Esther came to these circumstances without baggage of shattered nerves and unending trauma of herself being revealed. The core of Esther had been decimated long before.
Let us not forget … her motivations … her impulses were born of a particular history … a singular rationale …
The snippets of news that reached her—when she passed a collection of men on the street talking animatedly, or glanced at the headlines walking by a newsboy, or overheard incidents referenced offhandedly by market vendors—made no mark. Her awareness of the atrocities taking place did not elicit an interest to learn more.
This Thursday morning, Esther had barely climbed the final two stairs on her return from placing the garbage in the bin at the back of the apartment building. As she reached the landing, the neighbor across the hall, the one with whom early on generous offers of cake and tea had been declined, was peering out of her barely opened front door and gestured for Esther to join her in the farthermost corner of their common hall. No more than a polite nod of hello had been exchanged in months. Esther registered surprise but followed her as requested.
“Sie wissen. They know,” this woman whispered.
There were no greater words of dread.
“They have found out.
“They will come for you. And your son.
“Morgen. Tomorrow. At nine in the morning.”
Esther listened to the woman’s information, her stoicism unmarred. Her face offered no expression. She did not acknowledge meaning behind the words she was hearing. However, Esther’s mind began to race furiously—
What could have possibly gone wrong? Where might I have misstepped? Who exposed my secret, and how? Ach, there is no time for this! Quickly, her thoughts turned to strategizing options and feasible next steps.
“Ich verstehe nicht—I have no understanding of what you are saying” was Esther’s response. Then she turned and walked into her apartment.
When the door was gently shut behind her and the latch secured, Esther leaned her forehead against the wall, squeezed her eyes tightly, bit down hard on the inside of her right cheek, and took in a long, slow, considered breath. Her one and only admission to the gravity of the situation.
I embraced her with a warm, gentle waft of air and the aroma … the essence … of my native land.
On the surface, the day continued on as though nothing had transpired. As though a bombshell had not been dropped and it was now vital to accelerate deliberation and action to save herself. Zami too, of course. This responsibility was hers and hers alone.
Stay wholly present … and focused.
Remain in the moment.
Review … assess … fully grasp … the requirements … of now.
Thinking forward could not be more than one day; thinking backward as to how this situation came about was futile.
Esther reached for the kiddush cup and held it close. She placed it against her forehead and took another full breath. “Okay, genug—enough!”
She handed Zami his train and said, “Play with this. And here is a piece of bread. Please, don’t disturb me. There is much I must do—and quickly.”
He took these items wordlessly and began rolling his train back and forth across the bed. His mother’s matter-of-fact attitude provided him a soothing comfort.
With the understanding even less could be transported then when they left Köln, Esther began packing. She would only be able to bring the barest of essentials, those that could be easily carried in one compact suitcase. This would not draw suspicions.
As it is summer, stifling both day and night, only lightweight clothing can be taken, she rationalized. Coats, hats, scarves, gloves, and boots must be abandoned. Far too heavy. And it would look suspicious if I were seen carrying them in this weather. Winter and cold will be handled when the season arrives. Somehow. Next, sewing supplies—my sustenance. These are most critical. Everything else can be made.
The gift of Esther’s vocation was that the essential tools were small to miniscule; an assortment of needles and thread can be laid at the bottom of a suitcase without adding consequential weight or requiring much space. Also true of scissors and tracing paper, marking pencils, chalk, pins, and pincushion. A tape measure is thinner than an average belt and easily wrapped along the edges of the case. With these few ingredients, Esther could sustain a profession, an existence, the continued acquiring of money. Clients could be found at all times and in every location. Of this she had no doubt. The other utensils of the trade were not as indispensable and would, in some way, be acquired along her path. However that would unfold.
At the moment, there was no plan, not yet a whisper of a direction, but Esther refused to embrace panic. Self-reliance, self-containment, autonomy, and stoicism embodied the four corners of her nature. Nevertheless, in these precarious times, she understood clearly security could not be attained in isolation.
Esther was savvy, certainly, but shrewdness without partnership could not suffice. Safety was not achievable without the close alliance of dedicated individuals who recognized the iniquities being inflicted on this large sector of humanity. Without connections and the benevolence and support of others, what Esther had embarked upon would have been impossible. These were qualities she believed she no longer shared, traits that were not recollected as part of her composition. If circumstances were otherwise, there was little likelihood that she would have extended herself to others.
Still … she was learning … she was accepting … that not everyone … not all others … would betray … mislead … deceive her.
She had no investment in Wuppertal, in this apartment, in her job, or in this life that had been fashioned out of goodwill and fortuitousness. Her sole imperative was continued existence, and whatever she needed to do would be done. There would be a way out. Of this, she was secure.
The need to escape … and not be followed … the need to disappear … and not be seen.
All must be accomplished without a trace left behind, without questions that would find answers.
