A Legacy To Honor

Montreal As Seen From Mount Royal by William Henry Bartlett

The email arrived on my computer queue as a glaring greeting to the day. For the past weeks, I had researched art appraisers in Sacramento, San Francisco, and yes Montreal and I was awaiting a final response. And this morning, there it was. A final determination.

I have been in possession of a landscape that was given to me by my Aunt over 30 years ago. At the time she told me that it was an etching by a renowned Canadian artist and she told me to take good care of it as it was a valuable piece. Dutifully, I displayed it in my antique desk.  A place of honor.  No matter where I moved, it accompanied; encased in protective tissue and hand carried. It was my treasure; a testimony to my dear Aunt who came to introduce me to fine art, wonderful music, and the adventures of life. It was, among so many of her generous gifts, a definitive recognition and acknowledgement of our connection…of my respect.  

My aunt passed away two years ago, under a cloak of mystery, anonymity, and ultimate sadness. And now, in light of the unresolved questions and circumstances that surrounded her death, I sought to seek a formal appraisal. In my mind, it would be the final verification of all she was and all she represented.

So I clicked on the email, held my breath, and began to read…

My Aunt’s name was Jacinta Baptista Glaeser. She was born the tenth child of what was to ultimately become a family of 11. She was the youngest of seven sisters. Each very lovely; each carrying within themselves a familial belief that they were exceptional.She was born in 1940, at the onset of the second world war…a time of struggle. Her family, my family, was Portuguese but residents of the British colony of Hong Kong. With such roots in colonial caste and Western privilege, they proudly carried British passports as subjects to the English crown. But with outbreak of a conflict, such identification thrust them into the cruel atrocities of survival. England was at war with Japan, which invaded Hong Kong.  In short, a war zone. The family fled to the nearby Portuguese colony of Macao in hopes of refuge. After all, they were Portuguese. In order to accommodate a deluge of fleeing immigrants, the Portuguese government of Macao contained all the refugees in squalor conditions; living in once grand homes now reduced to basic shelters that housed as many people that could possibly fit. There was little food, little warmth, little dignity.

The little baby in my Grandmother's
arms is Jacinta. Taken circa 1940.

For her mother, my grandmother, it would prove to be overwhelming. Her life of raising 11 babies, born one right after the other, the poverty of war, the struggle to survive amidst illness…she could not sustain and died when Jacinta was just a young child, shortly after the defeat of Japan and a final armistice. The family had returned to Hong Kong but the loss of their beloved mother devasted and changed them. And Jacinta grew up in what remained. She was raised by a distant dictatorial father and surrounded by the larger than life personalities of her siblings. It was chaotic at its best and mournful at its loneliest.

A rare family shot taken in Hong Kong.
Jacinta is on the far right and I am
the little girl in the front row, right

The seven sister, CIrca 1950.
From left to right,
Back Row: Theresa, Mom, Geri
Front Row: Millie, Mimi, Jacinta, and Betty

Throughout, there remained a pride in the family.  They told themselves and each other that they were brilliant, beautiful. But, with such criteria of excellence, human vulnerabilities complicated self imposed entitlements. They covered their poverty with the deception of education and style. They denied the complex volatility of their personalities. They banded together in protection and propagation of image. But they loved one another fiercely. They were family.

A very young Jacinta,
Front row, third from left

As the child/niece of such aunts and uncles, I heard the glory stories and never questioned their authenticity. I was in awe of their bright minds and respected their accomplishments. Each, including my Mother, were powerful personalities. Beautiful people, spinning in their reality of exception. I was aware that they were often looked upon with jealously and criticism. I saw a contradiction in the reality of their lives and their declarations of privilege. As a very young child, I was frightened of some, impressed by others. And, as I grew older, I ultimately challenged their realities. Yes, I even came to criticize. But never, never did I doubt or deny my Aunty Jacinta.

Jacinta and Klaus visiting
Versailles with a friend.

