Guesthouse for Ganesha

by Judith Teitelman

  When the sun at long last rose, it came without snowfall or rain.

  Esther, left with only grit and relentlessness, set off to find the border. She bundled Zami up as warmly as she could, dressing him in all his clothes. She wrapped three of the blankets around her shoulders and then searched the hut’s four corners to see if there was anything else of use. Léon had taken what he thought was all the remaining food and money, but she discovered the lone apple had slid out of the handbag. She heaved a sigh as they headed out.

  They wandered for three days not knowing left from right, north from south. Esther led them upward. At the least she always knew what was upward. They never saw another soul. She did not understand Léon’s concern for only traveling at dusk or dawn, as there were no others to be found.

  And Esther was desperate to find another, anyone.

  She would not stop walking, moving.

  As one day led into the next with no noticeable change other than greater height and increased cold, Esther came close to delirious.

  Is this how it’s going to end? she asked herself. Here—in this ocean of infinite white and unbearable cold? Will this be the culmination of my efforts and struggles? My suffering? All for nothing? No! This can’t be! I won’t allow it!

  Now that it was just the two of them once again, Zami became complacent and more comfortable. The circumstances didn’t seem to faze him. He didn’t cry or complain. He held his mama’s hand and let her carry him when the snow was too deep. Twice each day Esther allowed Zami and herself to take one infinitesimal bite of their apple.

  “Roll it around in your mouth, Zami. Suck on its meat. Gently. This way you will release the juice slowly, and it will last longer,” she told him. “Try not to chew or nibble. It is better just to suck on it. And don’t swallow. Keep it in your mouth as long as you can.”

  Soon all that remained was the core, a few seeds, and the stem. These they shared in the same manner. Esther tried to make it a game, hoping that would ward off Zami’s advancing hunger, her hunger. A distraction.

  The snow kept them hydrated. When nightfall arrived, she and Zami would find a tree, place a blanket beneath them and two on top, and curl up together, melding as one.

  I would blow warm air on them throughout the night … so they would not freeze … that was … not to be.

  And then, materializing from the emptiness of the unremitting white, like a mirage, a depleted Esther saw them—

  Three tall, uniformed, masculine shapes in the distance. Each with gun drawn.

  She had finally arrived … reached the border … the invented boundary … signaling the end of one reality and onward into the possibilities of another …

  “Helfen Sie mir! Help me! Help me!” Esther screamed, calling forth reserves of energy that had lain buried and dormant. “Please, please help me! Bitte, Bitte, helfen Sie mir!”

  She saw these men glance at one another, shrug, roll their collective eyes, and shake their heads in unison. They were emphatic. They thrust their arms outward; they signaled to go away. They threatened with their guns.

  Until—

  Esther used her final remnants of force and will, ripped open the hems and seams of her layers of dresses and skirts and coat. Money came fluttering out. Into the wind. In all directions.

  Then … and only then … did they come to her aid.

  PART II

  Brahma …

  the one …

  with no beginning …

  made a beginning …

  and …

  can surely …

  make an end.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Regardless …

  of what …

  or where …

  or when …

  the thread …

  endures.

  And entwines …

  securely.

  With the suicide of the architect who instigated the insanity and resulting devastation, the war in Europe drew to a close.

  Esther had been living in a displaced persons camp approximately 150 kilometers southwest of Zürich, for just over three years, when word came in early May that the war had finally ended. The Allies had triumphed. It took one week for the reality of the news to penetrate the layers of toil and suffering now formed like a jagged metal casing over her once soft skin.

  Time—at long last—had form.

  That which has no dimension or measurement … or even truly existence … can be formulated and constructed to accommodate … to promote … action.

  Each twenty-four-hour rotation beginning with the first hint of the sun and concluding with its setting was no longer virtually identical to the one that came before or the one that would follow. With this long-awaited and wished for pronouncement, each day began anew with volume and shape, structure and purpose.

