Guesthouse for Ganesha

by Judith Teitelman

  At this, of course, Esther nodded vigorously. To create something—anything—with thread and needle would make this wasteful period endurable.

  After one week turned into two and then one month, Esther began to attend daily Mass at Saint-Étienne-du-Mont. This striking Gothic church was on the Montagne Sainte-Geneviève, around the corner from the apartment. Mass was offered three times each morning starting at six o’clock and twice each afternoon commencing at four o’clock. On occasion she arrived for the morning Mass at eight o’clock but most often attended in the afternoon. This was a more ideal way to interrupt the day’s tedium. Though Mass was monotonous in its own way, Esther found it comforting to once again attend Catholic services.

  This feels like coming home, Esther thought. Though strange to call it home. A shelter of calm would be more correct. But this setting has become familiar for me. Likely for Zami too. Perhaps that’s what home, any home, affords, after all—ease and comfort.

  Her time spent in Leiden attending a Protestant church had never provided a soothing environment. Ida’s persistent interrogating aside, not knowing the service’s structure remained disquieting. Even as she watched Nadine and followed her actions closely. It had little relationship to the Catholic service, where Frau Göttlieb’s training had served her well. During a Latin Mass, Esther knew when to stand, to sit, to stand again; when to kneel; when and what to sing; and when once more to sit. The format never varied, neither in Wuppertal nor here. There was an assurance in its specific unfolding.

  Saint-Étienne-du-Mont was an especially beautiful church with much to look at. Its most striking feature was the intricately carved, wall-like screen separating the area where the monks sat from the rest of the church. The double-stair arch that extended upward to the ceiling was a work of magnificence and elegance. Esther committed its elaborate carvings to memory, sections at a time, and used this visual as the image on the embroidery she was creating with the multicolored thread and fabric Yvette provided.

  No moment to be wasted … no time to be squandered … everything must have purpose whether there was a real purpose or not … whether there really was … far too much time …

  Getting through these twenty-four-hour periods of the sun rising and then the moon rising, without intention or direction, reason or rationale, tested Esther’s mettle like nothing else had thus far. This part of the journey became tormenting to a woman not interested in anything other than activity and forward motion.

  Will this not end? Are there no other options? Perhaps being arrested is better than this? Standing, sitting, standing, and then sitting once more. Esther’s thoughts raced in directions she could not control. I could lose my mind—I may go mad—if I can’t get out of here, if I don’t move on soon.

  She felt fissures forming on her hardened outer shell, allowing reminiscences of sensations to break through from her depths.

  But … these small cracks … and fractures … and splinters … avail possibilities … and promise …

  One afternoon, out of escalating boredom, Esther ignored Yvette and Marc-Philippe’s admonishments. She put aside her extraneous embroidery project, dressed Zami in his warmest winter clothing, and headed out of the apartment in a new direction.

  Today, she determined, there will be no imposed restrictions on the distance we go. We will walk as long as Zami’s little legs hold out. If necessary, I’ll carry him. Fortunately, he’s still small and reasonably light.

  For something different, Esther turned right on Boulevard Saint-Michel, heading away from the Luxembourg Gardens and all of Paris she had come to know. Esther brought the map along but kept it concealed at the bottom of a pocket. She did not want to draw attention that might single them out as tourists, visitors, or worse. She took careful note of every major street crossing and easily identifiable landmarks. Her mind’s eye marked the route for the return. Esther took care not to make the walk confusing. For the most part, she followed what seemed to be major boulevards and crossings.

  Less than one kilometer away, they came upon the River Seine, her first sighting of such a grand body of water since the Rhein.

  “Look how beautiful this is,” she said softly to Zami, not able to contain herself.

  They stood for a few minutes before crossing over the bridge to look out at the river’s splendor and expanse. Esther noticed there were many who also stopped. This can’t be out of the ordinary, she thought, for the view is breathtaking. Even for those who see it daily.

  This river … any river … draws one in … embraces … enfolds … with the universal potentiality of life …

  In my home it is the Ganga … the Ganges … that celestial stream flowing from Shiva’s tresses …

  Just across this river stood one of the most extraordinary and arresting buildings Esther had ever seen. Taking up more than one full city block, this structure—

  Is it a church? she wondered.

  —seemed to hold court over the river and the little island where it was situated. Esther wanted to leisurely review its façade, with the rose-cut window bookended by two regal towers, but knew they should not linger.

  Perhaps another day I will be able to visit, she thought.

  Esther and Zami continued down Rue de Rivoli, in awe of its expansiveness. Zami, who generally focused attention on his feet and the ground, seemed to be entranced. Esther had never seen anything like it. Rue de Rivoli was a miles-long and wide commercial street filled with high-end shops butted up against large buildings sharing nearly identical façades.

  No doubt this is the city’s major business section, Esther mused.

