes of an old priest, peering at me over his wire spectacles, his face creased in concern. He introduced himself as Father Orestes and asked if he could help me. "I am the granddaughter of Father Nicholas. I’ve come to learn about my grandfather," I answered. He smiled and told me he had been the deacon who served under my grandfather. He invited me to join him in the tiny garden behind the church.

We left the church, sat in the shade of a vine-covered arbor and sipped tepid tea with the scent of mint wafting toward us from the garden. It was incredibly hot but Father Orestes, even in his black robes, didn’t seem bothered by it. He spoke slowly, remembering the painful past. History documents that the Greeks were not equipped to fight such a war and were far outnumbered by the Italians and Germans; their armies had rudimentary arms and hardly any uniforms or warm clothing. In October of ’40, when Italy invaded Greece, Greek troops repelled them after a bitter struggle. They were proud—that was the first Allied victory in the war. Then Hitler launched the battle of Greece and the Greeks were outweighed by Germany, Bulgaria, and Italy. Our British, Australian and New Zealand allies, combined, could not overcome the German might. Many were lost in that battle. But when the Germans tried to seize Crete with paratrooper drops, the Cretans and Allies fought fiercely and their fight delayed the German’s military plans against Russia by a month.

Within sight of the Acropolis -- 

note the Greek flag flying atop the Acropolis in the distance.

Photo by Galen Frysinger

Father Orestes continued, "Then God sent His servants to show us the way." All Greeks know the symbolic act of defiance when the German invasion started. After the Germans entered Athens, they ordered an Evzone, one of the elite soldiers who guard the flag that flies over the Acropolis, to remove it. The young soldier obeyed the order, then wrapped himself in our blue and white flag and leaped from the wall of the ancient fortress to his death. It was the first day of German occupation and the first act of resistance in the city.

Changing of the Evzone guards at the Acropolis

Photo by Galen Frysinger

The old priest wiped his eyes. "It was a terrible time for Greece, for mankind. But there were heroic people, like your grandfather, who showed us the way out of the hell Hitler had created."

Father Nicholas' role in safe harboring Jews during the Resistance.

I met, again, with Father Orestes. Despite his age, his memory was sharp. He described Father Nicholas as a man who assumed responsibility for helping everyone, regardless of religion or station in life. "There are people who are so pure of heart, they are chosen by God to lead our souls," the old priest attested. He related that no one knew, at first, that Father Nicholas was involved in hiding the fleeing Jews. He had been safe-harboring Jews from Salonika until they could be transported and the ancient church had many hiding places. In 1941, Germans were already in Athens and Hitler had authorized Himmler to exterminate Jews. Jews had lived in Salonika since the fifteenth century. They were doctors, artists, lawyers, musicians, business people who contributed much to that society and the Germans herded 48,000 of them out of Salonika and shipped them to Auschwitz. Only 11,000 were allowed to live as slave labor. Many died en route to Auschwitz. The others were killed.

I learned from Father Orestes that there were many Greeks who helped Jews to escape. The Germans warned that anyone aiding Jews to escape would be executed but that did not deter the Greeks. The Church of Greece, under Archbishop of Athens Damaskinos Papandreou’s leadership, condemned Hitler’s plans for the country and instructed priests to announce its position in their sermons. When the Germans started rounding up Jews, over 600 Greek Orthodox priests were arrested and deported because of their actions in helping Jews. Archbishop Damaskinos and Athens Police Chief Evert faced the threat of death for their efforts, and would, surely, have been killed, if the extent of their assistance had become known to the Germans. With heroic efforts, they saved the lives of thousands of Jews.

I was concerned that the retelling of this tragic period of history seemed to have shaken Father Orestes, but he was determined to complete his account of that time. The day came, he said, when German soldiers’ boots resounded as they marched to the church. They removed Father Nicholas and his assistants from the church and shot them. They stood, I was told, and faced their executioners, without fear. They were people who rose to the occasion that demanded sacrifice and love for their human brothers, without regard to religion. We sat in silence until the old priest raised his hand and said, "May God rest their souls." He saw me to the gate and bade me good-bye. As is our custom, and as my mother taught me, I kissed the old priest’s hand, a sign of respect for the church.

