The Siege

by Marilyn Baron

  Theia tossed and turned on the bed in the hotel room, tears streaming down her face, until she felt someone shaking her shoulder.

  “Theia, wake up. You’re having another bad dream.”

  Wade turned on the bedside light. “You’re crying. Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

  Theia wiped at her tears with the sheet and sniffled. Wade was ready with a tissue. She’d forgotten where she was. That she was still here with Wade, in his bed in the hotel. She hadn’t let him make love to her again, although he’d coaxed and cajoled her all evening. She’d almost capitulated. With a great day at the beach and an afternoon of sightseeing at the harbor, they had grown closer. Then the tour of the Palace at Knossos. Her feelings for Wade were growing. With each passing day, she was afraid she could no longer resist him. He had called her sweetheart. Things had gone too far, too fast. It had to stop. Perhaps the intensity of their relationship had been ratcheted up by their life-or-death experience at the hotel in Florence. Or it might be the fact that they were out of the U.S.; therefore none of the real-world relationship rules applied. Or was it the warmth of Wade’s body stretched out in the sunlight? Their flame was bright, maybe too bright to last.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing. You’re shaking. Please tell me what the dream was about.”

  Trying to put her thoughts into words was impossible. She wanted Wade’s strong arms around her, but she had to learn to stand on her own. She’d already told him she was flying out in the morning to board a plane for New York City.

  “You don’t have to worry about me,” she said, surfacing from her nightmare.

  “It’s too late for that,” Wade said. “Theia, can we talk?”

  “I need to sleep. I have a plane to catch in the morning.”

  “I can go with you.”

  “I don’t want you to.”

  “You’re being stubborn,” Wade said.

  “Do you want to pick a fight on our last night together?” she challenged.

  “I don’t want it to be our last night together.”

  “Go back to sleep,” she said, turning away from him to face the wall, when everything in her wanted to turn toward him.

  Wade pulled the covers up to his chin and turned toward the bathroom. “You’re making a mistake.”

  “Well, it’s my mistake to make.”

  They slept, or didn’t sleep, in silence the remainder of the night.

  Theia studied the full moon outside her window. She would paint that moon one day. And one day, when it stopped hurting, she would paint Wade. She had only known him for a short while, but in that time she had grown to depend on him, to need him, maybe even to love him.

  Fresh tears slipped silently down her face.

  Chapter Ten

  Wade woke to bright sunlight streaming in the window of their hotel. He stretched out an arm and patted the other side of the bed.

  “Theia?”

  When no one answered, he thought she must already have gone down to breakfast. He closed his eyes, hoping to catch a few more minutes of sleep, until the truth hit him between the eyes like a two-by-four. He bolted out of bed, grabbed his watch from the bedside table, and then cursed. Maybe he could still catch her. Then his head fell back onto the pillow. No, she didn’t want to be caught. He’d fallen asleep, he’d overslept, and she was gone, forever. It was too late. He could kick himself.

  He’d offered to drive her to the airport, to wait with her for her plane, so they could spend the last few precious moments together, but she had steadfastly refused. He’d spent most of the night looking at her, drinking her in, memorizing her features, and he’d tried to stay awake until morning. But he must have dozed off, and she’d made her getaway, like a thief, in the middle of the night, a thief who’d stolen his heart.

  She’d left him. He could almost calculate the odds. That’s what women did. He’d had plenty of experience with that. He should be used to it by now. Dispirited, he plodded into the bathroom. Her towel was hanging on the rack. He sniffed it. He could still smell her. He’d marveled at the way she used the towel to wrap around her damp head after she’d washed her fragrant hair. It was some kind of magical turban swirl that women did. His mother and his sisters could do it, too, and, of course, his ex-fiancée. It was in the women’s handbook of wondrous things that men could never hope to imitate or understand. He walked to the closet to confirm his worst fears. Her suitcase and all her clothes were gone.

  Wade showered and dressed. He felt like a ship adrift. He didn’t think he could take a step forward. He hadn’t even gotten a chance to say goodbye. He couldn’t believe he wasn’t going to see Theia’s beautiful face again.

  Then he saw what was on the desk.

  He picked up the thick, creamy piece of paper torn out of Theia’s sketch pad. She must have done it in the middle of the night—a sketch of him, only a pencil sketch, but it captured him. Theia was truly talented. She’d signed the sketch at the bottom. Love, Theia. And he realized that he did love Theia. He wished she had left him a sketch of herself, but Theia wouldn’t have thought to do that. She didn’t have a vain bone in that magnificent body of hers. She had been thinking of him at the end. But why hadn’t she taken his likeness with her? Maybe she didn’t need a reminder of his face. He could certainly never forget her. He hoped he could conjure up her face, and her gravelly voice, long after she was gone.

  He looked through the photos on his cell phone. At least he’d have a record of those memories. She’d taken his address so she could mail him a check for the expenses he’d fronted her. But he’d never thought to get her phone number or address. He thought there would be more time. Shoulders slumped, he packed up his clothes, pulled his suitcase out of the room, and checked out of the hotel. Where should he go? What should he do? He needed a plan.

