My Dos Abuelitos

Panni's more special than special Zoltan...and Pepi's Federico--"mas viejo que los siglos":

MY DOS ABUELITOS

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

Zoltan y Federico:
My dos abuelitos.
One, from Hungary – el otro, de Cuba.
One, a postal worker – el otro, un campesino.
The two have contribuido a quien soy.

Zoltan loved his family very much:
He sacrificed for his ten brothers and sisters.
His brilliance shone,
In spite of the fact that he worked for the post office.
Who cares, right?
Nobody really did.
Neither his fellow Jews, nor even the Jesuits.
On the contrary, they loved him so much
They hid him, during the War.
After all, where else would they find a layperson
Who spoke Latin as well as they?

Zoltan loved Panni very much.
He sold his gold Omega pocket watch, one year,
So she could return to school.
He taught her well:
Be careful how you present yourself to the world,
I can imagine him saying to her on more than one occasion.
If not via words, then via deeds.
Teach by example:
Have I learned his lesson well, I wonder?

He was also funny. He was good… and funny.
Are these the gifts I have inherited from him?
I certainly hope so!

Federico era un hombre humilde.
Era cojo, con una pata mas larga que la otra.
El gran Albarran le dijo a mi bisabuela,
“Tiene que vivir en el campo –
necesita vivir al aire fresco.”
Asi que paso mas tiempo en la finca.




MY DOS ABUELITOS – PAGE TWO

No fue un hombre educado, pero crio a siete hijos.
Uno de ellos – claro – fue mi Papi.
A todos los muchachos les dio el nombre de “Federico”:
Que confusion existiera en esa casa, de vez en cuando!

Este Viejo isleno, mas viejo que los siglos,
Creia en el espiritismo.
Nadie le prestaba atencion…
Hasta que llego Panni a Cuba.
“Le daba cuerda,” ella me decia.
“Nadie mas lo escuchaba.”
Posiblemente fue asi que Mami se preparo –
Inconscientemente – para su futura
Carrera?

Ni modo. Yo soy creyente, a mi manera.
When I think about Zoltan – y, a veces, en Federico,
I get goosebumps.
Me dan escalofrios.
I’m not scared, any more,
Of los regalos de
My dos abuelitos.

Saturday, October 25, 2003

Feliz Cumpleanos, Papi!

Feliz Cumpleanos, Mami!

Hola, Mami! Antes de que se acabe el dia: FELIZ CUMPLEANOS!!! Cumplerias 99: wow!

He publicado a (casi) todas tus piezas--que, que debo de incluir esta noche :-?

OK. Lo de los medicos:

I would like you to read the following. I didn't write it--my mother did. She was Hungarian: a European-trained doctor who received her medical degree in Paris in 1940. One of her aunts had become the third woman doctor in Hungary (though she never practiced, as she married a wealthy man). My father--also a doctor--got her out of Europe in 1941; they proceeded to live in Cuba (my father's homeland) for the next nineteen years. I was born in 1954. In 1960, we arrived in the United States. My mother had been a housewife for twenty-five years when she decided to take the foreign medical exam--the ECFMG, as it was called--in 1965. We were living in Georgia at the time. She passed the first time; went on-staff at the state hospital in the town where we lived; and, in 1967, she began a residency in psychiatry. She was 54 years old. When she finished her residency three years later, she rejoined us in Florida. Two years later, when I went off to college, circumstances led to her landing a job at South Florida State Hospital. She was 59 years old. She worked at SFSH until she retired at age seventy. My mother was an extraordinary woman: principled; dauntless; with a privileged and exquisite mind. She was also extremely practical. She was also fascinated with politics; with current events; with progressive ideas, culling them from all of her constant and voracious reading. She was a true product of her generation, "The Greatest Generation," (she was born in 1913). She kept news clippings and notebooks about almost anything and everything. By the way, she voted for Bill Clinton in 1996, causing a severe rift with another member of her generation, a dear lady who's now in a nursing home (and who has forgiven her, I think). Some time during the 1990's, she shared the following with me (and I haven't overly-edited: English was technically her fifth language): "About doctors." Among the many changes the world experienced through the 20th century, the changes of medical practice are among the most significant. Physicians used to be involved with the patients personally--they made home deliveries, home calls, they even operated on kitchen tables: simple things like tonsils and appendix. They often worked pro bono and in my generation who does not remember the old country doctor who often left a few dollars next to his prescription. The doctors listened to the patient and their families and they often smiled at each other. They were generally respected, trusted, and loved. Nobody ever heard of suing the doctor and the insurance was not a major issue. Now everybody is covered by insurance (or else!). The doctor is secluded in his office, surrounded by assistants, submerged in paperwork and technicians, (who are) performing procedures and even "examinations." The first thing requested from the patient is not a list of his complaints, but to fill out forms concerning the type of their insurance, their SS number, etc. The P.E. (physical exam) is minimal, technicians and technology replaced the Hippocratic methods. Errors are more frequent than when the practice was more personalized and Malpractice--the big M--often caused by negligence, and sometimes by ignorance is more prevalent. Accidents and human error always existed, but we used to remember the saying "Errare humanum est." Now we think more in terms of suits than philosophical concepts. A special chapter should be dedicated to the Medical Business proper, directed by the owners of HMO's, Hospitals, etc., limiting the physician's humanistic role and his income, but not his responsibility. And let's face it, in spite of technicians and technology; in spite of the so-called Medical Business, Doctors are still needed. Who else could sign your death certificate? -- Ana R. Marrero, M.D. 1913-1999
Thank you for reading.

