No sewing issue was too challenging or complex. Esther knew the Frau was impressed with her mastery with needle and thread. However, Esther did not hear a word of praise. Frau Weir never expressed more than a quickly muttered thank you for Esther’s efforts. The appreciation was understood. Esther knew her services would be needed as long as the events escalating in the world beyond Wuppertal did not journey closer.
“Auf Wiedersehen. Bis zur nächsten Woche. Until next week.”
From the tailoring shop, she and Zami would head to the outdoor market to pick up their weekly supplies and food. Even though this city had not yet been directly touched by the war, there were not a wide variety of items from which to choose. Many basics were no longer available, and some, such as sugar and flour, had begun to be rationed. Still, fresh fruits, vegetables, milk, and cheeses were in abundance, as these items were brought in directly from the farmers located in the nearby regions. And Esther had the resources to buy what she wanted.
Money … having money was the key to access … and would remain so.
Their needs were simple. Zami was not a finicky eater. Unlike Tova who far too often had, with petulance, refused half or more of whatever was on her plate, or Miriam, who had sugar cravings and cried doggedly if she were not given some treat at every meal. Zami was the most easily managed, the quietest, and the most acquiescent of the three children she had birthed. Frau Göttlieb had been right. Esther was pleased he was with her. Although often thinking otherwise, at this moment she did appreciate she was not completely alone.
So Esther purchased what appealed to her, knowing Zami would eat whatever was on his plate. She could not remember a time when it was only about her interests or desires. There was, indeed, a freedom in these circumstances, despite the constraints placed upon her and the realities she had to negotiate.
As the five o’clock hour neared, with one large-sized basket packed with clothes and a smaller-sized basket with food and supplies held securely in one hand and the grip of Zami’s stroller in her other, Esther would return to their utilitarian apartment. Work would begin once more. Each week patterned as the one before.
Sewing assignments structured each day, with all other needs and activities woven in and around individual pieces of clothing’s unique requirements. Most early mornings found Esther sitting in the chair by the apartment’s one narrow window, sewing by candlelight before daybreak and Zami awoke. Sunlight was her light source throughout the day, and when the sun finally set, a candle was lit once again. Most of each day she sewed by hand. The sewing machine, while convenient, was loud and grating, and she made an effort not to disturb the neighbors. A low profile was essential. The few breaks taken were for meals and washing and the occasional need to distract Zami, if he grew fidgety or fussy.
“Hier, halt das—Hold this,” Esther said when he seemed to grow tired of rolling back and forth and back again across the bed. She handed him the thick piece of midnight-blue flannel he particularly liked.
Sometimes he would not take the material from her. Instead Zami stared at the candlelight and flapped his left hand wildly. His version of “no,” Esther had come to learn.
“Okay, Hier ist deine Eisenbahn. Here’s your train. You like your train. Don’t you want to play with your train?”
There were not a lot of options from which this little boy could chose, but the wooden train, carved by his papa, did seem to placate him. Along with Esther’s unending patience and finely honed focus, skills central to quality tailoring. These kept him calm. And too, he had a fondness for long naps that took up a good bit of each day, so there were not a lot of hours when Esther had to consider his needs.
She never ventured far to explore Wuppertal, not even when time became available. Esther did not have a mild curiosity for this city and its potential offerings. She knew she needed to remain as inconspicuous as possible to arouse no suspicions. Equally, she understood that no matter how long in its residence, Wuppertal was an interlude. No reasons existed to learn more than what was essential. And she had no interest in getting to know people other than those who were of necessity.
When Esther and Zami first moved to Wuppertal and into the building, the youthful neighbor directly across the hall had extended herself warmly. This plump woman with prematurely graying hair was talkative. Without encouragement, Esther learned she had lived in this city since birth and never traveled beyond the neighboring countryside. She had a daughter, Winifred—
“Ein schöner Name für ein Mädchen—A beautiful name for a girl, don’t you think? It means ‘friend of peace.’ So appropriate for the times we are living in.”
—seven years of age.
“My husband was drafted not more than a year ago. I feel lost without him. My daughter and I are fine, of course, but one does get used to having one’s man around. I have my work to keep me busy. I’m a secretary at a textile mill, just nearby. It only takes me fifteen minutes to walk there.”
Esther observed that every Sunday the mother and daughter attended St. Laurentius, sitting in the fourth pew on the left side, three rows in front of where she and Zami took their seats.
Barely a week after they had moved into the building, this woman invited them to join her for a cup of tea and a slice of Honigkuchen. At other times she offered coffee and Bienenstich. “I love to bake and always enjoy having company,” she said more than once.
But with each offer Esther would respond with a polite but firm, “Nein, nein danke. I have much work to do.”
She would then walk into her apartment or down the stairs, whichever direction allowed her to be alone and remain alone.
