Letters To My Mother

by Rebecca Heath

  “I just realized,” I said, when the conversation returned again to Turkey, “you’re the first person I’ve ever told these things to.”

  “Why is that?”

  “When people ask about your travels they want to know which movie stars you saw on the Via Veneto or how much you paid for gloves in Florence. How can I tell them those things don’t matter to me, that what moved me was the flight of a stork, or how I felt listening to an old man playing the lute? These are things that … that touch the heart. I can’t put these experiences into words. Talking about them is like picking wildflowers in the woods; once you take them to the sunlight they shrivel.”

  “Have you ever read anything by Saint Exupéry?”

  I’d never heard of Saint Exupéry, but I certainly wasn’t going to admit my ignorance to Dr. Rosenau. I shook my head. “I don’t think so; why?”

  “Because what you just said reminded me of him. Saint Exupéry wrote it is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.”

  “How beautiful! What is it from?”

  “Le Petit Prince.”

  “I have seen the book, then. My mother has a copy of The Little Prince in English. I read a part of it once when I was a little girl, something about a boa constrictor who swallows an elephant and the adults mistake a drawing of the snake for a hat.”

  “Yes, that’s at the beginning. You know, you’re very much like one of the characters in his book.”

  “Which one?”

  “A fox.”

  I looked at him inquiringly.

  “When the little prince leaves his asteroid and comes to earth, one of the first creatures he meets is a fox. Since the prince is lonely, he asks the fox to play with him, but the fox refuses because he hasn’t been tamed. He wants to befriend the little prince, of course, but he’s shy, and it has to be done in a certain way. So he teaches the little prince how to tame him, by sitting patiently on the grass and getting a bit closer every day.”

  “Why does the fox want to make friends with the prince?”

  “To create bonds; the fox tells him he’s just one of a hundred thousand boys to him and he’s nothing but one fox out of a hundred thousand foxes to the prince, but if the little prince tames him, then they’ll need each other, and each one will be unique in the world.” He paused. “Do you read French?”

  “I can read French, but I can’t speak it.”

  “If you’d like, I’ll lend you my copy; I think you’d enjoy reading the story.”

  “Yes, I’m sure I would. Thank you very much.”

  “Good, I’ll bring the book next Friday. More coffee?”

  I smiled to myself thinking of his allegory. Dr. Rosenau was right; I was like the fox, wanting to be tamed, but holding back at the same time.

  Dr. Rosenau returned to the table with the coffee. “Speaking of Turkey,” he said, “I have roots in the Near East myself, although I’ve never been there. My mother’s family emigrated from Turkey to Argentina in the late 1800s.”

  “You’re half Turkish! I thought you were completely German.”

  “Actually, I’m half German and half Spanish Jew. Do you know who the Sephardim are?”

  “Aren’t they the Jews that Spain expelled in 1492?”

  “That’s right. Most people think Spain forced only the Moslems to leave, but they deported thousands of Jews as well. Even though the Sephardim dispersed throughout Europe and the Near East, they managed to retain their language and culture. My mother’s ancestors settled in Istanbul.”

  “Where did your parents meet?”

  “In Argentina. Despite the difference in their religions, my father’s closest friend in Germany was a boy named Josef Kirch, who was ordained as a Catholic priest and sent to Peru to do missionary work shortly before Papa graduated from medical school. Do you remember the other day I mentioned spending a summer in Peru with the Shipibo Indians? Father Josef is the man who invited me. When Papa received his degree, he went to South America on vacation to visit his friend, and he never returned to Europe, not even once. He fell in love with Argentina and, instead of going back to Berlin, he decided to open a medical office in a rural town northwest of Buenos Aires, where there was a small German colony. Papa had a huge practice and he was enormously popular with his patients, but he wasn’t too interested in making money; he spent more time lying on his stomach observing ants than he did working in his surgery, much to the dismay of Mama’s family.”

  “Was your mother from the same town?”