Before I left Greece, I visited my grandfather’s grave. It wasn’t in a cemetery as precisely landscaped as the German cemetery in Berchtesgaden where Jacob, my fellow-American tourist, revealed my grandfather’s deeds to me. It was more country-like, under silver olive trees. The headstones were simple ones. There were no photographs, merely names and dates. I laid flowers on his grave and thought about this heroic man I had never met. How proud I was to be his granddaughter and have him a part of my heritage. I thought about all those Greeks who had placed their own lives and the lives of their families in peril, or worse, perished, saving people of another belief. They made " . . . deliver us from evil," a reality. They fought evil with every might of their being. Surely, our ancient fathers must have been satisfied that their children fulfilled the glory that was Greece. 

They were, all, heroes.

I thought of all the heroes I had ever known or read about. I’ve observed that when a crisis occurs people respond in three basic ways: some who look at the situation and decide non-involvement is safest; some become part of the problem and, thankfully, there are those who ask, "What can I do to help? How can I make this better?" I’ve decided that the last one is what heroes do. They become involved and perform heroic acts in times of crisis. They are ordinary people performing extraordinary deeds.

Bust of an honored priest

Photo by Galen Frysinger

Ancient ruins at Plaka

Photo by Tina Chippas

Author Tina Chippas outside a cafe in Plaka

Photo by Tina Chippas

Tina Chippas is a resident of SeaMark Condominiums in North Palm Beach, FL. She has authored an unpublished novel, Affair in Athens, that narrates her grandfather’s heroic sheltering of Salonika Jews during WWII. Contact her through  tinachipp@ymail.com

Galen Frysinger is a retired scientist who spends most of his time traveling to interesting places in the world. With a PhD from Yale, he worked in University research for the Federal government and with industry. His field is now in Comparative Ethnography. He has traveled to 174 independent countries and 74 dependencies. His photographs capture the essence of the people and countries he has visited.


Meet Francoise Guillemain d'Echon ... through the eyes of Bernard Weixelbaum 

 

FRANCIE

 At the risk of sounding like a page out of a Reader’s Digest magazine, I am going to attempt putting into words my 60+ year span of recollections, memories, mind pictures – with a regrettable 40 year hiatus - of the most unforgettable individual I have ever known.   You might classify it as a romance or perhaps even go further and call it a love story, although it’s not, that is, not in the familiar use of the phrase.  But I do love her, as does my wife, Dickie, although she never even actually met her.  This is as I remember it, though time might have blurred some of the memories, like a snapshot slightly out of focus.  

It was August, 1944 when I landed in France, arriving in Paris just a few days after the city had been liberated.  We had to wear helmets in the street as there were still snipers doing target practice.  I was a lowly Technician Fifth Grade, the equivalent of a Corporal, and part of the 583rd Quartermaster Sales Division.  We were a body of soldiers who had been trained to set up and operate P.X.s and Sales Stores; a Sales Store was a clothing store for officers and traveling USO personnel who had to purchase their own uniforms.  In effect, this was to be a scaled down department store.  Our location just happened to be Paris and our company’s particular assignment was to set up a sales store there.  It was a tough job, but somebody had to do it.   We never asked for it, but, oddly enough, nobody ever complained.  

What was to be our future store was located in the very heart of Paris near the Champs-Elysees, just a few blocks from and within sight of that imposing memorial to a previous war, the Arch of Triumph and the tomb of France’s Unknown Soldier.  Our store-to-be was a large sprawling one floor affair, smaller than a Wal-Mart, more the size of a small, compact supermarket.   It had been used as a book depository by the Germans, and we had to empty it of all the many lovely art books that were stored there as well as thousands of copies of Mein Kampf, of which the poor quality of the paper on which they were printed ruled out the more practical and obvious use these pages should have been put to.   

It was obvious from the start that we would need more than just our group of G.I.s to run and operate our pseudo ‘Lord & Taylor’.  Fortunately, there was a large pool of English speaking French civilians available.  Every one of them had to be thoroughly investigated and found to be innocent of having collaborated with the enemy before working for the army.   Before long we had a large augmented sales force of civilian men and women, one of which I recall, was an ex-patriate American Jewish gentleman named Markowitz who remained in Paris after World War I and raised a family.  Remarkably enough, he survived World War II with presumably a minimum of trouble.  

