Fig Jam!

I have been at home all day today. We got our first snow, heavy and dense.

I woke up early, and since I do my best thinking at night, I suddenly remembered something I did when I was perhaps 7 years old.

It was summer time. School was out at the end of June, to resume in October. I had nothing much to do in the afternoon, since it was too hot to be out at the beach. My mother—Maman (the "n" is silent)—always took a nap after lunch, and I really was bored. Walking around the house, I suddenly remembered that Maman had made a large batch of the most scrumptious preserves, really to die for: fresh black figs and toasted almonds. Here was her work, on the shelf of our dining room breakfront, waiting to be raided.

The jars were pretty, with a raffia ribbon around the neck.

I went to the kitchen to fetch a spoon, opened the jar, sat down on the floor, and suddenly I was in pure heaven. The fig jam was out of this world!! Sweet, and the toasted almonds , put an extra fine touch!!

I ate slowly, savoring each spoonful, and reluctantly, put the rest back in its place.

All of a sudden, I knew what I would be doing during my mother's naps throughout that summer...or at least as long as the jam would last. After a few weeks of sheer delight, all the jars were empty, but they were in their place, seemingly intact.

My mother had not yet found out about my petty crime.

But Destiny was there, waiting for me: one afternoon, a cousin of my father's came to visit us.

Maman was happy to see her. After a while Maman went to the breakfront, and took out one of the jars, anticipating her preserves would be...well, preserved there. I was in the room, and I was wondering how I would get out alive of this tight spot??

A bit frazzled, My mother took another jar, and yet another jar, and found out they were all empty.

Since my brother was still a baby, I was the only possible culprit in the house. She turned toward me and asked what had happened to all the jam.

I told her very simply, with a straight face: "Maman, you are always after me to get fatter, and eat more. I thought you would be delighted. I must have gained at least 4 pounds."

She laughed, and laughed, and could not get over it!!

A recently retouched picture of my family, ca. 1911

This is my mother's family ca. 1911.

From the top left are:

Albert Setbon (my uncle, about seven years old)
Isaac Setbon (another uncle, about ten years old)
Solomon Setbon (my grandfather—mother's father)
Pia Setbon (my aunt, perhaps 15 years old)

Bottom row (from the left):

Irene Setbon (aunt, age 3-4)
Angelina Setbon (Grandmother)
Allegra Setbon (Mother, age 5...Although she'd not yet give birth to me.)

Although I never met either of my maternal grandparents, some family lore was passed down to me. My grandmother died very young, and her children, pictured here, were raised by their grandmother, my great-grandmother. She was legally blind, and baked bread every day.

My grandfather was an entrepreneur. He owned a factory that produced olive oil and derivatives, primarily kitchen soap.

When my uncle Isaac got older, he, in partnership with his cousins, owned several movie theaters in North Africa, in the 1930s. I got to see first-run films starring Charlie Chaplin, Fernandel, Louis Jourdan,  The Marx Brothers (whom I didn't care for, much to my daughter's chagrin), and many others.

Typhus

The year was 1940. There was a very large epidemic of typhus a very serious, very contagious illness in Tunisia. People were dying all over town. Some of my mother's cousins were also afflicted.

One day, after having come home from work, my father felt very weak, and was shivering with a high temperature. He dragged himself to bed, and my mother summoned the doctor. After a brief examination, the doctor declared that my father had typhoid also a very serious illness. The doctor also prescribed medications, and gave my mother a strict regimen for my father. Naturally, my mother abided by the doctor's advice, but my father was rapidly deteriorating regardless, the fever was extremely tenacious, and he was in delirium.
Mama then called upon the services of another doctor who happened to be my mother's cousin through marriage. He was the doctor in town who "specialized " in treating typhus. He also examined my father, and declared categorically that he should be transferred to a hospital, because typhus was very contagious.

The hospitals in Tunisia at the time were unsanitary, and full of undesirable people. My mother would not allow my father to be hospitalized. She told the doctor that she was strong enough to take care of my Dad by herself.

Almost no one else would come near someone so sick. My bachelor uncle, who lived with us, was the only one who ventured into the house to sleep and shower. My brother and I were sent respectively to an aunt, and to some cousins in town. We were very unhappy to be away from home, and from each other.

My mother, took care of my dad totally by herself. She washed him, changed his bedclothes several times a day, fed him light broth, gave him his medications, and all the other things one would have done in caring for a typhus patient.

After several long weeks of agonizing about my fathers' health, we were told that we could visit him for an hour. The day we were sent home to see him, we were petrified by the way he looked. his hair had been shorn, and he looked gaunt, having lost a lot of weight. He was extremely happy to see us, but we could not kiss him. We just sat there, looking at him, and shared some news.

The first doctor who had diagnosed my father as having typhoid visited my father every day. The doctor continued to give advice to my mother, even though she had told him that she was following another doctor's care. She thought in fact she was convinced that the first doctor had come only to learn more about typhus fever,...

Soon after our short visit to my father, we were allowed to come home. I remember that, during dad’s convalescence, we took buggy rides in the country side, in a horse-drawn carriage to help my dad recover faster. Little by little He regained weight he had lost during his illness, and we were extremely grateful that he survived. My mother was a real hero, so strong and so very courageous not afraid at all for her own health.

My study during the war

During the war years ( 1942-45), our apartment house was partially destroyed by a bomb. The house we lived in was huge. It had 14 rooms, including two large kitchens, and one bathroom.
It was in Nabeul, Central Tunisia also an important center for beautiful pottery, and handwoven rugs made by the natives.

