Guesthouse for Ganesha Page 9

  As these reflections swirled in her mind’s eye, the makeshift stand, its alluring colors, textures, whiff of exoticism, and those surreal, etched-in-memory images of alien beings appeared—the elephant-headed man in the center. Ach nein! she thought, pushing them away as quickly as one would a hair that had gotten into an eye.

  There’s no room for fantasy, she admonished herself. Pragmatism is crucial. I must devise a realistic plan I can manifest. I have money, the amount is substantial, but the question is: how best to use it?

  Esther had heard about people from the Jewish Quarter who had emigrated. They had left the country, left the whole continent and its myriad trials and miseries behind. Some had ventured to Palestine, some to the United States, even a few to China. Desperation was a powerful motivator.

  She did have her sister Lifcha in the United States. Someplace called Chicago, she believed, deep in the middle of that country. Lifcha had married when Esther was nine. Her husband was a young dairyman with big eyes and bigger ambitions. Right after Lifcha and Isidore wed, they sold most of their possessions, negligible as they were, and arranged for travel to the place that promised the realization of dreams, particularly economic ones. Their intention was to return to Przeworsk, yet twenty-three years later, that had not come to pass. The pledge had not been honored. Evidently challenges abounded there too.

  Although her funds were significant, Esther knew if she did try to emigrate—anywhere—it would take every Pfennig she had worked relentlessly to accumulate just to get travel papers secured, if that was still possible, and pay for passage. She would arrive—wherever—without anything. She had no doubt she could subsist on her skills and talents, but to once again start all over with next to nothing, this—this was unacceptable.

  Esther shook her head firmly.

  To return to Przeworsk was certainly not an option. Nothing remained there. Not for her. Moreover, from the bits of news she had heard these past few years, the poverty was oppressive in the remote town. On the scarce occasion when mail would still come through, she learned of her family’s hardships. Her parents and siblings barely made do. These letters included requests to send money, and once she did consider obliging—a small amount—but then thought better of it. Esther had no confidence the money would arrive, certain most correspondence was confiscated, particularly envelopes that looked as though they contained more than one slip of notepaper.

  I’ve worked hard for everything I have earned, she thought while experiencing a twinge of compassion for these people from her early life. But it’s mine! This money is mine!

  Esther persevered. There will be a way out, I’m sure of it. There is a solution, and somehow it will be revealed to me.

  Evenings found her hunched over a map of Germany, the large, detailed one with explanations Tova had needed for school. Esther traced her fingers over and over the territory of this vast country. She remained unsure—confused as to what direction to take. Where would it all ultimately lead?

  And what was she actually seeking?

  Abraham watched her wordlessly. He did not understand her obsession with that map. Her back and forth pacing across their crowded space accompanied by her incessant muttering made his eyes roll. Or he would sigh. This woman had begun to repel him, and after his darling little boy was born, his Zami, Abraham no longer tried to touch her. Any pretense of affection from Esther was long gone. He spent a greater part of each day in his shop. Not that his work had increased. He preferred to keep his distance. He set up Zami’s crib in a corner and took care of his son’s every need. Tova and Miriam preferred to stay with him. It was more comfortable for them. Their mama barely spoke, and when she did, it was most commonly, “Geh’ weg. Go away. I’m busy.”

  Her responses to questions were rough and curt. Her commands hurtful.

  Still, she never made light of her familial responsibilities. She was focused and vigilant on their needs as much as her own. For throughout all of her mulling and planning, the question hovered—what about the children?

  Esther became emboldened after the events of that horrific night of broken glass. Intrepid. Adamant nothing or no one would obstruct her momentum. She had no idea where that path would lead or what lay ahead, yet she remained firm in the conviction that she would not be a victim.

  Although she had lived in Köln’s Jewish Quarter for nearly fifteen years and each Friday, without fail, prepared the Sabbath meal, Esther did not identify as a Jew. She ate pork and shellfish, on the rare occasion they were available and affordable, and combined meat and dairy as she pleased. She had not studied Hebrew or the Torah or the circuitous history of the Jewish people. She knew only the prayers associated with the Friday evening meal, and those she understood more as part of a weekly ritual than as a sacrament. Esther was not religious in any way and had no belief in any kind of higher power or a Holy Spirit—

  She was not yet ready …

  —most especially when she considered the circumstances that incited the move to Köln and away from her heart and dreams and desires. How could a God—if He existed, or She, or for that matter, They, who really knew?—have let life unfold as it had? It was pure conjecture, all of it.

  Judaism as a culture, as a community of sorts, was rooted within Esther’s family and its generations. But it remained on the periphery of her life, barely in the backdrop of her thoughts and actions. As a religion, a philosophy of principles and practice, a belief system, it did not signify, not at all.

  Why should I suffer for something I don’t believe in? Esther often thought as the restrictions tightened and the hardships multiplied during these years. I am entitled to live as others live—as one should live—without designation or label. But the realities of this current situation are clear. Too many assumptions, preconceived ideas, and prejudices are rampant. The need to maneuver through this landscape is taking all my wits.