In time, our store opened its doors with little fanfare or attention given by the French.  I headed the department selling the jacket portion of the officers’ uniform known in army nomenclature as the blouse.  Though I had never had any garment industry experience, I became rather adept at fitting my customers – may I say, clientele?  - with almost a semblance of expertise.  There was a shoe department as well as other sections devoted to different parts of clothing, even lingerie items for nurses and WACS so no officer need go naked into war - and more importantly, had some place to pin bars or stars.  And somewhere in the center of all this activity, we had a cashier to handle the money for most of the departments.  There may have been more than one, but only one that I remember.  She was one of the French civilians, pretty, maintaining that attractive – je ne sais quoi, I don’t know what it was -quality and style that somehow all the young French mademoiselles managed to have fed and nurtured through the years of occupation and deprivation.  Her name was Francoise Guillemain d’Echon.  I can’t recall now at what point it occurred to me that it was an odd sort of name, certainly by American standards.  However, after all these years, there are bound to be memory lapses in re-creating this narrative so you must forgive me.  We called her Francie.  She spoke English well, charmingly, in fact, with an accent that was like music to our unaccustomed American ears.  As she handled the cash in my department, I naturally had frequent occasions to speak to her.  And when business was slack – and as you know, there has always been a slack season in the garment industry – no pretense was required.  We had long chats, and I learned she was married to a young, French officer who, co-incidentally was also named Bernard.  She pronounced it – and again, the musical accent – Bare-nard, with a kind of a trill in the first ‘r’.  I learned at a much later time her loving pet name for him was Bunny.  I was never Barenard, and certainly not Bunny; I was Bernie.  They had an infant son, Jean Pierre, affectionately called Jeep, who was being cared for by her mother while she and Bernard lived in an apartment which belonged to her uncle not far from our store.   

Bernard was free again to openly wear a French uniform.  However, during the occupation and at the time he and Francie first met, he was serving in the underground.  Frequently his undercover activities caused unaccountable absences in his social life for extended periods of time; then he would return without explanation.  Francie never required one.  She never asked questions.  The idea never occurred to her.  Sheltered and protected all her early life (under circumstances I only learned about years later), she wore her shyness like a second skin.  As Bernard’s feelings deepened, he wanted to keep the details of his underground activities from her.   He was fearful that such knowledge might somehow put her in jeopardy.  For Bernard and his comrades spent long, dark nights in open fields where the moon was as much an enemy as the Germans.  His mission was to find and save the American fliers who had been unlucky enough to crash or be forced to parachute down, and through some apparent rescue network, enable them to escape to Spain.  But in time, as these two friends became closer and ultimately wed, this dark, secret side of Bernard was gradually made known to Francie.  And contrary to America ’s present fear of identity theft, Bernard maintained four identities, one of which, in time, was in the name of a brother of Francie’s.  To further the deception, she carried papers bearing her maiden name.  

Our conversations in the store were frequent and we became good friends.  Francie invited me for dinner and to meet Bernard some evening.   Food was a difficult commodity to come by for the French, so I had mixed emotions about imposing on the generosity of these good people.  However, my curiosity and my eagerness to further my acquaintance with them, overcame any doubts.  It was a comfortable, relaxed evening and we were three good friends by the time it was over.  There was a piano as I recall; I don’t remember who played, certainly not me.  But I do remember Francie introduced me to a popular French song of the day, “Ah, le petit vin blanc” (Ah, the little white wine), but refused to translate it because she said it made her blush.  I lost track of time and had to put on speed for bed check.  Bernard insisted on accompanying me back to my quarters, jogging all the way by my side, as it was too late for available public transportation.  Funny, but in a recent letter from Francie, she too recalled that mini-marathon of so long ago.  Anyway, I made it back in time.  

