Martian's Daughter: A Memoir by Marina von Neumann Whitman
Authors: Marina von Neumann Whitman
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at the nation's most feared authority figure by spreading mud on Mr. Hoover's laundry hanging on the line and writing the naughtiest words we knew in chalk on his sidewalk. To our disappointment, he didn't call on the resources of the FBI to catch us in the act, probably because his housekeeper didn't bother to tell him about our desecration of his property. But we didn't escape unpunished; when my mother found out, she responded with a solid spanking for me and a sharp report to Mariana's parents.
On many weekends during the hot Washington summer, my mother, Desmond, and I would make the two-hour drive to the seashore at Rehoboth Beach for the day. Returning from one such outing in early September of 1939, we heard over the car radio that war had been declared in Europe. This didn't mean much to a four-year-old, but it clearly shook up the adults in the front seat. They knew then that the pleasant flow of their lives was about to be totally disrupted. My maternal grandparentsand great-aunt were in the midst of a holiday visit, their first to the United States, and my mother realized that they would be stuck on this side of the Atlantic indefinitely, with only the clothes they had brought in their luggage. Suddenly, she was responsible for finding them permanent housing and became their sole means of support. Their return tickets to Europe, booked for November in cabin class on the luxury liner Normandie , still lie in my safe deposit box, “refundable only in Paris,” where they had been bought.
As refugees in the United States, my grandparents reversed roles from the domineering, philandering husband and bored hypochondriac wife they had been in Budapest. My grandfather, too old to resume his profession in a new country and an unfamiliar language, became gentle and passive, spending his days listening to his beloved classical music on the radio with his dog at his feet. My tiny, fragile-appearing grandmother, who for the first time in her life was needed and had something to do, became a first-class housekeeper and budgeteer (she was acutely conscious that they depended on my mother for their livelihood), an outstanding cook, and a social butterfly.
Among the elderly grandes dames of Washington, DC, Paulette Kövesi was much sought after for her skills at bridge, which included never arranging the cards in her hand, because that might give something away, or inquiring sternly of her talkative companions, “Are we here to chat or to play bridge?” The small but comfortable apartment on Connecticut Avenue—it even boasted a new innovation, central air conditioning—became the scene of many elegant ladies' luncheons and bridge teas. My grandmother, dressed in vintage black lace, was undaunted by her triple role of hostess, cook, and dishwasher.
In October of 1940, soon after we moved into the new house, my brother and only sibling was born. Christened George Henry Kuper III, he was known to the family as Gorky until he was old enough to insist on George as more appropriate to his dignity. Miss Levesconte, or “Vee,” the beloved French Canadian nursemaid who had cared for me from infancy until I outgrew her by going off to school, returned to play a similar role for the new member of the family. She had been my constant companion and had relieved the restlessness of a precocious only child by helping me learn to read when I was three. I was delighted to have her back in thehousehold again, even though the main focus of her attention was now my brother rather than me.
My mother was clearly delighted with this new infant; the fact that she now had a boy as well as a girl, and a child by each of her husbands added to her satisfaction. But, true to her hands-off parenting style, she left his care mainly in Vee's capable hands. Her role as the gracious and elegant hostess at frequent parties in her up-to-the minute new home continued undeterred by dishes or diapers. Some of my clearest memories are
On many weekends during the hot Washington summer, my mother, Desmond, and I would make the two-hour drive to the seashore at Rehoboth Beach for the day. Returning from one such outing in early September of 1939, we heard over the car radio that war had been declared in Europe. This didn't mean much to a four-year-old, but it clearly shook up the adults in the front seat. They knew then that the pleasant flow of their lives was about to be totally disrupted. My maternal grandparentsand great-aunt were in the midst of a holiday visit, their first to the United States, and my mother realized that they would be stuck on this side of the Atlantic indefinitely, with only the clothes they had brought in their luggage. Suddenly, she was responsible for finding them permanent housing and became their sole means of support. Their return tickets to Europe, booked for November in cabin class on the luxury liner Normandie , still lie in my safe deposit box, “refundable only in Paris,” where they had been bought.
As refugees in the United States, my grandparents reversed roles from the domineering, philandering husband and bored hypochondriac wife they had been in Budapest. My grandfather, too old to resume his profession in a new country and an unfamiliar language, became gentle and passive, spending his days listening to his beloved classical music on the radio with his dog at his feet. My tiny, fragile-appearing grandmother, who for the first time in her life was needed and had something to do, became a first-class housekeeper and budgeteer (she was acutely conscious that they depended on my mother for their livelihood), an outstanding cook, and a social butterfly.
Among the elderly grandes dames of Washington, DC, Paulette Kövesi was much sought after for her skills at bridge, which included never arranging the cards in her hand, because that might give something away, or inquiring sternly of her talkative companions, “Are we here to chat or to play bridge?” The small but comfortable apartment on Connecticut Avenue—it even boasted a new innovation, central air conditioning—became the scene of many elegant ladies' luncheons and bridge teas. My grandmother, dressed in vintage black lace, was undaunted by her triple role of hostess, cook, and dishwasher.
In October of 1940, soon after we moved into the new house, my brother and only sibling was born. Christened George Henry Kuper III, he was known to the family as Gorky until he was old enough to insist on George as more appropriate to his dignity. Miss Levesconte, or “Vee,” the beloved French Canadian nursemaid who had cared for me from infancy until I outgrew her by going off to school, returned to play a similar role for the new member of the family. She had been my constant companion and had relieved the restlessness of a precocious only child by helping me learn to read when I was three. I was delighted to have her back in thehousehold again, even though the main focus of her attention was now my brother rather than me.
My mother was clearly delighted with this new infant; the fact that she now had a boy as well as a girl, and a child by each of her husbands added to her satisfaction. But, true to her hands-off parenting style, she left his care mainly in Vee's capable hands. Her role as the gracious and elegant hostess at frequent parties in her up-to-the minute new home continued undeterred by dishes or diapers. Some of my clearest memories are
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