by Bina Bernard
Dr. Kahn seemed to be searching for the right answer. “There are lots of reasons. First of all, you were a baby. Your sister and you were separated when you were very young. Second, when something terrible happens, loss in your case, you try to protect yourself. You lock away memories that are too painful. The loss of your sister was so traumatic that it was actually easier for you to eradicate her from your consciousness than to deal with the pain. It’s a coping mechanism. There’s even a clinical name for it, Repressed Memory Syndrome.”
“Then why did I have the dream for all these years?”
Dr. Kahn laughed. “Ah, no matter how hard you try, you can’t always control your subconscious. Things slip out, like your dream.” He tapped his fingers on the arm rest. “You know, we could have dealt with this in your therapy,” he said sternly.
Hannah remembered how often he had tried to push her to talk about the past. “I could not do it then,” she said calmly. “Now I have to find Lena, or at least find out what happened to her. Not just for Harry. For all of us,” Hannah said.
“I hope this is not our last session, Hannah,” Dr. Kahn said. “You have a lot of anger to work through. It would make sense to do it here.”
Hannah agreed.
On Saturday, Robert had a meeting in Amagansett, so Hannah came to dinner alone. After her session with Dr. Kahn, a lot of the fury Hannah was able to quell was in danger of resurfacing. Thinking about those wasted years and the pain her parents put her and themselves through made her want to scream. But Hannah decided it was more important for them as a family to hold on to the good moments than to relive the bad.
Molly again prepared a hearty meal and served it on the good china.
“You should have asked Adella to stay for dinner,” Hannah said, when she saw what Molly was preparing in the kitchen. “The three of us can’t possibly eat all this.”
“We have to stuff ourselves. Tomorrow we fast,” Molly said. “Of course, not your father. Are you going to fast, Hannah?” It was a question Molly asked her daughter every Yom Kippur. Hannah always felt, on some level, her mother was testing her Jewishness.
“Yes, Mom, I am,” Hannah said, this time without a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “After this meal I should probably fast for a week,” she said.
Molly again lit candles before they sat down to eat. But with just the three of them, dinner seemed less festive. After dessert, Harry turned on WQXR and the voice of Robert Merrill singing Kol Nidre filled the room.
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if next year we have Lena here with us?” Harry said.
“That would be wonderful, and a miracle,” Hannah whispered.
“Maybe we are due a miracle,” he added.
On Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, Hannah settled into her usual seat just as the rabbi bid “Gut Yontiv!” to the congregation.
Now on her third visit to the synagogue, although she had not said a word to any other worshiper, having exchanged smiles whenever she made eye contact, Hannah felt she belonged. It surprised her that she could so easily feel a part of this anonymous group she randomly joined.
One passage in the service held a special meaning for Hannah.
For transgressions against God, the Day of
Atonement atones; but for transgressions of
one human being against another,
the Day of Atonement does not atone,
until they have made peace with one another.
Now that she and her father had made peace, Hannah hoped her private prayers would get a fair hearing and Harry would be sealed in the Book of Life.
Unexpectedly, the toughest part of the service for Hannah came during the afternoon memorial service. She began to sob hysterically, as the choir and the congregation sang Zog Nit Keyn Mol in Yiddish. It was the song sung by partisans in the ghettos of Poland and became the anthem of the Holocaust for most survivors. Hannah cried for all the relatives she lost in the war, even though she could no longer remember some of their faces. The woman in the seat next to her gave Hannah a handkerchief and patted her back as if she were consoling a child. Her sobs stopped when the song ended, but Hannah could not control the flow of tears.
After the shofar sounded at the conclusion of the service, Hannah extended her hand to several people around her, and wished them, “Shanah Tovah!” Then she quickly made her way outside. Robert, leaning against a car, was waiting.
“Happy New Year,” he said, and pulled her affectionately to him.
“Shanah Tovah,” Hannah responded.
“Shanah Tovah!” he repeated, and hailed a cab to get them to Molly’s breaking-the-fast dinner.
