Pictures of the Past

by Deby Eisenberg

  When Jason responded, he turned to his wife Lara to speak, his back symbolically to his mother. “My mother would never talk about my father. She always told me that I was special, ‘the child of a beautiful love.’ And I accepted that—remember that at six or seven, I was adopted by Richard Stone, and I had a wonderful life, feeling safe, secure, and loved. By the time I was old enough to perhaps want to search for my father, I was old enough to understand the social history during the 1960s and I thought maybe she was involved in ‘free love’ or a commune and maybe she just didn’t know who he was.”

  Now he turned back to his mother and tried to put tenderness in his words, although there was a palpable edge to his tone. “I was old enough to know that my strong mom did not deserve to be denigrated by my researching my birth father. And my true father, Richard, who raised me with such devotion, deserved my faithfulness. In truth, he was such a distinguished man that I was afraid he might not know about my mother’s past, that he might love her less if I disturbed whatever story she had told him.”

  He was almost crying and both women ached to see him in such pain. His mother could barely offer her words through her own choked emotions. “Jason, darling, I am so sorry that you held your questions in, and especially that you did it to protect my privacy. Your maturity has always amazed me.”

  And although he hated to see her anguished, he knew he had to continue. “But, my God, how naïve I was. Don’t you understand what this means—forget the provenance of the painting—it is not a living thing— what about me? What about my provenance? My real father was what—anti-Semitic. He came from Nazi sympathizers. This is my heritage—this is my provenance? No thank you—give me ignorance—knowledge isn’t power; it is devastation.”

  And now, he did finally look directly at his mother as he spoke. “You raised me with a proud Jewish identity. But here is the truth now—here is my true provenance. I am the son and grandson of anti-Semites and I should have known sooner.

  “My memories were kept alive for a purpose—that one day, in my complacency for my good and privileged life, one day when I would return home from my good job to my beautiful wife and healthy, handsome son— just as I reveled in my contentment—that I would be knocked down to the lowest level of existence. I don’t come from a proud heritage—I come from filth.

  “That woman, Sylvie, from what you told me, now everything is clear—names and places and events. She was living at the Woodmere Estate with her father and my father, Court. Sylvie, my afternoon playmate, who would recognize my son, my young double, years later, actually is my half sister.”

  Sarah

  Haifa, 2005

  Sarah Dressner was enjoying her morning cup of coffee before her busy day would begin. Thankful for her good health, she wanted to treasure every moment and breath and help others when she could. And so she was finishing her daily routine before taking the bus to the nursing home where she was a volunteer. There, she would read portions of the newspaper to her eager following, knowing that maybe soon she would be a listener herself.

  And so it was her custom to sip her coffee and peruse the paper for the most interesting articles to share with the residents of the home. And then she saw it. It was common that stories involving the provenance of Holocaust-era paintings not only appeared in local papers, but also circulated in the Jewish press around the world, and especially in Israel. In her hand was a photograph of the painting he had left with her almost seventy years ago. Jeune Fille à la Plage, by Henri Lebasque, was back in her life once more.

  She became excited, almost frantic. Her eyes were tearing and she could barely read—but there was no one to turn to for help. Her husband, Gabriel, was gone for many years now, and her children and grandchildren lived in Tel Aviv. She wiped her eyes; she had not been overcome like this for a long time.

  This was the painting that her first true love, Taylor Woodmere, had given her to hold on to until they could be reunited. And once again, as so often in the intervening decades, she relived the timeline. She had met Taylor in Paris in 1937, when she was only seventeen and proud to accompany her father on a business trip. She and Taylor had made an instant connection and he followed her to Berlin. He was honest when they first met that he had actually bought the painting for Emily Kendall, his girlfriend back home. But soon after they met, he knew it was meant for her, just as he was meant for her. He had left the painting for her, until both she and the painting made their way home, back to him in Chicago. In the time they spent together, she returned those same wondrous emotions. And she would carry the memory of the passion of a first true love throughout her life.

  After their brief, whirlwind romance, he returned to America, and they both planned that she would be joining him in the near future. But circumstances of history and war intervened. And so it was that the painting hung in the Berger house for a year until it accompanied her aboard the ill-fated ship to America, the St. Louis. How ironic, she thought now, that this painting made it back to him and she did not.

  For when they docked in Cuba, only certain passengers and some cargo with American tags were allowed to reach their destinations. The great majority of passengers were returned to Europe. Later, even she would learn from statistics the Holocaust Museum would reveal that 908 passengers were returned to Europe on the St. Louis and over 250 died in the Holocaust.

