This is when the real challenges begin.
For this incarnation is such a harsh one … perhaps … no … absolutely … the most arduous of them all. And far too often … for far too many … if not for everyone … in one manner or another … at one time or another … it brings devastation and sadness … hurt and pain. In all cases there is so much pain … so much sorrow.
During this incarnation … your incarnation … there are countless choices that must be made … decisions … determinations … some … too many … are fateful … to all involved … to all concerned. Repercussions abound.
Spirit … the divine spark … is so very much easier … effortless … for Spirit is every … thing … and every … where …
Spirit is where all is possible.
Please be assured … there is a link … a connection … a bridge … between Spirit and incarnation that cannot … not ever … be severed. This is the central bond that must not be forgotten … never overlooked or ignored.
In the human incarnation … as in Spirit … there resides love … deep love … true love … ever and forever and always … love …
Such as the love Esther and Tadeusz share. Ah … you think … you mean shared.
But is it past?
Enduring love between and among each of us … each of you … all of us … and it is the one thing … the only thing … that continues on … throughout each life … all lives … all incarnation …
And the time between.
If love is at the center … if love is at the core … at the essence of each and every decision …
Then truth resides there too.
CHAPTER TWENTY
He lurks …
behind every corner …
and around every thought.
His presence …
woven into each conversation.
No running …
No hiding.
For he …
is everywhere you turn.
Behind you …
when you think you have lost him.
Or beside you …
observing every move.
You are never alone.
Though you try to escape …
from his influence …
and his eyes.
Distance does not aid …
and time does not mend.
For neither are real.
For neither exist.
There is only the energy …
that sparked the flame …
that continues to smolder.
And that energy is pure … and true … and truth.
It is the finespun thread …
you resist … and you cling to.
The soul connection.
Nine months had passed since they had stolen away from Köln. Nine months on the run, yet never moving. Passing as others—with changed identities, forged papers—in plain sight, but in hiding nonetheless. Submerged with the minimum of life supports.
For no particular reason, as this week was no different or more demanding from the one before, tension escalated. In the past few weeks, Esther had not been able to sleep more than an hour or two combined. Fitful tossing and turning consumed any possibility of repose. Rest—the word no longer held primal meaning. She did not know when she had last felt her time asleep provided a reprieve from her time awake.
In the middle of the night, Esther could acknowledge she was among the fortunate—the lucky ones. She had experienced no trouble since arriving in this new city. She had a roof over her head, secured regular sewing assignments, and got paid money for her efforts. Fair money. Good money, even. During a period when most people, those in similar circumstances—for she was sure there must be others—were barely getting by. Or worse.
People she had to encounter—on the street, at the market, at this shop or that, at church, or on the stairwell to the apartment—had not questioned her story and actions and various plotlines, any of the rationale for traveling away from home in time of war. Her superb tailoring skills forestalled curiosity.
She and Zami kept to themselves, and although she did not initiate conversations, on occasion Esther would hear things as she passed a group of men on the street or while waiting in line to pay at the market. These were frightening reports—shocking accounts, mostly whispered—about battles waged, towns destroyed, and inferences of atrocities inflicted on Jews throughout Europe. Her frozen demeanor provided an excellent mask for absorbing information without reaction.
Even when she was once again in her room, Esther declined to digest any of the words overheard.
More than likely these are merely rumors, she thought. People love to gossip endlessly about terrible things, whether real or untrue. I refuse to accept them as fact. Regardless, they have no import for me. I don’t have time to brood over them. I have work to do.
Esther always had work to do, to take care of Esther.
Now, however, was the time to put sewing aside, to put everything aside. For it was a Friday, late afternoon. The cusp of shabbes. The Sabbath. A slight break, a pause in all activities and from any thoughts or knowledge of torments, real or potential, must be taken.
Her hands were cramped, and her fingers hurt from too many pinpricks, her work uncharacteristically sloppy all day. The stitches in Esther’s back and side overpowered any she wove with needle, thread, and fabric. More were taken out than remained.
Her eyes burned.
Her shoulders and neck ached.
She was drained.
At this moment, Esther felt depleted of the resources heretofore carrying her forward.
But the Sabbath approached, and Esther needed to prepare to greet her. Even under these circumstances, this Friday evening tradition endured—the one link to a normalcy of a life, her earliest life, which she strove to preserve whenever, wherever, and however possible.
The barest thread maintains …
This singular practice never ceased to resonate within Esther’s core. When the opaque layers of life and responsibilities and heartache and loss fell away, Esther would feel an internal wrench for those evenings with family, when she was a young girl. Or with her own three young children. The time for rejuvenation. She quashed the sentiment but not the habit.
Following her first encounter with Tadeusz—a more fortuitous occasion for such a beginning could not have been granted her—the ritual had taken on a more profound significance. From that day forth, shabbes became a weekly declaration of love and the renewal of their commitment to one another.
Until that day … in no way forgotten … when this bride lost her groom.
