The Siege

by Marilyn Baron

  Theia and her mother read the remaining letters, the correspondence that spoke of love and passion, letters from Ya-Ya to Theo and letters Ya-Ya had saved from Theo, describing his time with the great artist, his mentor, Marc Chagall in France.

  “This is the last one, Mom.” Theia held her mother’s hand while she read it aloud. “It’s from 1944.”

  My darling Theo,

  This is the last letter I will write to you. I will not mail it because now that you’re gone it is undeliverable. We just heard the news about the Tanais and read the names of the families that went down with the ship—my parents, all of our friends. But when I read your name, I didn’t believe it, and then I screamed and screamed and would not come out of my room. Mr. Constas tried to comfort me, but I could not be comforted. I think baby Carolina must have sensed something was wrong, because she wouldn’t stop crying, and she wouldn’t take the breast.

  I wouldn’t eat and couldn’t sleep, and I wanted to die with you. But then who would care for our precious Carolina? Now she is my only tie to you.

  Eventually, I came out of my grief. I will never fully recover, because you are my life, and when you died, you took my happiness with you. Life for me will never be the same. There is no hope, nothing to look forward to. I am just an empty shell. Only the thought of Carolina keeps me tethered to this earth because she is a part of you.

  Mr. Constas has been a godsend. He’s always there when I need him, like a father, very dependable and kind. He walks Carolina every night, and he bottle feeds her because I am too bereft and my milk has dried up. He knows he is losing his wife, so he understands my despair.

  I have to stop now. Carolina is crying. So am I.

  “It stops here and then continues one year later,” said Theia.

  Dearest Theo,

  Before she died, Mr. Constas’s wife, Anastasia, came to me. She knew she was dying and so did her husband. But she wanted him to be happy and not mourn her after she was gone.

  “But wait… Here’s a letter from Papou’s first wife. It’s to Ya-Ya from Anastasia Constas, the woman who died. Here’s what it says.”

  I am coming to you, Eleni, because I see how lonely you are and how you mourn your beloved Theo. And you have a child to take care of. I do not wish that loneliness on my husband. Soon I will leave this world, and I want to make sure I leave him and Bennie in good hands. In your hands. I know this will sound strange for me to be giving my blessing for another woman to occupy my husband’s bed, but I have come to know you. You are a good woman and a good mother and a good friend. So I trust my husband’s happiness to you. Promise me you will make him happy.

  You may have your doubts. That’s only reasonable, but first, let me tell you a little about my husband that you may not know, so that you will understand what a good man he is. A man worthy of your love. A man who will give you a good life, and yes, even passion, although I know your first instinct will be to resist because you don’t think you deserve happiness or that you will ever find it again. But you do deserve to be happy, and you will be happy again.

  Ari grew up in Crete, and he and his brother came to the United States when Ari was fifteen. It was the 1920s, before you were even born, and at that time they left for economic reasons. He began by repairing shoes, and eventually he opened a shoe repair shop like his father had on Crete. His brother, who was apprenticed to a tailor in Crete, went into the leather business. They both opened up shops but lost everything in the Depression. But he kept working, doing anything and everything to earn a little money, and eventually he became the success he is today.

  When it was time for him to marry, Ari took a boat back to Crete to find a Greek wife, which, as you know, is the Sephardic custom.

  In my generation and my parents’ generation, we were encouraged to marry Sephardic. Ari spoke predominantly Spanish; his family was one of those who left Spain in the fifteenth century because of the Inquisition. He also speaks Ladino, which you speak, a collection of Turkish and Hebrew words, so you already have that in common.

  So my Ari came back to Crete to find a wife, and he set his sights on me. And you should know that when my husband makes up his mind, he is a force to be reckoned with. He saw me, and that was it for him. I was just eighteen, and I was not as convinced. My mother had a nice house where she lived with her sister and me. But she had already made a match for me with a wealthy banker in his fifties, an older man I definitely did not want to marry. So I saw my opportunity to get out of an arranged marriage—Ari courted me, and I agreed to marry him, and he finally won my mother over. Believe me, I made the right decision to go to America and not marry that banker.

