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  PRAISE FOR GUESTHOUSE FOR GANESHA

  “Over the course of this debut novel, Teitelman paints an intensely beautiful world in which different cultures merge in surprising ways. Although it centers on what may seem like an odd pairing—a Jewish mortal and a Hindu god—the novel weaves the two characters together in a very natural way, as Esther, withdrawn from those around her, is shown to need Ganesha as a protective, loving companion. Teitelman’s deft execution as she explores this relationship is a major factor in why this unusual novel works so well. Throughout, her writing shows a finesse that’s as compelling as the story it presents, employing a lyrical prose style when focusing on Ganesha and a more decadent tone during Esther’s parts.

  A rich and moving story about an unlikely pair.

  —KIRKUS REVIEWS

  “A parable, a prayer, a piece of magic realism, Judith Teitelman’s Guesthouse for Ganesha begins with the (improbable; wondrous) visit of Ganesha, the Hindu elephant deity, to strife-torn 1920s Köln, setting us off on a journey of love, grief, understanding. A feat of (and feast for) the imagination, the novel unfolds in ways at once heartfelt, surprising, inevitable. You will not be sorry you accepted this invitation to voyage.”

  —HOWARD A. RODMAN, former president of Writers Guild of America West, screenwriter of Savage Grace and Joe Gould’s Secret, author of Destiny Express, and the forthcoming The Great Eastern; professor at the University of Southern California

  “This young woman’s journey through love, betrayal, dislocation, adaptation, terror, and spiritual discovery is unlike anything I have read before. It is both heartfelt and unexpected.”

  —BILL STERN, author, curator, and executive director of the Museum of California Design

  “In Guesthouse for Ganesha, Esther Grünspan embarks on a journey, leaving her native Poland to arrive in Germany in 1923. She does not know that her journey has only begun—a journey of the heart and the spirit, a journey not only across distances but across time. So too the reader embarks on the journey through this vast and lyrical debut novel that will expand our view of the world, our consciousness, and our compassion.”

  —TERRY WOLVERTON, author of Insurgent Muse: Life and Art at the Woman’s Building

  “The story grabs me, Esther’s journey is compelling and beautifully told. I love that something feels withheld from her story, I’m drawn into her character, fascinated that she is ‘emotionally hardening’ before my eyes. Yet there are these beautiful moments of her softening, succumbing, listening. I like the historical milieu, this eerie calm before the maelstrom of war, where an outsider can catalyze such irrational (and violent) race hatred. These pages are beautiful … it feels like Judith has breathed them into being.”

  —LOUISE STEINMAN, author of The Crooked Mirror: A Memoir of Polish-Jewish Reconciliation

  “Judith Teitelman’s remarkable imagination produces the thrilling illusion of several layers of different lives. The way she honors her main character’s indifference to human contact and emotion and then poetically leads her to a redemption is an act of cosmic chutzpah.”

  —SASHA ANAWALT, author, educator, and director of art journalism master’s programs at the USC Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism

  “Lyrical and moving, Guesthouse for Ganesha weaves a story of daring and courage in a world rent mad by war and destruction.”

  —GARY PHILLIPS, editor of The Obama Inheritance: Fifteen Stories of Conspiracy Noir

  “Guesthouse for Ganesha by Judith Teitelman spins a mythic tale with a heart so big it takes two continents and four countries to hold the story of Esther Grünspan, a seamstress whose needlework is as pierced and perfect as the needles in her heart. Teitelman weaves a tale of a seventeen-year-old girl jilted at the wedding chuppah with such extraordinary tenderness and grace. The reader cannot help but rejoice in Esther’s beautiful, broken spirit and in the way Ganesha wraps her up in his caring love, gradually melting the ice that is her armor and awakening her spirit to live again decades later. Teitelman is a masterful storyteller who knows and loves her characters deeply, and Esther’s courageous rebirth captures a kind of universal longing in all of us to heal our broken hearts.”

  —KERRY MADDEN-LUNSFORD, author and director of Creative Writing at the University of Alabama, Birmingham

  “Have you ever read a book that begins with the great Indian elephant god, Ganesha, dancing through the night with a spunky young German woman? Judith Teitelman’s Guesthouse for Ganesha is a truly original novel. I was immediately hooked by that image, with its blend of magic realism and a down-to-earth heroine who must grapple with abandonment and her own capacity for fortitude, all under the compassionate gaze of Ganesha, who observes and guides her with his ‘surveillance of souls.’ Teitelman yokes holocausts—both historical and personal—to compassion and possibility, giving us the timeless writerly gift of immersing this reader—and I’m sure many others—in a journey of renewal both archetypal and unprecedented.”

  —JANET STERNBURG, author of The Writer on Her Work, Phantom Limb, and White Matter, and photographer of the monograph Overspilling World

  GUESTHOUSE FOR GANESHA

  Copyright © 2019 by Judith Teitelman

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published May 2019

  Printed in the United States of America

  Print ISBN: 978-1-63152-521-6

  E-ISBN: 978-1-63152-522-3

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018962788

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1569 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  Interior design by Tabitha Lahr

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For Doug, who inspired.