OK. This was meant for Hilary. For whom, now? I actually think she'd like Ron Paul!

Please continue to keep an eye on me. As always, I'm up to something ;-). However, I actually sometimes think before I act, now. Pax in medias res: un poco mejor con cada ano que pasa...SI :-)!

Te quiero mucho para siempre, tu hija, Ninina

Kol Nidrei 2011

All I want to say is that I'm thinking of the three of you tonight.
I wish I could translate the poem I have that you wrote, Grandpa (but it's in Hungarian!).
I wish I could have one of your (almost) thirty soups for all the days in a month, Grandma.
And I wish that you could hug me again, Mami, just as you did on that long-ago day in Cuba...antes de que caimos en El Exilio.
51 years come October 29...
Love and kisses--always--
Ninina

Happy Birthday, Papi!

On the left: Georges Guillain, Papi's Neurology professor.
On the right: Clovis Vincent, Papi's Neurosurgery professor.

Happy 101st Birthday, Papi!

Alas, I don't have a digitized picture of him...but I can include pictures of two of his most important teachers. The third would be of the Spaniard who was the most important neuropathologist of his time, Don Pio del Rio Hortega.

And here is what I wrote about Papi:

MY FATHER, FEDERICO EFRAIN MARRERO

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

My father, Federico Efrain Marrero, was marked by joy and grace. A very natural man: friendly; a bit shy. He was intense; immensely focused on his work, whether it was dealing with a patient in his office; or poring over neuropathology slides in a lab. Considering he came from humble circumstances, he was a natural class act.
A farmer’s son—“and proud of it”—he began to work in the tobacco fields when he was five—he must have become quite an expert at rolling those cigars! In his off-hours, I daresay he was already hard at work on his schoolwork, very serious and intense and competitive. He wanted to be number one.
There is a picture of him when he was ten: standing straight and tall; almost blondish in appearance; just a few fellows down from another boy who was also to become a doctor (Juan del Regato). What strikes me most about the picture is how serious he looked!
Fast-forward to when he must have been about seventeen or eighteen: he looked like a Greek god! His wavy hair; his clear complexion: still serious, though, with softness about his lips and eyes that belied his sensitivity.
He finished his bachillerato (the Cuban equivalent of our high school; plus one or two years); and then began his studies—on a fellowship—at the University of Havana. He was doing his premedical; on his way to becoming a doctor. 1931-1933 were precarious political years in Cuba, though: when President Machado closed down the University, a number of young men prepared to go abroad to finish their education. My father was among the group. The fellowship was provided by the Cuban Company of Contractors.
So Efrain arrived in Paris in 1931. By 1935 he had completed all the coursework and clinical training to enable him to be appointed Extern (Resident) of the hospitals and hospices in Paris after a competitive examination.
By this point in time, he knew what fascinated him the most were neurology; neuropathology; and neurosurgery; and he engaged in these studies since 1935.
He served his first appointment in General Surgery under the Service of Dr. Picot between May 5 and October 31, 1936 at the Hopital Saint-Louis.
This ancient—326 years old at the time—hospital with its arches and courtyards—right smack in the middle of the decidedly eclectic 10th arrondissement of Paris—must have impressed the young man immensely! It is reached via the Goncourt Metro station. You walk down the street; and the street perpendicular to it is the Avenue Claude-Vellefaux. You continue to walk down until you reach the cobblestoned pathway lined with trees and, eventually, buildings. The old hospital is to the left: one archway leading to one courtyard, one after the other; all flanked by the hospital wards (batiments).
I personally wonder what he must have felt, when he first beheld the Hopital Saint-Louis. I got to see it the Monday right before I left during my last trip; and was most impressed. The French have meticulously restored it; without losing its original feel (the “new” building is across the cobblestoned path). Of course, there’s a banner draped across the new building proudly proclaiming its (now) 400 years of history!