  We went back to America and landed at Ellis Island. That’s where Ari had first heard of Greek cluster settlements in the South, in cities like Montgomery, Tampa, and Atlanta. News of the Southern communities spread by word-of-mouth. When we returned to Atlanta, we became founding members of our Sephardic synagogue in the city.

  Now, to look at my Ari, you wouldn’t know he was such a good lover. But let me assure you, Eleni, he is. It came as a total surprise to me, too. But he has a very big sexual appetite, a lot of staying power, and woman to woman, will more than satisfy you. As a matter of fact, before we left Greece for America, before he would agree to marry me, he wanted me to sample the goods, to make sure I would be happy. And I did and I was. Don’t think I couldn’t see right through that hot-blooded Greek rascal. He wanted to sample the goods, too. So we had a feast. He bought two tickets on a freighter, we got on a boat in Crete and got to Italy, where we were detained for almost a month before we were allowed to go on to America.

  Ari and I did make a trip back to Crete once, just before the war. Ari couldn’t believe it when we saw how he and his brother and parents had lived in such a small stucco home. It had seemed so big before we moved to America. Where he had lived was an old house in a medieval city. The doorway was an archway no more than six feet tall. Ari is a big man, in more ways than one. He could barely fit through it.

  Ari always said Crete was a nice place to live, that life moved slowly there. There was no hustle and bustle. It was an idyllic existence.

  But here’s what I do remember, as I’m sure you will too because we’ve talked about it. The old Venetian lighthouse in the old port of Chania, the ancient Minoan ruins, the peaceful hillside villages, and of course, the beaches. Crete is now for the tourists who come in droves on the cruise ships. Or people who visit the land of their ancestors. The children of the generation that was born there are dying off. There are only about twelve Jews left on the island. Crete would have been my home and yours. And now you must make a new home here in America, regrettably without your beloved Theo. I hope you will make a home with Ari.

  Most everybody we knew back in Crete left before things started getting bad for the Jews in Greece, with all the anti-Jewish rules. I still remember hearing about the last boat out before the Nazis arrived. It was Ari who helped supply the money to get six children out of Crete, and that included you and your Carolina. Unfortunately, Ari and I could not have children. It was our greatest sorrow. But we adopted Bennie when he came over, and we kept you and Carolina in our house also. Having you and Carolina and Bennie with us has brought us so much joy.

  When we were first married, it was not unusual around our house for us to hear the phone ring. It would be a relative saying, “Hello, we’re here from Crete, and we need a place to stay. We’re in New York, and we’ll be in town tomorrow.” Ari would not turn anyone away. His door was always open. Shelter, food, money, advice—he gave them anything they needed and more. That is the kind of man he is. Generous to a fault, to friends and strangers.

  So he’s not a Greek god like your Theo. And now he’s grown a paunch, is bald on top, and has sprouted hairs where there should be none. You, on the other hand, are a beautiful young woman, with soft skin and supple breasts. Don’t doubt for a minute that he desires you. I’ve seen him looking at you when he thinks your head is tu
rned and I’m not looking. Who can blame him? But you won’t mind him in your bed once the lights are out. He is still a tiger. You may think I’m a crazy old woman who is trying to talk you into my husband’s bed. But I am a woman who loves her husband and wants him to be as happy as he has made me. Life has dealt us a bad hand, as it has dealt you. What is that expression? If you are handed a lemon, make lemonade? Together, you and Ari can make lemonade, make love, and make each other happy. You can warm his bed and he will warm your heart.

  It is for these reasons that I recommend him to you. Woman to woman. Please give him a chance. You won’t regret it.

  “And now I’ll continue Ya-Ya’s letter to Theo,” Theia said.

