Guesthouse for Ganesha

by Judith Teitelman

  And during that period, the circumstances in the world outside Leiden had intensified. The impact of the war was now manifest all along the journey. Security had tightened considerably.

  “I have been in Holland, in Leiden, with my younger sister who has been ill. I am now going to Paris to be with my older sister. We will be living with her.”

  The train jolted; her heart jumped. Esther glanced quickly around the car at the other passengers. No one seemed to take much notice of her or what she was saying. Most were engaged in a book or newspaper. An older man seated across from her, gray balding head leaning against the window, snored loudly.

  It took concentration to maintain her balance as the train lurched forward. Gradually. Badly in need of repair, the coarse tracks made the train weave slightly, the ride bumpy, and progress sluggish.

  The papers in the conductor’s and agent’s hands—her acquired identity papers and travel documents—seemed to scream for verity when they were passed between the two men looking for fakes and forgeries. Yes, Esther thought, forgeries they are. But they are the finest money can buy.

  “Why are you traveling at this time?”

  “Mein Mann—My husband—was killed at the Front last fall, and Hannis and I left Stuttgart to be with my family,” Esther responded squarely.

  At the mention of her husband’s death, the woman on the adjoining seat glanced up with a sympathetic eye.

  Throughout this volley of questions, Zami remained his usual expressionless self. He clutched his little train tightly with both hands. Though just three, he knew intrinsically silence was the only option.

  “All seems to be in order,” the conductor said, handing back her documents.

  “Danke schön,” she said, and sat back down. The other passengers’ papers were scrutinized and approved; the conductor and agent moved on to the next car.

  For Esther there could be no sigh of relief. There were four others in the car, and she could not react in any manner that could possibly draw attention. No chance to release a whit of tension with a deep breath or a stretching of arms. She continued to sit stiffly and quietly, pretending to watch the countryside slip by.

  She had spent a large amount of her money to purchase these train tickets. Esther was thankful Nadine’s associates had the foresight to insist she purchase first-class tickets instead of the much less expensive seats. Esther was confident the inevitable interrogations were not as thorough in this privileged compartment.

  Perhaps they, too, have that wise voice guiding them, she mused.

  Of course.

  It was doubtful that others in hiding had any substantial resources to draw upon or clothes to pass. Esther understood her circumstances were unique. Nevertheless, the prospect of discovery never left her.

  However, what had seemed to leave her was—Esther.

  She had long forgotten—before this irrational war and hiding and running while standing still—her very self, her wants, her desires, her essence. Who she was at her core. So much of the last nearly two years had been spent fabricating a new reality, a new name, a new identity, and stories of a life she had never lived. Esther had become lost in the process. Like an ingredient in a cake mix folded into the batter where only the slightest hint of its presence remains.

  It wasn’t until this moment, as the train crawled toward a new locale over yet another division in this interminable road, that Esther realized how worn this subterfuge of nearly two years had made her. Along with the toll taken by the preceding sixteen years. She may have retained her birth name in those earlier years, but that accounted for a fragment of who Esther had come into this world to be.

  Of all that had taken place, all she had to endure, losing herself was most painful.

  Esther had become mechanical in action and thought. Yes, she had remained functional, always operating at her best, even with the rules and roles of life changing so dramatically. Where once happiness and love, family and friends had been what mattered, the purpose for living had become living. The goal had become survival and only survival.

  After all this time, Esther was losing the capacity to know what she was surviving for.

  And, most sorrowfully, who was it that would, in fact, survive?

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Memory … percolates unceasingly …

  scarcely below the surface …

  of one’s thoughts …

  one’s skin

  … one’s soul.

  Even cement cannot obscure … what breathes in memory.

  Clearly … existence is mystifying … of this I can agree.

  It is multilayered and multifaceted … intricate … complex … on the surface … that is …

  Only … on the surface.

  For within … inside … each of you … at your center … everything is understood … all is known.

  Remember this at the core of your truth.

  Even if you are now so blocked … so fixed … so rooted … in the here … in only what is here … that you can no longer feel veracity …

  Know with the depth of your being … please know …

  Memory cannot be shackled … or detained.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Space …

  offering …

  a place …

  a refuge …

  to plan …

  to prepare …

  and then …

  to pause.

  Paris became about waiting—and delays, and postponements, and plans arranged and rearranged and then suspended. And frustration. It became about patience. Something Esther carried in abundance when constructing a garment, tailoring a jacket, or repairing a fur collar, when the need was to create a stitch that mirrors the one before and then disappears completely. But this situation—after all that had already occurred—did test her.

  The original intent, plotted out with great care and detail by Nadine’s group, was to spend no more than two weeks in Paris before leaving for the trek across the Alps. It was already late October, and the weather would surely prove to be a challenge in their crossing. As the season advanced, it was certain to become more complicated and dangerous.

  Alas … so regrettably … Paris as lovely as it is and always has been … Paris with so very many sweets … was not the place … not at this time … in which to linger.

