Yes … of course … but only the cookies …
Claudine’s efforts produced results. With just a few telegrams and one phone call, in a manner of days she was able to confirm Tova and Miriam were, without a doubt, alive.
“I have wonderful, wonderful news to report,” Claudine told Esther at their second meeting. “From the information conveyed to us, I have been able to cobble together an outline of your daughters’ situation. Upon arriving in England, the transport assigned them to an orphanage called Sunshine House. A mansion, really. Located in one of the most beautiful parts of London, Hampstead Heath. I visited there many years ago. Long before the war, obviously. A wealthy couple that owns many homes throughout England made this one available to the Kindertransport. Can you imagine? They were so generous. Your daughters, and twenty-six other young boys and girls from far-flung parts of Germany and Austria, lived together. Endured the war together. The children were supervised by a young, pious couple. Such dedication! Caring to the well-being of these poor children without parents or homes. Their names are—hmm, let me see.” She shuffled through the piles of notes on her desk. “Josef and Ruth Simmons. You can be assured their care was exemplary. This must be a great relief.” A big smile filled Claudine’s face.
Esther took a deep inhale and nodded.
“Oh,” said Claudine. “One more thing. I was informed the girls were raised Orthodox. This was the one stipulation of the family who owned the mansion. Those who reside under their roof must keep kosher with the children raised as Orthodox Jews. I’m sure that pleases you.”
Raised Orthodox? Esther mused. How ridiculous! That was definitely not something I had agreed to. What in the world were those people thinking? Thankfully, it is not my problem.
“Kann ich Ihnen helfen—Can I help you arrange a visit?” Claudine asked eagerly. Making these connections were the highlight of this work. In far too many cases, her searches did not produce joyful results. “We have available funds to assist you with travel costs. I’m sure you are extremely anxious to see them?”
“No,” Esther said, exposing no reaction. “No visit. That won’t be necessary.
“Danke. Vielen Dank.” Esther then turned and exited the office without seeing the stunned expression that shrouded Claudine’s face.
Esther was relieved to learn the girls were safe and alive. And she was clear that was all she needed to know. All she cared to know. As with Lifcha, she could not reconnect. She could no longer participate in a life that was not truly her own. Her responsibility to them was complete.
So, what Esther never learned—
What … she would never know …
—was that Miriam had cried every day and every night the first three weeks after they arrived in England. Crying desperately for her father and holding fast to the dearly loved stuffed bear Abraham had given her when she turned six. The last birthday they had shared.
Or that this little girl, the one who had once been so animated and filled with life, developed a stammer she would never overcome. Nor would Esther learn Miriam was the hardest working student in this group home. She excelled in all of her classes and attended the best schools. But she was also the most shy.
Esther did not know this daughter was among the youngest in the transport of ten thousand and that she continued to be called Schwestie. But not just by Tova. Miriam became all of these children’s little sister.
Or that Tova, who had been a sickly child, developed colds and fevers regularly and grew into an angry, rebellious youth. Esther would not know that this daughter was an indifferent student who was sent to a trade school in lieu of high school. There she was trained in sewing and tailoring, expanding on the skills acquired at a young age.
Ah … this one did not stray from the family’s heritage …
Esther would never know that Tova lost her virginity at only twelve years of age in the Sunshine House’s attic, seduced by one of the much older Kinder boys.
She would also never know the children were marched down to the basement during air raids and that Ruth Simmons played classical music—Mozart, Schubert, and Tchaikovsky—at the highest volume possible in an attempt to drown out the sounds of bombs and destruction.
Or that on Friday nights, after the evening meal and before walking to synagogue, Josef Simmons would say a blessing over each child. And on the first night of Passover they were given an orange, the rarest treat during wartime.
These attributes and qualities and characteristics and anecdotes—and so many more—the elements that compose an individual, a life—Esther did not know—or would ever learn.
These girls had been fed and cared for with a constant roof above their heads. They were still alive; she had done her duty.
With all that has happened … with all she has endured … all she has overcome … it saddens me Esther still maintains such a wall of distance … and indifference … from her self … from her soul … and from these seeds of her loins.
Esther did concede if she were a different woman, perhaps more like most women, she would do everything and anything possible to reunite with her children and surviving family. But, she often thought, I must be who I am and only that.
At least … at the very least … she knew herself.
It was clear this would not be possible. For this was not what mattered to her. Not now.
Withal, in a flash of compassion and consideration, Esther found someone traveling to London who agreed to bring a carton of eggs—a luxury—to the two girls. Esther included a brief note that she signed Mama, with ambivalence—and palpitations deep within her chest.