While she had established a Sabbath meal and tradition of sorts with Abraham and the girls, Esther only wholly reclaimed this weekly rite when she and Zami were on their own. And when she was certain no one could see in through the apartment’s window or the cracks in the door.
Wine was an essential element of this custom, the holy drink. Kiddush must be recited over a cup of wine before the meal. Esther was not sure why. It was the way it had always been done, so that’s what she did.
Wine … the beverage of life … of immortality … the sign of knowledge … of initiation. Symbol of joy. A drink of the gods …
Obtaining wine had initially posed a challenge. She did not want to be seen in a store that sold liquor. A lone woman purchasing alcohol was sure to draw attention. Particularly one with a small child. Remarkably, however—
Or perhaps not …
—Esther had scavenged a nearly full bottle found in a trash-can not far from the apartment building. Its taste was saccharine, barely passable as wine, but serviceable nonetheless. Over these past many weeks, she had stintingly used just a drop or two to extend its life—and, it seemed, hers too—as long as possible.
As the sun came to rest, Esther removed Bubbe Royza’s kiddush cup that she always kept near, buried within her clothes, and placed it in the center of the table next to the partially burned candle. Though pieces of jewelry and money were sewn into
her hems, this small goblet, now with a few scratches, was her treasure.
Match to wood.
Esther had to strike twice for it to ignite. She took a slow, full breath and touched flame to wick. She drew her hands around the candles and toward her face three times. Covering her eyes with her hands, in less than a whisper, she began, “Baruch Ata Adonai, Elo—” but stopped abruptly as the room that had bounded her began to fade away. Zami, lying in the bed, vanished, and all that had come to feel familiar disappeared into a void.
In what seemed an instant, Esther found herself at the edge of an expansive, overgrown field butting up to dense woodland.
She shook her head vigorously and rubbed her eyes. How did I get here? she wondered. And where is here? She touched her arms and legs, which felt solid. She looked to her left and to her right and then gradually turned around in a full circle to gain a view of the scene.
Esther gasped, stunned, as she realized it was the northern end of Przeworsk, a tranquil place where she, her siblings, and friends had played as young children. Hours had been spent here, competing in sports, making up stories, throwing balls, and jumping rope. Often her brothers would chase after the girls with bugs or mice in their hands with the intention to frighten or distress, the way only brothers knew how. An odd expression of love passed down from generations before.
In spite of those incidents, it was an evocative locale that extended memories of happy times.
The field radiated a warm golden yellow. Esther could see buds of buttercup scattered in patches across its full expanse. It was thick and heavy. The narrow paths, long ago carved to ease hauling, were filled in. No one had given attention to this field in a long time.
Yet the meadow was still very much alive and thriving on its own.
Like a forest that immediately begins to regenerate after a fire has passed, war is never entirely successful in its mission to completely annihilate.
Esther heard birds calling to one another in the distance. One silken, blue-speckled butterfly fluttered before her. A zephyr soothed her skin.
The light was soft. The moment, when dusk and dawn meld, had arrived. This was the emergence, once prayed for. What she thought had been forgotten or cast aside. The dawn buried where she could not reach but secretly desired would come—finally—and wake her from the nightmare that for so long now had claimed her. The incident that began in this small town, when he did not join her, when he shunned her, rejected her. For all to see. When the chuppah collapsed around her.
Esther heard a rustling at the western edge of the field and jumped. She thought she was alone—certain she was alone—though unclear how or why she had returned to this place of her youth.
She strained her eyes. There, at the field’s edge, in the direction of the setting sun, appeared a billowing cloud of white. Indistinguishable as to shape or appearance, its radiance and beauty unmatched by anything she had seen before. Moving haltingly but gracefully, this image of elation, of peaceful serenity, of true bliss floated imperceptibly across the field and toward her, growing larger and more discernable. Finally, Esther was able to descry a slight figure covered in garments of splendor, a delicate eyelet lace dress that glided over the sharp weeds, as though the wearer drifted on rose-petaled velvet. Everything was in deliberate and measured motion. Esther watched, transfixed.
The field began to fill with sound, an aural counterpart to the vision.
Lekho dodi likras kalo, peney shabbos nekablo.
Come … my beloved … to greet the bride; welcome the face of Shabbes.
Observe—and remember—
It was the Lekho Dodi—the Sabbath Bride—coming to meet her groom and rejoice in the innocence of renewal that would be before her, the joy of new beginnings.
As the figure grew closer, Esther could see that this bride’s gown was in tatters, nearly in shreds. Pieces of fabric fell off her body and onto the ground. The sheer veil that rested upon her head covered a blackened face, without benefit of feature or expression. Esther’s heart became lead—
Once more—
For on this eve there would be no groom to welcome this bride. Just as he—Tadeusz—her groom—had not been there to greet her.
Night would fall, shadows would take residence, and darkness would descend, remaining her sole partner for time to come.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Circumstances …
became usual.
