Childhood
Helen was born Helen Fogel in Atlantic City, New Jersey on April 12, 1917. Her parents, Louis and Rebecca Fogel, were Russian-born Jews.
While still an infant, Helen's father died from influenza. Helen was raised by her mother, who often blamed her husband's death on the birth of Helen. She believed that God had taken her husband because she had wished so much for a baby girl. Helen had three older brothers: Harry, Ed, and Sam. The family relocated to Brooklyn when Helen was in her early teenage years. Her mother married a house painter, a man that Helen disliked. Soon, Helen's mother and stepfather turned the family's home into a brothel. At age 14, Helen was nearly raped by her stepfather. Helen protected herself with a kitchen knife, injuring him. Following this, she was permitted by her mother to live with her piano teacher, Honey Silverman, and her family. While learning piano, Honey noticed Helen's singing ability and encouraged her to focus on singing instead. Anxious to find a career in singing, Helen dropped out of high school to pursue her dream.
Read more about this topic: Helen Forrest
Famous quotes containing the word childhood:
“It is not however, adulthood itself, but parenthood that forms the glass shroud of memory. For there is an interesting quirk in the memory of women. At 30, women see their adolescence quite clearly. At 30 a woman’s adolescence remains a facet fitting into her current self.... At 40, however, memories of adolescence are blurred. Women of this age look much more to their earlier childhood for memories of themselves and of their mothers. This links up to her typical parenting phase.”
—Terri Apter (20th century)
“Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!
Ah fields beloved in vain!
Where once my careless childhood stray’d,”
—Thomas Gray (1716–1771)
“Indeed, my mother’s beautiful face still shone with youthfulness that night when she so softly held my hands and sought to stop my tears; but, precisely, it seemed to me that this should not have happened, her anger would have saddened me less than this new sweetness that my childhood had never known; it seemed to me that, with a hidden and impious hand, I had just traced the first wrinkle and made appear the first grey hair in her soul.”
—Marcel Proust (1871–1922)