Unbeknownst to the carrier, a few valuable gifts were secreted in the carton. Not unlike preparing eggs to decorate for Easter, Esther had sucked the insides out of three of the eggs. In one she stuffed a wad of bills and in each of the remaining two, necklaces: a rectangular-shaped peridot set in gold filigree intended for Tova and a heart-shaped amethyst bordered by seed pearls for Miriam.
These were not antiques or family heirlooms. Esther had purchased them at a jewelry store in Zürich. If it was important to them, Tova and Miriam could say they had something sweet from their Mama.
Zami, too, had survived.
And in his own way … the way that was uniquely him … Zami … considered peculiar by most … was able to bloom.
The camp Esther was directed to live in, the place the border guards took her to, did not allow children. The explanation was there were no facilities or resources for them. No school or playground. With the help of a local charity, a comfortable home was found for him in a neighboring village. This family he was sent to live with included seven-year-old twin girls.
“This is a good home, a loving home,” the social worker had informed Esther. “It is a Christian home. We hope this fact will not pose a problem. Your son will have to follow their practices and rituals. And—they prefer to call him Samuel.”
“This is not a concern for me,” Esther responded. Inwardly she thought, Truly, of what does Zami know differently? For the past two and a half years, surely from his earliest memories, he has gone to church every Sunday.
Perhaps he is already Christian? Whatever that might mean.
This family, the Stoecklins, appeared to be good people, nice people who said they would care for this little boy as though Zami were their own. He would be the son they had never had.
They wanted him … to be wanted … feelings Zami had not known since his father was left behind.
Zami showed no reaction when Esther left him at the Stoecklin family’s home. There was neither a cry nor a sound of any kind. His eyes did grow big and his lips separated, as though to shout, but he did not. Pointedly, he did not raise a hand to wave goodbye. Zami turned his back on his mama and ran into the house.
Esther watched silently. So many goodbyes. I have experienced so very many goodbyes.
There was little doubt … there was no question … by all who were present that this was indeed … goodbye
.
While she made little effort to find out how he fared, at the end of each month, Esther would receive a note from Zami’s foster parents. In this way she kept up with his life, and she did appreciate learning he was doing well. While she desired no relationship, Zami was the only one of her three children Esther had achieved a semblance of a maternal attachment to. Albeit a slim thread.
For although the camp and Zami’s new home were not more than one hour’s train ride apart, Esther never visited. She could have easily; there were few restrictions on her comings and goings, but she chose otherwise.
By and large, what Esther had done during this three-year period was wait. She waited for this war to end. Waited to regain control—full control—real control—of her life and her life alone. She waited with resilience and with patience. While she waited, Esther sewed and embroidered, stitched and tailored, as she had before.
And she continued to make money. As she had before.
Esther never learned Abraham’s status. She made no effort, for there was no interest or concern.
Certainly he had been killed. In all likelihood in one of those atrocious camps she heard rumors of. Ach so, Esther would think, on the scarce occasion she thought of him at all. I don’t wish him ill, I really don’t. I know it was my mistake to marry him. But he was a foolish, foolish man! He refused to believe the situation would get as dire as it did. He refused to listen to me. He refused to leave that silly little cobbler’s shop of his on Kämmergasse.
The place she last took sight of him.
That is where he would remain … whether in fact … or mere memory …
Now—
Esther was ready to wholly take care of Esther.
Finally … at long last … Esther is coming … home …
And me … I am the Gatekeeper … prepared to greet her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Brahma … is the great creator … the first originator.
But He is not and does not … choose to be …
the only creator.
He gave us all … each of us … every one of us … each one of you …
the ability and the inventiveness … the inner resources …
to envision … to imagine …
to initiate …
To bring into being … into existence … a dream … a vision …
your vision.
To manifest not only what you have conceived and what you
have imagined …
but what you know to be true …
To be truth.
Amrita … the nectar …
For truth that transcends … mortality …
It begins … it always begins … with a glint … a spark . . a mere flicker …
sometimes so subtle as to be lost …
to be missed … to go unnoticed …
or … simply … as is the case with most …
ignored.
But … Esther …
Esther saw …
and …
Esther grasped …
wholly … at her very core … her essence.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Now it appears …
the seam …
so painstakingly and masterfully …
sewn …
to possess the ends …
finally ruptures …
and the thread untwines.
But … does it really?
For it is the same …
truly the same …
always the same …
just different …
merely different.
The concurrent planning and preparations underway were for Esther’s departure.
Or perhaps … more correctly … her return …
This exit was different from the preceding two times, for in each of those instances, Esther had been running away from all things known and familiar: the first, to secure her soul; the second, to save her life. Now, she headed toward the indefinable, a place beyond description—an enigma of choice.