  To stay until the spring and more amenable weather was not a viable option. There was heightened tension in the city. The month before, more than two hundred thousand citizens attended “Le Juif et la France,” a maliciously anti-Semitic exhibition organized by French collaborationists at the Palais Berlitz. Demonstrations and rioting followed. Earlier in October, seven synagogues had been bombed. Paris was on high alert. Gendarmes were ubiquitous. The Nazis’ response to French Resistance activities was to arrest 750 Jews and deport them.

  To where … once more … never explained …

  Even though Esther easily passed for one considered acceptable and held exceptionally rendered fictitious documents, she did not speak the language. And the French, Parisians in particular, were notorious elitists, intolerant of others. Staying in one place for an extended period could too easily make her a target. No matter how careful her movements. Foreigners were looked at as suspect, and Germans were not considered much better than Jews. So her flawless language skills—which she had worked tirelessly to perfect—became a liability.

  It was not a secure situation in any regard. Not speaking French placed Esther in a position where finding work would be impossible. Her resources, while substantial, were not inexhaustible. Her one bona fide security, during these years, had been work.

  The arranged contacts—Marc-Philippe Merle and his wife, Yvette—were barely in their twenties, if not late teens. To Esther, mere babies. She was astonished they would take on such dangerous work as safeguarding one considered a fugitive. But what these two appeared to lack in maturity and sophistication, they made up for in keenness and savvy. They were resolute in helping E
sther and Zami safely cross into Switzerland. They were not, however, connected in ways that might make it manageable for her to remain in Paris for a prolonged time, if that became necessary.

  On the Saturday Esther arrived, they settled her and Zami in a miniscule sixth-floor apartment that Yvette’s family owned, but never occupied, in the fifth arrondissement on Rue Clovis not far from Rue Saint-Jacques. It was formerly a maid’s quarter, part of a large mansion converted into apartments perhaps a dozen years earlier. One usual step in any direction would take her from the bed to the gas burner to the sink and back again. Two folding chairs and a card table leaned against the wall. The one toilet and shower shared by the floor’s four apartments were at the far end of the hall.

  Both Marc-Philippe and Yvette spoke impeccable German, for which Esther was appreciative. While Nadine’s language skills had been passable, it could be a strain to decipher her sentences. And Ida’s German—well, fortunately, Esther no longer had to consider Ida.

  Their instructions were brief. Sangfroid and stamina were essential.

  “Please be assured our most capable colleagues are working on revising the route and timing so your journey will take place without incident and the outcome will be attained. Almost certainly notification for departure will be immediate. We will keep you apprised of our efforts,” Yvette said.

  Forward motion … as quickly as possible would be essential … would ensure success … in the end … in the end …

  Marc-Philippe offered, “Here is a map—eine Karte der Stadt—of the city. It is best if you do not travel too far.”

  “The beautiful Luxembourg Gardens are only a few blocks away, an easy walk,” Yvette suggested.

  “See, it is just here,” Marc-Philippe said, pointing to the identifying mark on the map.

  “Directly across Boulevard Saint-Michel.”

  “Er ist groß und schön—It is large and lovely—even when the weather is not the best. I’m certain your son will enjoy spending time there. You too, of course. There is a small café in the middle of the garden where it would be safe for you to sit and get a coffee,” Yvette said. “And perhaps a cookie for your son.”

  I … most especially … was interested in that particular suggestion.

  Marc-Philippe continued, “It would be best if you speak as little as possible, and then only as truly essential. You do not want to draw attention to yourself. Germans are not in favor here. Truthfully, that’s an understatement. We must avoid any unnecessary incidents. Any incidents at all, of course.

  “Und Ihr Sohn—and your son—whom you call Hannis, must never say a word in public.”

  “That will not be a problem,” Esther responded. “He does not speak much.”

  “I will teach you a few useful words and phrases in French. Please write these down and practice. But always, first point to whatever you need. Besser, Sie benehmen sich weniger intelligent—Better you act less intelligent—than show you are German.”

  Marc-Philippe introduced the French words for bread, cheese, meat, and coffee—the basics of sustenance in this country. Fruit was not easily attainable these days, but Esther learned pomme and poire, for apple and pear, in the event she found any available.

  Yvette interjected with “Et lait. Milch—Milk—for your son, of course. This is a necessary word to know.”

  Marc-Philippe finished with, “Importantly, if you encounter any of your neighbors, all elderly women, you must nod and say ‘Bonjour, Madame.’

  “That is all that is necessary, but it is necessary.”

  And please … please do not forget la biscotte … the cookie …

  Although told otherwise, after the first week, Esther spent the better part of most everyday walking the streets of Paris with Zami.

