From Ashes Into Light: A Novel

by Gudrun Mouw

  Jill laughs. “You’re right. A flower has that power. If you meditate long and deep enough, you become one with the rose. You experience the rose’s energy as the same energy that is in everything. At the same time, everything is not groovy. The arms race is wrong. Killing is wrong. Love is right.”

  A young man pulls back an empty chair on my other side and asks, “Is someone sitting here?” I shake my head, recognizing him from my sociology class. I’ve been drawn to him from the beginning. He has curly dark hair, an athletic build, and when he sits down beside me I feel something strangely agitating.

  “Hope I’m not interrupting.” He looks at my friends apologetically. “I missed our last sociology class. Had a track meeting.” He looks at me with a smile full of beautiful white teeth. “What did Mister Professor of Sociology have to say? Did anything important happen?”

  “No,” I answer easily, regarding my least favorite class. “He gave a boring bunch of statistics. I could hardly stay awake.”

  “I know. Isn’t he ghastly?” He introduces himself to us. “I’m Jake Zuckerman.”

  I introduce my friends and myself. “I’m Elfriede Mai, most people call me Friede.” I point. “This is Jill and Karen.”

  He greets the other two with nods and smiles, then turns back to me. “How do you pronounce your name again?” His dark eyes watch me closely.

  “Actually,” Jill jumps in. “I’ve decided to give Friede a new name.”

  “She’s my roommate,” I explain, “so she takes such liberties.” I am hoping that Jill won’t call me Friede the poet, or some other wild thing just because I wrote a poem the other day. I tease Jill: “So, why give me a new name, when we’ve just decided that names and forms can get in the way of deeper understanding?”

  “That’s not to say names aren’t useful,” Karen adds.

  “Well, Elfriede is kind of a long name,” Jill explains to Jake, “and she complains Americans don’t pronounce it right—the ‘i’ too short and the ‘r’ all weird. And though we call her Friede, nobody ever spells it right. I’ve decided to call her Ellie.” Jill smiles broadly at her inspiration. “What do you think?”

  “Hmmmmm.” I stall.

  “I, for one, certainly don’t want to be accused of saying the ‘i’ too short and the ‘r’ all wrong,” Karen retorts.

  “Your given name, how do you say it again?” Jake asks.

  “Elfriede.”

  “I like it. Does it mean anything?”

  “No, but Friede means peace.”

  Jill claps her forehead. “I didn’t know that. I would never have suggested a change. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Just didn’t think of it.”

  “I still like Elfriede. The way you pronounce it makes it sound so melodious. You have just a slight accent. Are you Swedish?”

  I hesitate. I’ve come across prejudice against Germans before. “I was born in East Prussia.”

  “Where is that?”

  I am reluctant to say more and pause before I answer.

  “It used to be a part of Germany before the war.”

  “Oh.” Jake looks uncomfortable. He checks his watch. I am mortified. Jill notices my stricken expression and comes to my defense.

  “She isn’t a Nazi, you know,” she tells Jake. “She…”

  I interrupt her. “Please, don’t”

  “But Friede…”

  “I have a class.” I excuse myself and stand up.

  “Let me walk with you,” Jill offers.

  “No thanks.”

  As I am walking away I hear Karen say to Jake, “You didn’t accuse her of being a Nazi.”

  I wait to hear Jake’s answer as I gather my things. “No,” he says, “but I’m Jewish and when I heard she is German, I must admit…”

  Jill interrupts, “The persecution never stops, does it?” I rush for the door. I stop outside, looking back at the glass windows, wondering what else Jill will say. What if he is one of those who thinks the holocaust did not happen to anyone but Jews? Suddenly I remember something.

  It concerns the glimpses I’ve been having of the girl called Ruth and her Catholic friend Maria in a concentration camp; I remember this friend saying to Ruth, as she squeezed her hand, “If enough other women like me were still alive, we would be in a separate bunker; you and I couldn’t have become friends. Think of the good.” I wipe away tears; my chin rests on the top of my books and notebooks, which I am holding close to my chest with my other arm. How often does this happen? People judge others before they really know anything. I am about to move away when Jake approaches.