My parents had given me a room in the house, and I used it as a study. Since I did not have a desk. I found two tressels, and a plain door, and turned them into a beautiful desk. Another door, which my father fastened to the wall behind my makeshift desk, served as a blackboard.
Because of all the war disruptions during those years, we could only attend school for half the day. I had a lot of free time on my hands.
Among the few things my father could salvage from the ruins left by the bomb, was a case of books one of which was a flower encyclopedia.
In addition to the discoveries from among rubbish, I received huge box of colored pencils as a gift.

In the room I considered to have been domain, I tutored my young brother Doudou in various subjects. He was a few years younger than I, and I loved teaching him what I knew.
I took pride in the fact that when he started first grade, and his teacher told him that he was a little " genius", he responded proudly, " my sister is teaching me ". The days were long, and I had many hours to fill. To pass some of the time, I tried my hand at drawing the flowers I saw in the encyclopedia.

Fortunately, I had two reams of paper, that my uncle—then the Director of the Banque de Tunisie ( Bank of Tunisia )—had given me. Soon enough, with pencils and paper in hand, I started copying the gorgeous flowers from the encyclopedia. Since I had no decorations on my walls, I displayed the flowers quite proudly, I must say, I was happy to have started another rewarding day in my " study ".

Memoirs of a North African Jewish Mother

Memoirs of a North African Jewish Mother

Tunisia,— '30s and '40s

Tunisia, '30s and '40s

Birthday Parties

All my childhood birthday parties were disastrous!

My parents, out of concern for me–and in the spirit of family celebration–wanted me to have a party every year. They were real wingdings!. We invited all my cousins, who lived in the same town we did–Sousse, Tunisia. We had a lavish dinner, invariably followed by a tantrum, thrown by the Birthday Girl—yours truly.

The annual tradition included my mother's complaint that I was spoiling the party by not having eaten everything I had been served. She'd invested a great deal of time and effort in having prepared a birthday feast for our immediate and extended family. We certainly didn't want food going to waste..or to the icebox. (This was before refrigeration, remember.)

As Mama complained, Papa would sit at the head of the table, nodding his head. seemingly in agreement with her. I don't know if Papa agreed with her or not. Nevertheless he semi-tacitly endorsed Mama's scolding so as not to further aggravate her, and risk actually spoiling the party. Birthday parties were frustrating!

All these people I loved dearly–and who loved me as well–would come to the house to celebrate, and I would be in tears before the evening was over.

I knew how much effort and money went /had gone into planning and preparation for these parties, and I cried anyway. I never got birthday presents. Then again, I never thought to expect any, as birthday presents were just not a part of our culture. But there were other treats! My father always brought home chocolates and huge bouquets of flowers for my parties.

My mother's contribution was a tireless week of preparation. She was a tireless trooper, always producing sumptuous meals, despite having to work through occasional migraine headaches. After a few years of the migraines, bellyaching (though not from the food), and general frustration at the whole birthday to-do, I thought to speak to my parents and put an end to retire the tradition.

A few months before my 9th b'day, I asked my parents if, instead of having a party for me, they would consider buying me books. I had always loved books and was an avid reader.

Amazingly, they agreed. From then on, my parents bought me books, flowers, and a piece of jewelry every year for my birthday.

I was delighted, they were relieved, and everyone was happy!

Welcome to my online memoirs

In Northern New Jersey, I welcome both you and myself to my online diary. Here I'll recount some of my family's history, as well as some recent and current goings-on.

I hope you enjoy reading it as much as a Jewish mother can enjoy anything!

My Uncle's Movie Theater

From 1937 to 1942, my uncle owned a small movie theater in Sousse, Tunisia. The theater was located in front of a lovely pier. Across the street was an outdoor cafe where , in the summers, bands, with lovely female singers dressed in satin gowns, sang the tunes of the day.

My mother , young brother, and I used to listen to them after having gone to a movie. My father worked as an accountant at the theater, and he joined us at the cafe, after work. He used to order drinks for all of us. For my Mam and himself, he would usually order a cold beer, or a cafe-creme. For my brother and me it was an orangina, or an awful drink called grenadine- a pomegranate syrup diluted in warmish water. It was rather nauseating--so much so that I could never finish my drink, in spite of my parents' prodding.

Back to the movie house. All the films were French. So, I got very well acquainted with the Fabulous French comedians, Fernandel, the Great Raimu, Charles Aznavour, Danielle Darrieux, etc.. The movie house was a brand new thing in Sousse--a real "happening". The theater was always packed. They also featured animated shorts, as well as children's movies. It was really very exciting. You had a place to go, and I felt very privileged to have been part of it.

Since I was able to go to the movies for free, I used to invite my friends to come along. They were always very eager to accept.

My best friend at that time, was a girl living in the next building. Her name was quite exotic: Gypsy Cohen. Her brother had a very odd name as well. His was Doris. They also had a baby sister with a more common name: Danielle.

Her parents were very poor. her father sold fabrics in a nice shop, in town. My mother used to
get all her fabrics and notions there.

In any case, when school let out in the late morning, we had a long break, about two hours, and we all walked home for lunch.

My mother was an excellent cook and homemaker, and she always prepared a lavish lunch:
usually a meat or chicken dish, with couscous, vegetables, several kinds of salads, and of course, a great dessert.

My friend Gypsy typically went home to chickpea soup with stale bread.