Guesthouse for Ganesha Read online

  cummerbunds and sashes—

  made of lace and velvet, cotton and wool,

  silk, on rare occasion, silk

  Buttons and zippers and snaps and ribbon—

  Thread connecting all.

  Thread weaving through fabric and days—

  Thread—

  Ceaseless days—unceasing.

  Hours accumulated. The sun rose and set. One season gave way to the next. And whether stormy or snow, rain, hail or warmth, each day passed much like the one before it.

  1925 came and went, without singularity or punctuation. As did 1926 and the years that followed—

  —until 1929, that is.

  Esther’s resolve—to survive, if not surmount, her deep-rooted anguish—never wavered. Embitterment and ire maintained their grip and continued to fuel and define every action and all decisions. The world she had composed was basic but functional, for her needs—her only needs—were straightforward: tailoring assignments with fabric or fur and thread, sustenance, shelter. In no case, however, was work easily acquired. Even after these many years. Even with concerted and innovative efforts and expanded contacts. New hurdles appeared. Challenges abounded.

  And always … she endeavored to conceal the emotions … the memories that lay within. But she could neither hide … nor deny … herself from me. I helped when I could … placing a Pfennig or two … sometimes a Reichsmark … in her path or holding the scale up when the grocer weighed the cheese. More often … I watched her actions closely … understanding her choices … her strategies … her need to do all on her own … by herself.

  And then … but not to my surprise certainly.

  A time did come, as Esther approached her middle twenties, that to struggle on her own no longer felt compulsory. Perhaps it was the tedium of routine or an outcome of too many years of hurt and festering spite. Conceivably it came about through an unacknowledged loneliness, suppressed below epidermis, muscle, and bone. Regardless of its source, Esther grew exasperated by the daily difficulties of living with others, most especially a family with loud children. Yet she could never gather the capital necessary to secure separate living quarters.

  At this juncture I watched her marry … Abraham … a man she did not love but who was devoted to her … and did not know the difference.

  He was a quiet, simple man, a cobbler with his own small shop on Kämmergasse. Esther had passed it a few dozen times when on the way to a furrier for whom she sometimes worked. She ventured inside the day she needed assistance with a client’s pair of shoes.

  “Hallo,” Esther said. “Können Sie mir helfen? Can you help me?” She tried to gain the attention of the man bent over a large machine at the shop’s rear.

  “Bitte!” she added, remembering to append the expected politeness.

  When he did not immediately turn around, Esther shouted “Hallo” a second time, loudly and with impatience. Her sharp slaps—three times—on the wooden counter rebounded against the walls and quiet.

  Startled, the man looked up. When he saw Esther, his eyes twinkled playfully. A smile formed on his face, one seemingly without end.

  No man since Tadeusz, or before, had looked at her in the way Abraham did upon this first encounter. Esther, surprised by his overt attraction, simply said, “I have a pair of shoes that must be covered in this fabric, to match this dress. Can you do this?”

  As though he had not heard her request, he said, “Guten Tag, my name is Abraham. This is my shop.”

  Esther did not introduce herself, merely repeated her need and added, “Can you help me?”

  But her mind moved quickly. This is interesting, she considered.

  “Ja, ja, of course I can do this. But please. What is your name?” Abraham asked.

  “Esther. Mein Name ist Esther Grünspan.”

  “It is your first time in my shop. I would have remembered you,” Abraham said, a tremble in his voice emerging.

  Esther ruminated. He is not so horrible to look at, and he owns this shop. He must be very successful. And our work is complementary. There are many possibilities a union of this kind could offer. Most especially financial. I would not have to work so hard all the time.

  Outwardly, Esther’s actions were businesslike; coquetry was no longer in her lexis of words or emotions. Abraham was not put off by her manner. He stammered, “Vielleicht—perhaps—perhaps I could take you for a meal sometime?”

  She responded with a nod, no smile, no hesitation. Just an affirmation—to herself, really, more than to him—that this was the direction in which she needed to head.