  Now that commanding vision could be realized. The image, the impression—the divination—that, in spite of all odds and adversities, initiated forward motion and remained her paramount motivator during the years in Köln and throughout the war. The unique fixation that offered solace and strength after her heartrending betrayal by Tadeusz would be pursued. While those surrounding her envisioned a new life in Palestine, the believed homeland for the Jews, Esther only had thoughts of—

  India.

  A place she knew next to nothing about but one that inexplicably called to her like a small child crying out to be comforted by her mother. That chance encounter—ephemeral, ethereal, inexplicable—on the Köln banks of the Rhein had introduced an image, a sensation, the glimpse of somewhere more different and mesmerizing than Esther could possibly envision.

  This, and only this, is what had kept the remnants of her broken spirit smoldering.

  “Now,” Esther murmured, “this confounding place can be pursued and investigated. At long last, I will be able to do whatever is necessary to solve the mystery of its insistent draw and significance. No more outside forces. No more world events. No more people—husband, children, housemates, officers—blocking my way, my life, my very being. I am fully in control of myself with no one else to contend.”

  Of most significance, and unlike nearly every one of her counterparts, she had money—a great deal of it in fact—an accumulation of resources her poor Polish family in the best of circumstances could not have dreamed possible. Not a small feat on a war-ravaged continent where she had been among the hunted.

  For the first time, truly in decades, since she was a teenager—Esther was liberated.

  During these past three years, though free to the extent she was no longer stalked on a daily basis with her very identity a liability, Esther had remained entrapped. For here, in this place of relative peace without threat of bombs or violence or hounding or persecution, it was thoughts and memories that instigated and controlled her web of confinement. Rest too often eluded her. Sleep was sporadic. It was never deep and often troubled. In lieu of the mostly dreamless nights to which she had grown accustomed, Esther had nightmares and flashbacks of encounters and incidents—

  One episode in particular …

  —that violently shook her out of slumber. Esther tossed and turned and traveled again and again over the distance and misery journeyed. She experienced the feelings and emotions, every one of them, that had been held at bay all those many years by the distraction of surviving and survival. Stress and dread and unfathomable sorrow maintained a firm grasp. Each night, whether awake or asleep, her head burst with thoughts of what had occurred.

  A great deal of distance—and safety—now lay between her present path and those two and a half years in hiding. And the events that came before. Esther learned there was no escape from herself—her thoughts—her history—every action that had taken place since leaving Przeworsk—the horrors faced—the denial of emotions—ceaselessly running, often without moving—or being able to move. The endless lying, the fabricating, and the omnipresent loneliness that possessed her and had engulfed her.

  And though the war had fina
lly passed, the multitude of questions with all their whys continued to plague her, escalating the need for answers. Feeling consumed, Esther found it challenging to stay in the present, in the moment. To recognize what was real and what was the product of invention.

  Before she could pursue the answers to any questions, Esther knew she must first be fully and finally relieved of responsibilities. Her ties to the past must be severed in order to pursue this course—in order to advance.

  There was much to accomplish.

  With their visitations, Esther had learned most of the details about what had happened to family members and friends in Przeworsk. Still, there were unanswered questions. In addition—

  Not surprisingly …

  —there was a need to verify this information was true. To corroborate these stories would confirm that what she’d experienced had indeed happened. The visitations—these occurrences—took place at the time her umbrage and indignation had peaked; she was vulnerable, weary, mentally unsettled, if not slightly mad. She felt fettered. They easily could have been tricks of imagination.

  So often … far too often … a human being’s encounters of a spiritual or metaphysical nature are questioned … not necessarily by others … but by themselves …

  The unusual … the strange … the exceptional … the not everyday … can be too easily dismissed as a dream or an illusion … a figment of one’s creative power caused by too much stress … sleeplessness … blurred vision … unclear thinking …

  Thus Esther, ever the pragmatist and at all times diligent, spent the first few months after the war’s official conclusion tracking down, as best she could, who of her family members were still alive. And what, if any, part of Przeworsk remained.