And then there’s its Musee des Moulages. A Museum of wax casts of all sorts of maladies. The concierge at my hotel informed me that there’s this eccentric curator you have to personally contact—and with whom you have to “interview”—to make sure you want to see the museum for the “right” reasons. From the peek I got at what the museum holds on its web page, I think I could have handled it.
I imagine my father went to the museum on numerous occasions.
This was my favorite of all his hospitals (barring the Pitie-Salpetriere…or, rather, the batiment at which he practiced neurosurgery with Dr. Clovis Vincent several years later). Yes, it was my favorite of his hospitals—what a first impression!
Next—November 1 through December 25, 1936, he spent time at the Laennec Hospital, on the rue de Sevres, in the 7th arrondissement, in the service of Dr. Rist, whose specialty was Chest Diseases. He was a large—but kindly-looking fellow—from the picture I have of his service at the time. If I’m not mistaken, he was famous for being able to place his ear next to a patient’s chest and being able to diagnose his condition. Now that’s truly called being a clinician!
I believe this was the time period during which he met my mother, Ana Raab, for she was also in Dr. Rist’s service at the Laennec at the time. And in the picture—definitely taken in the late fall—you can find both my mother and my father! At first I couldn’t believe it was my papi: but his smile is unmistakable!
My mother continued to do a full year with Dr. Rist; but my father—between December 26, 1936; and April 30, 1937--learned General Medicine under the service of Dr. Troisier. He was still at the Laennec, which is a monster of a complex; was abandoned in 2000; and is now being “converted” into condos! This has all happened since I was there last November. At the time, it appeared like an abandoned ghost, a lost (but dearly valuable) soul. It felt very sad, trying to visualize memories that had been so much more palpable at the Saint-Louis!
And then the first of his three dearest wishes was granted: he became a resident in neurology at the Salpetriere Hospital (or, l’Hospice de la Salpetriere, as it was also known), under Georges Guillain, one of the preeminent neurologists of his time. He served under Guillain between May 1, 1937 and May 8, 1938.
Remember that he’d already been dabbling in the neurosciences since 1935…
Cute story time: at some point—maybe, between 1931 and 1935, he’d been in an ob-gyn rotation. I have a picture from the time period of my father sporting a beard. Well (and this perhaps proves that he met my mother before their time at the Laennec), the equally bearded professor asked a question, directing it at my father. My father could answer…nil. He had no interest in the matter, remember. The doctor then turned to my mother, who instantly answered the question. As a woman, she was fully expected to become either an ob/gyn or a pediatrician. (I believe she was leaning toward the latter.)
And here’s another one: one day my mother stumbled into Vincent’s operating room, stumbling all over the wires! Clovis Vincent—professor of and one of the founders of neurosurgery in France (and my father’s professor)—turned his great head and said, sternly: “What are you doing here, Mademoiselle?” “I’m searching for Monsieur Marrero,” she responded. “Go to the sub-basement. You’ll find him there,” said Vincent before returning to his surgery. Sure enough: Efrain was in the basement…operating on a bedsore!
In her first rotation (at the Hopital Broca), however, she was one of only five (!) female residents in General Surgery. There were plenty more female students in Chest Diseases; and, of course, at the Necker/Hopital des Enfants Malades. For—as I stated before—most female medical students at the time were expected to become either ob/gyns or pediatricians.
In this country you have to pass MCAT’s (and then pray!) to get into medical school. In the Paris of the 1930’s, the ultimate class size was determined by attrition. The competitive examinations my parents endured in 1935 were probably the deciding factor.
Back to Guillen and neurology: the natural progression of things was for my father to further his studies with Clovis Vincent—originally a neurologist, himself, who’d trained with the great Babinsky—in neurosurgery. His externship with Vincent lasted between May 9, 1938; and May 14, 1939. Instead of at the Salpetriere, this time, he worked at a batiment (pavilion) on the grounds of the Pitie Hospital. The truth is, the whole complex is all interconnected.