The following Saturday when Hannah arrived for her weekly visit, she was pleasantly surprised. There was a great improvement in Harry’s physical condition. It was hard to believe that two weeks before, this man shuffled around his hospital room in paper house slippers.
“Dad, you look wonderful. Ten years younger than when you went into the hospital,” she said, and meant it. Hannah decided God must have granted her wish and had indeed sealed her father in the Book of Life for another year.
“I’m starting over,” Harry said, and put his arms around Hannah. “I’m going to enjoy the simple things I didn’t let myself enjoy before.”
Being embraced by her father no longer seemed unusual. But Harry’s new attitude was. Seeing him in such good spirits and in obvious good health allowed Hannah to push the question of his biopsy totally out of her mind.
What put a damper on her state of elation was Harry’s question, even before she took off her jacket, “What have you heard about Lena?” Hannah winced and shook her head. “Nothing yet. I spoke to Father Murphy. He’s been in contact with the Archbishop’s office in Krakow. He’s sure they’re working on it. We should hear something soon.”
“We’ll hear something soon,” Harry repeated. Noting her pained expression, he added, “I know you’re doing everything possible. I have to be patient! I’m confident. If anyone can find out what happened to your sister it’s a crackerjack reporter like you!”
Instead of enjoying her father’s praise, the enormity of his expectations almost choked her. What if Harry’s health depends on my finding Lena? If I don’t deliver will that kill him? That was Hannah’s greatest fear.
Every visit she steeled herself for the inevitable, “Have you heard anything from Poland?” Unfortunately, Hannah couldn’t manufacture good news. Unless the Archbishop of Krakow came through with some leads, Hannah didn’t know how to proceed. The pile of correspondence on her desk was mounting, but she was not making progress. The great reporter was stumped. An admission she had trouble making to herself, let alone her father.
The Saturday she begged off seeing her parents, Hannah found a letter from the office of the Archbishop of Krakow mixed in with her usual bills and junk mail.
She held the unopened envelope in both hands, and debated her next move. Should I rush over and let Harry read it? No! What if it says something awful, something that would break his heart? I need to know what it says before I show it to him.
Hannah unfolded the letter carefully, as if it held some magical power that a wrong move on her part would destroy. The letterhead proclaimed it was official. Hannah’s face muscles sagged once she realized it was written in Polish. Undaunted, she searched her bookcase for the Polish/English dictionary she’d had since her refugee days. As she tried to read it, Hannah sounded out each syllable phonetically, the way she did when she was teaching herself to read English. Surprisingly she didn’t have to look up many words. A few sentences in, Hannah’s spirits brightened. It was an acknowledgment of her letter, and although signed by Stanisław Dziwisz, the personal secretary to the Archbishop, it promised that Archbishop Karol Wojtyła planned to personally look into the matter. They were determined to find out what happened to Lena, and planned to pass on the information as soon as they had it.
Hannah was ecstatic. “Thank you, God!” she screamed out loud. “Now there’s a chance!”
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br /> She had expected nothing more than the names and addresses of people and places she would have to contact. This was much more than she dared to hope for. But Hannah knew that retracing Lena’s steps, even for someone as connected as the Archbishop, could take time. She worried that an answer might come too late for Harry. But she quickly rebounded. Harry was on the mend, she told herself. Besides, the prospect of seeing Lena would keep him fighting to stay alive.
Robert walked into the apartment just as Hannah finished rereading the letter. He saw her sitting on the living room couch, clutching a piece of paper.
“Has something happened? Is Harry okay?” he asked, expecting the worst.
“Everything’s great,” Hannah said, and handed Robert the letter.
He started to laugh. “Are you going to tell me what it says or am I expected to guess?”
“The Archbishop of Krakow has agreed to find out what happened to Lena. With the help of your Catholic Church we may yet get our miracle!”
“I’m delighted that my church can be of some help!” Robert grinned.
As soon as she walked into the apartment, Hannah handed the Archbishop’s letter to Harry with a flourish.
“Thank you, God!” he said once he’d read the letter out loud.