  Not ten days after the war officially ended, volunteers, Good Samaritans, came to the displaced persons camp to help assist in locating—misplaced—family. Esther lined up with every other camp resident. When her turn came, she handed the youthful woman seated at the table a piece of paper with notes she had prepared.

  “Ich bin aus—I am from Przeworsk. It is in Poland, near the Ukrainian border. A very small town, we call a shtetl—do you know that word?” Esther said.

  “Ja, it is common,” the woman replied.

  “My name is Esther, and my family name is Grünspan. Before the war I had twelve brothers and sisters who lived there. Well, to be correct, my eldest sister had already moved to the United States, so there were eleven. And, of course, my mama and tate. Here are all their names spelled out correctly. I’ve included as many of their husbands’ and wives’ and children’s names as I can recall. There were more than I knew. The address of our home is also noted. We lived near the center of town, just two streets away from the synagogue. Hmm. What else can I tell you? What else might you need to know?”

  “Do you have a husband and children in Przeworsk too?” the woman asked. “This list doesn’t include those names.”

  “No,” Esther said.

  “Okay,” the woman said, nodding, “we will do our best to find out what we can.”

  Three weeks passed before the volunteers returned. Again Esther stood before the same woman.

  “I am sorry to tell you this, but we could not locate any definitive information. It is too soon. It appears we were overanxious in our desire to help. While we have volunteers throughout Europe—please know there are scores of people who want to help—we did not anticipate the chaos and confusion that still reigns. There is little infrastructure as yet in place,” she said.

  “And while we have heard a range of rumors about what has happened to an inordinate number of Jewish people and much of Poland, I prefer not to share them. Rumors are too often composed in one’s imagination. The things we have learned are inconceivable.”

  As it happened, most of what Esther was able to find out came from her oldest sister, Lifcha. She had observed the horrific events happening on this continent from the sheltered vantage of the United States’ Midwest. At the onset, when restrictions were first placed upon Jewish businesses and activities—long before the girls were put on the transport to England or Esther’s carefully plotted escape to Wuppertal, when the seriousness of the situation was beginning to be grasped—her siblings had devised a plan. It was decided that, in the event conditions got out of control and they lost touch with one another, when they were able, each would make contact with Lifcha. Her brothers and sisters had projected—correctly, as it turned out—even if communication among European countries was not possible, they would be able to reach Lifcha. She, in turn, would be able to make contact with each of them.

  It took more than eight weeks after sending off the letter to receive a reply. And it was through Lifcha that Esther learned—

  Or more precisely … received confirmation …

  —that of their other eleven siblings, only Tonka, her baby sister, the family’s youngest, had survived.

  She was the one … after all … who did not visit in Paris … who could not visit … because she was still on this plane … this material plane.

  Lifcha’s three-page letter, speckled with what were most likely tear stains, explained that Tonka and her husband, Henig, had been living in Przeworsk when, in the fall of 1940, the town was invaded by the Russians. Their home was destroyed and these two were captured. Tonka and Henig spent the next five years in various work camps throughout Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan. They were moved around every few months. Or more frequently. The fortunate part was that they were able to remain together. Still, the conditions were appalling: severe cold, scarce food, repeated beatings, and continuous heavy labor. Tonka and Henig were young and strong and resilient and were able to survive with their health intact.

  They had traveled back to Przeworsk as soon as circumstances allowed. While much of the small town was still intact, their Jewish Quarter had been leveled. And with it, the remains of family and friends and any impressions of the life they had known. Tonka and Henig were now on their way—walking—to a displaced persons camp in Berlin, Germany—their future uncertain.

  The letter concluded with:

  —meyn teyere Etka, mayn tayere shvesterl, der fakt vos

  du host ibergelebt, vos du lebst nokh, iz a nes. A matone. A

  matone fun riboyne sheloylem.

