chapter 1: a time of beginning
From Alpine heights to broad Missouri's shore
To claim the shining promise evermore.
To claim the shining promise evermore.
The Immigrants Borel-Jaquet
My earliest recollections are of light, the warmth of a loving mother, the tender chuckle of a proud father and of the comforting smells of the kitchen. On the wall hung a lithograph commemorating the vigilance of the Swiss soldier as he, from his mountain top, stood at the ready watching from afar a frontier ablaze from the fires of World War I. Church bells pealed the passing hours. The tick of a watch aroused my curiosity. And in the garden where with their prams young mothers joined for daily promenades, boxwood dominated the pungent scent of plant life.
With time, embroidered dress-like aprons worn by girls and boys alike would give way to a crimson wool pullover, its cadmium buttons my pride, but not quite compensating for its scratchy turtleneck. Still it was proudly worn as I followed grey-green clad recruits marching heavily toward the nearby Caserne, in a direction opposite from my kindergarten, hoping I might trade a piece of Mother's cake for some black bread.
The place was 40 Gasometerstrasse, in Zürich, Switzerland. These apartments had been built by the city especially for growing families of modest means. It was to here that my parents, Jules and Juliette Borel-Jaquet, had moved shortly after my birth in 1912. There they would remain for five years during which time were born my brothers Pierre (1914) and Jean (1915) and my sister Ruth Antoinette (1916). This family was augmented by my father's widowed mother, Adéle Euphrasie (née Pulver). Then past 70, she was rapidly losing her sight.
Both of my parents were from the French-speaking part of Switzerland, La Suisse Romande, specifically the once princely realm, the Canton of Neuchâtel. They had come separately to work in German-speaking Zürich, Switzerland's largest city. Together with others from their area, their social lives clustered around the Calvinist French Reformed Church and the Christian Union. It was as members of this group that they met, made their commitment to spend their lives together -- which indeed they did. They were married on the eve of 1911's New Year. They were both 26 years of age.
The area around Neuchâtel (Le Locle, La Chaux-de-Fonds, Les Ponts-de-Martel) was once the watchmaking capital of the world. It borders the French frontier on the east side of the Jura Alps. Labor moved easily across the border to Morteau where my father was born into the family of Charles Eugène Borel-Jaquet.
Of my father's surviving siblings, his elder brother, Charles, had with his family immigrated to America in 1907. The older sister, Berthe, had married Alfred Perrenoud, who followed with his family in 1912; both families settled in Kansas City, Missouri. Thus, early on, my father had his own wanderlust reinforced by a desire to follow family.
My father worked his entire life in the watchmaking industry. He was attracted to Zürich to work for the company of Emil Hoch, a wholesaler to watchmakers of the watch parts, supplies and precision instruments needed to ply their trade with citizens in need of watch repairs. Herr Hoch having passed on, his wife took charge of the business, which was located on the second floor of Glockengasse 13, off the Bahnhofstrasse in the heart of the city.
Frau Hoch took a keen interest in my father, and he repaid her kindness with devoted service, moving from an apprenticeship to become a knowledgeable watch material man. He could have had a good career with Hoch's, but as a young man with neither means nor university education the prospects for moving from employee to employer were dim. In the particular situation, Frau Hoch had successors in her sons Emil and Arnold.
So the die was cast. We would move to America -- war or no war. To his already busy schedule, Father now added the intensive study of English. As I look at his exercise books, I can picture the industriousness with which he learned words, numbers, phrases, idioms, rules of grammar, and wrestled with the frustrating inconsistencies of English. His written work is beautiful, exemplary in its copperplate grace, as though each word had been wrought by a graver in the hands of an artist.
The decision to emigrate brought its own excitement to the house long before the date for departure was in sight. The custom of closing shops during midday to permit workers to join their families for the day's main meal brought my father home when our activities were at their height. I would rush to meet him at the door. There we would link arms, he stooping low to make this possible, and we would make our way grandly to wherever my busy mother was, constant in our chant: "Allons en Amérique, allons en Amérique." And Mother, not to be left behind on the promised journey, would join in the march, picking up brother Pierre, who, at his age, wasn't sure what was going on but finding it fun.
Songs, hymns, lullabies were much a part of our early days, but none a match for "Let's go to America," our marching song.
