How are you, Mama? Tate? Are you both well? Are you safe? And what of my sisters? My brothers? Gital and Chana and Eli, Itzik, Yetta, Moishe? Frayda, Rose, Chaim, and Jakob? My dearest Tonka? Where are you all? Are you still alive? Lifcha, of course, in the United States must be fine. But all the others? And what of Przeworsk? Does it still exist? And what of my little girls? What has become of them?
“Ach! Too many questions!” Esther said softly. “There are too many questions. Would I want to know the answers?”
Even now her conscious mind would not allow her to think of … to imagine … Tadeusz … his story … their story … why …
Nadine did not receive a newspaper, and although there was a radio in the parlor, it was continually tuned to classical music. No one dared change the station. The war was not a topic discussed among the residents around the dining table or anywhere in the house. Nadine would not hear of it. She told everyone who would listen that it was a subject too dispiriting to capture one’s attention.
“Mijn huis moet een toevluchtsoord zijn van de wreedheden die in de wereld plaatsvinden,” she repeated often. “My house must be a haven from the cruelties taking place in the world.”
Yet Nadine thought and knew otherwise. Her activities with the Resistance were, of necessity, covert. Ans did not know of her mother’s efforts. Nor did any of the house residents. All meetings Nadine participated in took place during the day when her comings and goings could be attributed to market shopping or tea with friends. Her evenings were spent at home in the parlor near the radio, listening to her treasured music.
Consequently, the events taking place outside of Leiden, let alone those occurring as far away as Poland, were not known. Przeworsk might as well have been on another planet.
Yet it is in my sphere … as I traverse all spheres … to see and to know … all that occurs. It is who I am … and when it is time … I will help Esther know … I will help reveal …
There were no updates on whether the Germans had advanced or if neighboring countries had been taken over by their force and will. Even Sacha was rarely able to glean snippets of information from her beloved.
And there was never any mention of the plight of the Jewish people.
Esther’s chief task during these weeks of healing and waiting, one that took up less than one hour, was to arrange her and Zami’s space in the way most functional for her needs—sleeping and sewing. As the attic was a mere nine square meters, there were not a lot of options. This process involved no more than the need to determine which piece of furniture to cram into what corner.
A narrow winding staircase with a frail wrought iron rail led into the attic, the lone room on the third level above the four bedrooms. The ceiling was low, with a skylight about the size of a porthole. During the day it provided a stream of light in what would otherwise be a dreary, claustrophobic space. Esther stood barely five feet tall, so her ability to move about was not hampered. No door separated the attic from the staircase, and as such, no lock and therefore no privacy. The other residents could wander up the stairs on a whim and on occasion did. Most often it was Ans, in search of Zami.
“Bitte! Rufen Sie—Call my name from the bottom of the stairs first, and do not come up the stairs without my invitation!” Esther would implore, barely able to conceal her annoyance.
“Het spijt me. Het spijt me zo. I’m so sorry. I forgot. Again,” Ans said. “I was only thinking of how excited I was to see Hannis after being at school all day.”
In this house, there was not one area Esther could relax in or call her own.
At night Esther and Zami shared the pallet Nadine had wedged into one corner of the room. While Esther decided where each piece would go, Nadine arranged the furniture. She wanted to make sure Esther didn’t put pressure on her shoulder or overextend her energies. And although the pallet was painfully hard, Nadine had been kind enough to provide them with extra blankets to lay between their bodies and the straw-filled mattress.
From the parlor, Ans brought up an upholstered chair, a small table, and a floor lamp. Esther had Ans place these pieces in the opposite corner to serve as her workspace. As needed, the pallet would be used for laying out patterns or tracing pieces of fabric.
“So small is this room, Etta,” Nadine said. “The parlor would be—Ah, what is the word?—a preference, yes? Do you not think? That room is large, and I could arrange a good-sized space in one corner for you. No one would disturb you.”
“Nein, danke, but I wouldn’t want to bother everyone else, most especially you. I know how you enjoy listening to your music there,” Esther said while thinking, of course I don’t want to be in that space. People walk through there all the time. No doubt, everyone, most especially Ida, would constantly look over my shoulder and comment on my work. This is not acceptable.
Zami used what little bit of floor space remained to play with his train. Or he would settle on the pallet and stare at the rough walls. Even with such an attentive, regular sitter as Ans, Zami remained the most inward of children, more content to be by himself and with himself than to participate in the outer world.
It fills me with joy that there is one around this young boy who truly cares.
Only when Esther’s wounds had fully healed and she had the doctor’s approval to start working did Nadine arrange for her to meet with the owner of a local textile mill. It was one of the two mills in Leiden that had a dress shop attached, and this was the more prestigious of the two. Ida worked for the other.
