Guesthouse for Ganesha Read online

  Why?

  If the question began to take flight, Esther shoved it aside in the same manner she swept up dust with a broom. She propelled all thoughts and feelings back where they belonged, consigned to history. No lingering thoughts of “what if?” were allowed. Esther had duties to carry out—to this semblance of a family she had created—to this child. Her child. Her responsibility. Although her instincts for mothering were not of the most loving nature, her experience as the second eldest of thirteen siblings ensured she had the abilities to fulfill basic needs. She refused to dwell on what had been and what could have been. Should have been. To reflect would only bring sorrow and, with it, weakness. This she would not abide.

  Erroneously and regrettably—for all concerned—Esther’s thinking about this union had never factored in children. Additional money had been its singular priority. Now she reprimanded herself. Why didn’t I think the whole thing through? So foolish! I wanted to ease my money issues, not increase expenses as a brood surely guarantees.

  Repeatedly, she rejected Abraham’s advances unless sheer exhaustion made that effort too great. Eight months later Esther found herself burdened once more. This time, however, she attempted to take charge of the situation.

  I stood by her when she tried to abort this one … unsuccessfully … the remedies of her ancestors not obliging her desire.

  I remain saddened that not even motherhood … tiny babies born of her loins … souls her body carried and nourished for nine months … could fill the cavernous hole carved within her.

  And that cavern would grow ever deeper as events fomented … outside …

  CHAPTER SIX

  Each day …

  the same …

  as the one before.

  Always the same.

  But … now different …

  Sunday, the fifth of March in the year 1933, brought Esther additional labor—nearly twenty-two hours of it. Though jovial once she arrived, Miriam, a chubby child born with a full head of curly black hair and an insatiable curiosity, surely resisted the passage and caused all manner of pain and suffering. Perhaps the child knew instinctively she had not been desired. Perhaps she perceived her mother’s truth and heavy heart: that this woman, chosen to care and nurture this tiny being, had attempted to terminate her pregnancy—Miriam’s life.

  But cells and spirit conspired.

  And—perhaps, Miriam had a foreboding sense of events evolving.

  Her entry marked a turning point. For on this very day, within hours of her appearance on this plane, the course and direction of a country, a history, her people, all people, shifted.

  Elections. A new Chancellor enabled, and a dictatorship underway. Inconceivable in the land of Goethe and Steiner, Beethoven and Bach, Nietzsche and Hegel. Incomprehensible in a history steeped in innovative production, enlightened thinking, visionary perspective, and thoughtful discourse.

  Ah … power and greed and evil can … and far too often do … supplant consciousness.

  Entrenched in the daily toil of keeping family fed and clothed—for now anyway—as regards Esther and Abraham and neighbors and customers and all those around them, this immeasurable shift in perception and priority was subtle, imperceptible—

  —for now anyway.

  There was neither respite nor resources to dwell on the politics fermenting around them.

  And there was certainly no rest for a young woman who had just given birth, with a two-year-old in the adjacent room crying for attention.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Only able to breathe bitterness and regret …

  and taste loss and misery.

  Emotions were frozen …

  Feelings submerged.

  Days bled into months, and then years.

  Time did move forward, the wheel did spin, but—alas—Esther’s motives for marriage and partnership were not met with the comfort and security she had envisaged. Instead, she found herself in the winter of 1937 with four mouths to feed rather than just her one. This husband was in no way the provider she had hoped.

  A kind, easygoing man, Abraham was friend to all throughout Köln’s Jewish Quarter, ready with a joke, some local gossip, and a generous nature. Never without his heavy apron, soiled with oil and its palette-like array of thickly layered colors and polish, he bumbled about with the wood lathe and metal tools of his trade more often than not falling out of one or the other of two pockets. To Esther’s distress, he spent much of each day kibitzing with the street’s other vendors, no matter if he had shoes to repair.

  “Später—Later” was his common response. “All in good time. Work can wait a while. We must laugh while we can.”

  And far too often, Abraham would replace a broken shoelace without charge or buff a pair of boots for the price of a smile.

  “Nein, nein,” he would say with a shake of his head when performing what he considered a too easy task to accept payment. “Kein Problem. The pleasure is mine.”

  Esther knew the neighbors took advantage of him, yet her complaints never aroused a reaction. Consequently, she was forced to continue to work exhausting hours seven days each week. Her bitterness swelled.

  In spite of this, Esther accomplished her obligations adequately. She served plain warm meals with some meat included in the fare a minimum of once weekly, and a roof—albeit an insufficient and overcrowded one—remained over their heads. Their two-room apartment three floors above Abraham’s cobbler shop provided shelter, although not a modicum of privacy. They all slept in the smaller room, swollen to capacity with wall-to-wall beds and a crib crammed in front of the one closet. The larger room was continuously in use for cooking, eating, bathing, and—most importantly—Esther’s tailoring. The space necessary for her work took precedence. An intricate choreography of timing, structure, prioritizing, and urgency made their life possible. Demanding, but functional.