  Theo, the wife of my benefactor, Mr. Constas, died almost a year ago. It is so sad around the house. He misses her so, the way I miss you. He putters around the house in a depressed state. But lately, I notice he has come out of his shell. I see the way Mr. Constas looks at me, like I am the moon and the stars, like I am something precious. I am not anyone’s shining star if I am not yours. I will never stop loving you, never stop wanting you, dreaming of you, hoping for a miracle that someday we will be together. The other day, Mr. Constas kissed me. It was not a rough kiss. It was a soft, gentle kiss, but a hungry kiss. I was not surprised. I see him watching me when he thinks I am not looking. I know he has feelings for me. But he treats me like Venetian glass. He knows if he moves too fast, I will surely break.

  He has a beard, and when he kisses me, it tickles. You remember how I hate men with beards. But this is the reality of life, Theo. He is so lonely, and so am I, and he is such a good man. He’s asked me to marry him, and he says he will spend the rest of his life doing everything he can to make me happy, and that he will love Carolina like his own, which he already does. You should see them together. Carolina adores him. She tugs on his beard and laughs so. He doesn’t know I will never be happy again. I try to remember the last time I was truly happy, and that was when I was in your arms. He promises he will provide for me and Carolina, and of course he has adopted Bennie, one of the boys I brought over to America, and he will give us all a good life.

  He knows I cannot love him the same way I love you. I cannot give him my whole heart, although I have given him my body. I’ve told him all about you. What am I to do? I wish you were here to tell me. I hope you will forgive me, but without some help I cannot go on.

  I am a terrible woman. When he takes me in his arms, I sometimes pretend he is you, and that it is you touching me, kissing my lips and my breasts, caressing my body. I can tell it makes him happy because he thinks finally I have come around and that I want him as a woman wants a man. I want to scream because he is not you, my darling, but my body betrays me and responds as if to your touch. Sometimes I can’t bear to have him touch me in the same places you touched me. Ours is not an easy love, not like it was between us. There is no fire, no passion. I do not live for him like I lived for you. But I am weak, and I’m afraid I could not live in this strange country without him or someone.

  Please forgive me, my love. I feel I cannot go on unless I lock you away, with all our dreams and desires, all the thoughts of our lives together or thoughts of the life we will never have. I cannot think of you, cannot think of Chania, cannot bear to discuss any of it. I will put all your letters away and try to make a new life for myself and for Carolina.

  I know I will have to forget about you and where I came from if I am to be a proper wife to my new husband.

  Yours always, Eleni

  Theia’s mother wiped her eyes. “I had no idea how difficult it was for her. I thought she loved my father, your Papou. I thought he made her truly happy the way your father makes me.”

  “I’m sure she loved him in her way. But she couldn’t forget her first love. I think she made the best life for herself and you that she could. I can hardly wrap my head around it. Papou was not my grandfather or your real father.”

  “No. But he was a good man. He took us in and supported us when we needed him. He was the only father I knew. According to this letter, I was born at the exact moment my real father perished on the Tanais. My mother wanted us to name you Theia. It must have been after her first husband.”

  “Remember Ya-Ya would look at me and say, ‘You look just like your grandfather.’ But I thought she was delirious. I looked nothing like Papou. Papou was fat, with a beard. I have the body of a boy. She said when she looked at my drawings they reminded her of her husband’s drawings. But even Papou would admit he couldn’t draw a straight line with a ruler.

  “And then when she died, I held her hand and she said, ‘Find your grandfather.’ And I thought she was hallucinating, because Papou has been dead for so long. What do you think she meant?”

  “I think she meant that you should go to Crete, take the photographs she left you in her shoebox, find the synagogue, and deliver the pictures. My mother would never talk about her days in Crete, never mention them. The memories must have been too painful for her to bear. Maybe you can fill in the details.