  Bite zeyer. Kh’bet dir. Du must aherkumen tsu mayn hoyz in

  Shikage tsu zayn mit Isidor un mit mir. Un mit undzer Sheyne

  un Marni. S’iz shoyn di hekhste tsayt, du zolst zikh trefn mit

  dayne plimenitses. Mir zenen dayn mishpokhe.

  Do iz zikher, un s’vet oykh zayn dayn heym. Tomid.

  Kh’vel helfn aynordenen dayn rayze-bilet. Shrayb mir in gikhn

  un loz mir visn dayne plener.

  ………………..

  —oh, my dearest Etka, my dear, dear sister, the fact that you

  have survived, that you are still alive, this is a miracle. A

  gift. A gift from Hashem.

  Please. Please! You must come here to my home in Chicago

  to be with Isidore and me. And with our Shaina and Marni. It is

  time for you to meet your nieces. We are your family.

  It is safe here, and it will be your home too. Always.

  I will help arrange your passage. Write back soon and let me

  know of your plans.

  No, Esther thought, no more. I can’t go backward. I can’t spend my precious resources reconnecting with any part of my past. Surely this would only bring me pain. I refuse to be hurt and lost once more. Esther crumpled the three thin pieces of paper in her left hand and tossed them into the nearby wastebasket.

  The Grünspan family—once animated and vital individuals who overflowed with life and all of its potential—had been reduced to three. These threads, their connections were frayed and shredded without a future.

  To investigate Tova and Miriam’s whereabouts—

  Ah … wonderful … they too are not to be forgotten …

  —Esther sought th
e assistance of the International Red Cross. Another resident of the DP camp had told her about this organization that had quickly grown instrumental in tracing the whereabouts of family members separated during the war. These inestimable providers of relief and respondents to emergencies had become vital collators of information on those who were now disenfranchised.

  The train to Zürich took two hours and fifteen minutes. Esther located their central office in the business district easily. There was a line extending halfway around the block. But the Red Cross office was well-staffed, and in less than half an hour, Esther was inside.

  “Guten Morgen—Good morning, my name is Claudine,” said the effusive, gray-haired woman to whom Esther was assigned. “Can I get you some tea while we talk? Perhaps some cookies to go with it?”

  Such a thoughtful woman.

  “Nein, nein, danke,” said Esther, “I am fine. Can we get started? Bitte. I am here to find out if you can help me locate my two daughters. They were in the transport of Kinder. They left on 29 August, 1939. It was the last one to leave before the war began and—”

  “Yes, yes, of course I can help,” Claudine said, interrupting. “But first I want to say how terribly sorry I am for all the hardships you and your family have suffered.” She reached out to touch her hand, but Esther quickly pulled it out of reach. “There are no words that can soothe. I know this. It has been outrageous. Unjust. I know nothing could ever make up for what you have experienced. I am so very, very sorry.”

  As though she, personally, was responsible for all the evils and ills that had taken place, Esther thought. She struggled to submerge a smirk.

  “It would be best if we could focus on finding my girls,” she said aloud, striving to maintain her exasperation. Esther chewed the inside of her right cheek. She wanted news as soon as possible.

  “It is an awful, awful situation. Really something that is impossible to envision, but—”

  Perceiving Esther was about to interrupt, she quickly added: “I promise, I will do my very best to locate your daughters. I can’t begin to consider how difficult it has been to be separated from them. I have three daughters of my own and, well—sorry, yes, yes, of course, let us continue. Please, if you could, without too much trouble, fill out these forms. As completely as you are able. Of course, the more details you have for us, the better. But please do not pressure yourself. We understand papers and information have been lost. Of course, with all the stress you have experienced, memories might not be as clear as you would like. We have found it’s best if people are comfortable while the forms are filled out. There are many pages. Please—can I get you some tea and cookies?”