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A Daughter's Tale Of Violence And Redemption
Permanent Press
September 2000
On Sale: September 1, 2000
Featuring: Babette Hughes
224 pages
ISBN: 1579620728
EAN: 9781579620721
Hardcover
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Non-Fiction Memoir
When Babette Hughes was two years old, her father
disappeared suddenly and mysteriously from her life.
Although he had been murdered in a turf war with the mafia,
and although her uncle -- an innocent bystander -- was
murdered along with him, her mother told her that he died of
pneumonia, never acknowledged her uncle's existence, and
then remained willfully mute about the murders, her own
childhood in a Dickensian orphanage, her marriage, and the
secrets of her long widowhood. So Babette embarked on a
search, not only for the father she never knew, but for her
brilliant, elusive mother who turned out to be even more of
a mystery. Her memoir describes that quest amid the drama of the times:
Prohibition, the Roaring Twenties, the Great Depression.
Without self-pity, and with eloquence and passion, she
describes the ways in which her parents' secrets affected
her life, and, finally, of her journey toward understanding
and self-discovery. LOST & FOUND is a story of the struggle to survive and
transcend murder, secrets, and abandonment. It is a story of
a family captured by its own bloody history. It is
ultimately a triumphant tale of Babette's step-by-step
passage from an ill-starred and dark destiny to selfhood,
freedom, and a transported life.
More InformationWhen I was in first grade Miss Charlton (whom we called
Charlie because of her mustache) marched us into the
auditorium to learn "My Country ’Tis of Thee." She sat down
at the piano and led us through the song word by word,
playing the piano with one hand and directing us with the
other. When we came to the phrase "Land where my father
died," I couldn’t figure out how they all knew. At home my
father’s death was this big secret. There wasn’t even a
photograph of him anywhere, as if a picture could suddenly
whisper the truth. Since all the other kids had fathers I
reasoned it must be my father who died on the land they were
singing about. He vanished without a trace of the ordinary clutter and
details of a life, leaving not a shadow nor footprint. There
were no letters or insurance papers or tax receipts to find.
Not a watch or driver’s license or birth certificate or deed
to a house. No marriage license or diploma. No fading
photograph that he had carried, maybe of me. Not a wedding
portrait or snapshot at the beach. It was as if during the
twenty-nine years of his life on earth he was already a ghost. My mother was as adamantly tight-lipped about my father as
she was about everything else in her life. A walking,
seething repository of secrets, she was willfully mute about
her childhood, her husband, her marriage, and the secrets of
her long widowhood. So I embarked on a search not only for a father I never
knew, but for my mother, who turned out to be even more of a
mystery. Although she never spoke of her twelve years in an
orphanage, I learned of its horrors from reading Inside
Looking Out; The Cleveland Jewish Orphan Asylum From 1868 to
1924 by Gary Edward Polster. The Rise And Fall Of
The Cleveland Mafia by Rick Porrello gave me details of
my father’s bootlegging activities, including events, dates,
places and names. I read the family history my brother,
Kenny, wrote after interviewing our relatives, as well as
the lengthy newspaper accounts of our father’s murder. Kenny, old enough to remember him firsthand, told me of his
charm, violent temper and generosity. My mother’s
sister talked to me about their marriage; a cousin
remembered the night he and Uncle Addie were killed. Another
aunt related details of the funeral; an uncle told me
stories about his vitality and lust and ambition. And they
all knew who his killer was. I was given a few pictures. In one, my father is a dark-eyed
child on a tricycle. Another shows a muscular youth standing
with his brother, Marvin, in front of a horse and delivery
wagon from the family bakery. The picture is slightly out of
focus, his grin blurred, but you can see his physical
strength and his readiness to use it. In another he stands
serenely in a handsome tan suit looking for all the world
like a gentleman of banking or the law. His lips are thick
and sensual, his eyes deep set. He is a beautiful young man. He wears this same tan suit on a date with my mother. It is
probably 1915 or 1916. In my family it does not seem strange
that I don’t know when my parents met, or even the month and
year of their marriage. I come to this estimate by counting
backwards from my brother’s birth. My father is 20 in 1915
(I know this from the date inscribed on his tombstone), my
mother, 18. I do know--or think I know--that they met at the
Elysium, an indoor ice skating rink located in Cleveland at
the corner of Euclid Avenue and 107th St. He dresses carefully for his date. The tan suit and vest, a
high, stiff collar, a hat. His tie is silk, his wingtips
gleam. He looks in the mirror and tilts his skimmer to a
jaunty angle, tucks his gold watch in his waistcoat pocket,
arranges the chain, and after another look in the glass
pounds down the stairs. When he arrives at my mother’s, the neighbors peek through
their curtains at his Winston, and five or six children
gather around and touch its gleaming black surface. He gets
out of the car, reaches in his pocket and gives each of them
a dime. He squeezes the horn, summoning my mother. He
squeezes it again. He leans against the door, jiggling his
leg. His energy crackles the air. It makes passersby look up
and shopkeepers stare and whisper. He is a magnetic field.
He paces up and down the sidewalk. He shoos the children
away who are now climbing all over the automobile. Suddenly
he starts pounding urgently on my mother’s door as if his
energy will implode if he doesn’t expend it on something,
somewhere. He burns. He makes you hot. In my dreams I see
him emanating a glow, wired by his own power.
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