  A date was set for the following Sunday.

  “Erzählen Sie mir von Ihrer Familie. Tell me about your family,” Abraham said carefully, his manner formal, as though he had rehearsed what to say and how to say it. They were seated on a bench across from the Kölner Dom’s ornate public entrance. Esther had never allowed herself to consider the cathedral—she had only ever hurried by—and was distracted by its immensity and the spires, pointed arches, and sumptuous carvings that covered its façade. Abraham had to repeat his question before she realized he was speaking.

  “There are thirteen of us children,” she replied. “Only five boys. At twenty-three, I am the second oldest. I come from Przeworsk, in Poland, and mine is a family of exceptional tailors. For generations. I have lived in Köln now for six years.”

  “Warum—Why did you come here? What led you to this city?”

  “It is of no importance. That time is no more,” she said as evenly as possible.

  When Abraham made another attempt to learn more, Esther had to bite on the inside of her cheek in order to not snap at him. Be polite, she scolded inwardly. I will be polite, I can be polite, she thought, as if in response, but he has no need to know what has passed.

  Abraham decided it best not to question further. Out of respect. He was a kind and gentle soul, truly the sort who would go out of his way to help an elderly woman cross a busy road or give a hungry beggar his last bite of bread. He prided himself on being understanding and accepting.

  This man seems a bit slow, Esther observed, perhaps even foolish. But I believe he will be useful. Ein reicher Mann! He must have money if he owns a shop and can maintain it. I am sure his resources coupled with my earnings will make for an easier life. I am ready for some help. I have worked so hard for so long, and I am in the very same place! I’m sure I can manage him, and I can tell he is attracted to me. He will be lucky to have me! He will not find anyone more capable than me.

  Studying Esther out of the corner of one eye, not wanting to stare, Abraham, too, reflected on the situation. She’s a peculiar one, this woman. She is not a beauty or especially warm, but she conveys a force of will I have never experienced. It is at the core of her. I can’t imagine where this comes from; she refuses to share her circumstances. She is not like me at all, and I find this very appealing.

  Her background and story were irrelevant to their future life together, so he never tried to learn more than these threads of her past. Abraham was simply grateful he had found this woman and she accepted him.

  Conversely, Esther learned all there was to know about this man.

  “Und Sie—And you, what of your family?” she asked, thinking it proper to inquire.

  “My family name is Klein, so I am Abraham Klein,” he said, smiling, “and I am twenty-six, three years older than you. This is good, no? I was born and have lived all my years in Köln. In the same four-square blocks that make up the Jewish Quarter, just a few streets west of here, west of the Kölner Dom. I’m an only child. I am sad to tell you both my parents have passed away. My father, Anshal, died seven years ago, and my mother, Orly, not even one year ago. I learned my trade, being a cobbler, from my father, who had learned it from his father before him. I inherited the business from them. To this day I live in the same apartment in which I was born, above the shop. Mostly what I do is work. No relatives, both my parents were only children too. My one close friend, my childhood f
riend Gunter, moved to Hamburg with his new wife two years ago. That is where her family lives.”

  Like her, he was alone. Unlike her, it was not his preference.

  Their courtship was minimal; both were too busy to take a long break from their respective responsibilities. So the customary process of getting to know one another took place once weekly. They would meet promptly at three o’clock on Sunday afternoons in front of the grand bronze doors on the Kölner Dom’s south façade. From there they would take a stroll. Side by side. Eyes most often directed ahead. Hands never held. Shoulders never rubbed. Occasionally, Abraham would bring flowers or a scented soap. In response, Esther would oblige a smile and a “danke.” The first time he brought a gift, her “thank you” was automatic, two words spilling out of her mouth without significance. But then she added, “That was thoughtful” in an awed tone, for such attentiveness had become an alien gesture.

  These outings quickly became routine in activity and conversation. For this, Esther was grateful. She had neither the interest nor the wherewithal to charm or entertain.

