by Cathy Lamb
We let him cry. We sat and let him cry while that darn owl hooted again and we crumbled on the inside.
“Everything I give away, it is for the Laurents. I am not worthy to even be here. It should have been them, but I stole their lives. Stole it. As my entire family was stolen from me.”
Annie and I exchanged a glance, more confusion.
“As Grandma Madeline and Ismael were stolen from you,” I said, needing to clarify as I sensed another secret.
He kneaded his fingers together. “There are more, granddaughters.”
“More?” More secrets?
He inhaled, but it sounded like a mini, mangled scream. “Yes. When I say our entire family was stolen from us, I mean the entire family. I was born in Germany. So were your grandmas, Madeline and Emmanuelle. But all four of our parents left large families in Germany for France. We visited as children, back and forth the families went, from Germany to France and back. But things were so bad in Germany, years before they were bad in France. We tried to reach them and one by one, starting in the late nineteen thirties, we couldn’t. Some, I know, tried to get out, but they were too late. I heard through a friend that one family, our cousins, hid for about six months. They were betrayed, rounded up, sent to the camps. Another uncle and aunt, their three children . . . they went to a hidden cabin in the woods. No one heard from them again after the Nazis went through. Others were arrested. They were intellectuals, always a threat. Professors and artists and scientists. Many musicians. There were six violinists in the family in Germany. They were gone. Gone. When the war ended, there was no one left. No one.”
“You checked.”
“As best I could.” He wrung his hands. “I hired a man there. We had the names of our family members. My uncles and aunts, cousins, the grandparents. Young children, old people, teenagers. They were shipped off to various camps all over Germany. And that was it. They were gone. Disappeared. Eradicated.” He wiped his eyes. “You know how they got out of the camps?”
I didn’t move. My lack of breath wouldn’t allow it.
Annie clenched her jaw to keep the you-know-what in.
He pointed a trembling, old finger up to the sky. “That’s how they got out. They were burned, their ashes shot through the sky, then scattered, and out they went. They went by ash. Their bodies, their bones, their blood, their minds, their talents and skills, their love and compassion, their memories and dreams, all burned. They floated in the wind, all over Germany, all over Europe. Who knows where they floated to after that. Who knows? Did their ashes land in Berlin? Did they land in another camp, where another relative was starving to death, being experimented upon, digging a ditch to fall into? Did they land on a Jewish friend’s shoulders as they were moving rock, as they were packed into cattle cars, as they were marched through the snow? Did they go farther, to Russia, where the soldiers were freezing to death on their makeshift battlefields? Did they travel to Poland where the Nazis treated all Poles as subhuman? Or did my relatives catch a current of air and make it to America? Do they see my life now, this home, my business, our family? Are they glad for me? Do they miss me? Do they resent me, that I lived but their children did not? Are they ashamed of me? Have they disowned me for what I did?”
I squeezed his hand, wordless. What do you say to this?
“My relatives, your relatives, they became ash.” He held his head. “And I caused the other family to become ash, too, the Laurents. Jews were turned to ash.”
“Granddad, I’ve never seen you . . . you’ve never practiced your faith.”
“No.” He shook his head. “We came here and I told God I would no longer practice my faith. I am unworthy. I am unforgiveable. My guilt has near killed me.” He laughed, no humor. “We even bought Christmas trees, bought into a holiday that wasn’t ours. I tried to put the past behind me, not talk about it, shut it out, because the pain was going to kill me, kill your grandma. Kill us both. Some pain is so grievous that talking about it does not alleviate it, only exacerbates the physical agony. But your wonderful grandma and I shared our love for Madeline, for Ismael, and we were determined to provide a happy life for your momma.”
He was tormented, so tormented.
“Did our momma later, when she was an adult, know about the papers, about the Laurents?”
“No, she didn’t know about the Laurents. When she was older, and asked about our escape, I told her I had the papers forged, but I didn’t tell her I stole them. Why would I do that? Why would I burden her?” He groaned. “She was burdened enough. She had lost her mother and brother, her grandparents, her homeland, her family in Germany, her home.”