The owner’s wife was a former schoolmate of Nadine’s who agreed to provide the introduction as a favor in exchange for one of Nadine’s antique Delftware plates. It was the large, rectangular platter with the molded white border and delicate Chinese landscape etched onto the centerpiece she had long coveted. Esther did not learn of this agreement or notice that a void had appeared on the third shelf of the parlor’s oversized display cabinet. She never knew the elegantly crafted blue-and-white plate had been in Nadine’s family for nearly two hundred years nor gave any thought to its personal or monetary value.
Esther never thought to inquire how, without work samples or a portfolio of drawings or photographs to show, she was able to gain entry to Leiden’s most exclusive shop. Her inherent sense of entitlement continued to propel her forward—getting what she needed and ensuring she remained out of harm’s way.
It is … obviously … me … always … me. It is such fun to … shall I say … influence situations … to remove what is in the way … to get what is necessary. Yes … this is one of my duties … but more importantly … it is one of my joys …
The mill’s owner, Hendrik Schoonhoven, did not trust Nadine’s raves of talent and skill in reference to the woman now standing in his office. Nadine’s praise was, in fact, fabricated. She had never seen a stitch of Esther’s work, let alone evidence of her mastery, but she did have confidence in what she heard from Frau Weir. Regardless, entry to Dhr. Schoonhoven’s office for the morning meeting was made available exclusively due to his wife’s artful arm-twisting and that alone. He was unaware of the backdoor arrangement that had been dealt and the object exchanged in order for her to agree to attempt to make this meeting happen.
With Nadine as translator, for Dhr. Schoonhoven knew little German, Esther recited her qualifications: “I have been sewing for more than thirty years and, for much of that time, have also worked successfully with pelts. There is no tailoring challenge I have not met—be it fabric or fur—to a customer’s delighted approval. My work is precise down to the last stitch, my craftsmanship is superb, and my designs can range from simple to elaborate with everything in between. I know you and your clients will not be disappointed.”
Throughout the meeting, Dhr. Schoonhoven sat behind his outsized, ornately carved marble desk and moved piles of paper from one part of its surface to another. He tapped his left index finger against a cup. He cleared his throat a few times and scratched his right ear. He refused to meet Esther’s eyes while she
spoke and murmured “hmm” when she completed her speech. Abruptly, he rolled his chair away from the desk and walked out of the room without uttering a word. He returned ten minutes later with a bolt of sheer teal-green silk, a fabric known within the trade for its slick, watery texture, one of the most difficult with which to work.
“Your test is to design and construct a proper woman’s suit. Two pieces. Fitted. Something suitable for a professional office. Mevr. Vedder will be the model, and it must fit her impeccably. With aid of a magnifying glass, I will examine every inch and assess the quality of your work, the construction, your taste, perspective, and the like. My shop sells the very best and nothing else. I do not settle. On your way out, you may pick up whatever else you might need—materials for lining, buttons, matching thread. Anything. I want you back here on Monday morning, ten a.m. Prompt. No excuses!”
“Ich bin Deutsche. I am German,” said Esther, rather huffily. “Pünktlich. Punctual. Stipt!” recalling the correct Dutch word. “In all cases punctual! Time is never an issue. Four days is more than enough to complete your task. Dank u—Thank you!”
The next days unfolded with continuous drawing, measuring, cutting, and stitching, all by hand, as Esther no longer had access to a sewing machine. She demanded everyone stay out of her way, with only Nadine allowed to come up to the attic room for fittings. Esther took brief breaks during these days, to eat and to bathe Zami. And, of course, to take him to the toilet when she knew it necessary. Regardless of what else occurred around her, maintaining their identity was fundamental. Ans took care of his other needs.
A few times over these days, Ida’s curiosity got the better of her, and she would call up from the base of the stairwell, “Etta, in any way can I be of assistance to you? Are there needs you might have?”
“Nein, Nein.” Esther responded in frustration. “Alles geht gut. Everything is going fine. I need to be left alone so I can concentrate.”
Nothing proved too much of a distraction. The finished suit was unadorned, yet elegant—each stitch perfect in size and formation, the lining smooth with hems and seams hidden, the skirt double pleated and flawless.
After Nadine modeled the ensemble, Dhr. Schoonhoven closely looked over every stitch with a magnifying glass, as he had assured her he would. Esther could tell he was surprised but impressed. What’s more, she knew he was already visualizing the money he would make from her work.
“What do you think, Dhr. Schoonhoven? Does it meet with your satisfaction?” Nadine inquired on Esther’s behalf.
Looking directly at Esther, he said, “Alstublief—Please, Etta, call me Hendrik.”
From that moment onward, it was tacitly understood work was secured for Esther.
No probing questions of how or where or when she had acquired her masterful skills. No inquiries into Esther’s background or history or circumstances. Such quality and talent were rarely seen in small-town Leiden, yet women with strong desires and tastes and resources did reside here.
Nothing else mattered—when there was money to be made.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Normalcy …
or …
at the very least …
its illusion.
Once more a routine became established, generating constancy and the most base level of security in Esther’s life. Structure and focus were her two best allies.
Perhaps the only allies she would accept … could accept … for now.