Postcard showing Echon Estate

The name Guillemain d’Echon literally meant (the family named) Guillemain of (or belonging to the estate named) Echon.  I’m positive there are other examples, but for some odd reason, the only person that comes to mind bearing some form of location attached to his name is the French artist, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec – and he has a whole city, not just an estate. The name, Guillemain d’Echon, goes back to the 16th Century, sometime between the years, 1500 - 1515.  It was a title of nobility and bestowed by nobility which allowed the recipient to add his estate name to the family name; no family may arbitrarily do this on its own. It was awarded to this family consisting of moderately well-off land owners as a reward for some long forgotten service and came complete with a coat of arms.   Originally, in some long past regime, they would have also been entitled to wear a signet ring.  The estate, Echon, and the manor house and other buildings that were part of it, is located in a small town in central France called Anthien.  In those days of 1944-45, it had endured and was still in the family for some 5 centuries, as was a smaller house (though not nearly as old) on the Riviera near the Mediterranean city of Nice.  It was to this house by the sea that Francie and Jean Pierre moved after she gave notice at the store.  Bernard was no longer confined to his small covert battleground but instead, with new vistas open to him, went on to serve his country with great distinction.  After the war, he was decorated and awarded, among other medals, the French Legion of Honor.  Francie of course had my address in Paris and before long, we had established our chain of correspondence. When Nice was made available for furloughs, I was first to apply.  Three of my buddies and I visited her there on one of the days, and I still cherish the snapshot taken of me holding Jean Pierre in my arms.  But that day in 1945 is the last day I ever set eyes on Francoise Guillemain d’Echon.  

Bernard Weixelbaum (center) holding Jean Pierre, Francie (far right). To Bernard's left is Jim Callaghan; just left of Francie is Justin Hppenjans; and standing behind Bernard Weixelbaum is Jim Mulvey. Girl between Jean Pierre and Justin Hppenjans is not named.

There was so much I was yet to learn about Francie back then in those brief days of discovery and adventure.  Francie’s life was full of surprises.  Her story was like a beautiful rose.  To peel and discard each petal one by one would reveal another, even more delicate and beautiful, beneath it.   When I first knew her, I thought her to be the typical French mademoiselle, born and schooled in Paris.  It was only many years later that I discovered the first time she had ever even stepped on French soil was in 1937, only 7 years before I got there myself.  She was actually born in Tienstin, North China on December 3, 1919.  Her father, Jean Pierre Ferrer, a French citizen of Spanish descent served in the military in China while in his 20s.  After his service, he settled in China and married a French citizen like himself.  He became a merchant – perhaps an entrepreneur might be more fitting, for Francie speaks of a number of businesses he created.  Among these were a bank, three stores carrying French and European imported goods, and last, though certainly not least, a three storied restaurant called ‘Eden’. The businesses prospered and the family became wealthy. 

Francie was the 12th child born from a total of 14, although only 10 lived.  They were part of a rather large community of European families.  She was educated in China, and her second language was Chinese, possibly even her first in early, formative years.  She regrets that she has forgotten most of it now, unlike her English.  Our frequent correspondence provides ample opportunity to test her linguistic prowess.  She also tries to converse in English to her children and grand-children as frequently as possible.  In addition, she confesses to resorting to the use of a large French-English dictionary when, literally, words fail her.  As a child, she had an Amah, a Chinese nurse, with feet kept tightly bound, she recalls, according to a cruel and crippling old Chinese custom.   All European and wealthy Chinese children had his or her own Amah, and Francie, of course, was no exception.   Her father must have been an extraordinarily good person.  She sent me a translation of part of a memoir about him that she is writing for her children and their children.  She began it at a point in 1930 when she was 10 years old.  It was the day she first met Maria.  Maria was a young 15 year old Chinese girl who Francie never even knew existed up to that day.  What they had in common was they both shared the same named father – Jean Pierre Ferrer.  Before she explained any more, and with an unerring flair for the dramatic, she digressed here and went on to expand on some of the history concerning her father.  She went back to the period which first brought Jean Pierre Ferrer to China, around 1895-1900, when the Emperor of China attempted to throw out of the country all the European families who had been living there for years.  Troops were sent by the French, English, Germans, Italians and Russians.  

Included in the French contingent was this young, not yet dry-behind-the-ears, 20 year old soldier.  The Europeans’ victory coincided with the completion of Jean Pierre’s enlistment, and he remained in China while the rest of the troops returned home; however, a pact had been established between China and the 8 involved European nations guaranteeing certain concessions including peace, civil rights and free trade rights to the victors.   Jean Pierre became a business man of some stature.  One day, years later, over the period of time it took him to gain 1 wife and 5 children, curiosity, or perhaps fate, prompted him to walk through a Chinese street market followed by one of his servants.  He observed a Chinese man carrying a pole with a basket at either end balanced over his shoulder.  Each basket contained a small child, one being a 2 year old girl and the other also a girl, 1 year old.  His servant explained that the man was trying to sell the children.  Useless, unwanted girls, was the inference.  Jean Pierre asked, “And if he can’t sell them?” to which he was told the man would probably feed them to his pigs; her ‘dearest daddy’ was horrified, and impulsively said he’d buy them – and, on the spot, did.  It’s one thing to bring a stranger home unexpectedly for dinner, but how do you explain to a wife, the bringing home of two babies, not far past infancy, who are obviously expected to stay for many meals beyond dinner?  Especially to a wife who herself is expecting her 6th child within a week or two.  After much compromise, it was agreed that the girls be put into the care of a congregation of nuns.  There, in time, one died of tuberculosis while the other, Maria, thrived.  I find no evidence in Francie’s letters that her father ever officially adopted the girl as a foster daughter, but she does say that on that day in 1930, when she came to the house, it was for a discussion concerning her dowry.  Maria’s story was a saga in itself.  I only print this much of it to illustrate the humanity of this man.