I thought about our momma, playing her violin outside, speaking in French to someone. “Did our dad know about this? About your escape from France? About Grandma Madeline and Ismael?”
“Yes, he knew. Your momma told him. She had to. It explained why she cried at unexpected moments, why she talked to Ismael, why your name had to be Madeline, after her mother”—he nodded at me—“and why your name”—he nodded at Annie—“had to be Anna. Your momma’s real name was Anna. Before she wore a blue coat with blood on it and became Marie Elise Laurent.”
Anna. My momma’s real name was Anna, not Marie Elise. What was her last name, then? Her real last name? What were Granddad’s and Grandma’s real last names?
“Your momma needed your dad to help her,” Granddad went on, “to understand, to hold and comfort her, and he did. He was a real man, strong enough to carry your mother’s losses.”
I put my arms around him on one side, Annie on the other, those broad shoulders bent, almost doubled over.
I remembered what Grandma had said, though. She did know, she had always known about the papers, about what her husband had done. She had kept that from him, so her knowledge would not be another weight for him to carry. “I love you, Granddad.”
“I love you, too,” Annie said.
“How can you?” he rasped. “How can you possibly now that you know who I am? A murderer, a taker, a betrayer, a coward, a man who sent a fellow Jewish family to ash.” His shoulders hunched, his sobs wrenching.
“Granddad, I have always loved you, I will always love you. No matter what,” I said.
“Me too.” Annie rubbed his shoulders. “How could we not love a man who is a sex-god lover to Grandma, who thinks hospitals are boring, boring, boring, chops wood each year like a maniac, and has good, minty breath when given CPR?”
Despite himself, he chuckled.
So did I. Laughter and pain, they do go together sometimes.
We held our granddad, a bowed man, as the owl offered its final piercing, haunting hoot, the luminescent light of the moon shone down, and the lavender readied itself to bloom.
Was stealing the forged papers that belonged to another Jewish family wrong?
Yes.
Would you have done the same thing?
No?
Yes?
Are you sure?
Can you even begin to conceptualize what it would be like to have your entire family’s life at stake? To be chased down by, as Grandma called them, the black ghosts? Could you truly look into your child’s eyes and not do everything possible—everything—to save her?
And even though we speculate how we would react, how do we know? How does anyone know, in a tragedy, under threat of a beastly, ghastly death, in a state of raging fear, how they’re going to react? No one knows unless they’ve been there.
You wouldn’t have done what my granddad did? You wouldn’t have stolen those papers? Are you absolutely sure about that answer?
I’m not.
My guess is that I would have done what he did. And, like him, I would have been haunted the rest of my life by the smiling faces of the other family.
The real Laurents.
I was up all night. I hiked the property, sat on the wrought iron bench on the hill, lay on top of the table in the gazebo, spun a cartwheel over the rows of lavender, watched the sun come up and over the
hills, the sweet pinks, tangy oranges, a slash of purple, a hint of maroon stretching across the horizon, everything fresh, new, dewy. I listened to Mozart in my head and thought about scratches and dents, and butterfly blood.
Annie saw me as she was walking her dogs. They circled her, ran forward, then back, as if to make sure she was still there, their tongues lolling about, tails wagging. Life was splendid for those dogs, an adventure to be had every day. Trailing behind her was Cat, who thinks she’s a dog. I’m surprised she didn’t try barking.
She came and sat by me. Door and Window, white and fluffy, cuddled into my lap, Mr. Legs kept running in circles. Three legs, but he didn’t let that stop him. He was happy. Happy to be in the country, happy to sniff, happy to be. Nope, losing a leg was nothin’. He was moving on. Where was that squirrely squirrel? He’d get him, by golly, no squirrel was going to outsmart him!
After a few minutes of friendly, sisterly silence, I said, “Annie, you were right.”
She nodded. “Let’s walk.”