  The first item on his agenda was to drive back to the synagogue. He had no idea where Theia lived. He knew she was from Atlanta, but Atlanta was a big place. Sophia, the woman in the church, said Theia’s mother had called her to announce her daughter’s arrival. He would get her number. After New York, Theia would no doubt head home. She was what, 22? Maybe 24? She’d just graduated college. It made sense that she’d still be living with her parents. Why hadn’t he thought to get her phone number? What had they talked about? Everything. Big picture things. Mundane things. Hopes and dreams. But he had forgotten to get the critical details.

  When he got to the synagogue, Sophia greeted him warmly. “Where’s Theia?”

  “Gone, but I need to get her mother’s phone number.”

  Sophia went into the office and came out with a phone number written on a piece of paper. She smiled, planted a kiss on his cheek, and said, “Go after her.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “To me it is. You were sparring and stumbling all over each other like a couple of playful puppies, but love was written all over your faces. It was the same with Theo and Eleni.”

  “Thank you, Sophia.” Wade pulled out a handful of bills and placed them in the Tzedakah bowl.

  Should he continue on with his vacation? Get her email address and send her selfies of him alone in Santorini and Mykonos and Athens and Rome and Venice, saying, “Wish you were here,” and, “Missing you”? Theia would dismiss the snaps and call him a dork. As far as he was concerned, there was no place like Crete on earth and no woman on earth like Theia. Should he go back to San Francisco, back to his job, back to his life, which he’d thought was enough before he met Theia? But now that he’d been with her, he knew it would never be enough.

  This was a siege, like the one in Florence, and he was going to fight for her and never give up. Not until she was in his arms again. And when that happened, he was never going to let her go.

  But how was he going to win her back? Should he watch My Big Fat Greek Wedding? Study Greek mythology? Greek literature? Learn to be more Greek? Study Hebrew? How was he going to accomplish that Herculean feat? Right now he was like Sisyp
hus, ceaselessly, futilely, hopelessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, only to have the stone fall back down on him. He had met his Venus and the gods were playing their mind games.

  Wade made a few phone calls. He was headed for Atlanta. And he was going to wait there until Theia returned. If he had to wrestle with any of her Greek beaus, he would. If he had to compose love letters, he would do that, too. He would do anything to win her back. She was that important to him.

  Part Three

  The Letters

  “In the arts, as in life, everything is possible provided it is based on love.”

  ~Marc Chagall

  Chapter Eleven

  Dearest Carolina and Theia,

  If you’re reading this letter, I am no longer on this earth. I’m sorry to say I’ve kept some secrets from you, things you both had a right to know, but things I couldn’t bear to talk about or think about. There is no other way to say this but to say it.

  Of course you both know I was from Greece and I left Crete before the end of the war. But what you don’t know, Carolina, is that your father, and Theia, your Papou, was not who you think he was. I was already married when I came over from Crete. Married and pregnant with you, Carolina. It was during the war, and my husband was Theo Frangos, a handsome and talented young artist who studied with Chagall. He was the love of my life.

  Theia, you have always reminded me of him, and every time I slipped up and mentioned that you resembled your Papou, you would laugh and wrinkle your nose and say, “But Papou is bald and fat and has a hairy beard. I don’t look anything like him.” But you were the image of your real grandfather. You have his eyes. And that space between your teeth.

  And you obviously inherited his talent. I have arranged for you to take a trip to Italy for your college graduation present because every artist should visit Italy. Your grandfather would have liked that.

  After your trip, I hope you’ll visit Crete, my birthplace and the birthplace of your real grandfather. Theo and I were childhood sweethearts. We were in love, and we got married. He wanted me to leave Crete when the Germans arrived, but I told him I wouldn’t leave, that things were not that bad. But then they were, and finally, after years of occupation, it was too late to get out. My Theo was part of the resistance. He arranged for me to get out and to take with me five otherwise unaccompanied children, on the last boat out of Crete. He saved me and our child, Carolina, and five other children, but it was too late for him.

  Because I was pregnant, I agreed to go, and he promised me he would follow. But, in times of war, we cannot always keep our promises. He was caught in Chania, our home, and rounded up with the rest of the Jewish community, all put on a boat bound to Auschwitz. The boat, the Tanais, was sunk, and there were no survivors. I still blame myself for his death. If I had only gone with him when he wanted to leave, our lives would have been so different.

  I was grieving, but I had you to look out for, Carolina, and so I moved on with my life. Theia, your father was one of the children I brought out of Crete, and he and your mother eventually married and were happy. The other children were taken in by families around the world—in South Africa, South America, Los Angeles, and Australia. I’ve kept in touch with them over the years, and we’ve exchanged pictures. Some of them returned to Crete, but I couldn’t bear to go back without my Theo. I would like you to know them, too.