  “Have you been busy?” Abraham would ask each time they met. Right after he said how pleased he was to see her. Always with a broad smile. He did not compliment Esther on her clothes or appearance, but his eyes would twinkle. “Has the week gone well?”

  Esther’s usual reply was terse. “Ja, ja.” But every so often she did add an account of a particular assignment: “This week I repaired a stole with real mink. The owner had stored it in a metal box near the furnace, can you imagine? How stupid! Of course, the hide dried out and pieces of fur fell off. I was able to restore it perfectly. More beautiful than it was originally.”

  Abraham nodded. “I’m sure it is better than when she received it, no doubt as a gift from her husband.” He smiled at Esther. She tipped her head slightly, and they continued walking.

  Silence between them was common but not uncomfortable. They were not awkward with one another. They shared an ease of understanding that this was how they must proceed.

  If assignments were few that week, Esther’s days were spent with the tasks necessary to secure work. This demanded more effort than the sewing itself, for the stress of no wages and the need to draw on her reserves compounded all activities. Although her expenses were few and she was frugal, the realities of a hand-to-mouth existence never left her thoughts. She paid bills promptly and with each payment set something aside, if only one Pfennig. Any savings was better than none, she surmised. The weeks Esther made no money were when she was most confident the path pursued with Abraham was correct and necessary.

  Most Sunday walks comprised no more than a three-block radius circumambulating the Dom. On a few occasions, they ventured farther to explore the sights and shops of other neighborhoods, but soon discovered they were most at ease in the territory both knew best.

  “Let’s walk along the riverfront,” Abraham proposed each week at some point during these afternoons. “It’s very close by, barely a ten-minute walk,” he would add. And each week, Esther refused.

  “Aber—But this is the most beautiful part of our city,” he said, mystified. “I don’t understand.”

  “The water makes me dizzy” was her thin excuse. I don’t need to explain, she thought. If I’m truthful, I don’t understand myself what happened there. Better to leave it alone and stay away.

  Abraham, so wanting to please, would merely shake his head, throw up his hands, and lead them in another direction.

  Nevertheless, on the Sunday that was his birthday, Abraham said, “Bitte, Esther, it would give me much pleasure to walk along the Rhein today. I haven’t seen the river in too long or the park. Have you visited the park? When I was a child, I often played there. I have many happy memories. Bitte, it would be such a special gift.”

  Esther closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and thought: If this is to move forward, I suppose I must.

  “Just this once,” she said.

  Esther had not returned to the riverfront since that bizarre and perplexing encounter. She did her best not to think about what had occurred and was mostly successful as her days overflowed. Her one visit to the library to seek out answers had not enlightened her, and she pushed the experience aside when she could. It was only when she didn’t fall asleep immediately that the memory returned. Only when she lay awake, staring at the ceiling or into her pillow, did her mind drift in directions she couldn’t control. Esther had no interest in returning. She had purposely avoided this part of the city, for it brought up questions for which no rational answers could be found.

  Yet here they were slowly meandering along the riverfront, retracing the route Esther had trod her first months in Köln. As they walked, she observed that the background was no brighter; the setting was still gray, even though this was the middle of the afternoon in a summer month. She focused her attention on the cobblestone path and where next her foot would land.

  But barely half a kilometer along, Esther lost her concentration. A large, iridescent butterfly flew toward and around her and then, executing an elegant figure eight, returned. Enthralled, her insides swooning, she could not take her eyes off of it as the delicate creature danced in front of her face for nearly one full minute before flying backward and vanishing into the patch of flowers ahead.

  Ah … the butterfly … symbol of the soul … released from earthly connections and trials …

  “Look at that,” Abraham said with awe. “What an astonishing creature.”

  Esther could not speak. Her thoughts directed her back to that December evening, six years prior. Only the second time in her life when incident overshadowed reason. The first—that fateful day when she was left alone under the chuppah—had ignited her flight to Köln. The consequences of this second event were as yet unknown.