In 1937, Japan declared war on China.  Francie, now approaching 18, as well as her three younger siblings, were taken by their mother to live in France for the first time, before the situation in China became too dangerous for the European colony.  Her father stayed in China and died there two years after they had left.

My war was over. I sailed home and was discharged in March, 1946.  Then the letters began, though at that point, the words only flowed from our pens, not yet from our hearts.  There was no inkling of how dear and important they would become.  New addresses were exchanged; new births noted – only by her at first, of course; mine came later.  And when my first was born in 1951, she had already given birth to a total of 4, one of whom had died at a very early age.   

"Bunny" and Francie with 10 month old Marie in Nice in 1948.

Bernard had always been interested in Aviation since he was a child of 5 or 6.  He continued his education in that field after the war, helped by his parents while they continued living in Nice for up to 5 years.  His reputation in Aviation was spreading, and one day he received a letter offering him the opportunity to run an airport in Casablanca, Morocco.  It was just the kind of invitation that appealed to their love of travel and adventure.  Bernard went on ahead and Francie followed at a later time with three small children in hand, evidently indoctrinated with old-time pioneer spirit and courage.  

Francie and Children in Morocco

So, once again, I received another letter bearing a mega-mile change of address. Our letters continued only sporadically after that, and though the births of three more children of hers occurred over the years, as well as one more of mine, I don’t recall if that information was exchanged at the time.  But I do recall that there were occasional letters and pictures until one day, I sat back and realized the letters had stopped altogether.  I haven’t the haziest notion of who was the last to write or the first to allow a letter to go unanswered.  

Francie and Bernard 

after his retirement 

around 1984

Many years went by, a lifetime by some standards, during which I gave many a nostalgic thought, tinged with regret and remorse, to my dear French friend.  My wife and I retired, moved to Florida, became grandparents, lived re-adjusted lives, and through it all the nostalgia grew, overwhelmingly so.  A glimmer of an idea began taking shape.  Wouldn’t it be wonderful to spend a vacation in Paris, follow old, once familiar paths, to find the location of the store where I had first met Francie, and even more wonderful, to perhaps find Francie herself.  We made tentative plans in, I believe, 1990, but there was some unrest in Paris and a delicatessen in the Jewish Quarter had been bombed, so at the last minute, we cancelled.  

However, the following year, we made plans again, and on November 5th, 1991, we took off for Orly Airport in Paris.  The smattering of High School French that I recalled augmented by the cabby’s smidgen of English got us safely to our hotel.  We registered, but before we even got to our room, I found a phone booth with a directory.  I surmised that even if I didn’t find Francoise or Bernard listed, any Guillemain d’Echon was likely to be a relation.  And so it was.  I spoke to one of her daughters-in-law who fortunately spoke English and told me Francie and Bernard didn’t live in Paris.  She was cautious enough not to tell me their phone number; however, she would call her immediately and give her mine.  

We weren’t in our room more than 15 minutes when the phone rang and suddenly it was yesteryear.  I think I cried.  We exchanged addresses.  I don’t recall what else we spoke about; it doesn’t matter for when we arrived home, I found a most welcome, newsy letter waiting for me.  She bridged the gap of those 40 lost years.  They had gone to Casablanca in December, 1950.  She wrote of the 3 children who had been born there as well as the one she lost during that period.  There had been trouble in the country and they were living in an isolated area some 30 kilometers from Casablanca near Bernard’s airport, both factors which made her disenchanted with Morocco and uneasy for the safety of her family.  

