Because of the myriad problems, trains were overcrowded, making it difficult to move about. The cars were poorly ventilated and stifling during the daylight hours when the August sun held court. For a good deal of the ride, Zami had to sit on Esther’s lap, uncomfortable for them both. Tickets and passports were checked a minimum of three times on each train. But no one had questioned their identities, even when crossing the border into Holland. Their papers had not generated suspicion. These documents were as foolproof as could be obtained with the right amount of ready money.
Frau Göttlieb’s money, in this case. And her connections. Esther’s face and body remained stolid each time the conductor returned her and Zami’s papers, while her insides heaved relief and grateful thanks.
Somewhere along the journey—it may have been while waiting at one of the many stations or when sitting for what seemed like time without end as the train moved circumspectly along challenged territory—Zami took to biting the thin skin around his nails. It was a new habit that would not soon disappear.
“Hör auf! Stop that!
“Don’t do that!” Esther ordered again and again. The few bandages she had were already in use holding together the gashes along her upper arm and shoulder. So Esther wrapped three of his tender bloody fingers in cloth with tape. This, however, did not discourage Zami from biting the other seven digits and dripping blood. There was no way to avoid his pants becoming dotted with tiny bits of red. At this, Esther sighed and chewed lightly on the inside of her cheek. The wounds in her arm and shoulder were painful and distracting. After a while she grew too weary to try to stop him, so she let Zami do this one little thing that might, in fact, console him.
She stared out the window as the landscape rolled past and contemplated what was to come. Or what might come. Or what could happen. The possible scenarios were limitless. Because of the delays and changes, Esther was sure the connection would not be made.
What options do I have if this plan doesn’t unfold the way Frau Weir described? What can I do? What might be possible? Where can I go if the contact doesn’t meet me? A hotel? Perhaps I could find a small inn? These thoughts ricocheted inside her head until the train came to a stop and they finally arrived at Leiden Centraal. She gathered up Zami and their one suitcase and stepped out of the train car.
To Esther’s astonishment—
But not mine of course …
—her contact, the older-looking woman with the short white hair wearing the blue knit dress, was waiting at the station in the designated corner. This conscientious woman, Nadine Vedder, had watched the train schedules, arrivals and departures, and the news vigilantly. As a result of her meticulousness, she was able to greet Esther and Zami with a welcoming embrace, as designed. Esther did not clasp her arms around this woman in response but tried not to stand stiffly or jerk away. Any type of physical human contact unsettled her. Regardless, no one appeared to be observing their interactions.
“Hallo, Hallo, Etta und Hannis! Herzlich willkommen! Welcome! So good it is to see you both!” Mevr. Vedder, or Nadine, as she insisted on being called, spoke German—a formal, imperfect Hochdeutsch she likely cobbled together from long-ago school days. And speak she did, without hesitation or, it seemed, breath, in what would become a familiar lilting yet dissonant voice.
“Hierlang, hier entlang. Folgen Sie mir. This way, this way. Follow me,” she said, leading them to the streetcar on Schipholweg. Esther grabbed Zami’s hand and pulled him along.
“There is the market. We have a market still. A good market too. Every Tuesday and Saturday. Und hier—and here,” she continued as their transport turned onto Plesmaniaan, “here is where you will find den Eingang zur Universität—the entrance to the University. Over there, right across the river, Old Rhine, is the library. Perhaps you know of it already? It’s famous. I hope you have a chance to visit this beautiful place. We’re so proud of it.”
She spoke to Esther and Zami as though to tourists on holiday and not the alleged criminals they were considered, in need of refuge.
They got off the streetcar when it came to a stop at the end of Plesmaniaan and walked two tree-lined streets to Nadine Vedder’s home—their new home, in the loosest sense of the word.
Nearly three weeks passed before Esther had an opportunity to be alone in the house. These living conditions presented particular challenges, as she and Zami were no longer in a place of their own. Privacy here was a commodity in short supply. Mevr. Vedder—Nadine—ran a boarding house.
