Epilogue

Bethesda, Maryland, 2025.

It took me decades after they died to get to know my parents. The efforts took me far into the world and, as one trip followed another, I knew to ask better questions of people who were still alive and might remember them. From these people I recovered memories and objects. In turn, the objects helped me awaken additional memories. My quest was a Moebius loop with no end. It was not my intent to elicit Proustian memories of my parents. It just kept happening. Certain things triggered them, whether they were pictures, objects, words, tastes, or melodies: A Viennese waltz; a camp stove of Dad’s; Mom’s cross-stitched tablecloth; photos of her fancy hats; Grandma’s giblets with rice. Then there were the faraway places: a street in Vienna lined up with horse-drawn Fiakers; the old Goldstein & Galanis winery in Samos; the plane trees of my barrio in Buenos Aires; the tragic waterfront of old Smyrna. Piece by piece, they created a family portrait.

___

I also learned about my parents by following the clues they left in me. Why am I so fussy about being punctual? Because Dad was a Yekke . . . Why do I love dancing so much? Because Mom waltzed whenever she could . . . Where did I get my knack for storytelling? From my Grandma’s tales of escape and survival. And, like those repeating reflections I saw as a child at my first amusement park in BA and then at Coney Island, the reverse is also true. The more I looked for my parents, the more I found myself. At times, the search felt like a hall of mirrors.

With the help of good therapists and friends, I traveled far into my past. On the couches and chairs of therapy, I came face to face with deaths I had not wanted to grieve. I learned that delaying the sorrow made things worse. But I also learned that the misfortunes came along with unseen benefits.

Becoming an orphan in my teens, being left alone in Buenos Aires, and immigrating to the US, had a silver lining. They all led to who I am today. My early adversities made me fearless to an extent I might not have become but for the passing of my parents. I learned to take on the world, adapt to sudden changes, and push through obstacles. The phrase “No, you can’t do that,” disappeared from my vocabulary.  Moving from science to law in my thirties? Ten years of Freudian analysis? Writing an intimate memoir? . . . Why not? Nothing could possibly turn out worse than losing my parents when I was a kid.

I learned that picking up roots and resettling to the solitude of strange lands are—for better or worse—a family curse. Whether it was Dad leaving Smyrna in 1922 ahead of the Turkish fires, or Mom leaving Vienna in 1938 ahead of the Nazis, or I leaving Buenos Aires in 1968 ahead of the Argentine Dirty War, the sadness of exile is in my family’s DNA.

And, sure, my professional successes brought pleasure. But I did not pursue them for the sake of money or fame. I wanted my father to love me, no matter how late it was. 

The darker side of the coin of loss is that for many years—which included two divorces—my judgments in love were painfully flawed. I sought attachments wherever I could, and those led to more hurt. Finally, in mid-life, I lay on Gene Gordon’s couch for daily sessions that went on for a decade. Only then could I walk away without the panic of another looming death. With Gene, I came around to accepting sorrow as part of life. I also learned not to be so self-reliant and to trust people again. And in the end, I was able once more to love deeply and without reservations.

In case you had not noticed, I also learned to respect those who see and talk to ghosts. They are real to those of us who are not afraid of them.

So, here I am in my seventies, still looking for pieces of the jigsaw puzzle that I suspect I’ll never find. Other than educated guesses, the reasons why Dad left his large family in the Old World never to return, or why he did not tell anyone that he was one of seven Goldstein siblings of Smyrna, are buried with him. I could write a novel of a large Levantine clan of stubborn women, silent and occasionally suicidal men, unresolved family conflicts, wars, the burning of cities, exile, and other assorted riddles. Maybe someday I will, but that is another book.

The epigraph at the start of my story quotes from Scott Turow’s marvelous novel Ordinary Heroes. His book is the tale of a son who—like I—tries to unravel the mysteries of his dead father's life. He ultimately realizes that he can only go so far. In the end, the son meditates on the hard task he has just finished—and, in doing so, reaches an illuminating insight. He says, “When we tell our parents’ tales to the world, or even to ourselves, the story is always our own.”

This, then, has been my story. It may not be a faithful recounting of Mom and Dad’s lives, yet when all is said and done, it is my homage to them. I owed them that much. As I have said, the objects, which I got rid of before leaving Buenos Aires and recovered over the decades, did not just belong to my parents; they were my parents. That was the case on that day in 1968 when I angrily disposed of them and it is the case today, when I have them back.

___

I had no use for Mom and Dad that day on the bedroom ladder, stranded in the world as they had left me. I got rid of them with a rage that only an orphan could convey. Now the objects and memories are with me again, and my parents are back from the bonfire.

THE END

******************

Dear readers, this brings my tales to their conclusion. As I was posting them over the last year, I received many positive comments from you. Thank you!

Encouraged by your feedback I now have a plan to gather the tales into a coherent and more polished book and try to publish it. Personal memoirs are hard for publishing houses to market and they shy away from them. But I will try! (As you just learned “No, you can’t do that“ is not part of my vocabulary.) Wish me luck. My tentative name for the book is, "The Recollection: Getting Back my Long-Gone Parents, One Clue at a Time."

Meanwhile, look for new essays, discussions about my just published book ,"Patenting Life," and other odds and ends.

Jorge