  Theia, I want you to make a pilgrimage to Crete, to the synagogue, and place these pictures on the Memory Wall there. Although Crete’s Jewish population was wiped out, we survived and thrived elsewhere, and raised families, and these pictures are a testament to that.

  My hope is that you will find a trace of your grandfather, explore your talent, become a great artist like him, and like your mother, marry a Greek man and find happiness and thrive and survive. Please forgive me for keeping this secret.

  All My Love,

  Ya-Ya

  Theia looked at her mother through tear-laden eyes.

  “I had no idea,” Carolina said. “All this time, and I thought your Papou was my father.”

  Theia shook her head. “My grandfather was an artist. I wish I could see something he painted.”

  “We’ll have to look into this,” Carolina said. “I never heard of the Tanais. My real father died during the war. That’s unbelievable.”

  “Look at this picture, Mama. This must be him. He was very handsome.”

  “Theia, he looks just like you. You even have the same space between your teeth, the space you always hated. And you have his beautiful eyes. I always wondered where those came from.”

  Theia touched her tongue to her teeth, a familiar habit. “I wish she were still here so I could ask her some questions.”

  “Remember you told me you saw a man at the foot of the bed when Ya-Ya died?”

  “Yes, it was this man in the picture. And he was young, like he is in this wedding picture.”

  “Imagine that,” Carolina said. “I knew about the trip your grandmother was planning for you. She gave me all the paperwork. It was supposed to be a surprise for your birthday. I want you to go.”

  “Don’t you want to go, to see where she was born, where your parents were born?”

  “I need to talk to your father, but no, you go and represent the family. Let’s look through these pictures and letters and see what else we can learn.”

  Theia emptied the box. There were more pictures of a young Ya-Ya with a handsome young man in wedding attire, family pictures in a faraway place that Theia had never seen before. And a packet of letters.

  Theia wiped her eyes and started reading aloud to her mother, who could hardly compose herself. Theia picked up one of the letters. “Here’s one from Theo, from your father, to Ya-Ya, written from France in 1940.”

  Dearest Eleni,

  They’re rounding up Jews in France. You need to get ready to leave. I know you are thinking that nothing like that is happening or can ever happen in Greece.

  Not yet. But how do we know what will happen? Marc’s getting out with his family, but it is almost too late. He’s offered me a way out, through Marseilles. He’s agreed to take my paintings with him to New York City. But I told him I won’t leave without you.

  And you have told me you will never leave. I’m coming home. Maybe I can convince you it is too dangerous for us to stay.

  Your Theo

  “And here’s another, from Ya-Ya, written to Theo from Atlanta,” Theia said.

  My Dearest Theo,

  I haven’t heard from you in a while, and I know it is impossible to send letters during the war. I don’t even know where you are, off in the mountains fighting, or in Chania. I know one thing—wherever you are, I am with you and you are with me.

  I have news, the best news. Our daughter was born at 2:31 on the morning of June 9. I woke up sweating. I couldn’t breathe. The air was stale. The walls were closing in on me. I felt like I was drowning, but you were there with me and you held my hand and spoke of your love. And you said I must live. I must have been dreaming, because when I woke up you were gone.

  But the family that took us in got me to the hospital, and I gave birth to a beautiful little girl. She’s a knockout. She looks just like you. She has all her fingers and toes and a beautiful head of dark hair. I wonder if she will be an artist like you. I can’t wait for you to see her. Come to us as soon as you can. The family that took us in also took a boy from our town, one of the ones I was traveling with, so our children will grow up together. The man is a very respected man in our synagogue. He is very wealthy, older than us, but he has given me and now Carolina, your daughter, our own room, a home while we wait for you.

  His wife is very ill and will probably die soon, so I’ve been helping out as I can with the cooking, cleaning, and mothering the little boy I brought over—and, of course, our Carolina. Now that I have the little ones to care for, I am always exhausted. The one thing I live for is the day when you come back to us. I should not have gone without you.
<
br />   The newspapers here update us on the war, but we have no idea when it will be over. Come to us as soon as you can. I love you.

  Always,

  Your Shining Star

  Theia held her hand over the letter. The way her ya-ya signed the letter triggered another memory. Her grandfather, step-grandfather now, used to call himself her grandmother’s “Constellation Prize.” She wondered whether he knew about Theo. He must have. If Theo called his wife “My Shining Star,” then maybe that’s why Papou referred to himself as a Constellation Prize, meaning he was the consolation prize compared to her first husband. Her grandparents hadn’t been very affectionate, but somehow they had four children together. It was obvious her grandfather—her step-grandfather—worshipped the ground his wife walked on, but Ya-Ya was more reserved when they were together. Theia couldn’t recall them touching or leaning into each other, or exhibiting any signs of being in love.

  What she did remember was that whenever they went anywhere, whether to synagogue, out to dinner or a movie, or on vacation, it was like moving a small town. Still, she had only happy memories of her family. Her grandmother’s memories must have been bittersweet, if she thought of all the other children she could have had with Theo.