Memories of ‘Papa’

MAXINE COHEN

Years ago, I read “My Mother, Myself” by Nancy Friday and understood.

Yes, most women are very much like their moms. Now, at age 62,

whenever I look at a mirror, I see what appears to be Mom’s younger

sister.

But wait. Isn’t dear old Dad in this picture somewhere? Didn’t we

all get half of our genes from him? Doesn’t Dad have a huge influence

in our life? Don’t fathers teach us positives, such as self-reliance,

courage or strength of character?

My dad -- we called him “Papa” -- started out with a silver spoon

in his mouth. His father was a military officer, who moved through

the ranks to general of the Bulgarian Royalist Army, then a military

attache in Paris and in Rome and eventually secretary of the interior

for the central government.

After graduating from the military academy, Papa realized the

military life was not for him and joined the Bulgarian diplomatic

corps in Germany. There, he married my mother and had his first

child. World War II turned his world upside down. His small family

ended up homeless and hungry. Papa spent many days going from door to

door, burlap sack in hand, begging for food. Eventually, my parents

went to work on the local U.S. Army base -- Papa as a janitor and

“Mama” as kitchen help. They worked for food.

Word got out that the Canadian Agricultural Board was hiring

displaced persons to work on Canadian farms. Papa organized a group

of Bulgarians to play the part of a huge “family” for an interview.

All of them were college grads and professionals in their chosen

careers, but, in order to look the part of farm workers, they showed

up dirty and scruffy. My father was the only one of the group who

spoke French, and became the “family” spokesman. He spoke in broken

French and German and managed to convince the interviewer that these

Bulgarians had worked on farms back home.

In 1949, the Canadian White Star cruise lines brought us to North

America. Papa continued to struggle, first on a farm as a hired hand.

Asked to leave the farm after a disastrous six months, the family

went to Montreal. Papa dug ditches, carried hod, waited tables and

pushed a pencil on drafting paper.

Eventually, he accepted a position with the Army Language School

in Monterey as a Bulgarian instructor. Finally, at age 41, he began

to flourish, and ultimately he began to make a difference in my life.

Papa shared his sense of adventure. His intellectual curiosity

brought him back to school, and he earned several advanced degrees in

French and German. His most important legacy was a sense of trust and

belief in mankind’s goodness. No fear.

All through my college years, Papa would regularly send me short

notes on 3-by-5 cards, along with a $5 bill.

“You are a reflection of your friends,” he wrote. “For flowers” or

“For strawberries.” Very short and very sweet.

Papa was not afraid to meddle in my life. He begged me one

memorable evening, successfully so, to reject a proposal of marriage

and to call the Monterey airport, page my boyfriend arriving from LAX

and tell him to turn around and go home.

Many years later, during a sad time, I called my parents

long-distance to cry on their shoulders. Once again, a day later, the

doorbell rang. This time I found a big basket of flowers on the

doorstep, and again I read a little note: “The sun is always shining.

Love, Papa and Mama.”

Papa’s last words to me, as he lay dying of cancer at age 63, ring

in my ears: “It doesn’t look too promising.”

With the characteristic twinkle in his eyes and still smiling, he

knew how to make it all better.

My father’s “sun is always shining” card, now old and yellowed,

has a small place on my den bulletin board. This raggedy chunk of

paper serves as a simple reminder of how wonderful and poignant a

father’s love can be, even when expressed only with a simple word or

two.