The Ghost of Hannah Mendes

by Naomi Ragen

  Be wise: Remember this.

  All things of utmost excellence are extremely difficult to obtain. The luster of gold is found only after the dross is burned away in great fires; the splendor of the diamond revealed only after leveling by the heavy, grinding wheel.

  So, too, human beings—particularly the great, misjudged, and most unfairly condemned of peoples, into whom I, and you, my children, have been born and are irrevocably connected. Thus must we endure our suffering in order to emerge—all dross fallen away—to shine in the eyes of G-d and man. And then—what happiness awaits us!!

  And with this as preface, I now reveal part of the great secret that I hold and which I bequeath to you:

  Endure. Resist the importunate harassments of the Enemy with a marvelous constancy. Yet be not like those brothers who end their lives rather than carry their burdens. Let your head bend, your back sway from the heaviness of the unbearable load, yet survive! Breathe. Move. Live!

  For ten years in chains are better than one moment in the ground.

  This is wisdom.

  I remember that Passover night when my grandfather begged my forgiveness. I regret that I did not then possess the knowledge to have granted it with a full and understanding heart.

  He died before I came of age. But many times since have I seen him in that twilight hour where dreams become flesh, and past overlays present.

  “Grandfather,” I whisper, “the shame is not yours, but theirs. I, Grandfather, will never let them trample me. I will keep this back, these knees, this heart, upright, for your sake and for the honor of all those who came before me.”

  And each time I say these things, I see it happen: Like a miracle, his back straightens and his shoulders rise and span the sky.

  13

  “Oh, here it is! The last one. I really thought they’d lost it,” Francesca said, peering anxiously down the luggage conveyer. She grabbed the handle of the enormous Pullman, attempting to dissuade it from its relentless momentum forward. It wouldn’t budge.

  “Ask one of these guys to help you, Francesca. Men love that.”

  “I can manage perfectly well,” she insisted, breathless with exertion, the suitcase moving her, rather than vice-versa.

  “Right.” Suzanne sighed, joining her sister and pushing at the dead weight with all her might until it slid to the floor. Together, they lifted it onto a luggage cart. “Really, Francesca! First commandment: Reduce consumption,” Suzanne complained, throwing her duffle bag over her shoulder. “This kind of Grand Hotel traveling went out with Greta Garbo. If you insist on traveling this way, get a husband! Oh, look! Tourist brochures.”

  She picked up a few and leafed through the various listings of restaurants, nightclubs, galleries, and services. “Listen: ‘Mandeer. Old, atmospheric and famous Indian cafe and restaurant serving gourmet vegetarian food. Special diets—vegan and Jain—are catered to….’ “How does that sound for dinner?”

  “How can you think about dinner? We just ate.”

  “It’s never too early to think about dinner,” Suzanne insisted, skimming the page, her eye suddenly caught by a listing for “Women: London Crisis Center.” It would be great to compare notes!

  She circled the number and stuffed the brochure into her pocket along with a few pamphlets about current West End hits: Sting was at the Palladium. Cats was still playing. Blood Brothers. She began to feel a heady wave of joy. London!

  “Theater brochures? We’re not exactly on vacation, Suzanne.”

  “But we’re not in jail, either. I mean, on my old job there was such a thing as after working hours. Besides, if I were Gran, I’d want us to enjoy this trip. We are her granddaughters, after all.”

  “I know. The joy of taking. Especially from one’s own flesh and blood.”

  “Why do you have to be so…so…uptight all the time?”

  “Look, let’s get something straight. We have a lot of work ahead of us, and that is what this is all about. We’ll just have to see if we have time left over for other things.”

  “You’re just afraid to explore, to open yourself up to new possibilities. To enjoy life.”

  “No, I’m not!” Francesca protested indignantly, afraid it was true.

  “What is the nature of your stay in Britain?” the weary passport control official asked Francesca perfunctorily, holding the entry stamp paused above her passport.

  “I’m here to work,” she said, glaring at Suzanne.