We talked as we walked through the rows of lavender. Several times I bent down and picked up a colorful marble between the plants, dropped by our momma as a girl, dropped by Annie and me, and our grandma. I tucked them back into the lavender and let them be.
As the sun rose high, it shone down in yellow stripes through the clouds. It shone on our friendship, a friendship that I treasured more than anything else. It shone on the sister love that only sisters share.
“So, what do you think?” I asked.
“What do I think of your wild-ass plan?” She threw a ball and Mr. Legs chased after it. “Rock it out, Madeline. I’m with you.”
I told Granddad of my “wild-ass” plan later.
We were in Grandma’s studio. He had pulled out a few canvasses, as he often does, to admire Grandma’s work. He has always been her most ardent supporter. “She is an artist of artists. Imaginative! Creative! Such emotions in her paintings! Such truth! The children love her paintings, but not as much as their parents!”
The artist was lost in the dips and caverns of her mind, but to him, she was always his Emmanuelle or, perhaps I should say at this point, his Dynah, the woman he loved.
This time he was admiring her sister swan series. On one canvas two white swans jumped rope together, dressed in matching purple hippie outfits. In another a black swan with a green flowered hat was playing the cello, the other black swan, in a yellow flowered hat, played violin. Another painting showed two white swans dancing together in twenties-style gold dresses, ropes of pearls, and high gold heels.
Annie and I don’t dance. We haven’t danced since the house by the sea.
“What do you think, Granddad?” I had asked the questions I needed to ask; I had the answers I needed to have. “If you don’t want me to do this, if you have the slightest objection, I won’t do it. I understand.” I held my breath.
“You own the story of your life, Madeline, no one else.” He put his chin up and reached for my hand. “Tell the story. Tell it the way you want it told.”
“Okay,” I whispered, petrified.
He wrapped me in his arms and, amidst Grandma’s sister swans, we stood and hugged.
Life is so much better when you have someone to wrap your wings around.
I worked like a fiend for days. I saw clients, had meetings with the Rock Your Womanhood chiefs, long ones, short ones, rushed and hurried, laugh filled, problem filled, we hammered things out. I worked on my speech, finished my column, the title being, “Giving a Speech: Don’t Wet Your Pants.”
I felt like wetting my pants.
Steve Shepherd would soon arrive in Portland to talk about his latest book in the Pink series. Another evening had been added. It sold out, too. He would give his speeches not too long after I gave mine.
At my office I received a bouquet of wildflowers in a twelve-inch-long canoe. Yes, the vase was shaped like a canoe.
“I’m going to be in Portland, Madeline. Can I take you to lunch? If you want, I’ll build you a dinosaur made out of rocks.” He left his cell number.
I wouldn’t call him. I couldn’t.
In my head, though, I heard my momma. Gather your hellfire.
I ran my hands through my stick straight hair. I wasn’t feeling very hellfirish.
Put your heels on, Madeline!
All I had was boring heels.
Don’t you dare be a frump. Don’t you dare! Let yourself shine.
Okay, Momma. I’ll try. I’ll try to shine.
You can do it, Pink Girl.
I heard the symphony in my head the night before the Rock Your Womanhood speech. They were playing Brahms’s Hungarian Dance no. 5. At the end, I swear I could hear clapping.
I thought about the lies I’d told to myself, to others, and the past I’d secreted away like a prisoner behind bars.
I thought about my momma and my grandparents, all living under their own lies and secrets. My momma had left Anna in France and become Marie Elise. My granddad had left Abe, my grandma had left Dynah. They came here and buried who they had been. My granddad had tried to bury what he had done to the Laurents. None of them had been able to bury the grief they felt for Ismael, for Madeline, for the rest of their families.
I do so love the liars in my family.
I thought next about a sailboat, a beauty parlor, a dad who wore funny hats, a momma who doled out advice in pink heels. I thought about lavender. The healing power of lavender.
When I was done, I thought about the sea.