  “Your father and I adore each other, but my parents weren’t very affectionate with each other, at least not in public. I always wondered why. Now it makes sense. I thought that in private they probably behaved differently. Your ya-ya was certainly fertile. They produced enough children. Those children didn’t fall down from the sky. They weren’t delivered by a stork. They came the natural way. She must have made her husband a very happy man, since he couldn’t have children in his first marriage. Children are such a blessing. I don’t know what I would do without you and the boys.”

  “Well, it works both ways, Mom. You are the best mother in the world.” She hugged her mother.

  “Thank you, Theia.”

  “Mom, look at these pictures,” Theia said. “I didn’t know Ya-Ya could smile.”

  “I rarely saw her smile, except at her children,” her mother lamented.

  “How could we not have known about all of this?”

  “Whenever I talked to her about her past, she got so upset I dropped it. I wasn’t going to get any answers from her. When I asked your Papou, he wasn’t talking either. I hope you can find some answers when you go to Crete.”

  Chapter Twelve

  When Theia arrived at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City, she was exhausted from the long plane ride and the crying jags triggered whenever she thought of the way she’d left Wade. She’d refused to let him take her to the airport. In fact, she’d snuck out before daylight, like a thief, without a final goodbye. Neither one of them had achieved closure.

  “What will you do after I’m gone?” she’d asked him.

  “Go home, I guess. I don’t want to be here without you.”

  “I’m sorry, for everything.”

  “I’m not. I’m not sorry I met you, because I still think there’s a chance for us.”

  “Wade, I can’t deny my feelings for you. But with everything I’ve learned about my family history, I feel I have a duty, a responsibility to—”

  “To marry a Greek man and have Greek children? Do you know how unrealistic that sounds? You can’t just manufacture a man like that out of thin air.”

  “There are plenty of Greek men at my synagogue back home who are interested in me.”

  “So why didn’t you marry any of them?”

  “I was not interested in them then. But I am going to take a second look, now that I know more about my past.”

  “Why don’t we visit Santorini?” Wade suggested. “I hear it’s a beautiful island.”

  “Next you’ll want to visit Athens, or Mykonos, and then, I suppose, Rhodes.”

  “They say all roads lead to Rhodes.”

  “That’s Rome, and you know it.” Theia suppressed a smile.

  “Didn’t you say your grandmother told you every artist should see Rome?” Wade countered. “We could go back to Italy.”

  Theia threw her hands up in frustration. “Stop! I will go back to those places, one day. But now there’
s something more important I have to do.”

  “One more day, Theia,” Wade pleaded. “I just need one more day.”

  “You won’t change my mind.”

  “I might.”

  “I’m anxious to see my grandfather’s paintings.”

  “What if I changed my name to Socrates or Homer or Euripides?”

  “That won’t change the fact that you’re not Greek.”

  “How about Aristotle? You could call me Ari. It sounds Israeli.”

  “That name is already taken. That was my Papou’s name.”

  They had argued all night until they were both worn out. Though they shared the bed, Theia refused to let Wade touch her. If he did, she feared her willpower would dissolve. One kiss, one stroke of his fingers on her body, and she would give in. When he reached for her and tried to kiss her, in a last attempt to change her mind, she allowed him one long, slow kiss, and she almost relented. Her body hungered for his, but, reluctantly, and restlessly, she pulled away.

  When the new day dawned, Wade was asleep. Theia had slipped out before sunup.

  In New York, she’d spent the night at a small boutique hotel near the Museum of Modern Art and slept most of the next day away. But she was determined not to miss her late afternoon appointment with the woman who now headed the department that had issued the letter to her grandfather after the war.

  Many different people had held that position since the nineteen-forties, but the office was currently under the authority of a young and very attractive, fashionably dressed woman who warmly welcomed her to MOMA.

  “I was so excited to get your call, Miss Constas,” said the curator, a Miss Farrah Stone, who came from behind her antique desk to shake Theia’s hand. “You have no idea how long we’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Please, call me Theia.”