  “I’m sorry,” he says and touches my arm lightly.

  Friede

  El Paraiso

  I have been dating Jake for a year, happier than I can remember since my friendship with Peter and my summers at the Bodensee. Jake is driving me to Rabbi Helderman’s El Paraiso office for my third conversion session; it’s a beautiful Pacific beach town where Jake’s parents live. Jake tells me, “What do we do about my mother? She can’t get over it.”

  “What did she say?”

  Jake repeats what his mother had whispered in his ear just before we left his parents’ home. “She told me, ‘Even though she is converting, I don’t think Elfriede is right for you.’ ” Jake juts out his jaw with stubborn resistance. I put my hand on his leg.

  “Maybe the rabbi will help us sort things out,” I say and hope that what I am saying is true. I’m worried. I like Jake’s father, his sister, and his younger brother, whose fiancée is so sweet and kind, but for his mother, Jake, the oldest, is in a special category, and I am not quite acceptable.

  “I don’t know. Maybe you’re right.” Jake’s response gives me a sudden chill. He sees me shivering and closes his window. He continues. “You know Rabbi Helderman better than I do at this point. My mother thinks he’s too liberal and she doesn’t like that he’s also a psychiatrist. Maybe he’s okay. I’ve never gotten to know him very well, even though he’s been our rabbi as long as I can remember.”

  We arrive at the temple. I follow Jake, and he leads me towards the narrow one-story office building as if he is reluctant to let me go. “When should I pick you up?”

  “An hour should be enough, like before.”

  “I’ll be back before then.” Jake kisses me on the cheek and strokes my hair. I touch his face and smile brightly. I am ready for this to work.

  Rabbi Helderman opens the door. Strong light sparkles from his eyes. His eyes have been reminding me of someone. His beard is clipped and he wears a blue short-sleeved shirt, exposing dark curly hair along his arms. So familiar, I think, and the word papa comes to me, though he’s certainly not my current father.

  “Hello, Jake.” The rabbi looks at me and smiles. “Is Jake joining us today?”

  “No, rabbi,” Jake quickly replies. “This is between you and Elfriede. She has more questions.”

  I follow Rabbi Helderman into the office and sit in the same chair I sat in before. I look across the desk as the rabbi sits down behind it. There is a pleasant expression on his face. “Jake said there are questions?”

  “Maybe not the ones he is thinking of, but my own.” Tears burn my eyes and I try to hold them back. I blink and straighten myself in the chair. “There are some things that puzzle me and I can’t seem to talk about it properly with anyone.” I look down at my hands resting in my lap.

  “For example?” The rabbi tilts his head, encouragingly.

  “I am haunted by painful memories. They don’t even seem to be my own memories, which, as you know, are bad enough.”

  “Can you give an example of such a memory?”

  I look at the rabbi. He smiles gently; I examine his relaxed posture as he gets up from behind his desk. He turns the unoccupied chair next to me around, motions me to do the same until we sit across from each other without the desk between us. His knees spread outward and his palms face up on his thighs.

  “This might sound crazy, but I often feel the p
arents I have are not my real parents. When I first saw you today, you reminded me of someone very close to me, but I’ve never met anyone like you in this life.” I look at the rabbi’s exposed forearms under his short blue sleeves.

  “Go on,” the rabbi nods.

  “When I was going to school in Bavaria as a child I was treated badly because my mother and I kept the Sabbath. The people at school assumed I was Jewish. Now, sometimes, people are prejudiced against me because I was born a German. Even when I first met Jake…” Tears threaten. I squeeze my eyes shut and swallow.

  I can feel the rabbi moving even closer. I open my eyes. The rabbi leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. I drop my head and cry; my breath comes fast. My chest and shoulders lift and drop with every breath.

  Rabbi Helderman reaches out and touches my shoulder. Something wakes inside me. In the space where dreams arise, I see an amoebic object whose outline shifts and changes shape. I yearn to see inside this blue texture that breathes. Then, I imagine, I might get some answers.