30
“Helloooo again, ladies!” I shouted into the raucous cheers and hoots, the women on their feet, spotlights flying, rock music blaring in the background, my voice echoing around the conference center.
I wriggled, I did not dance, waved my hands, grinned, bowed, grinned more, showed my canines. The video screens on either side of me flashed out, “Madeline O’Shea! Rock Your Womanhood!” in loud colors.
“Have you been rocking your womanhood today?”
Whooee. You betcha they had. Their womanhood was on full blast speed.
“Who has brought their O’Shea’s Inner Fight-Kicking Spirit?”
They’d done that, too. I had told them how to gather their O’Shea Inner Fight-Kicking Spirit during my first speech, at the beginning of the conference. “Let’s see it, ladies!”
Though I was nearly blinded by spotlights, I saw those high heels flying as women kickboxed the air or held up their heels above their heads.
“Who is gunning to Release Yourself From Whack Job Men and Memories?”
The women made fake guns with their hands and yelled pow, pow, pow, like I’d taught them. It was deafening.
“Who is here to Rip-Roaring Enjoy the Hell Out of Life?’
Their screaming ’bout blew my head off.
I went on like that for a while. The rock music roared in and out, the lights changed colors, purple, blue, pink. Pink. How ironic. What a circus. All I needed was a decorated elephant and a lion tamer.
“Okay, ladies, have a seat on your fantabulous bottoms.” I didn’t think that Carlotta would mind me borrowing her word.
“What I want to talk about now, today, this moment, is truth.”
I took a deep breath. I’d made my decision. It was my wild-ass plan. Once all was out, all was out. I’d probably be finished in this career, but hell. If I didn’t ever have to wear a soul-crushing suit like I was wearing today, this time in boring beige, I think I’d be okay.
“I want to talk about honesty, about being who you are, and embracing who you were.” I strutted across the stage. “I want to talk about dealing truthfully with your past, not hiding from it, and understanding how it embraces or suffocates you still today. I want to talk about being truthful with yourself. I want to talk about facing the lies in your life and replacing them with bald-faced, raw, rumbling truth. In fact”—I paused, knowing I was going to be way, way over a ledge in about one minute—“I want to talk about me.”
Whew. Did I just
say that? I swallowed hard. I heard a click, click, click in my head. I felt slick, sweaty hands. I smelled fear and cigarettes.
Then I heard a fiddler. A fiddler. Right then. Boot-stomping, heel-kicking, fiddle music.
I breathed in, not a good breath, but breath.
“I want to talk about my truth. I want to talk about my lies. The lies in my life, the lies I’ve told myself, the lies I’ve perpetuated to everyone else. I want to talk about my past, my childhood, my secrets.”
I could feel all those ladies lean forward in their seats.
“You see, friends, I’m a lie.”
Silence.
“I’ve been lying to you.”
Cavernous silence, quite gripping, actually. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the chiefs of the Rock Your Womanhood conference freeze up. I had not discussed with them my lies!
“I’ve been telling you all what to do and how to run your lives, yet I haven’t even been following my own advice. I’m like the financial planner who is bankrupt. The psychologist who ignores his mental problems. The roofer who denies that a river is flowing through his house through the roof. I’m a life coach whose life has collapsed.”
Backstage the chiefs were now clutching each other in fear.
I paused, gathered my hellfire. “I’ve told you not to get mired in muck, but I’m so mired in muck I can barely move. I’ve told you to leave your past hurts behind, to make a new life, but I am so stuck in my old life I’m surprised I’m not attached to a time machine. I’ve told you not to allow any borders to delineate where you can go in your life, yet I have borders so high you could not scramble over them with a fire ladder and a personal rocket. I have told you to create a home that is a frame for your joy, but I hate my house. I have told you to dress like you are on the fashion runway of life, so that your clothes reflect your blossoming. I hate my clothes. I hate my suits. I have told you not to buy into the material things of life because you’ll never be happy, but I have an expensive car and expensive clothes, all bought to convince myself that I’m someone. It has never worked.”