Esther had not known what to expect upon arriving in Leiden. All she knew was that it was a small-sized city with few amenities far enough removed from the bombings taking place in Rotterdam and Utrecht to be considered safe. Frau Weir had outlined how the contact would meet them and that shelter would be made available for as long as possible, if not as long as needed. She supplied no other details, and more specifics were not exchanged. Time and circumstance had not allowed such luxury of information. Moreover, what choices or options did she otherwise share?
What Esther did have intact, what she maintained in spite of all that had taken place and all she would still endure, was a sense of entitlement. While she had gratitude for the help provided and consciousness of the risks these people accepted on her behalf and others, she never wavered from the belief this assistance was justified.
Why should I suffer for something I don’t believe in? was her refrain.
Esther’s drive never wavered. Not now nor since the moment born of impossible anguish that robbed her self and soul and ignited this pathway in search of—
—what?
If I’m honest with myself, she reflected, I don’t know what I’m in search of, what I’m seeking. I only know that it’s elsewhere. And in this place of elsewhere, there will be peace, sanctuary.
At the depth of her being, Esther knew the mystifying destination she sought would finally release this unremitting suffering that had informed her every thought and action since that ill-fated day—her wedding day—in Przeworsk.
My home … India … she knew not why but she knew …
I must figure out the ways to make this situation work for me for as long as it is compulsory to be here, she ruminated, chewing on the inside of her right cheek. I must never let down my guard, never become settled. This, above all else, is vital. I can’t trust any of them. Not even Nadine. I must maintain control, of my actions and my thoughts. I can’t let my mind drift, not to that bewildering encounter back in Köln, not to him, not anywhere. I cannot give in to the threats that surround me. These are other people’s issues. Not mine.
The dangers—those known and unknown and unthinkable. Already, so much that had taken place resided in the realm of the unimaginable.
To be in control, she needed to know the layout of the house. Since arriving, she had only ventured from her room to the dining area or the toilet and back again. Now alone, Esther explored the parlor with curiosity. A wood-framed sofa that could easily seat five, covered in timeworn silk damask, dominated the generous room. Twin chairs in matching fabric bookended it. There was a small rocker in one corner with an ornately carved, needlepointed footstool. Once-thick oriental rugs, now thinned and frayed by decades of feet treading upon them, covered most of the floor. An oversized glass-and-oak display cabinet, housing blue-and-white china and figurines, swallowed up one wall. Photographs of people young and old, certainly family members, hung in a random fashion on the walls. Indigo velvet drapes riddled with moth bites, held back by braided cords, framed the room’s three large windows. The scent of must, privilege, and years froze in the air. Faded opulence.
All surfaces were covered with lace doilies or runners, and every seat spilled over with embroidered pillows of various shapes and sizes. Esther was drawn to these objects. She fingered each piece thoughtfully, expertly assessing the quality, technique, and complexity of the work involved. It was as though she could channel the women who created these pieces and feel their fingers deftly manage the bobbi
ns and hooks to wind the thread into patterns and designs. One runner had lovely, well-executed turning stitches; a few of the doilies used more simple plaits. One piece had Van Dyke scallops and included an undulating line of picots on its head side.
The quality is not as good as Bubbe Royza’s work, Esther mused, nor the motifs as elaborate or unique. However, a few of these pieces are fairly special, she conceded.
At the thought of her bubbe, Esther took in a sudden breath and had to immediately press down on her chest, at the center of her breastbone, to maintain her equilibrium. This sharp ache, deep within, surprised her. As quickly as it appeared, the pang abated, and she pushed it aside.
Her heart … emotions … such possibility still breathes within …
These objects, the doilies and runners and delicate pillows, made from thread and silk, linen and yarn—in some measure rather like talismans of her own lineage and history—helped balance her.
Indisputably … for Esther it is thread … always thread.
As Esther leaned down to more closely examine the footstool’s needlepoint stitches, she heard steps behind her and turned, still crouching, just as Nadine entered the room.