  He put the stamp down and peered up at her, alert suspicion and unfriendliness swiftly replacing his lethargy. “Do you have a work visa?” he demanded.

  “No…. But….”

  “You aren’t permitted to work in Great Britain without a work visa…”

  “But I’m not really working…I mean…” She swallowed hard, glancing desperately at Suzanne, who rolled her eyes heavenward.

  “You mean you didn’t tell me the truth? Is that it?” His voice rose. Francesca watched, terrified, as he lifted the phone and began to dial.

  “Look, I’m sure my sister didn’t understand your question. She’s a little…”—Suzanne was suddenly at her elbow, making sympathetic faces at her—“…woozy from the flight. All that liquor in first class…you know.” She winked. “What she meant to say was that we’re both on holiday and plan to work really hard at it.”

  He looked at her. She tossed her lovely reddish curls and smiled her big, white, American cover-girl smile. “Maybe you can tell us what’s worth seeing in the West End these days?”

  Francesca’s heart lifted in relief as the man’s eyes softened, moving appreciatively down her sister’s face and body. He put down the phone. “Vacation, what? Well, luv, tell your sister not to mix business with pleasure, will you?” he said, stamping the passports and pushing them under the glass.

  “I’m sure there won’t be any time for business for us girls here in London,” she said archly, nudging Francesca, who managed an inert smile.

  “You almost got yourself thrown out of the country!”

  Francesca walked forward at a New York pace, her fists clenched. “It wasn’t my fault! How was I to know?”

  “Well, at least thank me for saving you!”

  “Saving me? I’m sure if I would have just explained the situation to him, I would have been perfectly fine.”

  “Sure. In a few hours. Oh, let’s not fight. Let’s take a cab straight to the hotel and check in. Then you can take a rest, and I’ll go down to Leicester Square and see if I can’t get us half-price tickets for the evening. I really want to see Blood Brothers. My British friend Ian said it was fabulous, all about the evils of race and class.”

  “I really think we should make our phone calls first to all the places Gran listed.”

  “Sure, sure. But after…”

  “I’ll say it again—I really don’t feel right about planning recreational activities until we see about the work that’s involved.”

  “You are such a wet blanket!” Suzanne groaned.

  “And you are such a freeloading, lazy, good-for-nothing sponge.” Francesca fumed as the exit doors slid open.

  “Girls!”

  Suzanne and Francesca looked up, stunned.

  “Abuela!”

  “Isn’t it marvelous.” Catherine beamed, linking her arms through theirs. “All three of us here, together, beginning this journey.”

  “When did you arrive?” Francesca gave her a confused smile.

  “Gran, are you really feeling up to it?” Suzanne asked, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “Not another word!” Catherine placed her finger over Suzanne’s lips, giving her a private little warning shake of the head. “We’ll talk about it all when we get to the hotel. Here, give the driver your bags. Ah, we’ve got so much to talk about! I have such stupendous news!”

  14

  Taking long, slow sips of freshly brewed coffee that had come up on her breakfast tray, Francesca pulled back the heavy damask curtain and peered into the street below. She was
charmed by the lovely, rich foliage of old trees, the fountains and the quaint statues. That, and the luxurious, old grandeur of her hotel room—its marble floors and bath, the polished antique furniture and big canopy bed—seemed to transport her back in time to a more leisurely and gracious era.

  London was everything she’d imagined: regal, civilized, polishing the past to a fine patina that spread its glow over the present.

  It had been so odd seeing Gran there in the airport, but almost immediately, it had become a tremendous relief. Having her around setting the pace and directing the whole enterprise took the burdensome feeling of responsibility off her shoulders. Dinner, for example, had been such a leisurely, warming meal, wine sparkling in firelight and everyone so calm and mellow. Gran had looked tired, but there’d been a pinkish glow on her face and a twinkle in her eye as she laid out all her plans for the coming weeks. She seemed like a girl again in her frilly dress with the long string of pearls. London, she’d told them, reminded her of the time she’d fallen “crazy in love.”