It was the first time Hannah had heard her father address God in gratitude. Harry reread it silently several more times before he gave it to Molly.
Then he gripped Hannah in a bear hug. They twirled around until they were both dizzy.
With Harry recuperating at home and Robert back living at the apartment, Hannah stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop. Whenever the phone rang, she no longer assumed it was bad news. In their nightly phone calls, she happily listened as Molly rehashed everything that had transpired in the apartment in minute detail. Hannah actually enjoyed her mother’s chatter because everything she reported was good news.
“Your father is doing very well. Adella said so. The physical therapist thinks so, too. He’s eating everything I make for him. I think he’s gained some weight.” To Molly this was the strongest sign that the worst was definitely over.
Hannah continued to visit her parents on the weekends, often with Robert. Happily, all signs indicated Harry was thriving. Between naps and Molly’s forced feedings, he pored over family photos that for years had been hidden away in cookie tins and stored behind shoeboxes in the back of the bedroom closet. With his new mindset, Harry allowed his past to seep into the present by focusing on happy moments caught on film.
When the photographs became his dreams, Harry enjoyed being back with those he had loved and lost. Awake, he no longer wondered why he had been spared. Instead Harry was determined to make the most of the life he had left. His relationship with Hannah was priority one. To make up for past slights, he showered her with compliments and hoped that repeating, “I love you, Hannah!” would somehow erase past hurts. Harry wanted to earn her forgiveness. But he could not forgive himself, nor diminish his guilt for leaving Poland before he found out what happened to Lena. Harry knew there was a chance she might not have survived, but he secretly felt Molly was right. Lena was alive somewhere.
Before he drifted off to sleep every night, as he pulled the covers around himself, Harry repeated, “Hannah will find Lena! Hannah will find her!”
Molly made sure every meal she served got a thumbs up, but the food no longer graced her good dishes. Still Hannah was grateful the atmosphere around the Stone dining table remained optimistic, if not joyful.
The highlight of her weekly visit for both Hannah and Harry was a stroll they took around the courtyard of the building, usually after lunch or sometimes after an early dinner. When Molly agreed it was warm enough outside, off they went, arm-in-arm, with Harry wearing the cashmere sweater and scarf Hannah bought for him as a coming-home present. His tweed cap tilted to the side made him look every inch the country squire he never was. On those walks they attempted to deconstruct their troubled past.
“Do you remember how you taught me to read The New York Times— by folding it in half?” Hannah asked. “I think of that every morning when I open the paper.”
“I’m glad I’ve given you at least one happy memory,” Harry said. “You know our fights at the dinner table. I never wanted it to be that way. I’m so sorry,” Harry said, his voice cracking.
“It’s okay, Dad!” Hannah squeezed his arm. “Now I know why. That makes all the difference.” Hannah sighed. “We lost so much time. But at least now I know you love me.”
“Of course I love you, Hannah. I should have loved you twice as much. But I couldn’t.”
Sometimes their conversation exposed a nerve.
“Remember the time you were playing with matches and your beautiful curls turned into a halo of flames? I put the fire out by throwing my lab coat over your head!”
Hannah put her hand to her mouth. “No, Dad. That wasn’t me. My hair was never curly. It was Lena you saved from being fried. I do remember that nobody ever let me near matches.”
At lunch the day Molly mentioned that she had scheduled an appointment with Dr. Martin for the following Monday morning, Hannah offered to go with them. Molly mouthed the words, “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to come. We’re not children,” Harry said.
Hannah ignored her father’s mild objection.
“You’re looking great, Dr. Stone!” was the cheerful greeting they got from Dr. Martin when the three of them entered his office.
Harry returned the compliment. “You, too,” he said, and shook the doctor’s extended hand. “I see you don’t need the crutches anymore.”
“We’re both doing well,” Dr. Martin said. He had broken his ankle in a cycling accident just before Harry left the hospital. Off to the side, Hannah noticed a silver-topped cane resting against the wall. The doctor, like Harry, was still recovering.
