January 5, 2024
No two persons ever read the same book.
—Edmund Wilson
My grandfather passed away when I was 11 years old. He was a remarkable man, as I recall, and since I was raised by a single parent, he served as the most important male figure in my early life. At that time, I couldn’t fully appreciate, as I might now (having become a historian), just how rich and eventful his life must have been.
He was born as one of seven siblings in pre-Great War Austria. Herbert Freud emigrated to France in the 1930s to escape the increasingly obvious anti-Semitism of Central Europe. In Paris, he met my grandmother, Emina, or in her more Gallicized form, Emma. She was another recent immigrant who thought it best to leave Kishinev before becoming a victim of the next pogrom.
Herbert was a chemist who held several patents for processes related to the corrosion resistance of metals and alloys, particularly iron and zinc, through phosphating. He was also a member of the French Communist Party. During the Occupation, the Party provided him with fake identity papers, and for five years, he would be known as Jean Frasch,…