Ida never inquired about Esther’s sewing skills.
There are those … many … far too many … who live among you … whose intentions … ambitions … aspirations … are not of good … not of heart …
Those … whose aspirations are dark and destructive to others. It must be understood that … ultimately … they are only destructive to themselves.
In this way, September rolled into October, then November. With this dark, rimy month came deep winter. Nadine began scurrying around the house to dig into the backs of closets, on the highest shelves and behind furniture to pull out all sorts of Christmas decorations. Most were family treasures passed down for generations. She spent hours rummaging through these boxes and bags, deciding how to best adorn each room this year. She hummed holiday songs, and throughout each day, whenever she walked past Zami, Nadine would lean down to his height and announce, “Hannis, Sinterklaas kommt bald! Sinterklaas kommt bald! Saint Nicholas comes soon!”
Zami’s response was a stare. He did not comprehend what she was saying or react to her cheery spirit. Nadine would then kneel down again and say, “This holiday, you will like. It is wonderful, my favorite time of year. No matter what else is happening, this holiday is happiness.”
Then, smiling widely enough for the two of them, Nadine carried on with her decorating as though not a care existed—within this house or in the world beyond its boundaries.
Nadine decorated her house much earlier than the neighbors and kept the decorations up longer than others because, as she would say to anyone who asked, “It is just the way I like to do it. It is my home, after all.”
It was exactly as she lived all aspects of her life—her way. As much as she possibly could anyway.
Conscious of the events around her. Mindful of everything transpiring. Participating how she could. While holding fast to her spirit … and to her truth.
Nadine paid the neighbor’s teenage son two guilders to cut down a sizable tree in the nearby woods and help her put it up in the parlor, in the corner where the small rocker with the needlepointed footstool usually rested. Nadine and Ans decorated the tree with dainty glass baubles and tiny bells and stars.
“Would you like to help?” Ans asked Zami, who was lying on the floor nearby, his train held tightly in his left hand. He shook his head, but did take the star she offered him. He placed the train on the ground with the star on top of it, as though a passenger, and rolled them back and forth together.
“Look, look! Hannis likes it,” she said, clapping her hands in delight. “It’s hard to find anything else he’ll play with. It’s only the train. Always the train.”
Nadine wove red, green, and white satin ribbons throughout the tree and placed glittery pinecones around its base and on the mantle over the fireplace. From the last box, she unwrapped ten ornaments that were considerably larger, about fifteen centimeters in diameter, and mostly spherical. These were made of the same blue-and-white ceramic the display cabinet held.
“Ah,” she said, smiling warmly. “Here they are, my favorites. Aren’t they beautiful?” She placed the angel holding a wreath at the top of the tree.
“We won’t put the electric lights on the tree this year. We haven’t had an air raid recently, but I think it best not to take any chances. Everything else will be the same. As much as possible. Ans, please help me place these small pots of kerstersters, my adored poinsettias, throughout the house. In the foyer, dining room, kitchen, and each bedroom. Please don’t forget Etta’s attic. I know it’s cramped, but I’m sure Hannis, most especially, will enjoy these.”
Ach, thought Esther, walking past the parlor on her way to the kitchen to boil water for another cup of tea. I have no room for such nonsense. And no time! How I wish I did not have to tolerate such silliness. But it seems to be an important holiday with all types of Christians. Silly, silly rituals!
On the fifth of December, the eve of Saint Nicholas’s Feast Day, Nadine took Zami’s small shoes and Ans’s much larger ones and placed them by the front door, as tradition directed. In the morning, Zami found his brimming with candy, which brought a smile to his generally severe countenance. He looked up at his mama to see if it was permissible to try one.
“Ja, ja,” said Esther. “It is fine.” She then turned to Nadine and whispered, “Vielen Dank. Many thanks.”
I … naturally … was so very pleased to see these treats … to see him smile. But not one cookie …
There was not money for toys or other gifts that year, but the breakfast feast did include kerststol met roomboter. Smoked salmon and eel were also part of the table’s abundant offerings. Everyone relished their meal, and even Ida seemed to take pleasure in the special treats before her. At least for this one day, her attention was focused on her plate rather than on Esther.
But twenty days later, on First Christmas Day—after the house residents greeted each other in the early morning with “Vroljk Kerstfeest, Merry Christmas,” after they had returned from the festive church service, and after they had shared yet another feast—Ida turned to Esther to begin the drilling of history and background with renewed intensity. When they were all settled in the parlor to hear Ans sing carols, Ida asked, in her prying way, “Bitte, Etta, tell us about your—Ferien Traditionen—holiday traditions. How did you celebrate in your family?”
Esther responded coolly, “Our holidays were insignificant really. We never had money for gifts or fancy meals. We were very poor.”
Nadine interjected, “Please, dear Ans, please sing one of your beautiful songs.”
Ida would not give up, and in between each of Ans’s songs, she pushed and prodded Esther further. Finally she asked, “You must have sung songs. Jeder singt Liede—Everyone sings songs. What was your favorite?”
“Ja, ja, this is correct,” Esther said, thinking quickly, “we would sing,” and immediately began—
“O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,
Wie treu sind deine Blätter!”
