My father, Paul Seymon, was not tall or handsome, and yet he was a man you would always notice in a crowd. He was powerfully built, and an aura of strength surrounded him. He was quite bald, with just a fringe of dark hair, and had very strong features, with a large nose and firm, sensuous mouth. His bald head had always fascinated me when I was little, and was a constant source of curiosity. For years, I believed that his baldness was caused by the heavy helmet he wore during World War I, because that had always been his explanation.

 

I adored and admired this father of mine, and sometimes hated him. He was very strict, had a terrible temper, and a strong personality. But he also had a wonderful sense of humor, and often had us all in stitches. When he was angry, we trembled, but when he was in a happy mood, we'd all have such wonderful fun with him, and the house would be filled with laughter. He was definitely the head of the family and the boss, and no-one questioned his decisions (except his rebellious daughter sometimes). He was a very hard-working man, and because of his strength and intelligence people would be drawn to him, lean on him, and come to him for advice. Everyone respected him.

 

He was born in 1896 in northern Germany, in Schleswig Holstein, bordering on Denmark. When he was quite little, the family moved to Hamburg where his father opened a department store. He was a good student, and always loved to draw and sketch. Once he made a caricature of his teacher in class, who got very angry. But when he saw how good the drawing was, he did not punish my father. Most unusual for a teacher in those days. His love for music and art stayed with him all of his life.

 

When Paul was only 17, he had volunteered for service in World War I. He had fought in France for about two years and had become an officer, and for part of this time he lived in a farmhouse with a French family with whom he became very friendly, even though they were enemies. Years later he visited them with my mother, and was received with great joy. He spoke French fluently, and loved the French people. During the war he was in the cavalry, and for special occasions he wore a gorgeous uniform, somewhat like a Cossack's, with braid crisscrossed on his chest, a high fur cap, a cape and, of course, boots. I used to love to look at a photo of him taken then, sitting on his horse. He looked very handsome and dashing. At that time, he still had his hair and even a mustache.

 

Dad had wanted to be an architect. But his older brother (my handsome Uncle Max) had been sent to the university to become a doctor, and so there was no choice for him but to join his father in his successful business--the department store. All his life he was a gifted but frustrated designer and artist, but kept up this hobby through the years, designing stores, the interior of our homes, furniture, and making many drawings of us and the world around us.

 

He was such a gifted artist; in fact, that when we first came to America he supported us with his commercial artwork until he eventually found a job with Sears and Roebuck. Fortunately, he was also an outstanding businessman and really loved his work. He worked hard, but enjoyed play too, and was an excellent pianist, a marvelous story teller, and a poet (mostly of amusing, clever, and slightly risque poems). Everything he touched he did well, but it was not always easy to live with him.

 

He lived by a passionately humanist philosophy and felt deeply that religion was only for the weak, that a man should know within himself what was right or wrong. His feelings of responsibility for others less fortunate or less capable were very strong, and I still have a poem he wrote for me when I was about 11 years old, which says in loose translation from German:

 

            Religion, means strictly speaking

            That man must have respect for himself,

            And will not harm the laws of humanity

            Because of this respect.

 

In other words, a strong, decent man did not need religion to tell him what was right or wrong. He truly lived by this philosophy, and was always ready to help when there was a need, and thus was the most religious man I ever knew. I first learned this about my father when I was in my first year in school. It was a public school and there were some very poor children in my class, who would come to school in ragged clothes and unkempt hair. I hardly remember anything of my first year in school, but this event I never forgot. We were having a little Christmas party in the class, just before the holidays. The teacher had cookies for all us little girls. There was a large box on top of her desk, and we were all curious about its contents. Suddenly Fraulein Schultz said, Because of the generosity of the father of one of the girls in this class, we have some wonderful Christmas gifts for some of you children who need them. Mr. Paul Seymon has donated all these lovely clothes for you. Paul Seymon! That was my father! It hit me like a thunderbolt and I could not believe it. Everyone looked at me and I felt very shy and shocked. Then the teacher handed out the nice warm sweaters, skirts, stockings, and underwear to the needy little girls, and afterwards they all came and thanked me. I felt very strange and wanted to cry--I had had nothing to do with this. Why did they thank me? Why could their parents not buy them clothes? Why did I have lots of nice things to wear and they didn't? Why did my father do this? He seemed very wonderful, and god-like and special to me at this moment., but my little head was full of questions.