Esther continued to pack. Her hands moved swiftly as she arranged the materials she would take. Their identification papers, baptismal documentation, Bible, and rosary were, obviously, crucial. Money was stuffed into corners and pockets of every item of clothing—hers and Zami’s. Three dresses must suffice. She could easily wear two, as they were lightweight, and only placed her church dress in the suitcase.
Later on I will make any additional clothes we might need, she reflected. In some way this will happen. Somehow.
Esther tightly folded Zami’s finest pair of pants and nicest shirt and placed them in the suitcase. He can wear two layers of shirts and pants, she thought. He’s such a thin child; the clothing will merely make him look more normal-sized. Definitely not overweight. That would be suspicious. In this time of rations and few resources, most people look underfed. Except those bureaucrats! She snorted.
Everything must be simplified. The essence of survival had few needs.
At promptly ten minutes past noon, Esther layered the completed assignments for Frau Weir in her basket. With Zami’s tiny right hand securely in her left hand, they walked out the door just as they had for the past nearly one year of Thursdays.
Between reviewing the number of pleats to add on this skirt, the possible seam allowance on that blouse, and whether the length of a dress should be at the knee or one inch below, Esther whispered, “Ich bin entdeckt worden. I’ve been discovered.”
This fact was conveyed to Frau Weir in Esther’s usual, impassive way. Seamlessly woven into their conversation. The news did not elicit an observable reaction; Frau Weir’s head continued its characteristic rapid movement with unrestrained hair flying in all directions. She did not flinch, did not look around to see who might be watching or monitoring their actions. There was not a trace of worry that she, too, might be in danger. Even to an untrained eye, it appeared Frau Weir already knew what had occurred and was primed to provide the critical aid. Perhaps she h
ad prepared for this possibility every week. For Esther and for any other secreted Jew she assisted.
“I have ein Cocktailkleid—a cocktail dress—that needs to have the ruffles moved from the hem to the neck and the wrists. It may not appear so, but there is enough material. Here, let me draw you a picture of exactly how the client would like it done,” Frau Weir said.
She pulled out a pencil and a piece of paper from her desk’s top drawer that was already filled with words and a map. She proceeded to simulate drawing on the paper, all the while talking about ruffles and the length of fabric Esther must be sure to gather at the arms in contrast to the neck.
“Dieser Kunde ist sehr pingelig. This client is exceptionally fussy,” she stressed.
It was evident Frau Weir had done this before.
With measured precision, she said: “You must be at the riverfront at the intersection below Tiergartentreppe where it meets Varresbecker Straße, on the west side of the river, at precisely one thirty-six this coming morning. Die Polizei change positions at one thirty, and at this time, if you are extremely careful and quiet, your movements will not be observed. There is not a dock at this location, but the wall is broken, and you will be able to crawl over easily. Even with your son, who must remain silent. A fisherman’s boat will be waiting. No one will question his presence. He fishes for eel, and this is when he typically leaves.”
Ah … eel … of course … eel … the messenger of the gods …
“Wir haben Glück gehabt—We are fortunate the rains were plentiful, and the water has remained high this year,” the Frau continued. “You will be taken down river to Solingen, to a spot a few blocks from a train station. You must purchase a ticket to Düsseldorf—I know you have sufficient money—and, once there, a ticket to Leiden, in Holland.”
“Ja, ja, Ich verstehe—I understand,” Esther said, head nodding, eyes focused on the paper and pencil, as though acknowledging the specifics of this dress assignment. “I can do this easily. It will be beautiful.”
“Depart only at the main station, Leiden Centraal. Bombing has been intense in these areas, but the trains are still running, although somewhat more slowly. Die Reise—The journey may take you two days. A woman, in her fifties, although older appearing because of her short white hair, wearing a blue knit dress and carrying a large shoulder bag made from the same fabric, will meet you there. She will greet you as an old friend and will take you to your new home. Importantly, she will have contacts for your tailoring work.”
And then, as she handed over the last piece of clothing assigned, Frau Weir said: “Bis zur nächsten Woche. Until next week.”
“Auf Wiedersehen. Until next week then.”
In keeping with routine, Esther and Zami walked to the outdoor market to purchase one week’s supply of grocery items and sundries. She paid particular attention to foods that would travel without spoiling. She also selected items that would perish quickly without refrigeration. If anyone was observing her movements, they must have no idea that Esther knew she was to be arrested.
Arrested—what senselessness! Esther shook her head reflexively, incredulous still at the concept. She was aware that, under current conditions, in these times, what she was doing—going about daily life without observing the defined constraints determined for those of a certain race, those sharing a distinct bloodline—was illegal.
But, truly, where was the consciousness in the governing regulations of the day? Laws are made to serve a country’s citizens, to protect them. The absurd rules and restrictions decreed by this present government, laws enforced by those miscreant Nazis, protected no one. They were not to the benefit of humanity.
