by Bina Bernard
In his weakened state the only visitor besides Hannah that Harry welcomed was Father Murphy. His presence seemed to invigorate Harry’s body. Especially when he had good news.
“They finally located Sister Marianna,” Father Murphy eagerly reported. “Unfortunately, she is very old and may not remember much. I’m sorry to say, Harry, a lot of the records are not so easily found,” Father Murphy’s voice trailed off.
“But they are still trying, right?” Harry asked.
“Oh, yes. I’ve been assured it’s been a priority for the Archbishop.”
“Then they’ll find her. I just have to stay alive until they do.” Father Murphy couldn’t help himself. On his way out, he blessed Harry as he would any of his parishioners.
“If it works, you’ve got an easy convert,” Harry said grinning.
Occasionally Molly talked about the future, but it was obvious her husband was failing rapidly. As Harry felt himself slipping away, there were moments he was glad his fight was almost over. Only at the mention of Lena’s name did he even try to cling to life. Watching her father’s pained face as she sat by his bed, Hannah almost wished he would let go.
“Promise me, Hannah, you’ll take care of your mother. She’s more fragile than she lets on,” Harry whispered to a tearful Hannah. She nodded and bent down to kiss him goodnight. As always, she left hoping this would not be the last time she saw her father alive.
Then one day, Hannah came home and found the letter from the Archbishop they had been waiting for stuffed in her mailbox. Her hand shook as she ripped it open, anticipating good news. After carefully mouthing the first sentence in Polish, the muscles in her face tightened and tears gushed.
Lena was dead.
They were sorry to report she had died soon after being adopted by Helga and Stefan Jankowski, a couple from Sandomierz. For a long time Hannah sat frozen on the edge of her living room sofa, the letter pressed to her chest. She wept. She didn’t even hear Robert opening the door.
The apartment was dark. He called out: “Hannah, what’s happened?”
She did not respond. When Robert sat down beside her, Hannah rested her head on his shoulder, and handed him the letter.
“How bad is the news?” he asked.
“She’s dead. My sister is dead. I can’t tell Harry that,” Hannah whispered.
“Just show him the letter.”
“No. It would kill him.”
Suddenly their visits reverted to the bad old days when Hannah had to watch every word. Only this time she wasn’t trying to avoid a fight. She was in agony. I can’t tell my father his Lena is dead!
When he asked if she had any news from the Archbishop, Hannah felt trapped.
Harry grew short-tempered. “Have you called Father Murphy? The Archbishop should have gotten back to us by now,” he insisted.
“I have nothing I can share,” she said. That was the truth!
“Hannah, I don’t have much time left!” he shouted, “You can’t just go about your business and wait. Write another letter, call them! They must know something.”
Hannah started to hyperventilate. She knew she couldn’t keep Lena’s death a secret much longer. But seeing her distress stopped Harry’s rant. He pulled her toward him.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, forgive me,” he said. “I know you’re doing everything you can. . . . I need to see her . . . There isn’t much . . .” He never finished his sentence, just gently rocked Hannah in his arms.
Her secret was safe for another day.
CHAPTER
15
“THANK GOD YOU’RE THERE. Your father is back in the hospital. In the emergency room!” Molly’s anguished voice blared through the phone.
Hannah scribbled a note for Robert and rushed to the hospital. When she saw Harry moaning on a gurney, Hannah went in search of a doctor. She spotted Dr. Martin attending another patient. “Doctor, doctor, you have to help my father! He’s in great pain!” she pleaded.
“I’ll take care of him, Hannah. We’ll move him to the hospital,” Dr. Martin promised.
Hannah sat at Harry’s bedside wringing her hands. Now heavily sedated, and without his glasses, he saw only an outline of her form. He reached out to touch her hand.
“My angel, Lena, you have come to save me,” Harry whispered in Polish.
As he looked lovingly at Hannah, she knew he was seeing his firstborn.