  Continuing along the route, a large park came into view on her left. Zami pulled hard on her hand, expressing his desire to investigate, but Esther ignored him and ventured on. She’d had more than her fill of parks, particularly those with grass that you could not walk or play on. These Parisian rules made no sense to her.

  After walking for two hours, nearly six kilometers from the apartment to an area where the street became wider still, Esther saw the edges of a crowd that had gathered. As she walked farther, the mass of people grew enormous, and a monumental arch, centered in the middle of the street, came into view. It was hard to discern what was taking place. There were countless people standing around.

  Ach so! she thought, it’s a parade. Like everyone around them, she and Zami stopped to watch it go by.

  A military parade. Not unlike the one in Köln that had passed directly in front of Abraham’s shop and their apartment. And they were singing the same song:

  “Die Fahne hoch! Die Reihen fest geschlossen!

  ………………..

  Fly high the flag! The ranks be tightly closed now!

  Die Straße frei den braunen Batallionen.

  Die Straße frei dem Sturmabteilungsmann!

  Es schau’n aufs Hakenkreuz voll Hoffnung schon Millionen.

  Der Tag für Freiheit und für Brot bricht an!

  ………………..

  The streets be cleared now for the brown battalions,

  the streets clear for the storm division man!

  And towards the swastika with hope are looking millions.

  The day for freedom and bread, it dawns!

  Only this procession comprised close to a kilometer in length. In addition to the multitude of layers of men goose-stepping in unison, there were tanks—six rows of them with three across—along with soldiers on horseback, soldiers riding in cars with small cannons, and soldiers on scooters. All carrying guns. The crowd, at least eight people deep, stood at attention watching, many with unrestrained smiles on their faces. Shouting in support. Waving enthusiastically.

  An older gentleman standing next to them noticed that Zami could see no more than the backs of people’s coats. To Esther’s shock, and without asking for permission, he swooped the little boy up and onto his shoulders. The man then turned and smiled at Esther, saying something she could not understand. Recognizing Zami was not at risk, she simply
nodded her head as though in appreciation.

  Zami did not smile or wave or cheer as did the children around them. As did every adult watching the festivities. As had Miriam when she had seen the similar sight in Köln.

  But he was bounced up and down as the man joyously shouted, “Magnifique! Magnifique! À bas les Juifs! Magnificent! Down with the Jews!”

  The walk back to the apartment was routine. It was five thirty, and the streets overflowed with people leaving work or school and heading home. Or perhaps to a local café or restaurant for a meal. This outing had taken them nearly six kilometers in each direction. Esther had to carry Zami the last few blocks; however, she was pleased he had walked most of the way on his own.

  This augurs well for all that is to come … soon …

  Esther warmed up a dinner of soup and bread, which they ate quickly. She then put Zami to bed. He was exhausted.

  Yvette and Marc-Philippe arrived forty-five minutes later.

  “Oh dear,” Yvette whispered. “I see Zami has gone to sleep early today. We will not stay long. Unfortunately, there is no news to report at the moment.”

  “But everyone continues to work hard to resolve this situation,” Marc-Philippe said in a low voice. “We will keep you updated and visit again in a few days. Be well.”

  Esther did not provide an account on any aspect of their adventure, most especially the parade. When they left, she returned to her embroidery to pass the time before sleep took command. To pass the time.

  Split stitches. Line stitches. Chain stitches. Picot stitches. Herringbone, stem, and flat stitches. Bokhara couching. Knotting. Fishbone. Point de Russe. Double Leviathan. Mountmellick.

  Yvette had supplied her with embroidery floss in an assortment of colors and widths. Far more material than Esther hoped she would be there to use.

  But use she did, needing something, anything, to make the minutes and then the hours go by. To distract herself—and the thoughts and memories which could—would—permit feelings and emotions to emerge.

  As thus, days and weeks—and more weeks—elapsed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Natheless …

  with vacant time …

  comes space

  for …

  a pause …

  an opening.

  An ostiole …

  delivering knowledge and insight …

  that could only be revealed …

  through stillness.

  When the facility to suppress dissipates.

  Then …

  and only then …

  one truly listens …

  and learns …

  what one needs to know.

  The efforts and exercises undertaken not to think or contemplate or wonder were no match for the quiet and the not doing and the no responsibilities and the mindless, senseless walking and embroidery and waiting. They only served to exacerbate the absence in Esther’s head. Decades had passed since anything other than a fleeting sentiment had perforated the dense, defensive strata shielding her thoughts and heart. Now, however, the fissures and the cracks and the fractures and the splinters developing on these finely honed layers of isolation and indifference began, by degrees, to expand—and deepen.

  During daytime hours, her fierce will monitored any and all thoughts that endeavored to filter through. But when the outside was immersed in darkness and the hour was most still, after week upon week had passed, this control abated.

  Then, and only then, did the visitations begin—

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Nothing …

  and …

  no one …

  is ever lost …

  or …

  can be lost.

  He is not gone … you know … Of this you must be secure. None of them are gone … not really.