  Esther realized it was most essential to rely on her intuition, her instincts—

  And upon me … whether she acknowledged it … or not …

  —and she began to excel at determining when and what to avoid or ignore, whether to venture down a certain street or to look in the eyes of a particular person.

  In order to once again move freely about the city and accomplish necessary tasks, Esther artfully put snaps on her yellow stars so they could be discreetly removed or quickly replaced as the situation necessitated without revealing patches or hanging threads.

  She began to use public transportation, ignoring the large signs posted declaring JUDEN VERBOTEN.

  Who is to say who I am or what I am when I get on a streetcar or a tram? she rationalized.

  Without exception, Esther dressed modestly, with hair pushed back into a neat, tight bun. And—she moved with purpose. When she ventured out, away from the Jewish Quarter, she observed people still walked freely and talked and laughed; they met friends and drank coffee at cafés, carried packages and went about their business seemingly without a care—barely half a kilometer from her neighborhood.

  Esther saw how easily she blended in. Without that yellow Star of David shrieking its pronouncement on the skin of her clothes, no one took notice of her. There were no sideward glances. No looks of disgust or pity. No mutters under their breath. No walking to the other side of the street so as not to cross her path. Here she was simply a woman—a German. Another human being going about one’s day. Her indistinct features and thick blonde hair did not proclaim her part of one ethnic group or another. She was merely a member of the species. It especially helped that her accent was flawless. Like a native.

  I ask … what is identity after all? What is it … truly? The way one dresses? How one wears one’s hair? Inflections of speech? Features? Characteristics? Mannerisms? Personality?

  One afternoon, as she turned from the main street into another neighborhood’s market with its abundance of fruits and vegetables and household supplies, her sweater slipped from her shoulders to the ground. Before she could bend down to r
etrieve it, a young man in a brown uniform picked it up. He handed it to her and said, “Bitte meine Dame, let me assist you.”

  “Vielen, vielen Dank,” Esther responded.

  “Nein, nein, the pleasure is mine.”

  She did her best to contain her surprise that what just took place was not the most normal of exchanges.

  The uniformed man gave her a warm smile before he walked away.

  Ach, ja! Esther thought.

  In an instant, a light switched on and a door opened wide.

  From this point forward, Esther’s plan developed methodically, with the same singular focus she applied to any assignment: each step like a new stitch that had to precisely match the one before and lead the one to follow.

  Esther realized that it would not be necessary to journey far. Only enough of a distance where she would be assured no possibility of recognition. These days travel was neither common nor popular. The majority of people she encountered in a day’s activities did not have the resources to ride the local tram, let alone a train to another city. The most critical boundary she would have to pass would be the one that defined her present identity.

  Her contacts in the black market proved indispensable. The same individuals who had helped her obtain essential sewing or home supplies and grocery staples no longer available in her neighborhood shops now introduced her to those who could supply identity cards, passports, and visas. They provided precious information. Through this network, Esther met an extensive group of people who were resisting—defying those working hard to destroy them, re-insisting in all ways resourceful and inventive that their lives were their own to live—and she listened intently to everything they told her. The stories of people who had changed their identities and gone into hiding were of most interest. She absorbed their recommendations and experiences.

  And she heard stories of many—far too many—who had simply disappeared.

  Esther discovered good fortune was on her side.

  Me … of course.

  By what seemed miraculous—

  Or so one might conjecture …

  —she learned a longtime client had joined the newly formed Resistance. One afternoon, as Esther lay out the clothes to review her tailoring repairs, Frau Göttlieb asked about the sheer fabric Esther had used to line a skirt and a distinctive stitch bordering a buttonhole. Then she said, casually, “Wenn es Ihr Wunsch ist—If leaving is your desire, I can assist you.”

  “Really?” Esther reacted with suspicion. “How is this possible?”

  At first, Frau Göttlieb’s response was merely a slight smile, followed by, “Even in times of war, the wealthy and the privileged will demand their luxuries. They will not look too closely at the one who provides this service, most especially if the work is exceptional. It is not—sehr schwer—so very difficult to hide when one does not want to see what, or in this case who, is right before them.

  “Of this, I can assure you.”

  Such wisdom … and … without question … Esther’s masterful tailoring skills would provide a camouflage few could emulate.

  Such a perspective astonishes me, Esther thought. Who could have imagined those interminable hours sitting in front of the family fire night after night, from age three on, perfecting a stitch neither too long nor too short, would someday be the thread between life and death?

  The Göttliebs were an affluent, well-regarded Köln family with ties to government, both local and national. Their position and stature gave them access to confidential information and the most up-to-date news. They had no reason to align themselves with anyone outside of those in power. Apart from their consciences. They were appalled at the disintegration of life and liberties taking place all around them and went out of their way to treat everyone in their employ equitably and equally. And to provide any special covert aid they could.