At home, we spoke French. Outside German was spoken. The language of instruction at school, including the kindergarten I attended, was high German. But the conversational language of Zürich was and remains a dialect called Zürich Deutsch (a phonetically writable but not written patois).
Our departure for America was in the fall of 1917. We would cross at France which had been fighting Germans for over three years, board the French Line's Espagne at Bordeaux, land at New York's Ellis Island in the shadow of the Statue of Liberty, and proceed by train immediately to Kansas City. The ever gracious Frau Hoch wished us well and gave my father 500 Swiss francs ($100), in those days a handsome gift.
We stopped in Geneva for farewells to Uncle Paul Rudhardt and his family. Paul Rudhardt, my mother's brother, was a brilliant engineer, sociologist, university professor, author, poet and editor. In fact he was my mother's half-brother, for she never knew her father. Born in France, my mother spent a checkered childhood in the homes of others (the name Grandmaman Ravinse of Celigny comes to mind). At times she was with her mother and would be relegated to an unspecified role in the presence of company.
Until Mother was seven or eight she was reared a Roman Catholic (she always spoke with tender affection of her time with the sisters), converting to Protestantism on her return home. This experience left no scar on this remarkable woman, but served to make her doubly appreciative of the security of the home she would make for us. She always spoke fondly of her mother, a handsome, intelligent woman with a regal bearing. Uncle Paul, to whom my mother was utterly devoted, returned her affection, and they remained close throughout their lives.
With time, embroidered dress-like aprons worn by girls and boys alike would give way to a crimson wool pullover, its cadmium buttons my pride, but not quite compensating for its scratchy turtleneck. Still it was proudly worn as I followed grey-green clad recruits marching heavily toward the nearby Caserne, in a direction opposite from my kindergarten, hoping I might trade a piece of Mother's cake for some black bread.
The place was 40 Gasometerstrasse, in Zürich, Switzerland. These apartments had been built by the city especially for growing families of modest means. It was to here that my parents, Jules and Juliette Borel-Jaquet, had moved shortly after my birth in 1912. There they would remain for five years during which time were born my brothers Pierre (1914) and Jean (1915) and my sister Ruth Antoinette (1916). This family was augmented by my father's widowed mother, Adéle Euphrasie (née Pulver). Then past 70, she was rapidly losing her sight.
Both of my parents were from the French-speaking part of Switzerland, La Suisse Romande, specifically the once princely realm, the Canton of Neuchâtel. They had come separately to work in German-speaking Zürich, Switzerland's largest city. Together with others from their area, their social lives clustered around the Calvinist French Reformed Church and the Christian Union. It was as members of this group that they met, made their commitment to spend their lives together -- which indeed they did. They were married on the eve of 1911's New Year. They were both 26 years of age.
The area around Neuchâtel (Le Locle, La Chaux-de-Fonds, Les Ponts-de-Martel) was once the watchmaking capital of the world. It borders the French frontier on the east side of the Jura Alps. Labor moved easily across the border to Morteau where my father was born into the family of Charles Eugène Borel-Jaquet.
Of my father's surviving siblings, his elder brother, Charles, had with his family immigrated to America in 1907. The older sister, Berthe, had married Alfred Perrenoud, who followed with his family in 1912; both families settled in Kansas City, Missouri. Thus, early on, my father had his own wanderlust reinforced by a desire to follow family.
My father worked his entire life in the watchmaking industry. He was attracted to Zürich to work for the company of Emil Hoch, a wholesaler to watchmakers of the watch parts, supplies and precision instruments needed to ply their trade with citizens in need of watch repairs. Herr Hoch having passed on, his wife took charge of the business, which was located on the second floor of Glockengasse 13, off the Bahnhofstrasse in the heart of the city.
Frau Hoch took a keen interest in my father, and he repaid her kindness with devoted service, moving from an apprenticeship to become a knowledgeable watch material man. He could have had a good career with Hoch's, but as a young man with neither means nor university education the prospects for moving from employee to employer were dim. In the particular situation, Frau Hoch had successors in her sons Emil and Arnold.
So the die was cast. We would move to America -- war or no war. To his already busy schedule, Father now added the intensive study of English. As I look at his exercise books, I can picture the industriousness with which he learned words, numbers, phrases, idioms, rules of grammar, and wrestled with the frustrating inconsistencies of English. His written work is beautiful, exemplary in its copperplate grace, as though each word had been wrought by a graver in the hands of an artist.