Clovis Vincent was a great French hero (in—it turned out—both World Wars). He’d led men in the trenches during WWI, for which he’d been decorated. He returned to his medical studies after the Great War; and he and Thierry de Martel founded the field of neurosurgery in France. He came to the United States to learn techniques from the great American neurosurgeon, Harvey Cushing. He tried to save Maurice Ravel in 1937. By then, he’d been granted his professorship in Neurological Surgery; and had his own service. It was during this time that my father must have originally gotten to know him.
During WWII, he craftily turned the service into the “Neurosurgical War Service.” The Germans allowed him to remain in control of it. Many an American and British soldier came to be treated at the Pitie during the War (including many a Jewish soldier). Vincent managed to treat them; and help them get out of France.
He even wanted my father to leave for his own safety: with a middle name like “Efrain,” he might have been suspect. However, my father remained for a second year of residency—as an intern, this time—between 1939 and 1940.
All the while—probably from 1936 on—he became a student of neuropathology: first, under Professor I. Costero of Valladolid, Spain (who’d taken refuge in France during the Spanish Civil War); and then, as a student and assistant to Professor Don Pio del Rio Hortega, who was—to quote my father, here: “internationally known for his investigations in histology and neuropathology.”
Working with Hortega was the greatest treasure and pleasure of his life. Usually obtaining good grades, his best were always in pathology.
It must have been a great pleasure for Costero and Hortega to work with fellow compatriotas; who spoke the same language! Not only as a student; but also as an assistant: Hortega became my father’s mentor. He wrote his thesis under him; he dedicated it to him.
When War broke out, the Chief of the Neuropathology Laboratory, Dr. Berdet, was mobilized. My father—still around, in spite of Vincent’s admonishments—undertook all the work of the laboratory for one year. By this point he had become a second-year intern (by substitution) within Vincent’s Neurosurgical War Service. Ramirez-Corria, who’d been in this position originally, had returned to Cuba (in 1937, I believe).
Vincent’s insistence—tinged with sadness—finally brought my father’s studies in Paris to an end. Efrain presented his thesis in mid-year; and, on July 13, 1940, he was granted the degree of Doctor of Medicine. Almost two years later—on February 20, 1942—he would obtain his Cuban equivalent.
My mother had left Paris by June 13, right before the Occupation. She’d finished her thesis on June 6. She’d moved south to Vichy France, which is where my father caught up with her on (I think) a number of occasions—culminating in helping her get out of a detention camp, I think—some time during late fall of 1940. In the midst of all the turmoil—and what everyone knew the fate of Jews in Hitler’s Europe already was and would continue to be—it was time for my father to return home to Cuba.
In mid-November, 1940, Clovis Vincent wrote Efrain Marrero a letter of recommendation. As best as my translation will allow, here is the last paragraph in Vincent’s letter for my father:
“Only the actual events in Europe have interrupted Doctor Marrero’s stay in my Service. I regret his forced departure because, by his activity, his intelligence, his knowledge and his conscience, he has been for me an excessively precious collaborator. Cuba possesses in him a man of great valor. He will give the greatest service to his Country if one well wishes to confer upon him the post of which he is worthy.”
--Clovis Vincent, Professor of Neurosurgery at the Faculty of Medicine of Paris, Paris, November 12, 1940
I know of Orleans; the hotel at which they were turned away (and which was later bombed that night). I know they connected with Losa, the Cuban consul, in Lyon; and got married at the Mayor’s Office there on December 31, 1940. Then they found their way to Spain (via Portugal?); spent time in Madrid; and eventually landed in Bilbao.
The Marques de Comillas was a merchant marine ship ready to take them to Cuba. At least one other Cuban doctor with a foreign-born wife was to be on that ship (Ceres Campbell’s great-uncle). The problem was that my mother had a check from the Credit Lyonnais with which to pay the passage. No one would accept her check. Toward the end of her life she told me that she ran through the streets of Bilbao, crying, not knowing what to do. A man appeared: a French Jewish man named Lazard. He gave her the money. So my mother was able to join my father on the ship (and—according to her—did nothing but vomit all the way across the ocean!).
And the rest is history. 2163 words