As it came to be, not unlike her siblings who relocated throughout the world, Jacinta left Hong Kong at  a very young age and moved to Europe. By then, my immediate family was living in San Francisco and it was very romantic and exciting to have a relative on THE continent. Jacinta met and married a dashing German, Klaus. I stared at photos of them and wanted so to travel and fall in love with a foreign stranger. She was my storybook heroine.

My Mother and her sister Jacinta.
Taken in Montreal in the mid 70s

Eventually, Jacinta and Klaus settled in Montreal when he became an executive for Volkswagen.

When I was 12, they invited me to visit for the world’s fair, Expo 67. These are but a few of the memorable highlights:

-- I flew solo into New York. (Herculean for a preteen who never left the city). Together we spent the day and I basked in their excitement about this exciting city. I believe that brief but impressive visit began my lifelong love affair with NYC.

-- And then we drove to beautiful Montreal. Their apartment on the hill, overlooking a fabulous cityscape, was right out of movie.

-- Expo 67 was better than my childhood Disneyland. We would visit international exhibits and they would tell me stories about their global travels. I wanted to be them.

-- During that time, Princess Grace Kelly, whom I admired, was in town and we went to the pavilion she was scheduled to visit. Unfortunately, she suffered a miscarriage and never showed up. I remember reading the paper the next morning and realizing I was in the midst of events and famous people. My storybook was coming to life. I was enthralled.

--That summer, the Beatles put out their newest album which marked a change in their music—and ultimately all music. It was pivotal and I knew nothing would be the same. Jacinta and Klaus took me to the store to buy Sargent Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band. It became my definitive album. I played it over and over again.

-- And, perhaps, the most exciting encounter took place in Quebec City. Charles  DeGaulle, President of France, had come to the capitol of the province to encourage Quebecois to liberate themselves from the British Commonwealth that was Canada. It was bold, it was revolutionary, it was very French. Jacinta, Klaus, and I drove to the beautiful, cobble stoned town, amidst the glory of its French architecture, to witness the celebration. As we stood with revelers, chanting “VIVE LE QUEBEC LIBRE”, my aunt shoved me to the front of the crowd. There I stood, face to face with DeGaulle himself—a towering figure, grandly uniformed. The little girl next to me handed him a small French flag and sweetly said, “Je vous donne”. He accepted and, to my surprise, turned to me and handed me the flag. I took it, dumbstrucked and completely in awe. I kept that little flag for years to follow. I wish I knew where it was today.

I returned from that visit filled with enchanted experiences, new dreams and, quite simply, adoration for my Aunt and Uncle. They showed me a new world and offered possibilities for discovery that I had only read about in books.

My life moved forward as the years progressed but I kept in touch with my magical Aunt and Uncle. I wrote to them about entering college at Berkeley. (At one point, I thought of even going to McGill in Montreal). In the true family manner of striving for excellence, they approved. Soon, I got married. They approved of the pedigreed man that I chose. I had a beautiful daughter. They delighted in what appeared to be my entrée into a better world. I was carrying on the family legacy.

Klaus’ career was on a trajectory of success. They bought a large home in a tony suburb of Montreal. My aunts would speak of their social mobility with words of praise and pride. And then, the unthinkable happened.  Klaus took their dog for a walk. The dog burst forward and into the street. Klaus ran after him. At that moment, at that horrible consequence of time and place, the Mayor’s son was driving down that same street. The car struck Klaus as he bolted out to retrieve the dog. He died instantly.

It was my first encounter with death in the family. I was in shock. I was numb. I did not know how to grieve for that magical uncle and his beautiful wife. I was without words. Jacinta came to visit shortly after and I struggled to express my grief. Hers was indescribable. It was then that I saw her frustration with her sisters. They did not offer the support she wanted. How could they? It was not in their realm to articulate the complexities of grief. We all struggled. My second daughter was born shortly after and I asked Jacinta to be her god mother. It was all I could do but the gesture was heartfelt and sincere. Jacinta accepted.