  “No, she grew up in Buenos Aires. When my Uncle Abraham, her oldest brother, was injured in a riding accident out in the country, my father set his leg. They became friends, and Uncle Abraham invited Papa to stay with him the next time my father visited the capital. My mother was about twenty then, and if the old photographs in the family album can be trusted, she was a real beauty. Anyway, Papa came to Buenos Aires on horseback and on the way he spotted a small frog, a species he’d never seen before, so he wrapped it up in damp moss, tied the package with a vine, and put it in his pocket. He was just sitting down on the sofa in the parlor, with all the relatives assembled, when suddenly the frog wriggled free and leaped from Papa’s pocket into my grandmother’s lap. What could he do but make a grab for the little beast, and off it hopped, so Papa went chasing it through the potted palms, the rubber plants, and all the Victorian bric-a-brac, and by the time he’d caught it the room was a shambles. My grandparents were appalled, but Mama was convulsed with laughter. They got married six months later. The frog, incidentally, turned out to be a new species and since Papa had the right to assign its scientific name, he named it for my grandfather, but even that didn’t mollify the old man.”

  I laughed at his story. “Were your grandparents ever reconciled to their marriage?”

  “Oh, yes. My grandparents never did understand my father, but they changed their minds when they realized how happy my mother was with him, and they positively doted on my younger brother and me. My grandfather arranged for us to attend a boarding school in Buenos Aires – he was afraid we’d turn into a couple of savages out in the country – and he paid for my college education in the United States. Because Papa had his heart set on our studying in Germany, he raised both Daniel and me bilingually, but Germany wasn’t a congenial place for a Jew in those days, so I came here, instead.”

  “To Washington?”

  “No, to the University of California, in Berkeley.”

  “Did your brother also come to the United States?”

  “Daniel decided to stay in Argentina and study law…”

  “Excuse me, sir, but we’ve got to clean up now.” A young man in a white apron was standing beside our table with a broom in his hand. Dr. Rosenau looked at his watch. “Good heavens, do you realize we’ve been sitting here for more than two hours?” He glanced outside. “It’s pouring and you don’t have an umbrella. I brought mine, so I’ll walk you back to the dorm.”

  I wondered if Dr. Rosenau knew how far it was to Blaine Hall; I felt uncomfortable at the thought of his walking all the way there and then returning to the Health Sciences Building in the rain.

  “Please don’t go out of your way for me; I’ll be fine.”

  Dr. Rosenau helped me on with my coat. “I assure you my motives are completely selfish. I can’t have my typist catching pneumonia; I’m accompanying you to the dormitory despite your objections.” He gave me a sly smile. “I’m trying to tame you; can’t you tell?”

  As we were leaving, he pretended to pick up something from the floor and break it over his knee.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m disposing of your ten-foot pole. You won’t need it anymore, will you?”

  I smiled. “Not with you, at least.”

  We walked in silence toward the residence hall; only the patter of raindrops on Dr. Rosenau’s umbrella and the crunch of gravel intruded on our thoughts. We were passing by the library when Dr. Rosenau stopped, as if he�
��d suddenly been struck by an idea. “Have you ever been sailing?”

  “Once, when we were living in Hawaii. I was nine or ten at the time. Some friends of my parents had a sailboat – I don’t remember how large, but it didn’t have a cabin – and we went out with them one afternoon on Kaneohe Bay.”

  “You’d never know by looking at the sky now, but the rain’s supposed to stop and, weather permitting, Frank and I are going sailing tomorrow morning. Would you like to come with us?”

  I was speechless with delight. “Why … I’d love to, I really would! Is that your boat, the one in …”

  “… the photograph on my desk? Sturmvogel. Yes, she’s mine. Is 9:30 too early? I’ll tell you what. Frank lives about a mile from you; I’ll ask him to pick you up on the way.”

  “Can I take something, like food or anything else?”

  “No, I’ll bring sandwiches, cookies, and soft drinks. Do you have a pair of tennis shoes?”

  I nodded.

  “Wear those with heavy socks and dress warmly; it gets chilly on the water in the late afternoon.”