When she started on the second stanza, everyone in the room joined in.
This was the one Christmas song all Germans learned, no matter their religion or race. Fortuitously, its popularity had traversed borders. Christmas—Weihnachten—was well-nigh born in Germany, and “O Tannenbaum” was considered the country’s national anthem every December. Gratefully, Ida did not seem aware of this fact and felt placated, somewhat, by Esther’s ability to respond to her inquisition.
“Du grünst nicht nur zur Sommerzeit,
Nein, auch im Winter wenn es schneit.
O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,
wie treu sind deine Blätter!”
………………..
O Fir-tree green! O Fir-tree green!
How loyal is thy leafage!
Not green alone in summertime,
But green in winter’s snow and rime!
O Fir-tree green! O Fir-tree green!
How loyal is thy leafage!
How loyal … indeed. And I like that the leaves and the color remain loyal … steadfast … devoted without end …
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The layers …
between us …
within us …
around us …
are merely seams.
Binding.
December slipped into January, then February, March, April, May. The calendar had reached 1941, and much of Europe and parts of the rest of the world were in the throes of deep, heavy combat. Screams of agony and torment were rising, reverberating through the ether, although not acknowledged by those who could help.
As is everything … it was felt in the layer of connective tissue that binds all humans and resonates at the core of understanding.
For Esther and all the residents of the insignificant, distant town of Leiden, deep in Holland, it was, for the most part, life as usual.
Ida did not ease up on her incessant badgering of Esther. This wretched woman remained unrelenting in her search for a tiny crevice in Etta’s narrative—her very being an insult.
There were no facts or rationale as to why she reacted this way, just a concentrated suspicion and loathing.
Esther’s work for Hendrik remained steady and secure, resulting in a substantial accumulation of money. Once more her gift with thread provided options and opportunities others in similar circumstance could not share. Payment was in cash, of course. Esther would only accept cash, which she hid in every nook, crack, and cranny of her attic space and sewed in the seams and hems of their clothes. For she never knew—as happened in Wuppertal—when a hasty departure would be required.
No, no, she thought often, I can never grow too comfortable or relaxed. Especially not with Ida around. What wasted energy she is!
Over these months Zami grew four centimeters taller. He expanded his vocabulary by a few more words in both German and Dutch but maintained his detached, hidden self. Present, but still separate from those around him.
Nadine and Ans were able to preserve their bright, lighthearted selves. This was understandable for Ans, who paid little attention to current events, of national or international significance. School, home, and Zami were her interests. But Nadine, without fail, attended her meetings—now thrice weekly—which provided in-depth reviews of the most recent atrocities happening around the globe. These updates were terrifying and devastating and made her feel increasingly helpless. She never shared what she learned with anyone, most especially not Esther.
How can I, how can we, possibly make a positive difference in the midst of such madness? Nadine thought. How can we help turn things around? There are so many, many afflicted people who need assistance. There is much that needs to be done, but we don’t seem to know how or what to do! Our incessant brainstorming sessions have become circular discussions without end or possibility.
Despite the strife churning within, she assumed a cheery disposition outwardly.
Her house was full … but her heart was not …
Lastly there was Sacha, whose primary activities were working five days a week at the kleuterschool and dreaming, thinking, talking about Claes, her beloved. Continually. He had now been gone nearly one full year—the days systematically crossed off in her datebook each night before she crawled into bed and pulled the duvet up under her chin. She used the pen with the purple ink he had given her on her most recent birthday. It was one of the few tangibles she had to cling to. The five letters that had made their way through the sporadic, unreliable post would be read over and over again. Sacha scrutinized each, searching for nuances or possible layers of meaning in the words he used or the structure of his sentences. Certain they would reveal new insights into his thoughts and feelings. While coating these pages with tears and tea stains, she imagined his muscular right hand taking pen to paper, writing his words, and then tenderly folding the page, kissing the envelope’s throat.
Sacha slept with these precious sheets, wrapped in Claes’s midnight blue cashmere scarf with the thin strip of gray around the edges, beneath her pillow each night. She bound them with a thick satin ribbon of lush crimson. The pages had become tattered and crumpled.
And swathed with love …
Sacha spoke of Claes at each meal. Whether anyone wished to hear or not, she shared whatever new information she might have found out, either through the scarce letter or from his parents, with whom she remained in regular contact. Or whatever she could imagine, fantasizing the things he might be doing or thinking or saying.
“Claes must be having dinner right about now, u denkt niet hebben—don’t you think? The time in Germany is about the same as here, I believe. I hope the food is decent. He has a big appetite.”
Or—
“Claes had a night off. I’m so glad that every now and again he gets a night off! He went to have a beer with his buddies in a local pub.”
And sometimes—
“Hij zei hij me een mist! He said he misses me a lot!” Sacha would shout gleefully.
Esther did not understand the sentences but all too fully grasped the emotion, sentiment, and heart behind each word. She did her best to ensure her facial expression did not belie her thoughts gibing Sacha’s pathetic yearning.
At another meal, Sacha shared with excitement: “I spoke to Claes’s parents this afternoon. He is doing well. He is in some small town in Poland, where they have arrested many vijanden van het volk—enemies of the people—you know, the Jews. I am very proud of him. His work is extremely critical.”