In any given week, she and Zami would journey a five-block radius at most, bringing them to and from their apartment, the tailor shop, the market, and, importantly, church. And back again. There was the rare occasion when she got restless from remaining indoors for too long. This was most likely a Wednesday afternoon when the week’s assignments had been completed and the small space became especially stifling. Only in those instances would she take Zami to the little park leading to the zoo’s entrance. It was perhaps a ten-minute walk, and the fresh air, no matter what the weather, cleared her head, reinvigorating her resolve.
Zami seemed to take pleasure in these outings, but he was such a remote child that Esther sensed he was never really comfortable or at ease. This little boy rarely laughed or smiled—uncommon for one his age. It was as though he instinctively understood the gravity of their circumstances. More significantly, he seemed to understand he was with a woman who was barely capable of loving him.
Their weekly attendance at St. Laurentius was the most crucial part of the masquerade. Four services were offered each Sunday, the first commencing at seven o’clock in the morning. Esther chose to attend the day’s second service at nine. During this hour, the nave would be filled to capacity, and she believed it advantageous to be seen by as large an audience as available. They donned their best clothes, the same ones worn on Thursdays to the tailoring shop. But on Sundays, Esther’s head would be covered with a lace cloth that complemented her dress. With small Bible and rosary visibly in hand, they would walk—at a slow pace, for Zami did not yet move with steady ease—up the eight steps to the austere, high-arched entrance as though this were the most natural activity in which they could partake.
Frau Göttlieb had been an excellent teacher. Esther knew when to stand and when to kneel, what words to repeat and when to merely listen and perhaps nod, when to participate in a responsorial psalm, the quantity of coins to contribute to the collection pot as it passed, and how to take the host on her tongue during communion like a true baptized member of this tribe.
Such rituals! Such nonsense, she thought with an internal smirk as she returned to her seat after communion. What a waste of time!
Ah … you humans are continually searching … seeking … craving … answers …
As such … throughout time you come up with ideas … philosophies … stories … intricat
e ceremonies … formulas if
you will … that provide solace … that help you cope with what you consider reality.
And I too … by many … am merely considered part of that elaborate invention to help you … some of you … not all humans of course … manage what are deemed hardships … adversities … ordeals … misfortunes …
These rituals … services … traditions … rites … they all appear … each and every one throughout the world … to be so very different … unique … to this group or that path. It does not matter … the religion or the faith or conviction or creed or philosophic belief …
For they all lead to the same culmination: salvation … peace … deliverance.
For they are really … and truly … all one … one and the same …
And let us take notice … it is not an accident … not a coincidence … not merely happenstance … that ritual … the word … lies sheltered within … spiritual …
Esther favored the days when organ music was included as part of the service and St. Laurentius was filled with alluring sounds resonating against the structure’s thick walls and soaring vaulted ceiling. Regrettably this was not frequent, only on certain Sundays when there was a holiday or perhaps a funeral. A few times there had been a soloist who sang one song to which she was especially drawn. A song that reached down to the center of her being and stirred the pot of torpid emotions like no other.
Of course this would be true … Oh … maiden … see a maiden’s sorrow … Oh … Mother … hear a suppliant child … Ave Maria!
Every now and again during the service, Esther would gently touch the fragile Holy Mother resting against her throat. Her finger would follow its outline, over and over. It was a centerpiece of the costume acquired in this new existence of hers. While she scoffed at any and all superstitious notions, she did consider it something of an amulet, providing protection as she traversed this complicated terrain.
After one hour or so passed, the service would end, and Esther would follow the other parishioners as they lined up to shake the monsignor’s hand and thank him for the morning’s service and lesson. She made sure to listen closely enough to mention a word or two of the particular passage he had focused on and the morning’s topic.
After a “Vielen Dank—Thank you very much,” a contrived smile, and a nod of greeting to her neighbor, she and Zami would be on their way back to the apartment and her waiting assignments.
Each Sunday passed unchanged.
Esther’s facility to act as the situation necessitated served her well. Avoiding or suppressing emotions or reactions facilitated that the needs of a day were met without distraction. No suspicions provoked, no questions asked.
It took little effort to be invisible. Even with a one-year-old who soon became a two-year-old. Even with people on practically every corner with the charge to find you, to grab you, to send you away, it was not so very difficult to maintain a cloak of insignificance. To continuously walk behind thick layers of indistinctiveness that softly melds you into the surroundings, so your coat becomes a doorway; shoes, merely cracks in the cobbled sidewalk; hat, a bird fluttering through the trees.
Disappearing while standing in broad daylight had never been a challenge for Esther. As one of thirteen children, she intuited at a young age that it was essential to learn how to be overlooked, ignored, or passed over. There were too many chores she wanted to evade, too many responsibilities that would take her away from the activities she most enjoyed. Esther learned how to sit at the family table alongside her siblings and be neither heard nor seen. She had done this as a child, day after day for as long as memory served.