In a morphine haze, a semi-conscious Harry explained to Lena how he had tried to get her back after the war, just as he’d promised, and how much they missed having her with them all these years. Peppered throughout his monologue, Harry repeated, “I love you so much. Please forgive me!”
The old Hannah might not have been so willing to pretend to be Lena. The circumstances demanded it.
At 5:49 that Saturday morning Harry Stone died.
The last words Hannah heard her father whisper were: “I knew Hannah would find you. You have an amazing sister.”
When the doctors came in for their morning rounds, a disheveled Hannah was still sitting there.
“You shouldn’t be here!” one of the doctors admonished her.
Hannah looked up but did not budge. The resident immediately checked for Harry’s pulse. The doctors left. But Hannah remained. She finally let go of her father’s cold hand when the nurse ushered in Molly and Robert.
Molly walked over to the bed, smoothed Harry’s hair and stroked his cheek. She could not believe he was gone. To her, he looked like he was asleep. Hannah was surprised that her mother did not cry.
Since Harry died on the Sabbath, Molly was at peace. “Your father’s soul will go directly to heaven,” she told Hannah. That seemed to be of some comfort to Molly. To Hannah, Harry’s death meant she was cheated a second time.
Once Harry passed that Saturday morning, Hannah went into overdrive. Jewish tradition mandated that the funeral be held the next day, Sunday. She actually welcomed the short deadline. Having so much to do left little time to think. Hannah was determined to give her father a funeral befitting the son of a rabbi. She thought Harry would appreciate her effort. She knew that, for him, it was the tradition that was sacred. Hannah felt that maintaining the ritual connected him to those he’d lost.
After she arranged to have Harry moved to the funeral chapel, Hannah made sure her father’s lifeless body would be watched and prayed over until the interment. Then she and Robert took Molly home to her apartment. In the cab, she closed her eyes and rested her head on Hannah’s shoulder. As they waited for the elevator, Hannah took her mother’s keys and emptied the overstuffed mailbox. No one spoke. As soon as the three of them walked into the apartment, Molly disappeared into the bedroom without offering to make tea or food.
Hannah peered into the familiar living room. Everything in the apartment was the same, but it felt like a very different place now that Harry was not sitting in his customary spot.
Robert embraced Hannah. “We’ll get through this,” he told her.
“I know,” she said.
While Robert stayed with Molly, Hannah went to the funeral chapel on Amsterdam Avenue. She picked out the pine casket without any nails, chose the blue and white prayer shawl and the simple white linen shroud for Harry to wear after his body was washed.
Finding a rabbi to officiate could have been a problem. Hannah did not have time to make her usual exhaustive search for an appropriate Conservative rabbi. She was forced to ask the funeral director for a recommendation. Luckily the rabbi he suggested turned out to be ideal. Rabbi Steinberg was himself a survivor who had come to the United States after the war.
Writing Harry’s obituary notice was very difficult for Hannah, but contacting friends and family was easier than she had expected. It felt good to talk with family members she had not spoken to in years. After she and Robert had made the final phone call, Hannah mindlessly flipped through the mass of mail she had dumped on the hall table hours before. Then she remembered the Archbishop’s letter she’d been carrying ar
ound. Mouthing the words, she reread the letter: Lena died in 1944 soon after she was adopted by Helga and Stefan Jankowski. “Now it’s really over,” Hannah said out loud. With Molly out of earshot, she asked Robert, “What do I do about this now?”
“Nothing,” he said, and put his arms around her. “You think I should keep this from Mother for the same reason Sister Marianna didn’t tell Harry the truth thirty years ago?” Hannah asked. In the letter, the Archbishop explained that when Sister Marianna found out Lena had died she thought it best to keep that knowledge to herself and spare Lena’s family the sad news.
“Just wait awhile. Letting Molly know now that her daughter did not survive doesn’t ease her current loss. Maybe you could contact the Jankowski family and find out how she died,” Robert advised.