Nadine flinched. Grateful Esther did not speak Dutch.
Whenever the conversation drifted to direct information about the war, Nadine had her ire raised. She looked Sacha sharply in the eyes and demanded, “Einde! Stop! I will not have any further discussion of that kind in my house!”
Sacha bit her lip, eyes tearing up as though she had been slapped.
“But he is involved in such important work. The most important work,” she said. “We should all be proud. I don’t understand—” Her voice trailed off.
“Nee, zei ik! No, I said! If you wish to keep living here, you must respect my wishes. It is my house, after all, and my rules. Now, let us speak of what is more pleasant. I have an extra ticket to the Stadsgehoorzaal for Friday evening. The concert should be lovely. Who would like to join me?”
Turning to face Esther, she said in German, “Etta, möchten Sie—would you, this Friday evening, like to join me for the concert?”
“Nein danke,” she replied. “I have work to do.”
As in the past, Esther turned down such offers—any invitations—because she had work to do. Or, more aptly, work was her priority.
And money.
Ans agreed to attend the concert with her mother. She was the ever supportive, accommodating daughter.
On a particularly cold and blustery Tuesday, late in the afternoon two weeks later, the doorbell rang. All corners of the house and its occupants seemed to collectively jump, startled. Other than during the holidays—when neighbors came to pay a brief visit, extend greetings of “Vroljk Kerstfeest,” exchange well wishes for the coming year, and bring their grandmother’s or great aunt’s special marzipan or kerstkrans or the scrumptious little letterbankets in the shape of their children’s initials—no visitors came to the house. There was no time for socializing.
Nadine hurried to the front door. Peering through the eyehole, she saw a short, nervous-appearing young man. He was wearing a dark gray official suit, though it was indistinguishable in regard to its service. Nadine observed his left leg twitched slightly.
Oh dear, she thought, sliding the door open a crack. This cannot be good.
“Ja,” she said tersely. “Kan ik u helpen? Can I help you?”
Stiffly, formally, without emotion, he said, “I have a telegram for a Sacha Oudekirk. Is she here?”
Before Nadine could call her name, Sacha slowly emerged from where she was cowering, just inside the parlor.
“Dat ben ik. That’s me,” she said in a quivering voice, her body intuiting the telegram’s contents before her consciousness could possibly envision the words on the page.
Quickly signing her name in a script of illegible scrawl, Sacha ripped open the envelope. Immediately she let out a wail of heart-wrenching dimensions that rebounded against the house’s walls and returned to the entryway with force.
All of the residents came running, just in time to see Sacha fall to the ground screeching, “Claes, Claes! Hij is dood! Hij is dood! Mijn mooie Claes is dood! He is dead! My beautiful Claes is dead! He was killed! Claes is dead!”
The words convulsed out of her.
Nadine and Ans rushed to Sacha’s side and tried to comfort her, but Sacha brusquely pushed them aside and screamed, “Ga weg! Ga weg! Hij is weg! Go away! Go away! He’s gone! Hij is weg! He’s gone!”
Yet what Esther heard—at the nucleus of her being, at the center of all her reasons and rationales and motivations for every single action—was,
He’s gone! He’s gone! Tadeusz is gone! He’s packed his bags and he’s left! And Sarah, Sarah’s gone
too!
Every emotion Esther had thought buried at a depth far out of reach, every feeling pulverized, every hope and possibility long ago mutilated, came rising up from her cavernous core in one collective thrust. Nearly knocking her to the floor with Sacha, where she, too, could have shared in the writhing of agony, the pain of loss, the abandonment of truth and love. For this instant, before it just as quickly dissipated, Esther experienced what she had not dared herself to feel, what she had not allowed herself to feel, back then—nearly eighteen years ago now—at the moment of occurrence.
Esther murmured nearly imperceptibly, “Ach, Sacha, wenigstens, zumindest, zuallermindest wissen Sie—At least, if you have nothing else, at least you know he did not leave you of his own free will. This was not his decision. Not his choice.”
Sacha did not hear Esther and could not have understood her even if she had. But Ida, standing close by, took notice of what she said. Ida watched with curiosity Esther’s twitching face cloaked in a gray pallor. It was apparent she was struggling to hold back expression.
And, in her mind, Ida questioned, How peculiar. I was led to understand Etta’s husband was also killed in the war? What could she possibly be talking about? Perplexing indeed!
That night, the dream returned anew.
Darkness instantly descended all around her. But it was darkness unlike the night that comes with each rotation of the earth.
This darkness grew large and loud and encompassing.
This darkness brought near loss of sight and full loss of clarity.
This darkness disallowed delusion.
Sound, all sound, was heightened. Her thoughts within—elevated, intensely acute. No hiding here. No running.
This time, in the dream, Esther did not try to move, to find out where she was or what this was or why. No movement forward, no backward slide. She did not move but went deeper inside nonetheless. This cocoon’s complete embrace was welcome.
Esther was in the cavern of self and understood that it was this place that would feed her, only this place that would save her.
Guesthouse for Ganesha Page 17