Is that not what laws … guiding principles … rules of conduct … policies of justice … should be? In service … to humanity … to one … and to all …
Esther watched the clock attentively. In the best of circumstances, the most normal of situations, it would be a seven-minute walk from the apartment to the designated spot on the riverfront. In this case, twelve minutes must be allotted to allow for any necessary stops to watch and to listen, but not offer too much time to chance encountering an officer on his route heading toward home.
It was nearly six o’clock when they returned to the apartment. After preparing a quick meal of bread and cheese, she ordered Zami to stay in the corner and play with his train.
“Still! Silently!” she admonished. Then she took a long breath, looked deep in his eyes, and added, “Please.”
Esther began to repack, methodically, for she understood less could be taken than what she originally envisioned.
And it was now apparent what must be done.
A scene must be shaped; a story must be developed; a tale must be told with the barest of information, as though this place, their lives, were part of a play, a scene in a production, and tonight were the culmination. The story’s sad but banal conclusion. No questions could be left to ponder; their whereabouts never questioned. It must appear as though everything—absolutely everything—had been left behind. As though this were their final exit, walking out of this door or any door.
At eight o’clock, Esther put Zami to bed and said, “Tonight we’re going to play a special game. I’m going to wake you up in four and a half hours, and we are going to go outside. It’s very, very important that no matter what you see or what you hear, you don’t make a sound. Do you understand?”
Zami looked up at her and nodded. Not comprehending, but knowing this is what his mama wanted and that was what mattered.
“Under no circumstances can you make a sound. Not until the game is over in the morning,” Esther said. “I will let you know when.”
The next few hours, she worked as noiselessly as possible, walking around in her stocking feet, steering clear of any floorboards that creaked. After she placed the one suitcase by the door, she scattered clothes about the room, pulled drawers out, left dishes unclean in the sink, and piled sewing materials and assignments high in a corner as though thrown in desperation—the backdrop for the acts of a distraught, frantic woman.
As midnight neared, Esther picked up the sharpest scissors she had available. For a few seconds she held this implement midair away from her body, as far as her right arm could stretch. She dared her mind not to think or rationalize, for doing so would acknowledge she had no idea whether the action she was about to take would permanently damage her means of sustentation. Then, using all the force she could muster, Esther plunged the scissors—again—and again—and again—deeply—into three parts of her left upper arm and shoulder and watched as she bled profusely—on the bed where Zami slept, across the floor to the door, and on a sheet she would deposit near the river.
At precisely 1:24 in the morning, Esther, carrying Zami, headed to the riverfront and an indeterminate fate. A clear trail of blood followed them. Left behind was a staged environment of desolation and anguish. It declared to anyone who ventured inside that those who resided here had forsaken their lives.
The note left on the bed was brief but definitive:
Ich bin fertig.
Ich habe jeden und alles verloren, das ich jemals geliebt habe,
und alle, die mich geliebt haben.
Ich kann nicht mehr.
Es ist vorbei.
………………..
I am finished.
I have lost everyone and everything I have ever loved and those
who have loved me.
I can no longer go on.
It is over.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Embrace the shadows.
Dodge the light.
Don’t trust …
can’t trust.
Lose any thought of an identity … your true identity …
if you can even remember who you are …
while you are here.
Let the apprehension nourish you …
so you jump at the slightest sound …
and believe they are always chasing you.
Un
derstand that you can never stop …
not for a minute … and let down your guard …
and relax … and take a deep breath … a sigh of relief.
There is no relief.
No escape.
Not right now.
Keep moving.
Look over your shoulder … with one eye around the corner.
Know they are always after you …
and will stop at nothing to get you.
Only sleep when pure exhaustion necessitates.
And then for just short bouts.
For they will reach you if you go too deeply …
or for too long.
The chase is relentless … and they are wily …
and conniving.
They are not used to losing.
Hiding is essential.
But not always easy.
Particularly … when the hiding also
needs to be from yourself.
When stepping through space … and time … and blending
into the landscape is not enough.
You remain with yourself … and you become them.
When the imminent physical threat is gone …
is this ever lost?
Is it ever possible to lose the apprehension? The loss of
control? To not feel hunted?
Walls that are constructed with brick and mortar,
stone or cement, are not as strong as
those built with memory.
Seventy-eight exhausting hours later, a spent Esther and Zami arrived at a prim three-story brick house centered on a well-tended lot on the outskirts of Leiden. Trains had been delayed. There were broken railroad tracks. A train had a damaged wheel spoke. Another had been rerouted, which resulted in two unanticipated connections, one that included backtracking more than 150 kilometers to meet up with a train coming from another direction. This was the one that at last carried them to Zuid-Holland and Leiden Centraal.
Guesthouse for Ganesha Page 14