Guesthouse for Ganesha

by Judith Teitelman

  The need no longer existed to possess or be possessed.

  Woodland butted up against the rear of the DP camp. A setting with benches and tables, fire pits and trails that led far into a forest rarely visited by the local inhabitants. On this day Esther headed there with determination and a book of matches.

  Agni … God of Fire… courier of prayers… messenger between gods and humans … between that sphere and this … appears once more …

  An eighth of a kilometer in, Esther found a clearing with a contained area designed for a campfire. After collecting a handful of twigs, she laid the components of Etta Göttlieb’s invented life on the ground next to the pit: birth certificate, baptismal documentation, identity papers. The rosary of dark wood carved beads, now well worn, and the Bible, with bent spine and creased pages, were arranged next to them.

  Knowledge … purification … regeneration …

  It took eight attempts to persuade the twigs to take to flame. No wind interfered, just weeks of sporadic rain that kept them soft and damp. Esther ripped a handful of pages from the Bible to help the fire take hold and stoke the flames. At last an impressive ring of brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows was established. Into this, without hurry, went these materials, one piece at a time.

  To burn … externally … is not to burn …

  Words, sentences, purpose, and ruse faded away as the papers turned brown, rippled and curled, then blackened and crumbled. The Bible’s cover shriveled gradually. The beads of the rosary coaxed the blaze. Flames rose upward. Smoke wafted.

  On top of the burning pyre, Esther placed the delicate gold chain with its Holy Mother talisman. She watched as it melted into a near perfect round ball.

  And let us not forget … Brahma and fire are one …

  More endings.

  Yet … with … out … end …

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The noise …

  has dissipated.

  That which distracted …

  and …

  was distracting …

  has gone.

  Everything that is left …

  all that remains …

  is the space …

  the opening …

  the gateway.

  Inviting …

  thoughts …

  susceptibilities …

  memories.

  September 1945, just prior to mid-month. For the first time in more than six years, Esther was on a train—in public—as Esther.

  She was once again Esther Grünspan. Or, at long last, attempting to find her way back to Esther. No false identities—no forged papers—no intricately fabricated tales justifying the rationale for traveling from one city to another in the midst of war. No story lines rehearsed for hours in advance to ensure the ability to convey particulars—only those pertinent and strategic—with brevity of speech and assuredness of manner.

  It was not until she was on the train to Marseille, not until her luggage was securely stored in the rack above her seat, her coat hung on the metal hook next to the window, and her back leaned against the stale, frayed, sunbaked burgundy leather seat that Esther grasped this. Viscerally. And began to feel—to the depth of her core.

  She started to shake. At first only mildly, then profoundly.

  Sorrow, devastation, rage, abandonment, loss, betrayal, yearning—all these emotions materialized in chorus, took dominion, and flooded over. Such loss of control bewildered her. Tears attempted to form in her eyes, but the actual process of this most natural bodily function had long been erased from her memory.

  What is this reaction? What is going on with me? Esther questioned as she wrestled with a blanket to wrap around herself. Is it because I’m entering an unknown situation? Nonsense! These past years have been about the indefinite. Is it that most of my family—those I haven’t seen or spoken to in decades—is gone? Is it about those I’ve left behind? The children? Ach! Tova and Miriam—and Zami—are safe. They are all fine. I made sure of that. They are my children, but I know they are better off without me. Is that what initiated this madness? Isn’t a mother supposed to do what’s best for her children? I don’t understand. What’s happening to me? Why now?

  Her shuddering persisted. A shift was underway.

  The threshold awaits …

  She must understand … yet she is not aware … that this … this of all times … this is not the occasion for confusion … or dread … or panic.

  For this is a special time … the most special time of each year.

  For now … right now … is my birthday! It is Ganesha Chaturthi … the fourth day of the brightest fortnight … the waxing moon of Bhadraparda … it is during these ten days … when I am worshipped and celebrated by all.

  It is the most auspicious time … the most fortuitous time … for new beginnings … for each and every one. For Esther …

  And this year … at this time … I share my ten days … the same ten days … with the Jewish Days of Awe … the highest and holiest of days for the Jewish people.

  No chance occurrence … only harmony.

  Distinct belief systems … philosophies … faiths … perspectives … now weave together as one.

  Deep, steady breaths—three counts in, three counts out. This systematic rhythm composed her. At least somewhat. She slept for a while. Although not peacefully.

  She remained unsettled.

  Where did the color go?

  When did brilliant blue get mixed with black and become a muddy gray?

  Emerald green—a dreary brown?

  Luscious red—a dirty slate?

  When did the sharpness and vibrancy of the landscape recede behind layers of scrim, hiding the nuances of living that had once been so closely observed and dear?

  When had the clarity gone so terribly out of focus? When did it make me lose sight of the depth of my true nature? My genuine desires and wants? My feelings?