It was invaluable training … essential preparation … and now a lifesaving technique for her present circumstances.
As the product of such a large family, Esther discovered at a young age that people, for the most part, were self-involved and egocentric. Each generally caught up with the noise and thoughts and nonsense in one’s own head. Even those with whom you lived. So out in the world—a world where the rules changed daily and chaos took precedence—blending into the environment was like taking perfectly identical, slow, shallow breaths. In accordance with her stitches.
Not unlike the work of a magician … people only see what they want to see … or what they are led to see …
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
And …
what of the boy?
What … of Zami?
His Spitzname … nickname … always used …
yet without meaning …
devoid of sentiment.
No more … than a designation … a label.
Not … a term of endearment …
nor an expression of love.
Used …
in place of Samuel …
connoting … God has heard.
But … has he?
Never … given more thought than unwanted luggage …
always by her side.
Though … rarely … in her heart …
During a period when a multitude of others—it was impossible to know how many—were scrambling for safety, fearing for their lives, and hiding in places that in a more benign time would have been inconceivable to the imagination, this young boy was more than decently fed. A roof covered Zami’s small head, and a satisfactory bed was provided for his rest. Water and cloth were readily available to keep him clean. Thanks to Esther’s nimble hands coupled with needle, thread, and fabric scraps, there were clothes to wear that kept him warm or cool as weather necessitated.
Physically nourished, yes. In regard to basic human needs, Esther was highly responsible. Efficient.
Emotionally, however, Zami survived with minimal sustenance. As day led into day, he forgot he needed this or that he ever had it. He forgot there was once intense love and support—truly adoration—from his father.
He forgot that he ever had a father.
Esther never mentioned Abraham. Never uttered his name. Nor would she mention Tova or Miriam. She never spoke of Köln or their former life, and definitely not of her life before that. In fact, she rarely spoke to him at all, and most often when she did, it was out of necessity to convey specific commands:
“Du mußt das essen. You must eat this.”
“Lift your right arm up so I can put your shirt on.”
“Hold still, I need to button the last button.”
“Take my hand when we walk across the street.”
“Sitz’ in der Ecke und sei still. Sit in the corner—quietly.”
At all times quietly. Everything must be done quietly. Zami gave the impression he understood this inherently. At his very young age, he knew not to draw attention to himself.
And he was not such a striking youngster that a passerby would be compelled to stop and say, “What—ein bezauberndes Kind—an adorable child!” with enthusiasm.
“What lovely eyes.”
Or—
“Such a beautiful smile he has.”
Esther did not have to worry Zami would attract notice. His was a face lacking expression, definition, or culture. There were no distinguished or finely etched features. There was not a thick mop of enticing blond curls that suggested a playful spirit. Nothing in his demeanor relayed any manner of temperament. One could never imagine his thoughts; more than likely, he was not thinking anything at all.
Emotionally stunted. Whether this was a natural occurrence or one that grew out of his life conditions would never be known or, for that matter, explored. He was much like clay—a body without spirit. Moldable. A pliant mass Esther formed and shaped and manipulated as situation demanded.
Zami obeyed Esther without question or resistance. He accepted everything she said or required of him.
“Nein” never became a part of his lexicon.
Zami did have a few pleasures: the park was a special curiosity whenever Esther made the opportunity to visit it available to him. There he wandered round and around and among the trees. He ran his hands along their b
ark. Every so often he stopped directly in front of a tree and moved his lips slightly, as though deep in conversation. But he released no words. Every so often, he chose to roll on the grass—or the snow—down the low incline in the center of the park. Zami did not chortle with the delight of accomplishment Esther observed in most children. But he appeared content to pursue the same activity repetitively without growing restless or bored.
I did my best to bring him some joy when I could … when Esther was not looking … which was more often than I liked. As I did with his sisters … Tova and Miriam … now and again … I would attempt to offer him one or perhaps two of my favorite cookies. Zami would mostly stare. I knew he saw me … it was not a full refusal … simply a stare. Unlike his siblings who would grab and giggle … they interacted …
They understood. Perhaps he did too … but chose otherwise …
Zami’s train seemed to give him the greatest pleasure. That his father had carved it especially for him was a fact he could not recall. The one-car train was realistic, executed with close attention to detail, including spokes on four wheels that rotated. It had a wooden track, barely twenty centimeters in length, and Zami moved the train smoothly over it. Back and forth, back and forth, over and over and over again.
The little boy spent hours each day in the corner of their single room with his train. Never disturbing his mother. Always quiet. Silent.
Silence … his silence … is what will save his life … save her life.
But the question returns … again and again … what will be saved?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Ah yes … I understand … a human incarnation does confound. When a soul becomes embodied in flesh … encased in wrapping … this tissue that restricts … and confines with boundaries … and limitations …
When the élan vital … the immaterial … becomes material …
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