  He is everywhere and nowhere at all times … In the same way that no one is every truly here … or only here … here on this plane.

  For as you know … know in your truth … there are many planes … many spheres … many realities … that exist concurrently … all at once … in chorus.

  And thus … in that same way … with that awareness you can know … you do know … that he … they … are never truly gone.

  This you must acknowledge.

  For on occasion … and you know this to be true … this has happened to you … every now and again …

  You see flashes of light … color … an outline … perhaps a figure. Most often this is out of the corner of one eye or when your head moves quickly and you think … you believe … you are tired … simply tired … that your eyes are strained … too much stress … too much tension …

  You believe your vision deceives you.

  Or you hear something … maybe a floorboard creak at a side of the room where no one stands.

  Or you feel something … a brush … a graze … on your cheek when there is no wind.

  Or sometimes … possibly … a caress on your arm where there is no cloth.

  And you wonder …

  Because at that moment … when the flash of bright colors is glimpsed out of the side of one eye or a sound occurs where no one stands … or your skin slightly sighs from what could have been a touch …

  An image will cross before you … a face will float across your heart … and memories begin to flood.

  And deep … deep within you at your core … you know.

  In that place … where you truly know … where you are sure … where you recognize that he has never gone … none of them have gone … are gone …

  None can possibly be gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The ties that bind.

  The thread …

  that …

  wends its way through a family …

  and its generations.

  Connecting … binding … knitting …

  and mending …

  one another.

  Only colors change discernibly over the lineage …

  and the images created.

  But the thread …

  endures …

  mostly without fray …

  at least as far back …

  as memory and history allow.

  Rose and Frayda, the twins, were the first to come.

  Esther did not take note of the hour. A fitful sleep had gained possession a few hours before. She thought she heard rustling but merely rolled over and closer to a soundly sleeping Zami.

  Then a name was called out—“Etka.” Only family members ever called her that, a moniker in suspension for so very long.

  At first it was scarcely a whisper; then they said it more emphatically, with increased insistence.

  “Etka!

  “Mir zenen do. We are here,” Rose and Frayda said in unison, “mit dir—with you.”

  “Ober mir zenen avek fun dort vu du bist yetst. But we are now gone,” Frayda continued, “from where you are. Please know we are fine. Very fine—now.

  “But the past few years have been grueling, humiliating, and overflowing with fear—constant fear.

  “Un der sof—And the ending—the ending was agonizing.”

  “They took us to the woods, just outside Przeworsk,” Rose said. “The woods where we played as children. Where our children still played.

  “Our neighbors—shtel zikh for—can you imagine? Our neighbors—undzere lang yorike fraynd—our lifelong friends—took us to the woods.

  “All the Jews left in our town were taken. By then, there were only about eighty of us. Our dear husbands, Isadore and Avrom, were with us.

  “Oykh undzere kinder. And our children too.”

  “My beautiful Lilke, just five years old. Finf yor—Only five. How could this have been possible?” Frayda whispered heavily, the horror of it still palpable.

  “And Benny, my funny, clown-like Benny, and his big brother Fima. Too young,” said Rose. “Far, far too young. Umbanemlekh— It is inconceivable!

  “The gunfire did not stop for a lon
g time.

  “The silence has been a relief.”

  Esther sat up, staring straight across the bed.

  My eyes must be deceiving, she thought. The sight before her, of two younger sisters—mere children when she had last seen them and now all grown up—confounded her.

  How can it be possible they are here? In this room? In Paris?

  Esther was certain she was still asleep. Dreaming. For how could it be otherwise?

  When one wants and when one needs … when it is essential … the conceived barriers can be broken … communication can be opened … vital information can be relayed …

  And then, as abruptly as they had arrived, Rose and Frayda left. Slowly fading out of sight. Esther was left to wonder.

  When these appearances became a near nightly occurrence, Esther knew it was not imagination at play.

  They came in pairs or in small groups of three or four—they did not come alone, as none had died alone. The efficiency of the Nazi killing machine not wasting bullet, bomb, or vapor.

  Surprisingly, the tiny room that barely accommodated two people under more commonplace circumstances never felt confining with their presence. And the visits only took place when sleep should have been the priority. During the night there was no chance of interruption from outside.

  Her mama came. Her tate. Her sisters Yetta and Gitel and Chana. Then her brothers Chaim and Jakob and Eli and Itzik and Moishe. Occasionally they arrived with their spouses, sometimes the husbands and wives came with others. Jakob’s wife, Raina, whom Esther had played with as a child, appeared with her much younger sister, while Yetta’s husband, Haskel, whose family had the chicken farm not far from the synagogue, brought his father and an uncle. Itzik’s wife, Goldie, came with Chaim’s Basha and Gitel’s Mendel.

  Their children appeared, none of whom she had met or, in many cases, even knew existed. So many children. Esther’s communication with family members had been sporadic and lean for nearly two decades, and now she learned how much life—rich, full lives—had continued on without her.