  Gran, crazy in love! Just the words, the very idea! She laughed quietly to herself. But then, as she looked out at the bower of thick leaves and the little romantic niches on every corner, it seemed less ridiculous. She’d have to remember to get Gran to give them the details.

  She put down her coffee and picked up a slice of toast, spreading it thickly with marmalade and wondering if she would be able to resist the temptation to crawl back beneath the soft down covers. Aside from the mere decadence of the idea, she couldn’t think of a single reason why not.

  She took out her day planner and checked it. She was in no rush. They’d all agreed to meet at eleven at the offices of Serouya and Company, Dealers in Rare Books and Manuscripts, 48 Charing Cross Road. Gran had advised them not to bother following up any other leads until then.

  And so, for the first time she could remember, there was not a blessed thing that duty, honesty, or responsibility demanded of her at the moment. She glanced at the inviting bed as she poured herself another cup of coffee and took small bites out of a buttery croissant. Maybe. Or maybe she’d run herself a bath and pour in the entire bottle of bath foam…She leaned back on the soft couch pillows and simply closed her eyes.

  Crazy in love, she thought, the phrase running through her head like a show tune.

  Nothing opens in this place before ten. It was dreadful, Suzanne thought, kicking off her shoes and picking at the cold remains of her breakfast tray, which she’d polished off long before. She’d been up and about for hours.

  First, she’d taken an early jog. It was a great area: The British Museum and University of London were around the corner, and Dickens’s house was down the block. After that, just on a lark, she’d taken the Underground down to the Women’s Crisis Center, which was in a very unlovely part of the city. It had been closed, but there’d been a name and number on the door. When she tried it, an alert female had answered and, within thirty seconds they’d achieved the warm tingle of sisterhood. They’d agreed to meet at the center in the next few days to compare notes.

  She leaned back on the bed. London. It really was so similar to New York, she thought, despite all its airs: all the gorgeous, rich people in their princely homes overlooking lovely, verdant parks, and then those horrible contrasting pockets of poverty right out of Dickens. Street crime, muggings, rapes, robberies, all just festering below the regal surface. And those housing “estates,” full of dog shit and broken glass and depressingly dirty back gardens; it didn’t fool her a minute, London.

  Still, they had the best theater in the world, no question. Even the most minor British actor on any British stage made any Hollywood “legend” look like a high-school amateur. And they had Mayfair and Regent’s Park, and Buckingham Palace, and those glorious mansions in Hampstead Heath and St. John’s Wood, and the most beautiful art galleries and museums anywhere.

  There was so much to enjoy, so much to learn, Suzanne thought excitedly. She hoped that “manuscript hunting” (or whatever it was they were supposed to be doing—it wasn’t exactly clear to her) wasn’t going to occupy too much of her time.

  The truth was, she found it hard to take the whole enterprise seriously. Anyone with the slightest perception could see that it wasn’t an old manuscript Gran was really after. She was just lonely, Suzanne guessed, and this was a perfect way to get them to spend some time together talking over the past, discussing the future. Why couldn’t she just come right out and say that was what she wanted? All this game-playing was so difficult and demanded so much insincerity and double-thinking—not to mention wasted time. But that’s the way old people were, especially Europeans. Frankness was not a highly rated virtue, if they put it on the list at all.

  It was just as well, Suzanne thought, since she couldn’t imagine they stood any kind of chance of actually finding anything. Even if it hadn’t been in a fire or lost at sea, it could be anywhere: an attic in Moscow, an old bookstore in Istanbul…. Where in heaven’s name would anyone even begin to look?

  She turned over, picking at the pillow threads. There was only one thing she hadn’t yet figured out and it bothered her immensely: the actual state of her grandmother’s health.

  She slammed her fist into a pillow. Damn! What in heaven’s name did she think she was doing, flying across an ocean in her condition? Did her doctor know? Or maybe, just maybe, Mom was right. She wasn’t really as ill as she’d let on and that whole pitch had been a giant con job. She certainly didn’t look ill. In fact, she looked younger and more vital than she had in a long time.

