Lives Lived: Frida Morawetz
Mother, grandmother and great-grandmother. Born on July 13,
1894, in Velim, Bohemia; died in Toronto on Aug. 30, 1997, aged 103.
"YOUR mother is 103 years old?" people said in amazement. "How wonderful."
Silently, I begged to differ. The last couple of years of her life were a sad period of gradual
decline. While mercifully free of pain and still beautiful, she bore little resemblance to the
vibrant, generous and courageous woman I remember so well.
She was the youngest of seven children born to a chocolate manufacturer and his wife in a small town
in what later became Czechoslovakia. One of her earliest memories was the news of the death of Queen
Victoria - an event which so impressed the little girl that she composed a Czech poem about it.
Indeed poetry was her first and lasting love; almost to the end of her life, she could recite most of
the poems she had memorized in her youth.
She was 19 when her father invited Richard Morawetz, a young business acquaintance seated at another table,
to join them at their restaurant table. Richard, it turned out, had recently returned from a trip around
the world, and Frida was fascinated by his description of faraway places.
"The next time I go to India," he said to her with a smile and then paused for a moment,
"I'll send you a postcard." For the next 50 years, Frida insisted that
what he really meant was that's where they would go for their honeymoon.
It was not to be. Though they were married within a year, the First World War had broken out and exotic
honeymoons were out of the question. Instead, as the wife of a leading industrialist, Frida devoted
herself to her growing family and her duties as a hostess. Making guests feel welcome and comfortable
became something of a mission. When Czechoslovakia's president, Thomas Masaryk, stayed with them during
a visit to their home town, she insisted on vacating the master bedroom for their distinguished visitor.
"Mr. President, I hope you had a good night," Frida said the following morning. But Masaryk
never told a lie, not even a white one. "I didn't sleep a wink," he replied. Frida was
devastated, and even his quick assurance that he never slept well while travelling could not undo the
damage.
Her peaceful existence came to an end in March, 1939, when Germany invaded Czechoslovakia.
With their country under occupation and husband's nerves in tatters, she displayed previously
unsuspected strength. They would have to find a way to escape. But with Richard reputedly high on the
Nazis' most-wanted list, how were they to obtain the exit permit?
Somehow one of their many friends accomplished the seemingly impossible. Late one
evening, the doorbell rang and there was a secretary from Richard's office,
clutching the precious permits. They left the following morning, with nothing but a
small suitcase to lend credibility to the story that they were off on a business trip. They
didn't dare to say goodbye to anybody, not even Frida's brother. She never saw him again; he and most
of his family perished in concentration camps.
They landed in Canada on the first day of the Second World War, settled in Toronto, and eventually
succeeded in having their three sons and a daughter (then in their 20s and late teens) join them.
For Frida, who had never made a bed and seldom entered a kitchen except to discuss menus, it was a new
life full of challenges. She never looked back, never bemoaned the home, the possessions or the
social status she had lost. Having her family safe was all that mattered.
She became an accomplished cook, proud of being able to produce traditional Czecq delicacies such as
her famous apricot dumplings. Another favourite though considerably less expert pursuit was driving.
Family members still shudder at her intrepid U-turns on busy streets and her disregard of speed limits.
"Young man, don't you realize I am old enough to be your grandmother?" she asked a policeman
who had the temerity to stop her for speeding.
Widowed at 71, she continued to enjoy travelling, often with her eldest son, who shared her delight
when she was mistaken for his wife. At 80, she scoffed at the suggestion that some trips might be
too tiring, some altitudes too dangerous. A devoted admirer of classical Czech and German poetry,
almost alone in the Toronto Czech community she could recite the second stanza of the national anthem.
Above all, she welcomed the birth of every grandchild and, later, 19 great-grandchildren as the best
gift anyone could bestow on her.