  The one covered toilet, shared among five families, was outside in the building’s rear, abutting the supply shed. With two small children, Esther spent an interminable number of hours descending and climbing the stairs, sometimes with both girls, to use this inconvenient but necessary facility. Her legs grew strong and her frame sturdy. Over the years, her physique began to resemble the golem-like condition of her emotions.

  Yet, even now, the sporadic pang—in her chest, her heart, her core—would compel attention to the fact that nothing was completely forgotten or lost to time.

  A young girl’s heartbreak … never leaves the woman …

  During these moments—these flashes of weakness—Esther would think. Reminiscences of him, Tadeusz, would overcome her. Then, as if in tandem, her mind would lead her to that other him, the elephant-headed man, raising all those questions without resolution. “Genug! Genug! Enough!” she would shout, startling anyone standing near her, for nothing outward had occurred. She forced her attention to return to whatever project was at hand.

  The children had decent clothes, although not a large variety; Esther used the bits and pieces left over from various sewing projects. With limited choice of materials, the girls’ dresses were identical down to the number of backstitches. They did not appear to mind, although Miriam was quick to make hers distinctive by pinning on one shoulder a small piece of ribbon or lace scrounged from her Mama’s sewing box.

  “Es ist meins! That’s mine! Mine!” she would squeal in delight when something pretty caught her eye.

  Abraham made sure both had one solid pair of shoes, no matter how quickly his children’s feet grew.

  And when Tova’s, and then Miriam’s, little hands became supple, Esther began the process of teaching them to sew. As her mother had done for her, and her mother’s mother before that, she used the approach passed down as tradition if not birthright. The most basic stitches at first, certainly. However, flawless technique was sacrosanct from the onset of their training.

  “Haltet die Nadel gerade. Hold the needle up straight. Don’t let the thread go limp. Niemals. Never.

 
“If the thread goes limp, you can’t control it. Perfect stitches are about control. All about control.

  “Und Geduld. And patience. Be patient. Don’t ever forget you must stay patient.”

  Then Esther would continue, “Breathe into each stitch. Breathe evenly or your stitches won’t match.

  “Breath in. Breath out. Count—three in, three out, three in, three out.

  “Don’t change your breathing pattern unless you change the stitch.

  “Each stitch has its own distinct breath, its own life. And each must be the same.

  “Identisch. Identical.

  “There is no room for error.

  “If they are not the same, the fabric won’t lie flat. The seam will buckle. The hem will ripple. Then you must take it out and start once more. And then again, if that is necessary.

  “Until it is uniform—ganz exakt—exact. The puncture of the needle must disappear.

  “It must be as though the thread was always there, holding the pieces together.

  “All die Teile zusammengehalten hat. Holding all the pieces together.”

  Esther took few joys from these children’s small achievements: their first steps without assistance; words tentatively formed; eating on their own; or, as they grew older, solving a basic mathematics exercise or writing a simple sentence. Esther’s manner, like her tailoring principles, was strict. She had little patience for childish activities.

  “Hört auf! Stop!” she would shout if the children grew too loud or became overly rambunctious. “Tut das nicht! Don’t do that!

  “Go into the other room and stay out of my way!”

  Esther never slapped her children, but each rebuke was like a hornet’s sting on tender flesh. In spite of her coldness and actions, the children loved their mama fiercely. Through their shared blood, the girls sensed the anguish that ran deep within her and, while not comprehending, they felt compassion.

  When scolded, Tova and Miriam would scurry away and whisper between themselves, distressed one or the other had made Mama unhappy.

  “Why did you make Mama mad?”

  Mostly, it was Tova saying this to Miriam, the more boisterous of the two. “Schwestie, little sister, why must you always make our mama mad?”

  Tensions often ran high, and laughter rarely emanated from these two rooms.

  Every now and again … when it felt necessary to do so … the thing that must be done when the time was opportune with neither parent in the room … I would leave a cookie or two

  … or a small toy … for the children’s pleasure … for their amusement … and of course … for mine. Naturally I would have a few cookies myself.

  As is so often the case … these children understood. For ones so young are still connected … they still remember.

  The children sensed my presence and my purpose clearly and without question. Certainly … they greatly enjoyed these small treats … never sharing their discoveries with either parent. Just smiling … consciously … amongst themselves …

  Early on, the children understood whom to run to when Miriam scraped a knee or Tova needed help with a shoelace or button. Abraham welcomed any excuse to play with his daughters rather than work, and whenever Esther asked him to distract them, he responded eagerly, “Ja, ja, no problem. For the children, of course. Anything for our little girls.”

  A devoted father, true to his name, Abraham provided his children with hugs and dabbed away their tears. He sang silly songs and played games. He was the parent who took his daughters along the riverfront each Sunday afternoon for ice cream. They looked forward to this weekly delight with great anticipation.

  In winter or warmth, the girls would put on their favorite flowered dresses, the ones with the ruffles at the hem, white eyelet aprons at the waist, buttons down the middle, and short puffy sleeves. Esther had provided wide seams, so as they grew, the dresses could be let out easily and worn for years to come. Miriam, not surprisingly, would pin a small piece of lace at her collar.