Molly and Hannah remained in the office. As the two doctors went into the adjacent examining room, Hannah heard her father say, “I thought I was improving, but now I don’t think so.” She never heard Dr. Martin’s response. Harry’s pessimistic assessment of his condition surprised Hannah. It doubled her determination to get the results of Harry’s biopsy.
A chipper Dr. Martin returned to the office alone, after he finished examining Harry.
“Mrs. Stone, do whatever you’ve been doing. Your husband looks one hundred percent better than when I saw him last!” the doctor said.
Molly was pleased. From the outset she knew her cooking would make all the difference.
“You can go in and help your husband get dressed if you want,” Dr. Martin told Molly. As she left the room, he reassured Hannah. “Being out of the hospital has done wonders for your father!”
That was good to hear, but Hannah wanted the results of the biopsy. She cleared her throat and asked her dreaded question. “What did the biopsy show?”
Dr. Martin started shuffling some paper in Harry’s medical folder, and avoided making eye contact. “Not sure there was a conclusive report,” he mumbled.
Hannah shook her head. “You must know by now. Was it cancer or not?” she asked firmly.
“That’s beside the point,” he said. “Your father is doing well now, which is all that matters. That’s what you have to concentrate on!”
With that evasive answer Hannah realized the truth. The knot in her stomach tightened. She didn’t want to press further. She couldn’t bring herself to ask the obvious question: How long does he have?
In the taxi, Molly coquettishly held onto Harry’s arm as he affectionately patted her hand, but Hannah read his pensive mood as clear evidence that he, too, had quizzed the doctor regarding his condition, and now both she and her father were keeping a secret from Molly.
“We should be celebrating! Why do you look so glum?” Molly asked Hannah.
“Just planning the rest of my day,” she lied.
In spite of what she now knew, Hannah still clung to the hope that Harry’s luck could defy the o
dds. She was counting on that, and her search for Lena to keep his body fighting to stay alive. Hannah vowed to enjoy the time they had together rather than focus on the inevitable.
During their strolls, when Hannah noticed that Harry’s breathing had become labored, she’d suggest going upstairs. “It’s a little chilly for me,” was one ready excuse.
Harry accepted whatever reason Hannah gave for aborting their walk, but both of them knew he was the reason they had to stop.
Over the next month the happiness quotient in the Stone household depended on who was in the room. Molly continued to see improvement where there was none. Although Dr. Martin insisted he was doing well, Harry could tell that he was getting weaker.
By the end of December, the swelling returned to his ankles, and Harry required stronger drugs to make his aches and pains more tolerable. Since the change was gradual, everyone adjusted without much discussion. Harry never acknowledged what he sensed was coming. He was determined to hold on as long as he could.
Now both Robert and Hannah visited on Friday evenings. Molly continued to light Shabbat candles, but she stopped planning their return to Florida. Adella came earlier, stayed later, and joined them at their family dinners. There was little optimistic talk at the table. It was the banter between Harry and Adella that lightened the mood.
“You spend entirely too much time here, Adella,” Harry chided his nurse.
“You know I can’t leave you, I’m addicted to your smart-aleck remarks,” she shot back.
“Molly, you have to find her an interesting young man.”
Molly played along. “I’ll do my best.”
“Don’t make him too young. I prefer older more distinguished gentlemen,” Adella said, and nudged Harry with her elbow.
Periodically, in mock anger, Harry insisted she needed to go and take care of some sick people. But they both knew he was grateful that she stayed.
Now Harry was spending most of each day stretched out on his bed, disoriented by the drugs he needed to kill the pain. He lay there fully dressed, propped up by pillows. When he tried to read, he’d often sink into a deep sleep with a folded New York Times in his hand. Instead of their courtyard walks, Hannah now sat at Harry’s bedside during her visits. Sometimes she watched him drift in and out of sleep. With his eyes open, he appeared to be talking to his mother or to Lena. Seeing Hannah at his bedside seemed to anchor Harry in the present. He looked forward to their talks, although those talks often took place in his dreams.