“Hallo, Etta, Hallo!” Nadine sang. “Genießen Sie—are you enjoying the day? Outside, it is so hot! How is your shoulder? It is a pretty room, this, is it not? My, how do you say?—Urgroßvater—greatgrandfather—built this house. His many—eight, I believe—sisters made all the needlework.”
Nadine’s bouncy manner of speech, coupled with her imperfect school-learned German, contributed to Esther’s unease around her. Nadine was generous of spirit; still, Esther’s armor was at the ready.
“Ja, ja, es ist alles gut—all is good,” Esther replied as she unbent her body. “The stitches in my upper arm and shoulder can come out in three days, and then I can get back to work. The doctor was confident I would be fine.”
Nadine smiled. With head nodding, she exited the room as quickly as she had entered. She did not give Esther a chance to say anything else, which was in itself a relief. The less she had to participate in any type of dialogue, with anyone, the easier it would be. Most certainly, Nadine played a critical role in preserving Esther’s safety; fortunately, remaining wary and continually on alert was second nature to her.
Mindful not to stumble, careful not to trip over stories, experiences, moments, contacts.
Trust could not be found in her lexis … yet …
Over the coming weeks, Esther did learn how to manage these new circumstances for her own best interests. In addition to Nadine, herself, and Zami, three others resided in the sizable four-bedroom house, and it soon became evident not living alone came with its advantages. Not the least of which was Nadine’s daughter Alicja, called Ans.
A mature sixteen-year-old, Ans was industrious and took on many responsibilities for her mother around the house, although she was still in school. She was also sweet and maternal and straightaway became attached to Zami.
“I’ve wanted a little brother or sister all my life,” she told Esther when they first arrived. “It will be so much fun to have him in our home.”
Esther did not understand her words, but Ans’s mannerisms suggested excitement. This will be a good thing, she thought.
Whenever she could, when not in classes or doing homework or chores, Ans went in search of the little boy. Now nearly two years of age, Zami remained an uncommonly quiet child. He was undemanding of anyone or anything. It was evident he preferred to be with his mama but obliged when Ans came to spend time with him, read to him, play with him, feed him, or attend to whatever he might need. For Esther, to be disencumbered for short periods was a relief.
She was, however, unyielding in her demand that she would be the only one to bathe Zami or help him use the toilet.
“Er ist sehr schüchtern. He’s very shy,” Esther would explain.
“Odd child,” the other residents whispered to one another. “Something is not right with that little boy” was their collective belief. Among themselves, when they thought Esther was not looking—or listening, which was most of the time—they exchanged looks or raised eyebrows.
Ans ignored them. With laughter and games, she did her best to draw Zami out, encourage a smile, sometimes a quiet chortle. No matter how strange or indifferent to her actions he might be, she enjoyed spending time with him. It was the closest to a sibling she would ever have, and she doted on him. This young woman had patience and a boundless sense of joy, much like her mother. Ans’s personality was too cloying for Esther’s taste. Yet, as the girl’s German was negligible, Esther did not have to offer more than a nod of her head to convey yes when the request to play with Zami was extended. Without exception, Esther said yes.
Ah … not a surprise to me … as her preference was to be on her own … and alone whenever possible. This … of course … was true to her character … at least for now.
Esther never inquired about Ans’s father, assumed to be Nadine’s husband, or wondered what role he might play in their lives. An unspoken agreement seemed to exist among the residents—all women—that this individual was not to be mentioned.
In any case, it is not of my concern, Esther thought. The less I know is for the better.
The house’s other occupants held scarce interest for Esther. Sacha Smit, a slight, pretty woman in her early twenties, was a schoolteacher. While she taught four- and five-year-olds in the local kleuterschool, Sacha did not share the same affinity or aptitude for working with children as came so naturally to Ans. In fact, she never spoke of her position in terms that implied it was anything more than drudgery. She did, however, light up when the subject was her beau, Claes. He was her inexhaustible topic.
Sacha was deeply in love with this young man from her hometown of Hoogeveen. Barely three months prior, Claes had gone to Germany to enlist in the Nazi party and become a soldier. Motivated by the troops’ easy dominance over the Netherlands and his own family’s Prussian ancestral roots in that country, he held strong anti-Semitic beliefs. While family and friends had been shocked by his actions, Sacha held only admiration for what she saw as a man of profound convictions.