 

My parents had a strong, loving relationship. My mother let my father make all the decisions, and loved and admired him. She was a happy and fulfilled wife and mother, and he in turn adored her for her beauty and gentleness.

 

My parents had gotten married at the height of the terrible German inflation. Every day the German mark was worth less. Working people got paid every day, and immediately had to go and buy something, anything, for if they waited till the next day, their money would not even buy them a loaf of bread. Many businesses failed, people starved, and there was tragedy everywhere. They went on their honeymoon with half a million marks, which is like going on your honeymoon with half a million dollars today, only the mark simply was not worth anything anymore, and it barely lasted them a week. A tiny apartment above a restaurant was their first home. It was impossible to find a place to live, as no new buildings were being built. The rent for this tiny little love nest was one American dollar a month. They were able to get these dollars through the business, mostly from sailors who brought back dollars from their trips. With an American dollar, you could buy the world; with a mark, almost nothing. Many people lost everything during this terrible time. The money people had saved was suddenly worthless. A 100- mark note would be raised to 1,000, then 100,000, then 1,000,000, all in a couple of weeks, and the printer would simply add zeros on the bills. My father still had several of these bills in his possession when I was a girl, and I remember him showing me how the printer had just added the zeros.

 

Finally, when there was no longer any doubt that I was on the way, my parents decided they needed a bigger place. An old peoples' home needed money, and decided to sell the attic of the home. So my parents bought the attic and built an apartment there, from which they had a wonderful view of the city. The beautiful old building was right on the Alster, the lovely lake in the center of Hamburg, and in due time I was born there, perhaps the only baby in the world born in an old folks' home. We were on the fifth floor, quite a hike for my mother, as there was no elevator, of course. I must have been the most spoiled baby in the world, as the old people were delighted to have a baby among them--a rather unusual occurrence in that kind of a place.

 

We stayed there until my mother was pregnant with my brothers, and we again needed a larger place.. In later years, I always loved to go downtown on one of the Alster boats that were our favorite transportation, and pass the handsome old peoples' home and tell everyone that I was born there. It no longer exists; it was destroyed during the war.

 

Life went on pleasantly for several years. The business prospered and was enlarged. We moved to a nice house on a tree-lined street along a pretty canal, one of the many that ran through Hamburg. And my father was proud of his four children--Ruth, the oldest; Gunnar and Bert, the twins; and Peter, the baby. But then Hitler rose to power, and the world around us changed. Life became difficult, and running a business almost impossible.

 

And eventually the German patriot, Paul Seymon, decided that he had to leave his once beloved homeland. It was a hard and difficult decision, as he could not really imagine ever living anywhere else. The grandfather had to be persuaded too, and of course it was even harder for him, but finally the day came when we all left by train, and then by ship, setting out for a new homeland. The store had been sold, the house had been sold, and much of the furniture too. We only took along what we felt we really would need.

 

We children thought it all was a wonderful adventure, but for my father this was a difficult and fearful time, and he visibly aged. Here he was taking his wife and four children to America with practically no money and no job. But we all knew he would take care of us somehow, and were not a bit worried, for we had complete confidence and faith in him.

 

And when we arrived in San Francisco, he did get work through friends. Art work at first and then a job at Sears and Roebuck. It was now the end of 1938, and things were still very difficult in the U.S.A., and jobs hard to find, and so he felt very fortunate to have a job. But it was difficult for him, who had always been independent, to work for someone else. Within a short time, the management at Sears recognized his ability and talents, and he started to rise and was soon part of the management. But he worked very hard and was paid very little, and always had to do some art work besides at home to earn extra money. Everyone of us had to work and help. My mother did knitting, I gave piano lessons to the little daughter of friends. The poor child did not get very far. And the twins sold magazines. Peter was still too small to contribute. Eventually, I too got a job at Sears, as an extra salesgirl on weekends.