  Aaron, who sustained.

  Terry, Maia, and Kerry, who encouraged.

  “Beth” (or “Bet”) is the second letter of the Hebrew alphabet and, subsequently, of all Jewish-language alphabets. It is also the first letter of the Torah—marking the beginning. It represents the beginning of duality, where there is both a giver—the Creator—and a receiver—the created world.

  The literal meaning and form of the letter “Beth” denotes a house, underscoring that the created world is meant to house the spiritual within it.

  This being human is a guesthouse.

  Every morning a new arrival.

  A joy, a depression, a meanness,

  some momentary awareness comes

  as an unexpected visitor.

  Welcome and entertain them all!

  Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,

  who violently sweep your house

  empty of its furniture,

  still, treat each guest honorably.

  He may be clearing you out

  for some new delight.

  The dark thoughts, the shame, the malice,

  meet them at the door laughing,

  and invite them in.

  Be grateful for whoever comes,

  because each has been sent

  as a guide from beyond.

  —Rumi

  PRO
LOGUE

  Dance, He whispered ever so softly.

  Dance … without memory … of your heart being sundered.

  Dance … never knowing … sorrow and pain ever kissed your lips.

  Move! Feel again! Recapture yourself … who you were at three

  when your song was pure … and electric with possibilities.

  Come …

  Dance with me.

  He peered down at her with eyes the color of fawn and looked clearly into her soul. His trunk gently touched her right cheek. With His one free hand, He carefully lifted her out of bed. Esther took no notice that her linens and quilt were thoroughly soaked or that instead of her muslin nightdress, she was wearing layer upon layer of diaphanous silk.

  She floated into His four arms and let Him guide her around the room. Though it was no more than the size of a small closet, somehow there was space enough for leaps and twirls. To an outsider’s eyes, they made an awkward and ungainly pair: she, barely five feet tall and slender as a rod; He, towering at eight feet with a voluminous belly and extraordinary countenance. Still, their partnership was graceful and fluid, and the music—an interweaving of bells, horn, tablas, and sitar—seamlessly melded with their steps, as though the composition had been created solely for this dance.

  Esther felt safe. A feeling long forgotten. It was as though she were once again in her mother’s womb, floating in warmth. When the cabin door blew open, they danced onto the deck, now more than ever moving to the motion of the waves not far below. They journeyed in contented silence, words unessential. This was the liberation of movement, the release of the past and all that had held her captive. After some time, dancing in great abandon, Esther even lost sight of her partner as she whirled and twirled without benefit of support.

  It was a beautiful, crisp fall night. The first calm sea experienced since leaving port. The four days prior had been stormy with giant swells, and most of the passengers had severe seasickness. But tonight the sea, and with it the ship, were at peace and gliding easily across the deep.

  A young couple decided to take advantage of the night’s tranquility and went for a stroll around the deck. They came on a barefoot Esther spinning and leaping, completely oblivious to her surroundings. Fearful she would soar over the railing, the man grabbed her, and immediately Esther began to mumble, incoherently it seemed, about a man—about an elephant—about freedom.

  “My God,” he yelled. “She’s burning up. Get the doctor!”

  Within minutes Esther was back in her bed, covered in cloths filled with ice. The ship’s doctor forced a few pills down her throat.

  The pure bliss of the past few hours dissipated; her teeth chattered without control, and her body shook violently. Soon her being began to relax as the drugs seeped into her bloodstream, their power taking dominance over that which had brought her to such a state of joy.

  A tear formed in one eye and slowly rode the curves of her face before she drifted into a deep sleep and whispered, “Tadeusz.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Esther Grünspan arrived in Köln with a hardened heart as her sole luggage.

  An uncommonly sweltering September day was her welcome, as well as a language that sounded like her native Yiddish yet foreign in structure and comprehension. A formidable determination guided her actions.

  “Stantsye, ikh darf a stantsye. Lodging, I need lodging,” Esther demanded of the first person in uniform that crossed her path. “Vu ken ikh opzukhn stantsye? Where can I find lodging?” Her articulation was clear and direct, emphatic. Quizzical, the man’s eyes skimmed this plain-faced young woman from her faded, long-sleeved cotton frock with white rounded collar to her scuffed, lace-up shoes. Small in stature with thick blonde hair pulled away from her face in a tight bun, she was unadorned and clearly out of place.

  “Was? Ich verstehe Sie nicht! I don’t understand you,” he said, waving her away and pointing toward the train terminal.

  Without a note of thanks, Esther headed in the direction he indicated. Once inside the terminal, she strode through the cavernous building to consider every booth, kiosk, and stand until she found a corner counter with a large sign overhead announcing INFORMATION. This was close enough to the Yiddish informatsye for Esther to push her way to the front of the line, disregarding the glares and loud protests of those in her way. She paid them no heed. Patience was no longer a part of her framework. It had been displaced by entitlement and self-preservation. The recent, devastating turn of events—Tadeusz’s action, his rejection—and such a public spurn—of her, of them, of all their plans—had shaped an impossibly conceived scenario. Esther’s one priority now was Esther.