  Frau Göttlieb took Esther and her plight on as a personal crusade and was generous with her assistance. She knew Esther could not work much with all that was needed for her departure preparations, so she provided a large sum of money to cover all expenses and then some. Frau Göttlieb took advantage of her extensive contacts and personally arranged for Esther’s new identity papers. These would include birth certificate and baptismal documentation. She knew the best sources, and there would be no question the papers would be official with appropriate stamps and dates and signatures. The documents Esther had purchased from her contacts on the black market were good. These were flawless.

  As they were making the final arrangements on the paperwork, Frau Göttlieb asked, “Welchen Namen hätten Sie gerne? What name would you like? Who do you wish to become?”

  Esther smiled broadly, astonishing Frau Göttlieb, for she had only ever seen this woman as stolid. Completely controlled in action and thought.

  This one question pleased Esther down to her core. Amid the horror and hardship, she was given the rare, but oft-desired, opportunity to become someone else, a persona new and different. She thought for a long while, culling through the widest range of possibilities and options, before finally she blurted out, “Etta—Etta Göttlieb.”

  She chose to keep her initials, not unlike bookends holding the full passage as one. With this change, Esther Grünspan would, for all intents and purposes, cease to be. Really, this had already occurred on that fateful day in Przeworsk—the day Tadeusz forsook her, forsook them. The name had remained, the person had not. Exposing a remnant of her humanity, Esther wanted to honor the kindness of her benefactress by taking the woman’s family name. Frau Göttlieb nodded circumspectly.

  The irony of course … the beauty of this name … is that it means literally … God’s love …

  To fully form Esther’s new identity, Frau Göttlieb provided her with a small Bible—the New Testament—that could easily fit into her handbag. She also gave her a rosary of dark wooden carved beads and a delicate Holy Mother medal on a thin gold chain. Most importantly, they spent three and a half weeks of afternoons studying catechism. Esther was a diligent student and learned quickly. Then again, there was no question her life, literally, depended on this knowledge.

  Wuppertal, a small factory town less than forty kilometers north of Köln, was chosen as the location to embark on her new life. Recently formed through the merger of seven small communities, this city was filled with new inhabitants, and Esther would find few obstacles to blending in. In addition, Wuppertal had quickly become known as a center for manufacturing textiles; thus she was ensured there would be reliable need for her expertise. Here she could continue to earn a living. Arrangements had been made for her to move into a serviceable one-room apartment, and Frau Göttlieb shared two contacts that would, upon arrival, provide Esther with sewing assignments and begin to advertise her talents. There was a wealthy enclave—mostly composed of factory owners—whose wives were sure to be delighted by the addition of a skilled tailor in their small town.

  Through a contact of Frau Göttlieb, Esther learned about a transport to England—for children—that would take them away from Germany and from danger. There were more than a dozen charitable organizations that oversaw the arrangements, and Esther registered with each. Her children’s names were put into a pool, and relief was all she could muster when Tova and Miriam, now ages eight and six, were selected to join the Kindertransport.

  Oh no! Oh no! This is dreadful, she thought, upon learning that Zami, barely one year old, was considered too young to go on the kinder train. The officials could not guarantee there would be people on the other end—in England—who would agree to care for babies.

  “What will I do? I don’t believe he will survive if I leave him with Abraham. Or any other family who stays here. Köln will not be safe. I can’t possibly bring him with me. So much ahead is unknown, and being with a small child will likely impact my own ability to endure.”

  “Aber—But, Esther, you really must reconsider,” Frau Göttlieb insisted. “Your son will be safer with you. Children under six years of age don’t nee
d identity cards, and people will be far less suspicious of a woman relocating with a young child. His very presence will act as a helpful cover. He will be an asset, and he will provide comfort. You will appreciate you are not completely alone.”

  What she did not say, although most definitely thought, was that as a circumcised boy—if exposed—Zami would intensify the potential of danger. Esther was well aware of this fact, and as a mother and a human being, struggled with herself to consider this little boy as anything but a liability. But above all other considerations, the thread of their bond ultimately kept him with her.

  She went about her daily activities as though nothing were unusual, while stealthily assembling the necessary ingredients toward escape. With her new identity and the vital documents secured, Esther turned her attention to final details.

  I will not need much, she thought, but I cannot forget the essentials. Sewing supplies, of course, those I can’t do without. But how many needles and how much thread? What colors? What sizes? There’s so much uncertainty. Just about everything is unclear. Will there be a store that sells what I don’t bring? Can I get by with one pair of scissors? Or one large pair and snips? Appliqué scissors are probably frivolous, but what about my pinking shears? I could make a zigzag edge by hand, so perhaps bringing these are also too much. How to decide? How do I decide? So many unknowns! And dresses? Two, no, three at most. I must always look presentable. After a month or so, when I am settled, I can make whatever additional clothes I might need. One pair of shoes will be fine.

  Esther’s thoughts raced on. I must take care that neither Abraham nor a neighbor suspects I’m doing anything out of the ordinary.

  It was not difficult to keep these plans hidden from Abraham. He was not inquisitive by nature, and their exchanges were few. He was mostly in his shop. With Zami, and then also the girls, when they returned from school. They came up to the apartment only to eat and sleep. Often, Abraham slept in the shop. Esther’s days were spent almost entirely alone.