And unquestionably … of most importance … of greatest significance … this young woman was in love … immeasurable love …
Sacha did not know German, and thus communication between herself and Esther was limited to nods of greeting when they passed in the hall or hand gestures across the table at mealtimes. In short time, both became proficient at signaling for more juice, the bowl of vegetables, or when available, the platter of meat. Esther learned of Sacha’s personal tale through Nadine, who loved to chatter at every opportunity.
Although they did not speak the same language, Esther could easily tell Sacha talked incessantly about her man at their meals—or at any time there was someone to listen. Commonality of speech was not essential. Esther could wholly interpret the expression, the desire, and the flush that accompanies profound, impassioned emotion when one speaks of her beloved. This is a look transcending the need for words or expressions of any language. Esther knew its dominance intimately—and its tragedy.
The house’s final resident was Ida Van Ostrand, a woman of substantial height and girth who, while only in her middle forties, appeared years older in style and stance. Ida’s life journey had not been smooth, and as a consequence, she exuded an uncomfortable bitterness to rival Esther’s own. Ironically, by profession, Ida was a seamstress. Although she did have some skill, her abilities did not come close to Esther’s mastery or inventiveness.
Ida was the one other resident who spoke German. Like Nadine, she had a foundation of school-learned Hochdeutsch, a formal, mostly grammatically incorrect textbook ability to dialogue without ease of casual conversation. Esther was grateful to learn she was not as talkative as Nadine and mostly kept to herself.
However …
Ida was the one member of the household who expressed suspicion at Etta and Hannis’s—Esther and Zami’s—sudd
en appearance in Leiden and in their home.
“Etta is the friend of my dear friend Matilde, Mattie—you’ve heard me speak of her—from Germany—Köln,” Nadine told her. “Etta’s husband died at the Front just a few months ago, and she and Hannis had nowhere to go. You know I have that extra space in the attic. With everything going on, how could I turn her down?”
Ida harrumphed when she heard Nadine’s rationale for adding two more people to what she considered an already too crowded house.
“There’s a story here,” Ida muttered to herself. “The pieces don’t fit together. A few layers of truth are absent. What is Nadine not telling us? On quick impression, this woman is not the kind to cull favors from people. She’s guarded and keeps to herself. And that son of hers—something is not right here, not at all.”
The deep cuts self-inflicted in Wuppertal had limited the mobility of Esther’s left hand—her sewing hand—and the doctor Nadine made her visit within a day of arrival in Leiden insisted Esther stop all manual activities until the wounds healed. He was a kindhearted, responsible man who did not inquire about the circumstances of these cuts. His primary interest was that her shoulder and arm achieve complete recovery. Esther thought rest unnecessary and wasteful, but with Nadine’s near constant presence, she had to oblige.
The absence of work and busyness and earning money—most especially the latter—made Esther unsettled, more so than anything else she encountered. By the time her wounds healed and the stitches were removed, she was restless, anxious to commence tailoring. The inability to create a stitch was maddening. This was the first period in Esther’s life, since she was a young girl of five, when she did not sew or perform some other type of work to earn money.
And money without question … was most vital …
With mind and hands not consumed by assignments and deadlines and sewing challenges—or marketing and cooking and cleaning, since Nadine and her daughter oversaw those household duties—Esther spent hours on end, protracted futility, in the chair in her attic room. Simply waiting. Willing her wounds to heal. Faster. She struggled to control her thoughts, to keep her mind empty. Free of contemplation. But now and again thoughts would defy her, and memories would appear. Esther drifted among them. Her reflections glided toward family members, individually, then collectively. Her family in Przeworsk. The people with whom she had shared the first part of her life. She thought of Tova and Miriam—their smiles, laughs, and joys—the girls she birthed and put on that train at far too young an age. She did not think of Abraham, whom she never considered a relation.
Guesthouse for Ganesha Page 15