  “Mama, Mama, will you come with us today?” she always asked. “Bitte! Bitte, Mama!”

  Each week Esther would shake her head, and her youngest daughter would pout. And Abraham would say, “Mein Liebchen, you know the water makes your mama ill. It is better she stays here. Come. We will have fun.”

  Before leaving, Miriam and Tova would wrap their arms around Esther for a hug, which she obliged. Then each girl would grab hold of one of Papa’s hands and, as best they could, drag him down the stairs and along the street. The route to the Rhein was the same, and its observance was inviolate: down their own short street of Kämmergasse filled with family-owned businesses on the ground floor and apartments above; past their school and the little park where they played when Mama and weather permitted; east on Agrippastrasse and then Nord-Süd Fahrt, waving at neighbors and only pausing to smell flowers that may be in bloom or pet a small dog that might share the path.

  Their first stop would be the Kölner Dom, the spiritual core of this ancient city, and its expansive cobbled square. The girls never tired of the Dom’s beautiful façade or its skyscraper-like spires that commanded all views. Convinced it was a structure that had magically appeared out of their picture books, they loved to invent stories of the fairies that lived behind each of the carved cornices, up near the clouds, or of the sculptures over the archways that came alive at night when the rest of the city slept. With its location adjacent to the train station, they fabricated tales about visiting gremlins and sprites—and dybbuks, particularly if the day was cold and gray or rainy.

  Here, nearly every Sunday afternoon, entertainers could be found, usually one or two musicians who hoped to make enough money to live on for the coming week. Most often German folk songs were sung. On occasion, a fiddler or accordion player performed Yiddish klezmer. No matter what was played, Miriam and Tova loved music, and the girls danced without inhibition. They did their best to entice their papa to join in. “Bitte, Papa! Bitte! Please, come dance with us!” they shouted, voices melding, as they whirled and twirled. “This is so much fun!”

  Abraham reveled in their joy. But—as the seasons began to shift, the relaxed atmosphere on the square also transitioned. A tension surfaced and began to spread and deepen. The presence of die Polizisten became increasingly conspicuous. They watched everyone and everything a little too closely. Harassed the musicians without provocation, threatened the crowd if it grew too large or too noisy.

  Tova and Miriam appeared oblivious to anything but the music, and for this Abraham was thankful. However, he would shorten their time on the square, saying, “Come along girls, let’s get ice cream.” They never resisted. As much as they enjoyed the music, they liked this sweet treat more.

  They would head to the Rhein and stroll along the riverfront. The girls counted bridges, barges, and boats until they reached the vendor where ice cream could be purchased and savored—chocolate for Tova and strawberry for Miriam. Both chose the cones patterned after the Dom’s cobbled square, or so they thought. These were the ones that were exceptionally sweet. Above all, they relished the special hours with their adored and adoring papa.

  Thankful for the solitude whenever Abraham took the girls, Esther would stay home to attend to household tasks and sew. Continuously sew.

  There was no true respite to her week’s drudgery, only—

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  They say … on this day:

  No sowing, plowing, reaping …

  No grinding, sifting, kneading, baking …

  No shearing wool or washing wool or

  dyeing wool or spinning wool …

  No writing two letters or erasing two letters …

  Certainly, no weaving of two threads or

  sewing of two stitches.

  And yet … there is no rest possible …

  and no divine reflection.

  No reflection at all …

  of what or why or how …

  or what if or why not or how come …

  Borukh a
to adonoy eloheynu melekh ho’olam

  asher kidishonu bemitzvosov

  vetzivonu lehadlik ner shel shabbes. (Omeyn)

  Esther’s most cherished possession, the only thing she still held dear from her youth, was the kiddush cup that had once belonged to her precious great grandmother. Made in Galicia by a master silversmith, this elegant goblet, barely the size of her palm, included a shabbes prayer engraved in Hebrew letters around its rim. It remained the one attachment to her former life, that other reality that refused to fade with time or allow memory to erase.

  She recalled the day she received this gift. Bubbe Royza visited the house in the early morning and came directly to the corner of the table where Esther sat spooning up the last bits of her krupnik.

  “A freylekhn gebortsog, Estherle! Happy Birthday! Today is your thirteenth birthday,” she said, leaning down to embrace Esther.

  “Thirteen,” Bubbe Royza exclaimed. “U va—So wonderful! Reaching thirteen years is an achievement that must be recognized. Regardless of whether you’re a boy or girl. It’s not right that there’s nothing special for girls like boys have with their bar mitzvahs. As your brothers will have when they reach this age. Today, you are ready to stand up, be counted and, most importantly, be accountable. For today, you are an adult.

  “On this occasion a gift must be given, and it must be significant. We don’t have much, our family, really not more than the basics. But,” she continued on, beaming, “there are a few keepsakes we have clung to over the years. To share with you, the next generation, our legacy.”

  At these words Esther flushed. When her elder sister, Lifcha, had turned thirteen, she had received the treasured tablecloth elaborately embroidered with roses, lilies, and corn poppies by Bubbe Royza’s own mama. What might I get? she wondered. Could it possibly be—?