Bernard asked for a re-assignment and was made chief of a department at Orly Airport, the same airport we had just flown in to, and was Paris’ only airport at that time in 1958.  Over the years, Bernard was re-assigned to other locations, but always stayed with his first love – aviation.  She helped nurse him back to health when he suffered a breakdown.  He returned to work and ultimately retired at the age of 60.  The children traveled all the peaks and valleys one generally encounters on life’s journey – a montage of weddings, babies, career choices, even divorce and separation.  One son, Raymond, even developed Hodgkin’s disease, but happily has been in remission to this day.

Her final words of this letter written in November, 1991, concerned Bernard’s then present health.  She wrote that two years prior, in 1989, he had fallen ill with a serious blood condition which presumably resembled leukemia although it was not.  Subsequent letters described her years of journeying with him to other, colder climates, more conducive to treating his condition.  Finally, one day in December, 1995, I received a telephone call from her advising me that her beloved ‘Bunny’, her mate of 51 years, Bernard Guillemain d’Echon, had died at age 75.

The letters continued, each one eagerly anticipated, gratefully welcomed, written in her now familiar flowing script and, more recently, written somewhat larger in deference to my vision problems.  They gradually increased in both frequency and content.  She referred to us as her American brother and sister.  She was both knowledgeable and opinionated about world politics and events.  In one letter, she criticized our president and then agonized over possibly offending me. A few years back, she moved into a two bedroom apartment in Barberaz, France which she shares with her son, Raymond, now separated from his wife.  It appears to be a good arrangement; each of them seems to fulfill a spiritual need in the other.  She endured serious hip and back surgery some years ago which required an extended period of immobilization; she came through nobly.  There was a recent period when she thought she might have to sell Echon.  It needs a good deal of expensive repair, but the family has gotten together to undertake whatever is necessary.

It is a veritable dynasty that grew from this couple out of their deep love for each other.  From a total of 6 living children, there are 14 grandchildren and 10 great-grandchildren.  Of course, time marches on.

As I wrote earlier, I never saw her again, but a few years back, my daughter, Jody made a journey to Poland and other eastern European countries with the Zamir Chorale which was the subject of a PBS documentary.  She stayed on at the tour’s completion and contacted Francie who was, at that time, staying at Echon.  She was invited to spend a few days there, lovingly welcomed by as much of the family who was there at the time.  I like to feel she was there as my proxy.  

Bernard Weixelbaum's daughter Jody 

and Francie at Echon in 1999.

Francie in Paris 

in 2001.

 

I know I can never do her justice in describing all the parts that make up Francie, the profundity of her thoughts, the humor, the depth, the affection.  I’m surely not that talented a writer, but I hope you agree   this tale might be considered a romance – of sorts.  I recall a movie of that period during the war time ‘40s – I’m sure you all do – “Casablanca” – in the finale of which our hero, Rick, sends his dearest love, Ilse, off with her husband to save the world, with these words, “Remember, we’ll always have Paris”!

Bernard Weixelbaum is a resident of Cresthaven Fernley IV in West Palm Beach, FL. He is a member and former Adjutant of the Jewish War Veterans Post 520 in West Palm Beach. He has written for the Condo News, first for Fernley IV Condominiums and subsequently for the JWV Post 520 of which he is still a member. We thank him for this beautiful article and for sharing his long-time, long-distance friendship with Francie.  Contact him through info@condonewsonline.com

 


 

 

Have you written an essay you would like printed in the Condo News?

Copy must be typed, double-spaced, no more than 1½ pages long, with title and by-line. Send your essay to the Condo News, P.O. Box 109, West Palm Beach, FL 33402. The Condo News reserves the right to edit for space and to reject any essay for subject matter. Sorry, we cannot accept poems. For further information call (561) 471-0329

FREE Subscription to
the Condo News Online.

E-mail address:


Home

Food, Fun & Entertainment | Decorating Concepts | Brag Book

The Clubhouse Gallery | Gardening | Out & About | Fit After Fifty | Sports

TCCA News | Local News | Veterans News | Gulf Wars

Ask the Lawyer | Rembaum's Association Roundup

Essays | Letters to the Editor & Opinion Articles
Classified Ads | Real Estate | Display Ads
Ad Form | Advertising Rates | Contact Us

 

 

Visit Netword2000
Web Design by LD&D

 

120x60_logo.gif