My Father, Federico Efrain Marrero

This is a plaque commemorating the batiment (pavilion) where Clovis Vincent--and his associates and students (including my father) developed the field of neurosurgery in France. The building is situated in what was originally considered The Pitie Hospital (now part of the Pitie-Salpetriere complex).

On this New Year's Eve, I have much to think about. I'm about to embark on a journey that I hope my parents will join me on, every step of the way. I've told parts of this story in other pieces, such as "Panni's and Pepi's Paris." This time around, I roughly followed my father's own resume; annotated by both him and my mother, Ana Raab Marrero.

For there is no way I can tell my father's story without including my mother. Since the mid-1930's, they became an integral part of each other's lives. And on December 31, 1940--70 years ago today--they became man and wife.

It was not an easy union; with, perhaps, a much easier beginning than its end. They accomplished a great deal; both together, and apart. The part I'm most concerned with today, is that they produced...me. May they both be with me now!

Remembering the good times--in Paris and in the early years in Cuba; when I was born (I hope!)--I wish Efrain and Ana a Happy 70th Anniversary!

MY FATHER, FEDERICO EFRAIN MARRERO
BY GEORGINA MARRERO
My father, Federico Efrain Marrero, was marked by joy and grace. A very natural man: friendly; a bit shy. He was intense; immensely focused on his work, whether it was dealing with a patient in his office; or poring over neuropathology slides in a lab. Considering he came from humble circumstances, he was a natural class act.
A farmer’s son—“and proud of it”—he began to work in the tobacco fields when he was five—he must have become quite an expert at rolling those cigars! In his off-hours, I daresay he was already hard at work on his schoolwork, very serious and intense and competitive. He wanted to be number one.
There is a picture of him when he was ten: standing straight and tall; almost blondish in appearance; just a few fellows down from another boy who was also to become a doctor (Juan del Regato). What strikes me most about the picture is how serious he looked!
Fast-forward to when he must have been about seventeen or eighteen: he looked like a Greek god! His wavy hair; his clear complexion: still serious, though, with softness about his lips and eyes that belied his sensitivity.
He finished his bachillerato (the Cuban equivalent of our high school; plus one or two years); and then began his studies—on a fellowship—at the University of Havana. He was doing his premedical; on his way to becoming a doctor. 1931-1933 were precarious political years in Cuba, though: when President Machado closed down the University, a number of young men prepared to go abroad to finish their education. My father was among the group. The fellowship was provided by the Cuban Company of Contractors.
So Efrain arrived in Paris in 1931. By 1935 he had completed all the coursework and clinical training to enable him to be appointed Extern (Resident) of the hospitals and hospices in Paris after a competitive examination.
By this point in time, he knew what fascinated him the most were neurology; neuropathology; and neurosurgery; and he engaged in these studies since 1935.
He served his first appointment in General Surgery under the Service of Dr. Picot between May 5 and October 31, 1936 at the Hopital Saint-Louis.
This ancient—326 years old at the time—hospital with its arches and courtyards—right smack in the middle of the decidedly eclectic 10th arrondissement of Paris—must have impressed the young man immensely! It is reached via the Goncourt Metro station. You walk down the street; and the street perpendicular to it is the Avenue Claude-Vellefaux. You continue to walk down until you reach the cobblestoned pathway lined with trees and, eventually, buildings. The old hospital is to the left: one archway leading to one courtyard, one after the other; all flanked by the hospital wards (batiments).
I personally wonder what he must have felt, when he first beheld the Hopital Saint-Louis. I got to see it the Monday right before I left during my last trip; and was most impressed. The French have meticulously restored it; without losing its original feel (the “new” building is across the cobblestoned path). Of course, there’s a banner draped across the new building proudly proclaiming its (now) 400 years of history!
And then there’s its Musee des Moulages. A Museum of wax casts of all sorts of maladies. The concierge at my hotel informed me that there’s this eccentric curator you have to personally contact—and with whom you have to “interview”—to make sure you want to see the museum for the “right” reasons. From the peek I got at what the museum holds on its web page, I think I could have handled it.
I imagine my father went to the museum on numerous occasions.
This was my favorite of all his hospitals (barring the Pitie-Salpetriere…or, rather, the batiment at which he practiced neurosurgery with Dr. Clovis Vincent several years later). Yes, it was my favorite of his hospitals—what a first impression!
Next—November 1 through December 25, 1936, he spent time at the Laennec Hospital, on the rue de Sevres, in the 7th arrondissement, in the service of Dr. Rist, whose specialty was Chest Diseases. He was a large—but kindly-looking fellow—from the picture I have of his service at the time. If I’m not mistaken, he was famous for being able to place his ear next to a patient’s chest and being able to diagnose his condition. Now that’s truly called being a clinician!
I believe this was the time period during which he met my mother, Ana Raab, for she was also in Dr. Rist’s service at the Laennec at the time. And in the picture—definitely taken in the late fall—you can find both my mother and my father! At first I couldn’t believe it was my papi: but his smile is unmistakable!
My mother continued to do a full year with Dr. Rist; but my father—between December 26, 1936; and April 30, 1937--learned General Medicine under the service of Dr. Troisier. He was still at the Laennec, which is a monster of a complex; was abandoned in 2000; and is now being “converted” into condos! This has all happened since I was there last November. At the time, it appeared like an abandoned ghost, a lost (but dearly valuable) soul. It felt very sad, trying to visualize memories that had been so much more palpable at the Saint-Louis!
And then the first of his three dearest wishes was granted: he became a resident in neurology at the Salpetriere Hospital (or, l’Hospice de la Salpetriere, as it was also known), under Georges Guillain, one of the preeminent neurologists of his time. He served under Guillain between May 1, 1937 and May 8, 1938.
Remember that he’d already been dabbling in the neurosciences since 1935…