The destination was clear, at least the general port of call. The exact locale, at present, was still uncertain.
With the assistance of the far too curious, but self-restrained, volunteer in the library a half hour train’s ride from the camp, Esther learned a few basic facts. In geographic mass India was bounded by the Indian Ocean on the south, the Arabian Sea on the west, and the Bay of Bengal on the east. And was bordered by countries whose names she could not decipher how to pronounce. Its inhabitants represented a multitude of ethnicities, religions, and languages. She found information on India’s history, its economy, its primary resources and businesses, in addition to its government and politics. None of these topics interested Esther enough to spend time reading more than a paragraph or two.
There were pictures of architecture, minor- and large- and colossal-scale, and monuments and scenery and colorfully dressed people similar to what she had found in the Köln library’s single slim volume. In this tome, words and terms danced over the pages without significance or definition: Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism, Sikhism, Zoroastrianism, and Islam. Maharashtra, Rajasthan, Banares, Tehri-Garwal, Goa, and Jharkhand. Cumin, turmeric, fenugreek, cardamom, garam masala, and asafetida. Masala dosa, chana, mung, dal, tandoori, and roti. Page after page after page incited curiosity and intrigue. Esther grew excited.
Foreign. Everything on the book’s pages looked far removed from Esther’s encounter. From the way the letters of the Hindi alphabet lay against one another to the images they described. Exotic. Intriguing. Astonishing. Outlandish. Unfamiliar—but unfamiliar in the most welcoming manner.
Ah … but wait … there is one word … one experience … she will recognize in memory … and smell … and taste …
The word samosa leaped out as though in a font, size, and style separate from all else. “Sa-mo-sa,” she said aloud, enunciating every syllable. Instantly transporting her back to when this small doughy pie’s pungent smells and its savory sensations had filled every pore in her body and every sense of her being.
As before, Esther’s eyes began to water.
“Entschuldigung. Excuse me. Say again, please. You would like to go where?” The travel agent could not believe he heard correctly.
“Indien,” Esther replied. Her articulation matter-of-fact.
“Wirklich? Really?” he asked, incredulous. “May I ask why?”
“Nein. It is not your concern. All you need to know is that I have secured die notwendigen Identitätspapiere und Dokumente—the necessary identity papers and documents. As you must be aware, these are not easy to acquire. Not at this time. The process has been complicated. But all is in order, and I am prepared to arrange my passage. Can you provide me with the pertinent information? If not, I will go elsewhere,” Esther continued emphatically.
All the while aware there was no other agent in the region.
“Madame, please know I’m not prying. Surely you can understand my curiosity,” he insisted. “India is a most unusual request and not the safest country for a woman traveling alone.”
“I repeat, it is not your concern,” Esther said, tapping her fingers on the counter in hopes of allaying increased frustration. “Please, I request an answer. Are you able to assist me or not?”
The agent, who had no desire to lose a customer, quickly said, “Es tut mir sehr leid—Please excuse my rudeness, I am very sorry. It will take me several days, but I will get the information you are seeking and make the appropriate arrangements. I hope you are aware this will not be inexpensive. This is a high-priced voyage.”
“Cost will not be a deterrent.”
Over the course of the next three and a half weeks, Esther visited the travel agent’s office—two doors away from the jewelry store where she purchased the girls’ necklaces—five more times before she received the necessary details. His research required him to explore a variety of routes that would reach the continent. At each visit he described a different scenario with alter
nate possibilities. The one constant: Bombay must be the point of entry. This was the only city receiving international carriers on a consistent basis.
Each time, the agent would elaborate on the challenges of getting to India. He described how dangerous it was to travel there, most especially for a woman alone, and that her safety could not be assured once she arrived.
“You must understand that this will be an extremely long journey. Perhaps up to one month. It will be dependent upon the conditions at sea.”
Esther rolled her eyes as he rambled on.
Six weeks to the day of her initial inquiry, she walked out of his office with the tickets—train and ship—in hand. Confident she was doing exactly as she must. Still unknowing as to why. The impulse remained a mystery.
Esther told no one of her plans. In all truth there was no one left to tell.
However … you must be aware … information flows … when and where it needs to flow.
The afternoon before the train would depart from the Zürich station to take her to Geneva—then on to Lyon and finally Marseille, where she would board the ship—Esther gathered up the few items that by requisite and circumstance had remained attached to her person for the past nearly six years. These were not unlike a tattoo whose message reflects a name that now only brings forth regret and sorrow.
Guesthouse for Ganesha Page 25