  In truth, while Sarah never knew if the painting had made it back to America, she did know that Taylor had eventually married Emily. It was years before Sarah could finally resurface following her experiences in the war. After being sent back on the St. Louis, she spent the remainder of the war years maintaining the identity of Liesel Schultz. Just as the leader on the ship had foreseen, with Gentile looks and her affinity for children, she was a strong asset to the Resistance Movement. Eventually, she made her way to Palestine, helping to establish the new State of Israel. Although she was happy and settled in the routines of her new reality, she made inquiries about Taylor. She was so changed then, no longer the innocent, young girl with whom he had fallen in love. She could understand that after so much time had passed Taylor had probably thought he had lost her and so he had returned to his life. She did not blame him at all. She thanked him silently for her wonderful memories, for adding to her will to survive. She became devoted to building the new land, accepting and returning the love of a fellow Resistance leader, but never forgetting the flames of passion and desire that Taylor had first ignited in her.

  Sarah smiled to herself as these wonderful, strong memories were allowed to return to her. It had been years since she had focused on that period in her life, but now she knew she could not read this and sit idly in her reverie—she had a responsibility to set the record straight. Taylor Woodmere did not deserve this treatment. He was a good, compassionate man, and she needed to clear up any misunderstanding and to clear his name.

  Within hours after a phone call, her daughter and son-in-law rushed to Haifa, to her side. Parts of this story were not unfamiliar to them; Sarah had been generally open about her personal history and the Holocaust. Even the name Taylor Woodmere was not new to them, as she had told them of his efforts to bring her to America before the war. But she was always vague regarding their romantic involvement.

  The following day, her son-in-law was able to connect with the appropriate authorities so that Sarah could detail over the phone and eventually by certified letter that this painting was indeed the property of Taylor Woodmere. She explained that she knew Gerta as a neighbor and appreciated her concern in the matter, but that Gerta did not know the whole story.

  But most importantly, she felt she needed to contact Taylor Woodmere directly.

  Emily

  Kenilworth, 2005

  Despite the fact that her pneumonia had kept her bedridden and she rarely spoke on the telephone anymore, Emily Woodmere was agitated by its relentless ringing during this stressful time. And so on this day, she was the one who answered the call from Sarah. Sarah explained that her n
ame was Dressner now, but she was Sarah Berger—that she needed to speak to Taylor Woodmere regarding the painting. No, she told the woman that answered, she was not a reporter. She was calling from Israel. She was the woman in whose home the painting in question was temporarily displayed, but Taylor Woodmere was always the rightful owner.

  Unlike her husband who still had a strong constitution, Emily’s mind and body were showing all the signs of her age. But she still remembered the story of Taylor’s trip to Europe and how he returned to her less loving, more distant, and how it was many years before they became a couple again. She remembered the pain that Sarah had caused her. And she was disturbed, even confused, when this woman insisted on talking to her husband. She did not even want to tell her husband that Sarah was on the phone. Even after all these years the past still haunted her.

  “I don’t think this could be Sarah Berger. I know that Taylor searched for Sarah Berger after the war— that woman was lost decades ago,” Emily said.

  “No, you don’t understand. And—you must be Emily. I am Sarah Berger, now Sarah Dressner, and I eventually settled in what became Israel. Your husband was a special, wonderful person, and I know there is controversy now and I want to help clear his name.”

  Even with this said, Emily was hesitant to reconnect her husband with Sarah. And somehow, across the wires, Sarah understood that to Emily she was not an older woman who had survived the Holocaust, but a contemporary rival, who tried to steal Taylor, her precious love. And then Sarah, knowing that she could help this woman and still hold onto her own cherished memories, told Emily that she had verified to the authorities that this painting was always owned by Taylor Woodmere, that she was only holding it for a brief time, that it was bought as a gift for her, for Emily.

  And with those words, for one more moment in time, Emily was young again. Her handsome suitor, Taylor, had not abandoned her when he went to Europe.

  Audible across the lines, Emily was sobbing, yet it was as if her faculties were revitalized. Finally she spoke to Sarah. “Thank you—you are a good person—You have now given me the greatest gift at the most crucial hour.”

  The Woodmere Estate

  Kenilworth, 2005

  In the following week, as Rachel Gold Stone deliberated how to handle the situation, to restore Jason’s confidence in himself and in her, the papers carried the resolution of the scandal and the clearing of, even the acclamation of the Woodmere name. But still she knew that she had to clarify and rectify the past. With support and encouragement from her husband, Richard, she made a call to the home of Taylor Woodmere, and was surprised that Taylor not only took her call immediately, but did not even question or resist when she requested a meeting with him. She even wondered if he had misunderstood her identity, perhaps thinking that she might have been a reporter following the story. And she was further confused when he insisted that she bring her family, as his family would all be present. Of course, that was her intent—but how could he have known—that on this visit she would not let Jason be overlooked.

  It was on a beautiful Saturday morning, with the sun glistening off Lake Michigan a specter through the eastern windows, that Jason Gold Stone, accompanied by his wife, Lara, and his parents, Rachel and Richard, revisited the Woodmere Estate, for the first time in thirty years.

  And greeting him in the foyer, as if resurrected from a dream, was his grandfather Taylor and his half-sister, Sylvie. Introductions were made as they were ushered into the dining room and presented with refreshments. As if leading a board meeting, Taylor said he would like everyone present to listen to a story from the past.