Cute story time: at some point—maybe, between 1931 and 1935, he’d been in an ob-gyn rotation. I have a picture from the time period of my father sporting a beard. Well (and this perhaps proves that he met my mother before their time at the Laennec), the equally bearded professor asked a question, directing it at my father. My father could answer…nil. He had no interest in the matter, remember. The doctor then turned to my mother, who instantly answered the question. As a woman, she was fully expected to become either an ob/gyn or a pediatrician. (I believe she was leaning toward the latter.)
And here’s another one: one day my mother stumbled into Vincent’s operating room, stumbling all over the wires! Clovis Vincent—professor of and one of the founders of neurosurgery in France (and my father’s professor)—turned his great head and said, sternly: “What are you doing here, Mademoiselle?” “I’m searching for Monsieur Marrero,” she responded. “Go to the sub-basement. You’ll find him there,” said Vincent before returning to his surgery. Sure enough: Efrain was in the basement…operating on a bedsore!
In her first rotation (at the Hopital Broca), however, she was one of only five (!) female residents in General Surgery. There were plenty more female students in Chest Diseases; and, of course, at the Necker/Hopital des Enfants Malades. For—as I stated before—most female medical students at the time were expected to become either ob/gyns or pediatricians.
In this country you have to pass MCAT’s (and then pray!) to get into medical school. In the Paris of the 1930’s, the ultimate class size was determined by attrition. The competitive examinations my parents endured in 1935 were probably the deciding factor.
Back to Guillen and neurology: the natural progression of things was for my father to further his studies with Clovis Vincent—originally a neurologist, himself, who’d trained with the great Babinsky—in neurosurgery. His externship with Vincent lasted between May 9, 1938; and May 14, 1939. Instead of at the Salpetriere, this time, he worked at a batiment (pavilion) on the grounds of the Pitie Hospital. The truth is, the whole complex is all interconnected.
Clovis Vincent was a great French hero (in—it turned out—both World Wars). He’d led men in the trenches during WWI, for which he’d been decorated. He returned to his medical studies after the Great War; and he and Thierry de Martel founded the field of neurosurgery in France. He came to the United States to learn techniques from the great American neurosurgeon, Harvey Cushing. He tried to save Maurice Ravel in 1937. By then, he’d been granted his professorship in Neurological Surgery; and had his own service. It was during this time that my father must have originally gotten to know him.
During WWII, he craftily turned the service into the “Neurosurgical War Service.” The Germans allowed him to remain in control of it. Many an American and British soldier came to be treated at the Pitie during the War (including many a Jewish soldier). Vincent managed to treat them; and help them get out of France.
He even wanted my father to leave for his own safety: with a middle name like “Efrain,” he might have been suspect. However, my father remained for a second year of residency—as an intern, this time—between 1939 and 1940.
All the while—probably from 1936 on—he became a student of neuropathology: first, under Professor I. Costero of Valladolid, Spain (who’d taken refuge in France during the Spanish Civil War); and then, as a student and assistant to Professor Don Pio del Rio Hortega, who was—to quote my father, here: “internationally known for his investigations in histology and neuropathology.”
Working with Hortega was the greatest treasure and pleasure of his life. Usually obtaining good grades, his best were always in pathology.
It must have been a great pleasure for Costero and Hortega to work with fellow compatriotas; who spoke the same language! Not only as a student; but also as an assistant: Hortega became my father’s mentor. He wrote his thesis under him; he dedicated it to him.
When War broke out, the Chief of the Neuropathology Laboratory, Dr. Berdet, was mobilized. My father—still around, in spite of Vincent’s admonishments—undertook all the work of the laboratory for one year. By this point he had become a second-year intern (by substitution) within Vincent’s Neurosurgical War Service. Ramirez-Corria, who’d been in this position originally, had returned to Cuba (in 1937, I believe).
Vincent’s insistence—tinged with sadness—finally brought my father’s studies in Paris to an end. Efrain presented his thesis in mid-year; and, on July 13, 1940, he was granted the degree of Doctor of Medicine. Almost two years later—on February 20, 1942—he would obtain his Cuban equivalent.
My mother had left Paris by June 13, right before the Occupation. She’d finished her thesis on June 6. She’d moved south to Vichy France, which is where my father caught up with her on (I think) a number of occasions—culminating in helping her get out of a detention camp, I think—some time during late fall of 1940. In the midst of all the turmoil—and what everyone knew the fate of Jews in Hitler’s Europe already was and would continue to be—it was time for my father to return home to Cuba.
In mid-November, 1940, Clovis Vincent wrote Efrain Marrero a letter of recommendation. As best as my translation will allow, here is the last paragraph in Vincent’s letter for my father:
“Only the actual events in Europe have interrupted Doctor Marrero’s stay in my Service. I regret his forced departure because, by his activity, his intelligence, his knowledge and his conscience, he has been for me an excessively precious collaborator. Cuba possesses in him a man of great valor. He will give the greatest service to his Country if one well wishes to confer upon him the post of which he is worthy.”
--Clovis Vincent, Professor of Neurosurgery at the Faculty of Medicine of Paris, Paris, November 12, 1940
I know of Orleans; the hotel at which they were turned away (and which was later bombed that night). I know they connected with Losa, the Cuban consul, in Lyon; and got married at the Mayor’s Office there on December 31, 1940. Then they found their way to Spain (via Portugal?); spent time in Madrid; and eventually landed in Bilbao.
The Marques de Comillas was a merchant marine ship ready to take them to Cuba. At least one other Cuban doctor with a foreign-born wife was to be on that ship (Ceres Campbell’s great-uncle). The problem was that my mother had a check from the Credit Lyonnais with which to pay the passage. No one would accept her check. Toward the end of her life she told me that she ran through the streets of Bilbao, crying, not knowing what to do. A man appeared: a French Jewish man named Lazard. He gave her the money. So my mother was able to join my father on the ship (and—according to her—did nothing but vomit all the way across the ocean!).
And the rest is history. 2163 words