  These are the thoughts that poured through Esther as the ship eased away from the dock in Marseille. She sat on the deck with the other passengers—perhaps a few dozen—who shouted and waved to those sending them off and wishing safe journey.

  Only Esther arrived alone and remained alone. A solitary figure infused with the bleak isolation of a dark painting.

  I sit beside her … I have not left her. On occasion she has acknowledged me … my whispered assistance … my warm embraces. Still my presence … after all these years … all this time … remains unnamed.

  I create a soft wind to sheathe her … to assuage the gaping wound that has become more pronounced … resonating … resounding … throughout her being.

  That ironic wrong that crushed her heart and slashed her soul … and saved her life.

  Finally on the way to elsewhere. But with imperviousness lacking and energy spent, the past twenty-some years of inconceivable trials and strain and subterfuge—that which had consumed every ounce of her wits and resources—finally caught up.

  Esther crumbled. Fully and completely.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Memory …

  fuels the flame …

  and …

  ignites …

  the wrenching heart.

  Now, and only now, with this interval—the first opportunity to rest and reflect and imagine what lie ahead—self and soul spiraled out of control.

  Esther became sickened. Severely. She was thrust to the rim of reality and authenticity, lucidity, and possibilities.

  This was not a surprise.

  In recent months Esther’s formidable, inviolate guard had experienced infinitesimal cracks. What had been buried or vehemently brushed aside was now finding its way back home. After far too many years of triumphant submersion without filtering, the full sum of the mental and physical stress, anguish, and effort never totally experienced or absorbed by her being was coming to the fore at long last.

  A breach in the floodgates of emotion … true honest emotion … promotes a profundity of discomfort … a piercing distress t
hat … in turn … in time … always … without question … breeds disease … dis … ease.

  That evening, the first on the ship’s crossing to India, Esther took to her cabin and did not take leave. Not for any meal. Not for one of the numerous stopovers at exotic-sounding port cities where supplies were gathered and refueling took place. Not to breathe freely and deeply of the crisp sea air.

  An all-embracing fever—

  A gift … in actual fact …

  —had taken hold with concentrated intensity and fury.

  A fire within her … consuming her … with Agni … assisting once again.

  A continuous, highly elevated temperature, one of the human body’s natural defenses normally called to action to neutralize an infection, also possesses the capacity to alter senses and perceptions. In this case, Esther’s senses and perceptions.

  It has the ability to unlock a portal … providing passage … entry … introducing the threshold and a bridge … if you will … between Esther’s here … and my here …

  I saw the chance … the opening … a most critical opportune occurrence for me to be in the very same time and very same space … and place … with Esther …

  To be as one … in the indistinguishable sphere … to bring her joy … pure joy … bliss … for the first time … the only time … since she was with him … that man … her man … Tadeusz …

  To dance with abandon … and surrender …

  And … dance … we did.

  The ship’s captain and crew of five left Esther to herself, unconcerned she had not made an appearance since leaving port in Marseille. These overburdened men merely assumed, if they considered the situation at all, that as the lone woman traveling without a companion, Esther was most likely not comfortable interacting with others in a strange setting. No doubt food and other necessary supplies accompanied her.

  In all probability, the passengers were not aware an additional traveler accompanied them. Most were self-absorbed, since the journey had not been smooth, the weather not so obliging, and each had bouts of seasickness with which to contend. The desire for calm seas was the only collective thought.

  Esther is nearly … home …

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Three weeks …

  time.

  All times …

  Any time …

  passes …

  passed.

  As the ship eased closer toward shore, the sea grew calm. More than ten hours remained before arrival into port, but a transformation became manifest in the atmosphere. The potentiality of land in the near distance, solid ground—terra firma—began its gravitational pull and, with it, the promise of steadiness and renewal in the next phase of each traveler’s journey. This vessel had been christened L’Étoile, the symbol of constancy, and true to its name would proffer clarity of direction for those on board.

  The steadfast movement forward germinated a keen sense of excitement that seemed to sprout from bilge to keel, gradually embracing the deck that surrounded the bridge and finally extending its reach up to the top of masts, rigging, and sails.

  This electric energy had the ability to entice Esther out of the cabin and onto the deck, persuading her to settle on one of the rickety wooden chairs lined up near the bow. Feeling the cool gentle wind on her face invigorated long dormant muscles. Esther took in the setting with a deep extended breath and closed her eyes.

  “Where … are you traveling to?” a low, assured male voice inquired in what sounded her direction.

  Esther’s eyes opened instantly and she looked up, startled. Surprised, and more so, uneasy, that someone was speaking to her for no apparent or necessary reason. Other than the doctor who had treated her, not a word had been exchanged with anyone throughout the crossing. With the doctor, not more than a few strained words had passed between them. And those only in response to his questions. The required seclusion for the remainder of the voyage had been appreciated, in fact, a relief.

  This man’s accent was thick and layered. At first she could not distinguish what language he was speaking nor recognize the words he formed.