 

We had very little money. For the first two years, we had no car and going to the movies was a big treat! But we were surrounded by our nice things from Germany, and we were all together. My father's brothers lived in Los Angeles, and my grandfather lived with one of the uncles there. Only my mother's sisters were still in France, and we worried about them constantly, especially after the war in Europe started.

 

We all went to school--the twins and I started at Marina Junior High School in the Marina district in San Francisco, and loved it. It was very different from our German schools. Much larger, easier, and more relaxing and less disciplined. My brothers played baseball in every free minute, and soon had many friends. My best friend was also a German girl, Marion, and from the moment we discovered each other in school, we were inseparable.

 

My father had to take the bus every day for the long ride to work at Sears & Roebuck in the Mission district. He'd come home exhausted at night.. So eventually it was decided that we had to move closer to his work, and we found an apartment in the Mission district. My father and the boys did not mind it too much, but my mother and I were not very happy there. It was an old area, dilapidated and rough, and definitely not as pretty as the Marina. I continued school in the Marina, but still had to return to the apartment every evening. However, it did make it easier for my father.

 

And after a year, we were able to buy a used car, and awhile after that bought a house for the enormous sum of $7,000 on 24th Avenue, right next to Golden Gate Park, which now became our playground. The house was small, but comfortable, and pretty; a typical San Francisco house. Now we were again in a very attractive part of San Francisco, and in spite of the fog that rolled in from the nearby ocean, we were all delighted with our new life

there.

 

My father, however, was getting restless at Sears. He felt that he could not go much further there, and eventually in 1943, decided to leave Sears and start his own business again. He chose a variety store in a little town near Oakland called San Leandro. The family was not very happy about moving away from San Francisco which they had come to love and where they had made many friends, but they all understood their father's need. The money for the purchase of the store had to be borrowed from friends, and we children all added whatever money we had saved. I was going to art school by then, for which I had been saving all these years. My father got his family together, and with deep emotion asked us three older ones to leave our schools, and help in the store, as otherwise he felt he could not possibly make a go of it. It was the only: time I ever saw him break down and cry. We all agreed, and now started the most difficult but also most exhilarating time for us all. Working together as a family, for awhile forgetting about our own wants and needs, brought us all very close. We all worked like slaves from 8 in the morning until 8 at night. We had to learn about. nuts and bolts, stationery, electrical goods, toys, cosmetics, hardware, and fabrics, because this truly was a variety store, and we had a little of everything. We had a candy counter too, but it was not very profitable, as much of the merchandise ended up in our stomachs. The customers were fascinated by this German family working so hard together, and brought their friends along to the store, and business boomed. We had opened the store early in September, and by the beginning of January after the Christmas rush, all the debts had been paid off! Now my father was a truly happy man. He had his own store, and had soon earned the respect of the people in the community, and was even supporting a Little League baseball team. We had a nice little house. He was able to send me to art school in Los Angeles. All our dreams seemed to be coming true, as we children had always known they would.

 

The business prospered and grew, and soon the hard years were almost forgotten. For Christmas 1944, he presented my mother with a beautiful diamond watch, and the look of pride and joy in his face I will never forget. And though we had all helped a bit, We knew it was because of my fathers knowledge, hard work, and talent that the dream had become reality.

 

Eventually he bought another store, and this time it was a fabric store, his real love and expertise. It immediately was successful, and he enlarged it several times, always doing the designing of both the outside and inside furnishings himself. Gunnar, Bert, and Peter all worked with him. The store was written up in national magazines, and people came from far and near to shop there. He became a prosperous and leading citizen of San Leandro, very active in civic and business affairs, and grew and prospered with the growing town. Everyone in San Leandro knew him, and he enjoyed his many friends, good food, good cigars, and his home and family.

 

In 1961, much before his time, he died of heart disease. However, before his death, he had achieved much more than he had dreamed possible on that terrible day so long ago, when he had to flee, penniless, from his homeland.