The decision to emigrate brought its own excitement to the house long before the date for departure was in sight. The custom of closing shops during midday to permit workers to join their families for the day's main meal brought my father home when our activities were at their height. I would rush to meet him at the door. There we would link arms, he stooping low to make this possible, and we would make our way grandly to wherever my busy mother was, constant in our chant: "Allons en Amérique, allons en Amérique." And Mother, not to be left behind on the promised journey, would join in the march, picking up brother Pierre, who, at his age, wasn't sure what was going on but finding it fun.
Songs, hymns, lullabies were much a part of our early days, but none a match for "Let's go to America," our marching song.
At home, we spoke French. Outside German was spoken. The language of instruction at school, including the kindergarten I attended, was high German. But the conversational language of Zürich was and remains a dialect called Zürich Deutsch (a phonetically writable but not written patois).
Our departure for America was in the fall of 1917. We would cross at France which had been fighting Germans for over three years, board the French Line's Espagne at Bordeaux, land at New York's Ellis Island in the shadow of the Statue of Liberty, and proceed by train immediately to Kansas City. The ever gracious Frau Hoch wished us well and gave my father 500 Swiss francs ($100), in those days a handsome gift.
We stopped in Geneva for farewells to Uncle Paul Rudhardt and his family. Paul Rudhardt, my mother's brother, was a brilliant engineer, sociologist, university professor, author, poet and editor. In fact he was my mother's half-brother, for she never knew her father. Born in France, my mother spent a checkered childhood in the homes of others (the name Grandmaman Ravinse of Celigny comes to mind). At times she was with her mother and would be relegated to an unspecified role in the presence of company.
Until Mother was seven or eight she was reared a Roman Catholic (she always spoke with tender affection of her time with the sisters), converting to Protestantism on her return home. This experience left no scar on this remarkable woman, but served to make her doubly appreciative of the security of the home she would make for us. She always spoke fondly of her mother, a handsome, intelligent woman with a regal bearing. Uncle Paul, to whom my mother was utterly devoted, returned her affection, and they remained close throughout their lives.
I remember little of the trip. At one point, in France, we lost Father. He got off the train to make some inquiries and failed to get back on in time. All this in the hustle and bustle of war-time troop movements. We children were slung in net hammocks swinging from luggage racks. Blind Grandma could do little to help, needing help herself. Finally, as we paused a few stations down the line, Father, to everyone's relief, appeared for a joyful reunion.
Aboard ship there was concern about German U-boats (which would have been so in any case after the Lusitania incident); since April a state of war had existed between the U.S. and Germany. However, somehow, all went well. Eventually, we were greeted by family in Kansas City.
Our family was sorted out and divided between Uncle Charles's and Aunt Bertha's, because neither had a home that could absorb seven newcomers. Uncle Charley's home was at 4705 Belleview (now a site for a business above what is now the Plaza); and Uncle Alfred's home was at 1204 Ewing, near the eastern district of Centropolis, and where my cousin Blanche Perrenoud Pisha made her home until her death.
These interim arrangements would serve us until we bought a house. This happened quite soon. My father purchased the turn-of-the-century frame house at 923 Newton, not far from Aunt Bertha's, above the industrial area of Sheffield. This two-story dwelling on a 50' x 130' lot was to be our home for some 25 years. Our "allons en Amérique" chant now became "nous sommes arrivés."
Aboard ship there was concern about German U-boats (which would have been so in any case after the Lusitania incident); since April a state of war had existed between the U.S. and Germany. However, somehow, all went well. Eventually, we were greeted by family in Kansas City.
Our family was sorted out and divided between Uncle Charles's and Aunt Bertha's, because neither had a home that could absorb seven newcomers. Uncle Charley's home was at 4705 Belleview (now a site for a business above what is now the Plaza); and Uncle Alfred's home was at 1204 Ewing, near the eastern district of Centropolis, and where my cousin Blanche Perrenoud Pisha made her home until her death.
These interim arrangements would serve us until we bought a house. This happened quite soon. My father purchased the turn-of-the-century frame house at 923 Newton, not far from Aunt Bertha's, above the industrial area of Sheffield. This two-story dwelling on a 50' x 130' lot was to be our home for some 25 years. Our "allons en Amérique" chant now became "nous sommes arrivés."
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