  Each morning she awoke before the sun rose. There was no motivation to do so—no work to accomplish, no responsibilities to attend to. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, until light entered the room. This became a period unlike any Esther had experienced. Other than bathing and preparing a few meals, she had no distractions. None inwardly—

  Not any she would acknowledge …

  —or outwardly, for the space was bleak. Esther quickly become too familiar with the room’s patches of peeling beige paint, counting their number combined from the four walls—forty-one—and areas of exposed plaster—seventeen. The room was stifling, and when she tried to open the one small window, she found it nailed shut—with five nails.

  She dressed and then woke up Zami. After helping him put on his pants, sweater, and socks and making a breakfast of toast and tea, she walked down the hall to the toilet. Relieved to move her feet more than the one step in any direction the room allowed. It was fourteen steps to the end of the hall. Fourteen steps back. She straightened the cover on the bed and sat down on it. Then she got up and sat in the chair opposite Zami, who had toast in one hand and his train in the other. She chewed on her inside right cheek until it was raw.

  Scarcely more than one hour had been consumed.

  What a waste, she thought. What a dreadful, ridiculous, unbearable waste this is. What is there to do?

  “Enough!” she said out loud. “We are going outside. No matter what they say. I refuse to suffocate!”

  Esther put on their coats, scarves, gloves, and boots, and out they ventured.

  She found, when walking the streets of this neighborhood, no one took notice of a nondescript, neatly dressed woman in her middle thirties holding the hand of a small, unremarkable child. It appeared most people were heading to or from their jobs or school or shopping or errands, engaged with the thoughts in their heads and the lives they were leading. The surrounding world passed as an impressionistic blur of colors, sounds, and smells.

  Even the gendarmes, whose presence was prominent and whose charge it was to ferret out those deemed undesirable, offered Esther and Zami little more than a passing glance. Disconcerting to others, perhaps, but not to Esther, who maintained her finely honed confidence of self-protection. She had discovered these past few years that acute observational skills were shared by few. No matter what was taking place in the broader world, daily life generally went on uninterrupted. Until such events occurred on one’s own street.

  Most days Esther and Zami walked the same series of blocks, in this one regard heeding Marc-Philippe’s caution not to travel too far from the apartment. She never explored past Rue Guynemer, on the eastern edge of the Luxembourg Gardens, or Rue de Vaugirard on the north. She became all too familiar with the façades of the various shops selling flowers, handmade paper, clothes, pastries, chocolates, shoes, and books, as well as the many cafés along Boulevard Saint-Michel. Every twist and turn and tree of the Luxembourg Gardens became known. She never strayed from the demarcated paths, never walked on the grass, for that would elicit shouts from the security officers. She never sat at the recommended café for a coffee. It would take up time and be more manageable than staying in their room, but she knew to sit in such a setting for any extended period could bring forth internal contemplation.

  Without exception, Esther made sure to stride with confidence, head held high, in no way appearing to wander without purpose or destination.

  What Marc-Philippe said about the Parisians was true. They were rude, abrasive, and without patience for anyone who had no knowledge of their precious language. And they were not kind to one another when language was not an issue. Esther observed this fact on her first walk, watching the exchanges of persons she passed. She concluded it easiest to adopt the role of a mute.

  At the corner market, one block down from the apartment, where she shopped daily, Esther pointed to the vegetables and other needed items. She pretended to understand when asked questions about quantity, nodding or shaking her head as she intuited what was appropriate. This technique worked reasonably well, even if her purchases were overcharged and she was not assured of getting what she wanted.

  Marc-Philippe and Yvette appeared at the apartment every few days, typically a
t 7:15 p.m., to provide updates, if any were available, on the departure plan’s development. Skirmishes were taking place along the route used to traverse the Alps, and there were numerous new challenges in determining secure alternatives.

  These two did their best to squelch Esther’s possible frustrations by saying again and again, “We are confident it won’t be much longer. Bitte haben Sie Geduld. Please, please be patient.”

  Both were distressed by Esther’s recounting of her long tours around the neighborhood.

  “This is not a good thing to do,” said Marc-Philippe. “It is critical that you stay safe, and you are safest inside this apartment.”

  “It is essential you understand our security is also at issue,” said Yvette. “As well as everyone who is helping you and Zami. There are numerous people involved.”

  “Ja, ja,” Esther said, “I know what you are saying, of course. But you, too, must understand I am careful during my walks. There will not be a problem. It is essential we get some fresh air. This room can be unbearable. The days and nights have become never-ending. There is nothing to do here.”

  Activities are needed … to distract the brain … prevaricate thoughts … and memory … and truth …

  “Can we bring you—Dinge zu lesen—things to read? Books? Oder Zeitschriften? Or magazines? Papier zum Schreiben? Paper for writing?” Marc-Philippe queried.

  At each possibility, Esther shook her head.

  Then, Yvette uttered the one word that held potency and resonance: “Nähfaden? Thread?”

  Ah … the thread … sutra … as expressed in our Upanishads … is said … in fact … to link “this world to the other world and to all beings” … so essential … vital … thread …

  “Möchten Sie—Would you like me to bring you a variety of needles, thread, and fabric? Perhaps to create an embroidery?”