  She repeated her request to the man behind the counter three times. Each time she enunciated every syllable more precisely, then more slowly but colored by rising frustration.

  The official, while clearly annoyed, noticed her youth and asked, “Wie alt sind Sie?”

  Alt? Esther thought quickly, alt—old. Just like in my language. Although the other words made no sense, she correctly assumed he was asking her age.

  “Zibitsn,” she said.

  The man shrugged his shoulders, rolled his eyes, and turned to help the person next in line. Esther leaned over and grabbed the pen on his desk. In clear, thick lettering she wrote the numbers one and seven on her palm. Standing on the tips of her shoes, she stretched her left arm high and held it up close to his face.

  With a snort, he reached into a pile under his desk and thrust a piece of paper in Esther’s expectant hands. She looked intently at the page’s Gothic script and line drawing of a building.

  This must be a place for young people to stay, she deduced, for next to a name and address 16-22 was printed. A map of the area with a large X seemed to mark its location. Expressing no appreciation, Esther turned quickly, jostled the three people beside her, and ventured out into her first metropolis—a location as far away from all she had ever known as her meager resources enabled. A place with an assurance of anonymity and seclusion.

  If she could still muster gratitude for anything, it would be for this.

  And in the only way anguish can be subdued, if not entirely vanquished, Esther never stopped moving during those first self-exiled months. She couldn’t. She could not allow herself to sit idle, not even for a few minutes, for if she did, memories of him, of them, of what was, would deluge her mind. Emotions that she now strained to destroy or deny ever existed would take over, and she would be rendered helpless, powerless, as she had been and as she promised herself she would never be again.

  She devoted her time to establishing a formula for sustenance. Sewing was her foundation. While she strove to grasp the rudiments of German speech, her willpower propelled her to walk up and down the streets of Köln seeking work. She entered every dress boutique and tailor shop she could find with samples of her handiwork as calling cards.

  “Schauen Sie—Look!” she ordered those she met, holding up one of her tasteful blouses for inspection. The caliber of her skill and artistry supplanted language barriers.

  She was rewarded with small assignments from four tailors after just two weeks. Basic tasks—shortening a dress and repairing a pants cuff—were soon replaced by more complex responsibilities, for her mastery was revealed in the simplest exercise. Her stitches were precise, her hems and seams were even, and the presentation of each project was flawless.

  Stitching, basting, pleating, hemming, altering, darning, tucking, grading, embellishing, blocking, mending—these activities were second in nature only to breathing for Esther. Daily she sewed from the first hint of light to its last shadow to ensure her new clients received the quality work of which she alone was capable. No matter if her eyes burned, her neck strained, or her fingers ached without respite.

  Here, in the windowless room cramped by a single bed, rickety table, rough wooden chair, and hot plate at the noisy, dilapidated youth hostel, Esther’s stoic nature took root—growing deeper and thicker by each day’s passing. She barely s
poke, except as needed to secure a sewing assignment, purchase necessary supplies, or tell one of the other residents to quiet down. It was a raucous building, filled with too many young people, constant comings and goings, stair stompings, door slammings, and shouting. For much of the day, with her focused concentration on work, she was able to ignore any distractions. Such sounds were common to someone who had grown up in a home with twelve siblings. But when she couldn’t, Esther found her nerves rattled, her posture tested. At these instances, she forbade the pent-up tears behind each eye to fall and quashed all but the most basic thoughts if one dared enter her head.

  After darkness fell, she spent the better part of the night trudging along the riverfront. In 1923, Köln was a chiaroscuro palette of grays and blacks with a few patches of deep brown or the darkest blue breaking through the visual monotony. Most structures housed three stories; a few had four or even five. Although some were stout like marshmallows, and a handful of others were lean as poles, each was indistinguishable in design, color, and pattern from its neighbor. Esther faded easily into this cityscape, apart from the occasional streetlamp illuminating her face’s stony glaze.

  On these walks Esther contemplated how long it would take the cold, fast-moving Rhein to swallow the torment that she, as yet, could not fully ignore. The memory refused to dissipate: every feather, overcast, and edging stitch in her simple white dress; the posies in her hands; family and friends gathered in the town center, their excited chatter overlaid by klezmer music as the musicians frolicked; and she, standing unaccompanied under their tenderly crafted chuppah. Waiting. Until too much time passed. Until she could no longer remain there—alone. Surely the weight of Tadeusz’s abandonment would supersede her ability to swim.

  Over successive evenings, Esther marked a route that covered six kilometers in total. Once established, her steps never varied, every evening the same. She always headed toward the river via Trankgasse near the Kölner Dom, the city’s glorious cathedral, and then crossed over Hohenzollern Bridge. When she reached its crown, water on either side, only sky above, Esther paused to relish the cool breeze of the river blowing on her face. One of the few joys she permitted herself.