  He repeated the question. More slowly and precisely, reasoning that perhaps she did not understand him, all the while knowing without question their language was shared.

  “Well, Bombay, certainly,” Esther responded, puzzled. “This ship is going to Bombay, India, is it not?”

  “Yes … yes … of course … it is going to Bombay. Please forgive me if I am being … well … impertinent. I do apologize. I was asking … I am seeking … your ultimate destination … your true destination. I don’t mean to appear rude, but … as you must realize … it is most unusual to find a woman traveling alone in this part of the world … most unusual indeed. Particularly now after all that has taken place. There are a small number … just a few of us on this ship … a few of us traveling at all. And until now … until today … you have kept to yourself and … well … again … please excuse me if I am being rude … but you have been rather hidden from the rest of us.”

  This man’s cadence was beguiling, unlike any Esther had heard before.

  “I have been unwell,” she replied. “Quite ill, it appears, and was advised by the ship’s doctor that it would be best to stay in my cabin. As much as possible, anyway. My isolation has been necessary to heal and allow me to regain my strength.” Esther’s voice faltered, the words not flowing with ease. As though her vocal cords were attempting to recall their purpose. She could not bring to mind the last time she had engaged in a dialogue about anything of substance. Or one that was casually social.

  For far too long, for more than two decades, any and all conversation had been about necessity. Entered into as a means to an end, to receive information that would carry her forward, facilitate in acquiring what was essential and nothing more. In most every circumstance, all dialogue had related to survival. When first in Köln and through all the ensuing years there, sustenance represented the need for work and lodging and food. Then, when circumstances changed, when the country’s troubles escalated and the war intervened, conversing was used for structuring illusion and perception. So no one would guess. None would suspect. No truth would be revealed.

  Everything—for so long, anything and everything was simply about survival.

  But here Esther was, in the one remaining chapter of this ship’s journey with the vessel scheduled to land later the same day, speaking, engaging in an actual conversation with a stranger. About a topic that, at this moment in time, seemed abstract and intangible—her destination.

  Esther peered up from the chair and took in his presence.

  Towering above her, this man had thick, gray-speckled black curly hair that framed a finely sculptured face, nearly perfectly centered by a long, aristocratically sloped nose. Prominent ears peaked out from behind curls. Kind, compassionate eyes behind oval, silver-framed glasses looked back at her with intensity. A surprising softness and profound caring immediately struck her. Dressed entirely in black with a large gray scarf draped around his neck, he appeared solid—and safe. Radiating comfort.

  Taken off guard, Esther was wholly embraced by a forgotten sense of warm, soothing calm.

  “May I sit here?” he requested, gesturing to the empty seat beside her. Esther’s head shifted downward slightly, a tentative but curious nod.

  “Please do excuse me once again. I do not mean to pry … but I must admit … I am intrigued and compelled to inquire about your circumstances. In addition … and I do recognize … I do realize I should not be saying this but … please let me be truthful. I have spent the past few weeks speaking with the other passengers and have found them to be … well … a rather tedious … ordinary bunch. I know … I am sorry … I apologize … this is not a compassionate or understanding thing to say. But I am regretful in that it is … true … nonetheless.”

  At this declaration, he let out a resounding guffaw. His face broke into an unconstrained smile, revealing strongly etched laugh lines aro
und his eyes and mouth, large white teeth, and a dimpled left cheek.

  Esther gasped, stunned that someone could express candor with such ease—with unquestioned sincerity. She had forgotten a frankness of this kind existed. It demonstrated how much time had transpired. And how much life and history had passed since an appearance of honesty had been possible or exchanged with another.

  Not since—

  Perhaps it was this man’s approach, almost a childlike purity. Disarming. Possibly it was simply the intersection of chronology and the culmination of years upon years of unexpressed, buried thoughts, denied feelings, ruinous experiences, and unending pain. Conceivably it was Esther’s recent exceptionally high fever and vision. In any case, for a reason not to be fathomed, this man’s forthright authenticity flipped a switch long in abeyance.

  And the floodgates opened to their full extent, and the whole poured forth.

  Esther talked, without uncertainty and barely with inhalation.

  For the first time—and for this one time only—Esther revealed her story, the full history. She covered family and beginnings in Przeworsk and did not leave out one facet of the devastation to heart and soul that took place under the chuppah on the day when her life’s trajectory changed forever. She described the struggles endured in Köln; the miseries of a sad, loveless marriage; the burdens of three unwished-for children; the inhumane, constrictive policies inflicted upon the Jewish people together with those marked as sympathizers. The wartime horrors, the ordeals suffered, and finally—Switzerland.

  The retelling was agonizing and not without more than the occasional tear in her eyes. Or the ever-present pang in the core of her being. Again and again, Esther had trouble catching her breath, unable to get the words out. Frequently, she did not know the words to use, did not know if such vocabulary existed.

  How to articulate the unimaginable?

  How to explain the choreography of a daily life that could be snatched away without warning or rationale, with no security or protection available?