  Maybe the old girl was going to be all right after all, she thought hopefully.

  Catherine gathered her pink silk bed jacket around her shoulders, lifting her chin to swallow a handful of pills. They came in all shapes and all uniforms, she noticed, a little army with the generals (painkillers, mostly) and then the corporals, sergeants, and foot soldiers, all slogging through her weary corpuscles, prodding the exhausted battalions longing to surrender to keep on fighting. It wasn’t time to give up. Not yet, she thought, swallowing with determination. The water was invigoratingly cool in her throat.

  The girls looked so young and so lovely. Yet, just beneath the surface, she sensed their unhappiness. What did anyone so young and so lovely have to be unhappy about? If only they knew what happens to you when you age. If only they understood that life could be measured in finite quantities that were used up and couldn’t be replaced. Seconds, minutes, hours. You could calculate exactly how many were given to the average person. Twenty-four hours a day equaled 1,440 minutes times 365 days a year for, let’s say, 80 years, gave you—well…. She took out a calculator: 42,048,000 minutes a lifetime. And no more. And probably less.

  When your body was young and healthy and without pain or disease, and you had so many minutes, hours, days ahead of you to do anything you wanted, how could you feel anything but joy?

  But no one is like that. I wasn’t. I was always anxious, always unhappy because things were never perfect. I kept thinking: When I grow up and leave my family, then I’ll be happy. When I meet my husband and marry, then I’ll be happy. When I give birth to this child, then…then…When all the while my life had been streaming through me, generous and full and seemingly without end. So much it had seemed immeasurable.

  I never knew it was so finite, that it could be weighed and counted and measured like diamonds. And I spent it so freely and so unwisely. How many afternoons wallowing in the fashion pages of some silly magazine, or lost in some crossword puzzle, or watching a slick, bad movie or reading a false, poorly written but amusing book? Waste, waste, and more waste. And so many minutes worrying about impending tragedies that never happened, or plotting to prevent those that couldn’t be stopped. Only so many minutes, and no more!

  If only I had known that then, I should have spent my minutes like the diamonds they were! I would never have been sad for a moment! I would have told myself: This minute, let me feel the warmth of the sun, the joy of learni
ng, of being with my lover, my child, my grandchild, my dear friends.

  It was odd that now, full of pain, with so little to look forward to, that she should have finally found joy; that it stared her in the face when she opened her eyes, and laid down next to her pillow each night she succeeded in forgetting the pain and falling asleep. Just the sight of her granddaughters filled her with it. And each minute seemed like a jewel and the spending so thrifty, so right.

  No one understood, and you could not explain it without sounding like an old fool, or invoking those infuriating, indulgent winks: how a grandchild saved you, bringing you into a future you would never see or be a part of. How their young bodies and vital lives somehow relieved you of your tired hopelessness, giving you a new chance to correct all the old mistakes.

  They were the most precious thing a human being had. You could understand that, the way you couldn’t when you had your own children. A child was wonderful, but also burdensome. You were responsible, somehow, for all the grinding details: the food, the clothing, the baths, the cleaning behind the ears and the checking of bowel movements, and the lecturing about report cards.

  But a grandchild was something quite different. Yours, without any burden. Yours in the highest, most beautiful sense of being part of your flesh and bones. I nagged them, she lamented, and I shouldn’t have. That was their mother’s job, not mine. But I did take them traveling. Niagara Falls. Oh, their faces when they saw that great rush of water, oh, their wonder. That was what grandparents were for, she thought. To teach them about the wonder, the beauty, the possibilities. To explain to them how to use that most precious and irreplaceable gift each human has in such finite quantities.

  I’ve been such a bad role model so far, she mourned. What have I taught them except to care about manners, food, clothes? And the right people to know. And to invest all those precious hours in chic causes when things that really mattered, life and death….