  When we reached Blaine Hall and said goodbye, I flew up the steps to my room in a whirl of excitement. I made a mental list of everything I had to do before bedtime – eat dinner, take a shower, wash my hair, iron my clothes, clean my shoes and, if I had time, rush down to a drugstore on University Avenue to buy a boating magazine.

  Three hours later, with my chores out of the way, my head wrapped in a towel and a copy of Yachting in my hand, I settled at my desk to read about sailing. I passed quickly over the racing articles with their jargon of “upwind marks,” “lifts,” and “headers,” to concentrate instead on the cruising stories.

  Yachting was filled with aggressively attractive people pursuing the good life in Tahiti and other exotic destinations. “Leave your footprints where no one has walked before,” urged one ad for travel in the Caribbean. It took little imagination to picture the two of us strolling barefoot, hand-in-hand on the shore of some tropical island. I was smashing in a white bathing suit that complemented my glowing tan. I’d gone from a brassiere cup A (padded) to a voluptuous C, and Dr. Rosenau was just bending down to kiss me when the phone rang. It was Frank, calling to say he’d pick me up at 9:00 sharp.

  I wondered whose idea it was to invite me; had Dr. Rosenau asked me as an afterthought, or had Frank suggested inviting me so he and I could get better acquainted? Was it possible, I hardly dared hope, that Dr. Rosenau himself wanted my company? Finding no answers to my questions, I fell asleep, dreaming of white sands and blue sky.

  Chapter 3

  Blaine Hall, Room B102

  University of Washington, Seattle

  Sept. 14, 1956

  Dear Mother and Daddy,

  You’re never going to believe this – Dr. Rosenau invited

  me to go sailing tomorrow with him and his research assistant,

  Frank!! The day he interviewed me I saw a picture of a sailboat on

  his desk; it’s called Sturm- something or other (German, didn’t quite

  get it), but I had no idea it was his. Gotta run – I’m off to the Ave

  to pick up a sailing magazine and post this letter. Will give you an

  update next week.

  Love, Kate

  Despite Dr. Rosenau’s forecast of the day before, the sky was gray Saturday morning when Frank and I arrived at the marina. We found Dr. Rosenau kneeling on the dock, bending over an outboard motor and holding a grease gun in his hand. In the berth beside him was a white sailboat with the name Sturmvogel painted on the stern.

  Dr. Rosenau glanced up when he heard us approach. “Good morning. Sorry the weather’s so gloomy, but the overcast is supposed to burn off before noon; by then we should have some wind, too. Meanwhile we’re going to need mechanical assistance to get out of the marina. Would you give me a hand with this, Frank?” He looked at me and did a double take; my thick, waist-length hair, usually coiled primly behind my head, was hanging loose.

  “Your hair…” he stammered, “for a moment I didn’t recognize you.”

  Together the two men wrestled the outboard onto a bracket at the boat’s stern, and when they’d clamped the motor in place, I looked up at Dr. Rosenau.

  “Permission to come aboard, sir?”

  “Permission granted.” He held out his hand and helped me into the cockpit. “I see you took me seriously when I told you to wear heavy clothes,” he said, looking at the extra sweaters and stadium blanket I was carrying. “I hope you won’t need all those. You can put them below, anywhere they can’t roll onto the cabin sole once we’re underway. In the forward cabin would be best.”

  Needing no second invitation, I started down the short ladder.

  “Not that way. Always turn around, face the cockpit, and grab the handholds when you go below. Here at the dock it doesn’t matter, but once we’re out on the water you could take a nasty tumble.”

  Sturmvogel's interior was warm and cheerful, with varnished teak cabinets, gleaming brass lanterns, and a woody aroma. There were bunks on either side of the cabin, a drop-leaf table down the middle, and two long shelves crammed with paperback books. A small sink and a two-burner stove comprised the galley, and an ice chest under the ladder served as a refrigerator. The forward cabin was designed for sleeping, but Dr. Rosenau had converted the space into a storage area; the bunks held an assortment of nautical gear: life jackets, sails in bags, ropes, and a couple of anchors. I wedged my extra clothes between them and went back on deck.