“That makes sense. I should know more before I tell mother anything.”
Robert cradled Hannah in his arms until Molly came out of the bedroom. She looked so small. Hannah had been totally focused on Harry and had not noticed how frail her mother had become. Now we’re the only ones left, Hannah told herself.
“We have to be there for each other,” she said.
“Don’t worry about me, Hannah. I’ll be fine,” her voice lowered to a whisper. “Your father is here.”
Hannah looked at the empty sofa, and sighed.
“Come help me decide what I should wear tomorrow,” Molly said.
In the bedroom Molly laid out a couple of suits and a dress.
“What do you think? Which should I wear?” Molly asked. What she meant was, “What would your father want me to wear?”
“Dad always liked that dress,” Hannah said.
“Yes. Harry would prefer the dress,” Molly agreed. They both still wanted to please him.
Hannah was amazed to see the large turnout for Harry’s funeral. She stationed herself next to the memorial book and thanked everyone for coming. Some were strangers, others she had not seen since she was a child. Hannah listened as people told her how important her father had been to them. She felt jealous but also proud that Harry had so profoundly touched many lives.
Periodically, she glanced over at her mother who seemed to be buoyed by friends and relatives. Molly’s support group, people she’d bonded with during Harry’s stay in the hospital, arrived in force and stayed by her side. Including Father Murphy.
When Hannah saw Robert motion to her, she went over to him.
“The funeral director said before they close the casket, someone from the family has to make sure the right person is being buried,” Robert reported.
Hannah froze. The last time she had seen her father, he was seemingly asleep in his hospital bed. She didn’t want her last memory of him to be in a casket, wrapped in a shroud. “I can’t do it,” she said.
“You want me to. Or Molly?”
“Ask her. I just can’t do it,” she repeated, “Mother may need to. She never got to say goodbye,” Hannah said, almost to herself.
As she went back to greeting late arrivals, Hannah saw Robert take Molly over to the casket.
The memorial chapel was filled beyond the allowable number. Hannah thought her father would have been astounded. Many asked to say a few words. She wished he could hear the tributes.
Seated in the front pew, holding Molly’s hand for the duration of the service, Hannah heard what was being said but it seemed to be happening far away. She was jolted back to reality when the rabbi started to cut the black ribbon pinned to her suit lapel. The symbolic ribbon was meant to be a reminder of her loss. As if she needed one!
After the funeral, the festive atmosphere in the packed Stone apartment was a sharp contrast to those final months of Harry’s illness. Molly actually let out a laugh, something her daughter had not heard from her mother in some time. Friends and relatives were telling “Harry” stories, as they feasted on bagels, lox, and sturgeon. And rugelach for dessert. They talked about him as if he were in the next room. In her head Hannah replayed their courtyard walks the way families show home movies.
Molly Stone looked around her apartment and watched the revelers. “This is the way it should have been when you were here, Harry,” Molly said, then added, “You wasted so much of your life. And mine.”
PART IV
CHAPTER
16
A WEEK AFTER HARRY’S FUNERAL, Hannah returned to work. Glad to be back, even the sight of her desk piled high with unopened mail felt welcoming. Normally, she would have cursed under her breath and pushed the pile of mail onto a ledge to be dealt with later. But the junk littering her desk was actually a useful diversion. Hannah had no deadlines, an unfamiliar situation for her, and opening letters and reading through countless press releases was something to focus on other than the loss of her father and sister.
And Molly. What to do with Molly? Of course, it would be best if in a couple of months she decided to go back to Florida. But it was not something Hannah was able to suggest. She didn’t want her mother to feel she wished to be rid of her.
Hannah spent her first week back cleaning up her office. As co-workers came in to chat, several asked her if she was planning to leave.
“Why do people think I’ve taken another job? Or am I about to be fired?” Hannah asked Ariel, her friend who had just been named Features Editor.
“People think you’re leaving because nobody has ever seen the bottom of your desk before,” Ariel said laughing.