  The rabbi taps me again. He rubs his beard. “Tell me more, Friede. Is it okay, to call you that?” I nod my head and begin to tell him the rest of my story which I have never told anyone. Rabbi Helderman listens attentively.

  “It appears,” he says when I am done, “you’ve seen the worst of human kind from what you’ve just told me and also from what you’ve told me the first two times we’ve met.” His eyes are moist. “You mentioned your concern about suffering last time. I won’t try to take the history of your suffering away, because it’s important to respect what you went through. Can you allow that?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve been so happy with Jake lately and I’m doing well at school. I just want to push it all away.”

  “Come back again, invite Jake, be more open with him.”

  “Yes,” I agree. We sit quietly for a bit before standing up. Rabbi Helderman follows me towards the door, but when I try to open it I’m not able to turn the doorknob. I am feeling weak. My hand shakes. My knees don’t seem to be holding me up very well.

  The rabbi steps forward. “Do you need to rest a while?”

  “No, Jake is probably waiting for me right now.” The rabbi opens the door for me.

  When I get into the car I lean back and close my eyes with relief, tears streaking down my cheeks. Jake puts a hand on my arm. He waits.

  Finally I am able to say, “It’s okay now.”

  Jake scoots over and puts his arm around me. “Hey, let’s go someplace more private.” I agree, and he drives to the ocean less than fifteen minutes away and parks the car at the edge of a cliff overlooking the beach. Palm trees crowned with long dark leaves quiver. Dusk falls over purple ice plants blooming along the bank. The sun slips to the ocean’s horizon, strong orange and red.

  “So beautiful,” I say. “What a good idea. Thanks for bringing me here.”

  “It is El Paraiso, you know—Spanish for paradise.”

  Friede

  Whenever Jake and I visit his parents, I meet with Rabbi Helderman. Jake, as yet, has declined to join us, but he is happy that the rabbi has taken an interest in me, that I speak highly of him, and, most of all, that he has had a quiet word with Mrs. Zuckerman, which seems to be helping her to accept me more. Sometimes when we meet in the rabbi’s office we sit for a time without talking; sometimes the rabbi reads a passage from one of the books in the glassed-in cases along the walls of his office. Occasionally he teaches me a chant, an ancient Hebrew prayer, or he sings haunting melodies that move me to tears.

  “You always remind me of someone,” I say one morning.

  “Who?”

  “The name Josef comes to me, though I don’t know anyone with that name. I’ve had visions about him.”

  “Can you describe Josef?”

  “He has curly hair on his arms like you. His eyes are darker, but there is a quality that’s the same. It’s your kindness that reminds me of him.”

  “I want to say something about these memories you’ve told me about. I’ve had a conversation with another rabbi, but before I get to that, would you like to explore your vision about Josef?” I nod. Rabbi Helderman touches his fingers together lightly and speaks slowly. I know what to do and am ready. We have done this before. “Close your eyes…inhale deeply…exhale fully…relax…notice, is there tension anywhere in your legs, arms, belly, chest, shoulders, neck, head? See what happens when you pay attention for a while.”

  A twitch comes and goes in my left shoulder. My right thigh tightens and releases. My feet tingle. I listen intensely.

  “Remember, whatever comes up, feel free to share if you wish, Friede.”

  “I hear the sound of metal rolling over metal. I hear a whistle and the sound of the German language being spoken very harshly. There is fear. There’s pain in my stomach like hunger. I am pressed in between many people. My chest is tight and I can’t breathe very well.”

  “Stay with it if you can.”

  “No. No, I can’t.”

  “All right.” I open my eyes as the rabbi reaches for a glass of water and offers it to me. He removes his glasses, takes a handkerchief out of his pocket, and wipes the lenses. His brown eyes look at me with a quizzical expression. “As I said earlier, I have been speaking with a rabbi friend of mine. Do you remember me asking you if you would allow me to consult with someone about your situation, and you agreed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, this rabbi has a theory and I think you might find this surprising. You have told me several times that you are concerned whether your interest in and practice of yoga, which has become so important to you this last year, would interfere with the work we are doing here, as well as with your conversion. Well, this rabbi friend of mine believes that many victims of the holocaust have reincarnated as yogis, possibly because yoga is not associated with any particular dogma. What do you think?”