Daily life …
an appearance of routine …
Like the steps a seamstress must adhere to for the creation of a dress or a shirt, a jacket, a vest, or a pair of pants, Esther and Zami—Etta and Hannis—carried on. They followed a schedule that seldom varied. Esther spent the better part of each day doing what was familiar and natural, truly innate: mending, stitching, cutting, repairing, lining, hemming, altering, and refurbishing.
The bulk of her assignments were to restore old clothes, some tattered and frayed, others barely worn. Often her task was a general request to refresh and renew. Money was restricted, even among the wealthy, but vanity still reigned supreme. So those with ample inventory were reaching into the depths of their wardrobes, dressers, and armoires to find items friends would not easily recognize and therefore would assume to be newly purchased. This was particularly true after Esther took her gifted hand at any item of clothing.
Although Esther met not one of Frau Weir’s clients, she became celebrated among them. Who is this mysterious master of thread and cloth? they inquired of one another. Where did he, or perhaps it was a she, come from?
Each would ponder, confident it was an expert tailor most likely trained in one of Paris’s most exclusive couture houses, or perhaps one of Milan’s. Why this person had only recently appeared in obscure, industrial Wuppertal did not generate a depth of inquiry. Situations of war elicited answers for everything that at other times might have required thorough examination.
One Thursday afternoon as she and Zami stood patiently in the bakery’s long line, Esther chanced to overhear the conversation of two elegantly dressed women having tea in the café nearby. The topic of conversation: Frau Weir’s shop and how thrilled they were by the exquisite craftsmanship their clothes now received.
“Genau wie in Paris. Just like Paris,” said the dark-haired woman in the blue sheath with matching shawl. “So exciting!”
“I admit mit dem Krieg—with the war and everything—things are a bit hard, but we still need some glamour,” she continued.
“Wait until you see the green satin dress I’ll be wearing to the Bauers’s cocktail party next Saturday. It is gorgeous,” said her friend in the fitted black linen suit with the fur collar. “Simply stunning!”
“Tine has a way of finding the most talented people. I’ve been so impressed. You do know we’ve been friends since school. Lived a few houses down the street from one another—” As Esther moved forward in the line, the woman’s voice grew faint.
Esther smirked. Imagine if they had an inkling of my background and that I am the one who sewed that green dress and the outfits they’re each currently wearing.
They would, surely, be stunned if not outraged to learn she was of Jewish heritage from a Polish shtetl in eastern Galicia, abutting the Ukrainian border. A woman, no less, who, with relative ease, was passing as one of them. If this fact had been revealed, these women would believe their clothes were soiled and sullied instead of what they were in actuality—sophisticated and stunning.
What is … perspective … really?
Esther’s handiwork grew in such demand she now needed to visit Frau Weir’s shop twice weekly and work with greater speed and efficiency. The necessity to feed and bathe herself and Zami did take up time. And Sunday morning church attendance could not be missed. This weekly activity remained inviolate, no matter how many items of clothing required her attention. Sleep was the part of the daily requirements that was most often shortchanged. Esther would, occasionally, grow weary, but her resolution never flagged, and th
e compensation for her efforts and talent increased.
This above all else … at this time … if not truly at all times … this she knew was critical.
In consideration of the world circumstances in which she resided, a level of comfort was established. A bit of tranquility settled in for her and for Zami. Not that Esther, even for an hour, lost sight of the plight that brought her here, to this place, with this state of mind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Then …
in an instant …
everything changed …
The day began just like the one before. Like all the days before. Its distinction, up until that moment, was that this day was a Thursday, early morning. In a few hours she would visit Frau Weir and exchange completed assignments for new ones. Eleven months and five days had passed since Esther, with Zami in tow, had relocated to Wuppertal and melded into the city’s backdrop.
That had been sufficient time to settle into this new reality, to develop a rhythm, to encase her with an illusion of safety and comfort. Combat and battles raged all over, but within this minor city, life continued on with measured serenity. The war’s ravages would eventually catch up to Wuppertal, but during these past months, the cloak of distance and inconsequentiality enveloped them.
The weight and exercise of maintaining obscurity created tension, surely. But this was not a stress rooted in mental anguish, as the conditions would have justifiably elicited. No, Esther did not experience the fear that those in similar circumstances likely shared.
The others. Those untergetauchte Juden—submerged Jews. Jews living as gentiles, hiding scarcely below the surface of truth, the deepest kind of hiding. Those who changed their identities, their very selves, to pass—to survive—during these times as one of the accepted, the Über race. There were those concealed in attics and in basements and in barns, behind false walls and bookcases, and below floor beams. There were the Jews sheltered by non-Jews for innumerable reasons, many charitable or compassionate, some financial, and more than a few out of guilt—the self-reproach palpable. While Esther shared commonalities with these people, she held none of their insecurities or griefs or doubts. She was not invested in their terror or their plight.
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