Mami--Once Anos Despues

Mami, este ano te queiro escribir en espanol.

Te tengo mucho por decir; pero tambien se que tu me has estado escuchando--y aconsejando--del cielo.
Pienso que te estas viendo mucho mas como madre que como psichiatra a estas alturas: despues de todo--al fin del dia--en tu bata blanca--tu regresabas a la casa; y tenias puesta a tu ropa normal. Y natural. La ropa de Anita--a vintage store's dream! (OK.)

Hace un ano estube en Paris. Que frio; que humedad; y que cantidad de lluvia! Por lo menos, cuando fui al Musee Rodin, hubo sol; para que pude ver a Le Penseur; a The Burghers of Calais; y a las obras exquisitas de Camille Claudel en su gloria! Y esa noche vi al abrigo de lutre de Ghermaine--ahijada de Madeleine Vionnet--en esa exhibicion el el Musee des Arts Decoratifs. Me estaba esperando: ese abrigo. Le tome una foto. Volvi al Hopital Broca varias veces: le tome fotos en blanco y negro; y en color. Parece haber sido bastante chiquito, ese primer hospital tuyo. Necker--el Hopital del Enfants Malades--enorme; y bajo construccion. Y el Laennec--donde conociste a Papi--que haran los franceses con ese complejo de edificios abandonados tan enorme? Prime real estate. Al final fui a Saint Antoine: no lo mas "emocionante" de todos (pero despues del Hopital San Louis, donde Papi empezo, no pienso que nunca vere a uno tan impresivo! Y, claro, el Pitie-Salpetriere, donde camine, camine...y hasta le deje una rosa amarilla en frente de la pavillon de Clovis Vincent, donde Papi practico.)
Pero en todo momento estaba "aware" a quien le pertenecia cual: sus cuentos; sus impresiones. Y tu? En los cafes todas las tardes con Kati y sus amigas: cuando estudiabas? Te entro todo via osmosis? Papi estudiaba bien duro; especialmente cuando estaba aprendiendo de Guillen; de Vincent; y--por supuesto--Hortega. Y tus cuentos con Vica: el conde de Esterhazy, eh? Lo pasaste muy bien, en Paris...y, al final, te espero tu Diplome d'Etat; que lo tengo colgado con mucho orgullo en mi pared.

Mami la doctora. Despues, Mami la ama de casa cubana. Despues, madre en en Exilio...y doctora, otra vez. Residente en Psichiatria. Y practicante de tu profesion, en el South Florida State Hospital.

Pero siempre seras mi Mami. Y ahora, tu sabes que te necesito mas que nunca. Hice lo que tube que hacer al fines de octubre--y que Dios me ayude con el turco! No mas medicina, por favor! (Fuiste tu la quien indicaste lo que yo verdaderamente necesitaba.)

Querida Mami--Dra. Marrero--estes a mi lado cuando te necesite en enero, por favor! Que lastima que no puedes estar a mi lado; explicandome todo, paso por paso. Y, tambien, aguantandome a la mano...

Pero si lo haras del cielo, estoy segura de esto! Papi ha llorado mas (porque ese era su caracter, como es el mio); pero a ti se te han soltado las lagrimas, tambien. Uds. saben que no pedi para que nada de esto pase--

Pero, ahora, los dos, Mami y Papi, La Doctora y el Doctor Marrero: a ayudar a su hija, por favor! A estar a mi lado. Me sentire mucho mejor sabiendo que Uds. estaran ahi, conmigo...

SI, los quiero mucho a los dos. Y se que Uds. me querian mucho a mi, tambien.

Once anos. No lo puedo creer! Han pasado muchas cosas buenas--pero algunas malas--durante este tiempo. Algunas, yo las provoque. Pero este ultimo ano...

Ni modo. Fue una alegria; un placer; y un honor haber estado en Paris hace un ano para celebrar a tus dies. En Paris: tu ciudad. Para siempre.

Esten conmigo ahora, por favor! Se que si lo estan haciendo: ya lo han mostrado, varias veces. Tengo miedo; pero tendre mucho menos miedo sabiendo que Uds. estan a mi lado...

Los quiero mucho. Para siempre.

Su hija,
Georgina

And I Love Them, Redux: Panni's and Pepi's Paris

Entrance to the Hopital Laennec, Saturday, November 28, 2009.

Today is my parents' wedding anniversary. They married at the Mairie de Lyon (Mayor's Office in Lyon) on December 31, 1940.

By my calculations, they met at the Hopital Laennec between November 1 and December 25, 1936. At least, that's when they shared a rotation in Chest Diseases there.

Oh, irony: and I'm just coming out of a chest disease, in the aftermath of my "exploratory" trip to Paris--no regrets, though.

Although I've published "Panni's and Pepi's Paris" on other blogs, it belongs here--on my "retro" blog--as well. For, I love them.

For Ana y Efrain -- Feliz Ano Nuevo!