My daughter Kelley wearing
one of the dresses Jacinta sent

In the years to come, she was exceptionally generous to me as well as my daughters. She would write to me about investing in "newer" artists such as Miro and Klee. She challenged me to appreciate modern art. She would buy my daughters beautiful French dresses. There is a bounty of photos with each girl dressed in smocked loveliness, covered in fabrics that were as unique and exquisite. She sent antique toys and books.

Then came my divorce and I went into a period of isolation. It was hard to admit to my family that my marriage was over. It was even harder to tell Jacinta. So there was silence. I was incapable of any thing else.

And then…another unthinkable occurrence. The family, myself included, received a letter from Jacinta saying that she was done. The pain of her childhood, the loss of Klaus, the isolation she felt--all had become unbearable. And with a final proclamation, she wrote that she no longer wanted to be in touch with any of us. She wanted to be alone.

I was stunned and I felt responsible. I tried to contact her but to no avail. Coincidentally, I went to Montreal on business. I decided to try and see her. I drove to her house and knocked on her door. No response. I left a note begging her to call.  I stayed in my hotel waiting for the phone to ring. It never did.

In a strange way, I felt I understood her need to be away. I was sure that what happened to her in Hong Kong, in the midst of her early childhood, was fraught with sadness. I was certain that she never got over losing Klaus. So she chose a new life without us. I missed her but I respected her decision. For you see, in that little girl, that young woman that adored her aunt, I realized that my admiration and love must include an acceptance. I needed to let her be. Perhaps one day…she and I would meet again and, without words of explanation, there would simply be a sweet reunion.

When Mom died, I wanted to call Jacinta and tell her. But, in my sorrow, I did not. I could not bear to know that she would not respond.

And then, two summers ago, the family got the news. Jacinta had passed. She was 76 years old. Her body was found on a beach. And that is all I was told. But, deep in my gut, I felt the news was incomplete. Something was not adding up. I wondered if she committed suicide. Just as she chose to live alone, could she have chosen to die in the same manner? So I began to investigate…

I have come to learn that the initial explanation of Jacinta’s death was erroneous. It is worse than can ever be imagined. She lived in the house that she bought with Klaus. She did not need to work as she was financially comfortable. Perhaps she found solace in the art she collected and reading the old books she treasured. I learned that she was not close to anyone in particular. Very little is known of her final years, her final days.  

One summer day, a census taker rang the door bell of her house. He was simply doing his job. No answer. He looked in the window and what he saw shocked him—the room was filled with flies. He called authorities. What was discovered were the skeletal remains of my aunt. On a table, there was a newspaper dated April of that year. Two months had gone by and it was too late to determine exactly when and how she passed.

Her remains lay in the morgue. The local paper posted her name with those of unclaimed others. Eventually, she was placed in a mass, unknown grave. Canadian government authorities began the process of removing, selling, and settling her belongings. As they were going through her papers, there was a document with the name of my cousin. He was contacted and the family was finally notified. There was an effort for a burial with Klaus. At the close of last year, this self appointed “agent” advised that they "found her" and that she rests with her husband in a cemetery in Montreal.

I question if the remains they placed alongside Klaus were really hers. We shall never know.

I find myself distraught over the circumstances of her death and I worry if she was lonely or sad or even content in her last years. I know such contemplation is futile.  She chose her final days. I have no answers and never will. 

Aunty Jacinta, Mom, and me

I only have memories of an aunt who opened the world for me. A generous, intelligent, beautiful woman who filled many years with adventures and artifacts of inspiration. She brought the world to a young girl on the brink of adulthood. In doing so, she taught me to discover life's possibilities, to love beauty, and to treasure special moments. That is her legacy, no matter how silent the final years were, no matter how brutal her passing. No one…no one can take that away from me.

… So this morning, I clicked on the email and read the words from the art appraiser: “I regret to advise that the etching is a copy with no value”. I read it again. I accept it. The final denouement. The closure.

The landscape remains on display in my antique desk. It will always, as will she, have a place of honor.