“The last thing I want now is to change jobs. I’ve had all the changes I can deal with for a while. I hope no one is thinking of firing me,” Hannah said seriously.
“Not to worry,” Ariel assured her.
Hannah was free to resume her normal life, but Harry’s death left her with a void she didn’t know how to fill. Whenever she recalled the feel of her father stroking her cheek, she had to wipe away tears covering the spot that had welcomed his touch. She especially missed their Saturday walks and, even toward the end, sitting at his bedside when the only subject that seemed to bring him back to life was Lena.
If he had died while Hannah viewed him only as a factor in her birth, his death would have had a decidedly different impact on her.
But for a short time he was the father she always wanted. It’s not fair, she thought. I lost him twice.
Deceiving her father had been painful, but Hannah felt it was better he died believing Lena was at his bedside. I gave him that, she thought.
By Friday, the only folder left unfiled was labeled LENA in big block letters. Hannah was about to put the last letter from the Archbishop inside the folder, when she remembered that Molly had still not seen it. I’ll show it to her tonight. No! Robert is right, I should find out how Lena lived and died before I show Mother the letter.
Hannah put it back in her tote.
She was concerned about her mother, but not worried. Unlike Harry, Molly was in good health, loved playing bridge, and Hannah knew she had a circle of friends she enjoyed palling around with in the city. That first week, the two had talked on the phone just as they had while Harry was alive. Their calls were shorter. Molly had less to report. When Hannah called and her mother didn’t answer, she was glad. Hannah assumed Molly was out with a friend.
Friday evening when she arrived at her mother’s door, Hannah rang the doorbell repeatedly before a rumpled Molly let her daughter in. The apartment was in total darkness. Hannah switched on the hall light as she closed the door behind her. Molly brushed her mussed hair off her face. Her dress was wrinkled. It looked as if she’d been sleeping in it. She had obviously missed her longstanding Friday appointment with her hairdresser.
“Are you feeling all right, Mom?” Hannah asked.
“Of course,” Molly answered, without any force to the statement.
“I rang the bell a long time. Were you sleeping?”
“Yes. Yes, I must have dozed off.”
“Didn’t you expect me? I told you I was coming for dinner,” Hannah said, a tinge of annoyance in her voice.
; “The day just got away from me,” Molly said, as she looked at the hall clock. “I can make you something if you’re hungry,” she offered.
Hannah followed her mother into the kitchen. What she saw told the whole story. Molly Stone’s pristine stove was a mess. The smell of burnt coffee permeated the room. The cups and saucers piled in the sink indicated Molly was at least drinking tea or coffee. Hannah opened the refrigerator. It was fully stocked, just as she’d left it a week ago.
“Mom, have you eaten anything today?”
Molly seemed surprised by the question. “Not sure. I’m not hungry.”
“Sit down,” Hannah ordered.
Molly obeyed.
“I’ll make us both an omelet,” Hannah said.
As her daughter washed the dishes in the sink and cleaned the stove, Molly sat at the table staring into space, her hands folded in front of her as if they were resting on a desk in first grade.
“Mom, you have to eat, even if you’re not hungry,” Hannah said as she served the omelet she’d prepared. “Remember how you used to make Dad eat when he didn’t want to?”
“It didn’t do him any good, did it?” Molly said. “He’s gone.”
“I know. But you’re here and you need to eat to stay alive.”
“I don’t feel alive,” Molly said. “Sometimes I think your father took me with him.”
Until the moment she had touched his lifeless cheek, Molly had believed that Harry would be well again. She had put her faith in the trifecta of God, Dr. Martin, and her cooking to make that happen. Once that combination failed her and Harry was gone, Molly seemed to be sleepwalking instead of living.
For forty years, when Harry Stone told his wife what to do and when to do it, she complained bitterly to her daughter. She had resented Harry’s dictatorial manner. But now that he was gone, she needed him to tell her if the coffee pot was boiling over.