PANNI’S AND PEPI’S PARIS

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

For me, Paris is synonymous with the two most important persons in my life: my parents. Anna “Panni” Raab met Federico Efrain “Pepi” Marrero in a medical school class at the University of Paris’ Faculty of Medicine sometime in the mid-1930’s. At the time, people “group” dated, or so my mother told me, so I’m not quite sure when they began to formally date. By 1940, though, they knew each other well enough that my father either sent for or went to pick my mother up in the South of France, they traveled via Orleans to Lyon, and married in the mayor’s office there on December 31, 1940.
My parents’ stories about their years in Paris shaped me. Their stories about forty francs being the equivalent of one American dollar; about a paper cone’s full of French fries costing four to five francs (and that was dinner). About students gathering in the Luxembourg Gardens: I have pictures of them doing just so. About Henri Bergson giving lectures that were so packed that the best my mother could hope for was to strain to hear through the open door. About how he presented himself as a Jew before the Nazis when they occupied Paris.
Those were very difficult times. My mother defended her thesis eight days before the Occupation. And then she fled to Vichy France. As for my father: well, with a middle name like Efrain, his professor, Clovis Vincent, wanted to keep a close eye on him. It just so happened Vincent was a great French patriot, decorated during the First World War. So he ingeniously gathered all his residents together to serve at the Pitie Hospital under the auspices of his “Neurosurgical Wartime Service.”

One of the residents, a man named Rabinowitz, escaped at least several times from detention camps, and eventually made his way to Canada.
For the record, when Princess Diana was rushed to the Pitie and Salpetriere Hospitals after her fatal car crash, my mother’s comment was: “That’s the best place to treat head injuries.” No two ways about it: my mother would have known.
My mother’s strength may have ebbed and flowed, but her stories never wavered. After her death, I had the good fortune to speak with one of her best friends, a fashion designer named Kati Cohn, who filled in many gaps. According to Kati, the Hungarians went to France to study, she said, because they were “freer” there. They were not held back… just because they were Jewish.
Young, carefree, (perhaps?) in love – and she never studied, according to Kati. Panni joined Kati and her crowd at the cafes every afternoon. When did she study, we both mused out loud. She graduated, though, producing a thesis on Nietzsche and Psychiatry. And, oh, yes: she once cooked a veal steak on the back of an iron!
As for Pepi, he studied very hard, yet found time to play ball with his fellow Cuban classmates. He also cooked chicken and rice: hard for me to believe, later on. He had to wash his own clothes, and, at one point, had to do with very little money, for someone had stolen his stipend. I guess that’s when those French fries came in handy.
My father’s passion was neuropathology, so he hit pay dirt when a very eminent Spaniard fled to Paris during the Spanish Civil War. This man, Don Pio del Rio Hortega, guided my father’s thesis. My father dedicated it to him.
Did they have fun? They all had fun, according to Kati.

In the midst of all the storm clouds brewing, yes, they did.
They were young, carefree, and – perhaps – falling in love.
If the following is not an example of young love, then I don’t know what is: According to my mother, she once stumbled into Vincent’s operating room, tripping over wires, and whatnot. The Great Man – a big, hulking French peasant – turned, glowered, and asked Panni: “Mademoiselle, what are you doing here?”
“I’m searching for Monsieur Marrero,” my mother responded. She proudly continued, “He’s supposed to be operating.”
Monsieur Vincent tersely replied, “Go to the sub-basement. You’ll find Monsieur Marrero there.” Sure enough, my father was operating… on bedsores.
As a teenager, I went to Paris, where I spent time with my mother’s cousin and his wife, who’d been made to wear the Star of David during the Occupation. Their daughter’s married to a devout Roman Catholic.
A little later on that summer, my mother came to join me. I’d wanted to go running off to Scotland to do who knows what after finishing my language course in Tours. In a panic, my father had sent her over.
Still highly energetic, my mother marched me up and down the streets of Paris, pointing out this, that, everything. She took me to the oldest restaurant (Le Procope), and the cheapest (Le Bouillon Chartier), where a waiter taught me how to eat an artichoke.
A rebellious child of the times, all I did was fuss, fret, protest, and complain… all the way to the Folies Bergere. Even then, however, I sensed the enormous bond my mother had with her lifelong best friend and her Cuban husband, a bon vivant who’d married the peppy little Frenchwoman, never again giving a second thought to the medical career that had brought him to Paris in the first place, as it had my father.
After she passed away, I braved a cold, damp Paris holiday season to visit with our relatives. I also spent many wonderful hours with her best friend’s now widowed husband. He’d known Efrain for even more years than he’d known Anita. I returned once more, four months before 9/11, when I got to see him for the last time.
I’m bound to return to Paris, and to enjoy The City of Lights more and more in my own right. However, for me, this beautiful, carefree, romantic city will always be… Panni’s and Pepi’s Paris.

Copyright, 2005 by Georgina Marrero 992 words First-time worldwide serial rights