White Chocolate

Blackberry smoothie and one of the strangest novels I’ve ever read: The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake by Aimee Bender about the (sometimes) magical gifts we’re born with.

 Aunt Julia drinks coffee from a demitasse. When it is cold outside, she adjusts her fur collar with a gloved hand. And today is a cold day. Quick steps down the cobblestoned street, but careful so you don’t trip! Fall days are short this far up north, and the light is already fading.

Gilded mirrors and heavy green velvet curtains. At Holmgrens Kafé on Kaggensgatan the girls stand in line and wear starched, white aprons over their black dresses. Now one of them holds up the lid to a glass dome and waits for Aunt Julia to choose a pastry. There, on a doily, is a pretty selection of freshly made ones. The girl then uses silver tongs to transport Aunt Julia’s choice to a white dessert plate. Aunt Julia bends down and flashes a seductive smile to a little boy who is only six years old:

“And what would you like, dear?”

Today is my father’s 81^st birthday, and I am celebrating him by telling you about his grandmother, whom he called “Aunt Julia”. My father was young when Aunt Julia passed away, but he remembers her well. She was a whiff of the finer things in life: French perfume from a cut glass scent bottle, fur coats, cloche hats, lipstick, and – most importantly – “white chocolate”, my father’s favorite. White chocolate meant hot chocolate with a dollop of whipped cream taken with Aunt Julia at Holmgrens, her favorite café.

I’ve heard the tale of Aunt Julia so many times. And I have her photograph right here, in front of me.

She set out in life as a starry-eyed maid whose greatest asset was her petite, dark-haired beauty. No wonder her unmarried boss, the one with the fat wallet and the gold pocket-watch, fell for her! And perhaps she fell for him? Or was she maybe more cynically made and fell for the idea of an elegant, idle life? Either way, Aunt Julia was in for a rude awakening, the lesson of many a young girl: Rich Men Don’t Marry Girls With No Money. At least not then. At least not him.

They had two baby boys, Aunt Julia and her rich boss. Twice did he make her pregnant and twice did she make the long, arduous trip to the capital, where she gave birth and promptly placed her babies in an orphanage on a shabby backstreet.

My paternal grandfather, Harry, was the younger one of those babies. He was auctioned off from that orphanage to the highest bidder, a ruthless man who made my grandfather’s childhood a living hell. There was a long scar at the back of my grandfather’s head from a beating he took as a child, and later on, when he was an adult, he oftentimes woke the entire household by thrashing about and screaming, the result of endless nightmares.

The first baby, my grandfather’s brother Werner, was also auctioned off. The two boys didn’t know of each other’s existence. My grandfather didn’t find out he had a brother until he was a grown man, and by then it was too late: Werner had already immigrated to America. He never knew of my grandfather, never knew he had a family back in Sweden actively searching for him. Werner died in California in 1985.

I guess most of us don’t change. It’s only in the movies that people have those hoped-for epiphanies. Aunt Julia’s rich boss died and though they never married, he willed all his money and belongings to his “faithful servant Julia Larsson”. Aunt Julia took the cash, moved into a modern apartment in the city, and made even more cash by letting rooms to students. It’s at this point she looked up – and found –  her son (my grandfather), and his family and began visiting them and taking my father to her favorite café.

How I wish this story had a happy ending! Or at least a conclusive one.

I have asked my father several times:
“Did Aunt Julia ever apologize for giving up her babies? Did she ever express any regrets?”

But no, she never did. She has been dead for many years now. I don’t know where she is buried, and I don’t think anyone in my family has ever been to put flowers on her grave.

"Aunt Julia" - my father's grandmother.