Still—she was never truly settled. Esther clung to distrust as though it were an extra appendage trying to work in partnership with the rest of her body. In actual fact, this was the one in charge.
Monday through Saturday, work commenced just before the sun rose and continued long after it rested. There was drawing and cutting, marking and stitching, on silks and linens and cottons, wool and denim, corduroy and gabardine. Just one day after the meeting with Hendrik, a tall, burly man from his company delivered a sewing machine and table so Esther could produce her work more swiftly. Plainly, Hendrik’s interest was the earning power of his new employee.
“Ongelofelijk—Incredible!” Ida exclaimed with widened eyes, gawking at the man as he carried the coveted machine up the stairs. She had only threads and needles at her disposal with which to work. “Wie doet zoiets? Who does such a thing? Etta is not that good!” Jealousy permeated Ida’s cells and pores and slowly escalated.
Ida disliked Esther from their first meeting but did not share her feelings. From this day forward, however, she would not stop grousing about Esther to anyone, at any opportunity, with no provocation necessary.
Ida, her actions, her words, her very being, did not faze Esther one whit. Mostly, she ignored her. The other house residents also did their best to stay out of Ida’s way. Never much of a pleasure to be around, Ida’s escalating spitefulness discouraged anyone from wanting to be near her. Sweet-tempered Ans, with never a rude word or thought for anyone, steered clear of this woman’s path. While Esther passed her with barely an acknowledgment, everyone else would turn a corner or duck into a room if they saw her headed their way.
The sewing table and slender upright chair took up the attic’s remaining floor space. Esther did not mind climbing over objects, no matter how many times it was necessary during the course of a single day. It was more ideal than working downstairs where she could come upon Ida or the others. As she had always done, Esther kept to herself to the fullest extent possible. When needed, she spoke, engaging in no more sentences than were required, no matter what the topic or with whom. But she did what was expected of her. She punctually paid the monthly sum to cover her and Zami’s room and board and kept her section of the house neat. A two-year-old and a burgeoning business did not impact these responsibilities. With Zami, she joined in at mealtimes, as there were no other options. Otherwise she was on her own. This was the way she preferred it—to keep to herself and mind only her business.
On her own … by herself … alone … she will prevail … that was her mantra.
In spite of this, Ida was not one to be easily shunned. It was as though she were on a mission and took every possible occasion to uncover something that could lead to Esther’s undoing.
In addition to meals, each Sunday morning the house’s residents took the streetcar to Pieterskerk, the exquisitely ornate late-Gothic church across the way from the university library. A Protestant church. There was not one house of worship for Catholics in all of Leiden. At first, Esther was taken aback by this newest twist not accounted for in her planning or Frau Göttlieb’s meticulous preparations. But Esther’s stoicism, coupled with instinctive acting ability, once more carried her forth.
“I was raised a Catholic,” Esther informed the house residents that first morning on their way to church. “I don’t know anything about being a Protestant or the differences with my religion, but a regular Sunday service is of utmost importance. Nothing is more essential for Zami’s good upbringing.”
A Catholic, Ida thought. I should not be surprised. Another black mark against this dreadful woman.
Nadine preferred the eight o’clock service and would rush everyone through breakfast in order to arrive promptly. Grander than Wuppertal’s St. Laurentius, Pieterskerk’s single complication was its Protestant rituals. In all other ways, Esther welcomed visiting its serene setting.
This weekly destination supplanted the Friday evening Sabbath Esther could no longer prepare. And sadly, these visits were neither relaxing nor renewing, as she had to remain on guard and attentive to every movement and action, vigilant not to misstep. The service was in Dutch, a language Esther had only begun to study. It took all her concentration to try to understand what was said and to learn the necessary responses and actions at the appropriate sections. Nadine sat next to her to assist.
Always, Ida made sure she sat in the same pew, too close for comfort. She spent her time observing Esther’s actions instead of focusing on the morning’s sermon.
“Etta, So eine hübsche kleine Bibe
l. Such a pretty little Bible. How long have you had it? Where did you get it? Was it from your family?” she whispered.
“It was my grandmother’s. She gave it to me when I was a child. Now, please, be quiet!”
Nadine, Ans, and Sacha would whisper “Sussen—Shush” in unison or roll their eyes knowingly at one another in silent frustration and solidarity with Esther.
Unmindful of all around her, or merely disrespectful, Ida would persist: “Oh, I see. Did you get it for your Communion?” Smirking when she asked this.
“Ja, ja,” Esther replied, “Natürlich. Now, again I say, be quiet.”
Ida settled back in her seat but continued to closely study Esther from the corner of her eye.
This is how Sunday’s church service unfolded, week upon week. Ida would invariably have probing questions for Esther—about the Holy Mother necklace she wore, about how long she had studied catechism, about where she grew up, about her family, about how her husband had died. Ida asked the same question more than once a few weeks apart, as though she was testing, making sure the facts remained straight, while trying to trip Esther, find a slip-up, see if she would stumble.
Guesthouse for Ganesha Page 16