  Taylor went on to explain how in 1975 he had overheard the conversation between Rachel and Court and correctly surmised that the wonderful little boy, called Rusty, was actually Court’s son. He then made it his business to follow the life of his grandson. Immediately, he put him in his will to provide for his inheritance. But since Taylor felt he had failed with Court, he kept his money reserved for Jason’s future and let him become a man who could fulfill his own promise without his interference. But through the years he interfered a little, providing anonymously his grant for Northwestern Law School. Many years prior to that, Taylor had even clandestinely helped Rachel secure initial interior decorating writing assignments on Chicago’s North Shore, until she established herself as a writer in the field. Since his investigation revealed that Rachel was marrying a good man—and he felt his son had done enough damage—he chose to remain only in the background.

  But he was glad that he finally had the opportunity to clear up the stigma of the anti-Semitic remarks by his son, Court; it was Court’s misunderstanding of a situation. In truth, the Woodmere family had been strong Jewish supporters for generations. Taylor recounted the story of Court’s grandfather Addison, who encouraged Taylor to establish relations with a Jewish businessman when he sent him overseas before World War II. At this point, Taylor apologized for Emily’s absence, explaining that she was ill, but that her anti-Semitic leanings, which Court had picked up on, stemmed only from a valid jealousy of a Jewish woman Taylor had met who presumably perished in the Holocaust. He was careful not to identify her as his “true love,” although the words almost slipped from his lips. (As it turned out, Emily would not emerge from this last convalescence and her funeral would be the following week.)

  By the end of the afternoon, tears and hugs and forgiveness united a family with such diverse roots. Sylvie and Jason could not stop exchanging instances of how the haunting, but pleasant memories stayed with them all the years. And Jason promised his grandfather Taylor that he could soon meet his great-grandson, Marcus, another little “Rusty.”

  Later that afternoon, content now with the satisfaction of a heartening family reunion, Taylor was finally focusing on a recent memory, when less than two weeks ago he was called to the phone and it was Sarah Berger Dressner from Haifa, Israel. For him, it was like speaking to a ghost from the past…an angel really…as he did not know that she had survived. There was the sound of age and experience in her voice, he was thinking, just as he knew there was in his. But it was recognizably her voice. It was Sarah. It was her beautiful German-accented English, just a little broken by the mechanics of time on the body. And now he was back in time, back to the exact moment that was the movie playing in his head through all the intervening years.

  He was not holding a telephone receiver, not in his study focusing on the memories of a lifetime—pictures lining his walls—a wedding and an assortment of events that accompany the raising of a son and then a granddaughter and then great-grandchildren. He was not seeing photos of handshakes with Supreme Court judges and even presidents. He was focusing on one uncaptured picture of the past. It was the moment when he turned his head in the Paris restaurant and he was introduced to the most beautiful young woman he could imagine.

  “Sarah, you have to know. I searched for you—I searched for your parents,” he had said to her when he could finally manage words. “Eventually, I found only your father’s name among the victims of the concentration camps…Emanuel, that wonderful and accomplished man. He was an inspiration to me. You must believe that…And when I finally knew his fate, I cried.” The words were not coming quickly or easily. “I cried for the tremendous loss. But your mother, like you, I could not trace.”

  She was equally slow to answer him, her abbreviated, tearful breaths audible across the lines. “My sweet Taylor, you have the same soul that I last knew. You could not have known that I used Aryan identification papers during those war years. Yes, we lost my father to the terror, but my mother survived. It is a very long story, and, of course, she was never the same. But eventually I located her after the war in a displaced persons’ camp in Germany, and I was able to bring her to Israel. But as you can imagine, she is gone for a long while now.” And then Sarah was too overcome to continue. There would be time ahead to fill in the story.

  “Sarah, you have to know. I never stopped loving you,” he finally said, choking back
the emotional tears that in all of his life seemed to only surface for her.

  “And I was never complete without you,” she responded softly. “I never stopped thinking of you, dreaming of our time together, honoring the pledge that I would love you forever,” she continued. “But I did not realize that you still felt the same. I thought that you had found happiness and peace.”

  “I made a life—that was all,” he responded quickly, “but now I am whole again.”

  They both wondered if despite the constraints of age and distance, it would be possible for them to meet in person once more. Or would they have to remain content with this acknowledgement of their constant connection, this mutual validation of their love and their memories?

  Through a series of phone conversations, they would bring one another’s histories up to the present. But it was on that very first call that she thanked him profusely for trying to save her then, and he thanked her for saving him now.

  Epilogue

  On Taylor’s instructions, the spokesman for the Woodmere Foundation had been successful in misleading the press as to the day the El Al flight would land at Chicago’s O’Hare International Terminal. Taylor would not deny the reporters their story; he felt even grateful for the role they had played in crafting its conclusion. But just as his introduction to Sarah and their long separation had been private for decades, so he wanted this reunion to remain out of the spotlight.