  She pushed hard on her brain to invoke the experience. To bring forth a clear image, grappling for a vestige of the peculiar food stand that had stood out like a beacon in the bleakness. The happenstance that sparked something deep within her she could neither understand nor forget: the image of the elephant-headed man who seemed to gaze right back at her—within her—and seemed to know her—when she looked at it intently. But it was just a picture. How could—?

  Abraham noticed Esther’s distraction and pained expression. He asked, “Sind Sie in Ordnung? Are you well?” Distressed by her reaction, he thought the water might indeed be making her dizzy.

  “Perhaps it’s a slight headache. If it is fine with you, can we once again walk near the Dom?”

  “Natürlich,” he replied. “Of course, of course. Es tut mir leid—I’m sorry, I guess we should not have come here after all.” He led them away from the riverfront.

  “Shall we get some dessert now?” he asked. Esther nodded in relief. This was part of their Sunday routine. At some point along their usual route, they would stop at one little café or another, the location never mattered, for a coffee and a piece of Apfelstrudel, her favorite. Abraham always accommodated. His interests were clear, and his affection continued to grow despite Esther’s emotional remoteness.

  For Esther, however, love was not a factor in moving forward with this man. What must happen would happen.

  When they were married by the local Bürgermeister in Köln’s town hall four months to the day of their meeting, Esther knew she did not love him—could not love him. She knew she could never recover the magnitude of truth and sensitivity she had once known with Tadeusz.

  During the brief ceremony, Esther bit down hard on her cheek. Her right cheek. The last place Tadeusz had touched her. The last time she had seen him. The metallic taste of blood exploded in her mouth. Her chest palpitated. Still, physical pain could not supplant what churned within her. As she stood here, in this setting, the memory of a parallel scene engulfed her. But today she was without the tenderly fashioned chuppah, the bouquet of white posies, the audience of family and friends, the decorated town square. Most distinctly, the groom who stood beside her was not—him.

&n
bsp; No! Stop! What am I doing! This can’t happen, she shrieked inside. Stop! Esther inhaled sharply, holding her breath so as not to shout aloud, to expose herself. Calm. I must remain calm. This is the way it must be. I know this. I can’t continue alone. But—

  She could not look in Abraham’s eyes. She focused on the tip of his narrow chin, which was not far enough below his huge, gaping smile.

  At the required moment, Esther managed a soft “Ja” and the appearance of a smile.

  A pragmatic move … a marriage of shoes and clothes, boots and furs.

  Esther was confident she could not love again—not anyone—not even the three children she would birth over the next eight years. The consequences of a marital obligation she could not otherwise circumvent.

  The firstborn, Tova, a slight colicky girl, arrived only nine and a half months after their wedding day, bringing tremendous joy to Abraham and nights of cries and wails for Esther. More work and more responsibility. Her irritation mounted. While Abraham tickled and cooed and sang to this little one before he disappeared for the better part of the day to his shop, Esther changed diapers and nursed. Baby care sandwiched between tailoring assignments and appointments, and shopping and cooking and cleaning.

  When Esther asked for help: “Can you pick up some beets for the soup?” Abraham’s standard reply was, “I’m sorry, but I really shouldn’t close my shop to run an errand. That doesn’t make sense. You can easily go with the baby.”

  How can he believe his work is more important than mine? She bristled. What nonsense! Even with many more responsibilities and less time to sew, I am paying many of our bills. And I am more talented.

  In rare instances, perhaps when threading a needle or reinserting the bobbin in the sewing machine that was a surprise wedding gift from Abraham, Esther’s eyes would catch sight of the fragile band of gold that encircled the second finger on her right hand. A pang at the base of her insides would assail her. It was unfathomable that she wore another’s ring. It was supposed to be Tadeusz’s. Only Tadeusz’s—the one he had molded for her out of a melted-down family heirloom, the gold from a cracked and broken watch once worn by his grandfather.