  “Your boat is beautiful! I always thought small boats would be spartan inside, but Sturmvogel is as cozy as a home.”

  Dr. Rosenau smiled. “I’m glad you approve; she is my home as often as I can get away.”

  “I hope you know what you’re letting yourself in for when you go sailing with David,” Frank cautioned.

  “What?”

  “A summer of caulking, painting and varnishing. You don’t think this trip comes without strings attached, do you? David exacts a tribute from his passengers. How else do you suppose he keeps the boat looking so shipshape?”

  “Frank’s exaggerating as usual. What he just described no doubt violates any number of university rules. I pay going wages to anyone who wants to help.”

  “I’m sure I’d love working on a boat.”

  Frank groaned. “Let me hear you say that in June after you’ve spent three days sanding Sturmvogel's keel and a couple more weeks varnishing her spars.”

  “I’m probably safe because I don’t plan to be here then.”

  “You’re going back to Utah?” Dr. Rosenau asked.

  “Oh, I hope not, at least not for the entire summer. My best friend’s a graduate student in Romance Languages and we’ve applied to a Quaker organization to spend a couple of months at a one of their work camps in Mexico. We haven’t heard anything definite, but since we both speak Spanish we’re hoping they’ll accept us.”

  Dr. Rosenau yanked on the starting cord, bringing the outboard to life with a vigorous putt-putt-putt. Frank cast off the mooring line, jumped aboard, and we headed out of the marina into Shilshole Bay.

  An unbroken layer of clouds extended across the sky in a leaden sheet, merging in the distance with the water and blurring the horizon. The whole world was shrouded in one vast, gray cocoon. The three of us sat silently in the cockpit, absorbed in our thoughts, and occasionally Dr. Rosenau looked up at the sky.

  We’d been motoring for half an hour, the bow slapping gently against a slight chop, when Dr. Rosenau pointed to an area about a quarter of a mile distant. “Do you see the water over there, the dark patch with the ripples on the surface? That’s one of the signs of wind a sailor looks for. We’ll head in that direction. It’s time to hoist the sails; Frank, could you take the tiller?” Dr. Rosenau turned to me. “Would you like to help?”

  “Yes! But you’ll have to tell me what to do.”

  Frank moved over to the tiller and I followed Dr. Rosenau on to the deck. He removed t
he strips of cloth that secured the mainsail to the boom, fastened the halyard, and inserted the winch handle. “Your job is to turn this handle – clockwise – while I tail, or take in on the halyard as you grind”. I did as he said and the Dacron mainsail glided up the mast, crackling and shaking as it filled. From the cockpit, Frank trimmed the mainsheet and Sturmvogel heeled gently as the breeze increased.

  “Now the jib. Bring her into the wind, Frank,” Dr. Rosenau called, his words blown to leeward by the gusts. I followed him to the bow and we untied the jib, which billowed up and out over the lifelines until Frank brought the sail under control. He stopped the motor and tilted the shaft out of the water. I had grown so accustomed to the drone of the outboard that the sudden silence was overwhelming; even the foghorns had ceased their moaning, and the only sound was the wind in the rigging. I stood near the mast, holding on to the lifelines, and breathed deeply, with a big smile on my face, while under my feet Sturmvogel flew across the water, leaving behind a small, swirling wake. I felt like a Cheshire cat. I couldn’t stop smiling; a feeling of total exhilaration welled up inside me and overflowed.

  “A penny for your thoughts.”

  “Oh, I was just thinking of a line from Swinburne – ‘for the foam-flowers endure when the rose-blossoms wither… ’ Do you ever see things in the foam, like flowers or people’s faces?”

  Dr. Rosenau nodded. “I remember the first time I was on the water. I was a little boy and we were crossing the estuary of the La Plata River from Buenos Aires, an overnight trip by steamer. I must have stood at the rail for an hour looking at the foam below, watching the shapes take form and dissolve. They seemed to me like herds of white horses. I even composed a poem about the foam horses, but I never wrote it down. Look over there and you can make them out galloping on the crests of the waves. See how their tails stream out behind them?”