  “I like it.” I let the rabbi’s words sink in before I continue. “It’s comforting to think that.”

  “As far as your difficulties with unusual memories, it is hard to say why we remember certain things and not others. Perhaps there are reasons. Perhaps we don’t wish to relive the pain. However, consider this—if something haunts you, let it. You may learn unexpected things by keeping an open heart and an open mind. You might wish to pay attention to your dreams the next few days.”

  That night, just before falling asleep, I recall my conversation with Rabbi Helderman. I sleep in Jake’s arms and have a dream. I see Maria: her broad hands. Her positive speech. Her strength. Her courage. I look into her loving face again, and for the first time I am not afraid of what comes next. I don’t flinch or turn away.

  Friede

  Rabbi Helderman joins me at the lectern. “Before we begin the conversion ceremony, I would like to say something.” He clears his throat before he continues. “Elfriede Mai, Friede, I wish to welcome you to our community. We are fortunate to have you join us, and it has been my great honor and pleasure to know you. I have learned a good deal from you about the heart’s capacity to heal.” He opens up his palms and gestures towards the gathering. “I thank you, friends and family members, for being here at this time.” He looks at Mr. and Mrs. Zuckerman and my mother.

  Standing next to Jake, Jill wears large hoop earrings that flash when she moves her head. Home from college for a visit, Elizabeth stands behind my mother and leans forward to touch her on the shoulder. Startled, my mother turns. She looks frightened even as she smiles in recognition.

  The rabbi had not prepared me for the question he now places before me. “Please, Friede, tell us the Hebrew name you wish to take.”

  I look at him, surprised. I see Jake and my friends waiting for an answer. I see my mother, a worried fold between her eyebrows. I search Rabbi Helderman’s face. How many hours have I spent looking at each line in every expression? A white light shines around his head. For a moment it looks as if he is transforming into Josef, as though to reassure me, Ruth, you are stronger
and wiser than you know. Papa, I think. Papa.

  Someone coughs. I blink. Rabbi Helderman lifts his chin expectantly. His beard is newly trimmed. Light reflects on his glasses. Softly he asks again, “Friede, what name do you choose?”

  My voice fills the room. “Ruth. I choose Ruth.”

  Rabbi Helderman asks me if I have some words to share with everyone. I am surprised by the words that come out. “Thank you everyone for coming. I had a dream last night. In the dream there was a part where I saw nothing but light, and it was as if the light was chanting: I am Coyote singing. I am the lion, the vulture, I am all that endures, all that roars, all that is strong, and, most of all, I am grateful to be alive.” As I repeat these words I feel strong inside; light shines around all the walls in the room, along the ceiling and along the shapes of the celebrants. I see myself standing inside the light.

  When I step away from the lectern, I am eager to throw my arms around Jake. “I love you,” I whisper.

  “I love you too,” he answers.

  I go to my mother. “I’m glad you came. I know he didn’t want you to be here.” Her face scrunches up. She knows I’m talking about my father, who was not invited. “I am so happy you’re here.” I kiss my mother on the cheek; she strokes my hair. We embrace.

  Family and friends meet at the Temple’s social hall for a help-yourself buffet. I hear pleasant conversation, see happy faces. I ask Mutti if she wants me to get her a glass of champagne. She shakes her head. I feel a bit strange. A part of me still carries the ceremony inside me like a beacon that shines out from darkness towards an unknown future.

  I don’t remember exactly what I said when Rabbi Helderman asked me to speak, but the energy of that experience remains very strong. It is like a powerful bright current moving through my entire body, causing me to feel unsteady. I find myself struggling to put food on a plate and drop a serving spoon covered with red cabbage. Embarrassed, I look for Jake and see him sitting at a table. I go to join him. He introduces me to someone across the table. “This is my Aunt Rachel,” he says. She asks me the question I have already answered several times.