WHO ARE YOU TO ME?—CHAPTER III

 

Chapter Three—False Memories and the True Nature of Orchids

 

It is Sunday, two days after Charlotte’s manicure, and my distaste of Lydia has had time to ferment . She emailed me late Friday evening, delighted by how many tasks she had accomplished that day. I didn’t respond.  She emailed me again on Saturday with more of the same self-congratulatory comments. She telephoned me late Saturday night, but I didn’t pick up. Her message mentioned her kite-running high produced by the heap of events she had executed over the past 32 hours.  I have decided to block Lydia from my life. Now all I have to do is to send her bouncing face-to-face.

 I visit my parents  almost every Sunday; sometimes my son joins us. He is their eye-apple.  Both of them were born on the same day of the same year and they are happier together in advanced age than they have ever been. At least, my witnessing skills tell me this. They cook together, figure out the vagaries of Internet options, garden on their condo roof-top, watch CNN with fervor, stay true blue to Barack Obama through his difficult mandates, and shop for gifts on Amazon. My father, Joshua, is still handsome, even at the age of 83. He has maintained his boyish walk and trim physique and his lips curve naturally into a hearty smile. My mother, Diana, is slender with refined, almost sharp features.

 They met when they were barely twenty at her father’s Inn in the Eastern Townships.  She was waitressing and working at the front desk along with her four lovely sisters.  When my father  studied each one of the comely Shaw girls, he couldn’t decide who  the prettiest one was.  He knew only to whom he was the most attracted: Diana, with the slight overbite and cherry red lipstick. Unless, unless he did not exclude the eldest: long-stemmed Rose with her bouncing auburn curls and distractingly deep bosom.  Perturbingly, there was something off about Rose. She laughed too loudly, spoke and walked in abrupt chops and halts, wore too much feverish rouge . Also, it was rumoured that she could hold down neither a job nor a boyfriend, but her lips and hips were luscious.

 The year was 1948; the aura in and around Montreal optimistic, almost charmed. Anything seemed possible for the young and healthy.  My father spent the entire summer at Hollyhock Inn. He was there with a young auto mechanic, Karl, who was later to become a millionaire, but remain a lifelong friend. He courted Diana fastidiously, but a sliver of his imagination stalked  Rose. My father never understood his obsession with James Shaw’s eldest daughter, and he confessed it to me only after she died. Rose had never married. She had lived her life tentatively, never certain of who she was or who she hoped to be.

 In fact, my father was soon enamoured of Diana’s entire family: her hard-working  and gentle mother and reckless red-haired father, both of whom had emigrated from  Ireland. How different they were from my father’s prudent parents, and the main difference was religion. In those days, it was scandalous for a Jewish boy to marry a Gentile girl, especially if she hadn’t converted. I suppose that the inverse was also true, but James Shaw was a free-thinker, and conformed to nothing but his own notion of what made sense.

My mother presumed my father was just interested in a good time, and she held on tightly to her virtue. But oh! The warmth, charm and energy of her family. At meal-times, there was so much hot debating and easy banter, so unlike the rather dour dinners held in my paternal grandmother’s stiff and formal dining room. And so, my smitten father threw caution to the wind and proposed marriage to his Irish sweetheart. His parents refused to talk to him for years, but they relented when I was born.  Unfortunately, they remained ill at ease with my mother and never met any members of her family—not even once.  In contrast, my mother’s parents welcomed Joshua from the outset: a pharmaceutical student with impeccable manners and a car to boot!  They praised him to the skies, telling all of their daughters repeatedly that he was their favourite son-in-law by far.

 My parents  chose to elope even though James  Shaw offered them the gracious dining room in his well-known Inn. (He would  lose it due to unpaid back taxes only a few years later, and go on to other  brazen investments, which all ended in financial disaster).

 On this particular visit, I feel clingy and needy. My dad shows me his new collection of orchids.  They are grouped gracefully on a round mahogany table around a stained-glass lamp he designed and built himself.  The lamp is a work of art to my fantasy-addicted eyes:  lagoon-green mermaids perched on slate grey rocks, their tresses silver and gold. My father enjoys his freckled orchids. “The flowers last for months, and look at the homely speckles. Don’t they remind you of frog bellies? They look prehistoric, almost ugly and yet the creamy texture and rose and lavender tints look like brush-strokes. What an intriguing mixture of ugliness and beauty.”

 “But, Dad, surely they’re more beautiful than they are ugly,” I both assert and question at once.

 “That’s not certain at all, Gloria.  I can tell you this, though. If they had cost more than $24, I wouldn’t have bought them.  Do you remember when Provigo was selling Venus Fly Traps?”

 “Yes, yes, come to think of it, I do. And for very little money, as I recall.  I was very tempted, but being an aspiring vegetarian, it seemed peculiar to buy a carnivorous plant.” I change the subject abruptly. “Dad, I want to thank you for helping me out, supporting my decision to opt for early retirement.”

 “Gloria, honey. You’ve worked hard. If you need to walk away from it all, and figure your life out, your mother and I are all for it. We have your back.”

 On cue, my mother enters the study, so lovely in a white sweater, turquoise shawl and black trousers. Her hair is pale-silver and her eyes have always looked green to me even though she claims they are merely hazel. The three of us walk single-file to the breakfast nook where my mother has set an elegant table of smoked salmon, rye crackers, vegan-wasabi caviar in little mounds on Melba Toast rounds and creamy slices of drag-queen flamboyant Dragon Fruit with its quirky black-headed edible seeds.

 I love my mother dearly, but I adore my brilliant father. We sit down, and in the background Leonard Cohen is snarling and crooning. I will always be safe with my parents alive. When they depart, I will be shipwrecked, and  I don’t even begin to understand what that means.

 We eat quietly. My mother offers wine. We decline. My early retirement will start in only two weeks, at the end of the autumn session. My parents share the concern that I will be defeated by the lack of structure, that the minutes and hours will drag me down into dark and doubting waters. My father also retired young, but in his case, it had been a seven-year-plan and his acumen at reading the stock market had made him what is humbly referred to as comfortable. They were prepared to support my drastic decision, but they had one major concern: my eBay spending. They both agreed that it was on the edge of being out of hand, and perhaps they were right. I only knew that it gave me great pleasure and I tried to be very reasonable with my highest bids.

 Dad suggests we take in a movie, but I don’t want to be in public; the movement and dissonant energies  of  throngs of people are very draining.  My mother mention my brother’s upcoming wedding in Vermont.

 “I hope it isn’t going to be too cold. A tent-wedding in November is risky business.”

“There should be plenty of space-heaters, but  just in case, I’ll have toasty throws in the trunk,” my father explains.

 “Gloria, tell me about Susan’s dress.” My mother is a fashionista. She loves dressing up for parties even though she doesn’t feel beautiful anymore.

 Susan and I had chosen her dress shortly after Ralph moved out. I think she believed the quest would be a distraction for me, and strangely, it was. We entered upscale, minimalist boutiques on Laurier and I was immediately attracted to a one-of-a-kind raw silk turquoise dress. The lines were simple; the fabric shimmered. The colour of the dress was a perfect replica of Susan’s jewel-toned eyes. When she stepped out of the fitting room, I could only hope that she would choose this one. No other would do. No matter how many dresses she might try on, none of them could possibly possess the same magic. I was ecstatic when she said this was the dress she had to have. We hadn’t yet acknowledged the price tag—$1200.

 I watch these bride-stalking-perfect-dress programs on TV. The attendants provide long, white garments that are often beaded, feathered and flounced and classified as mermaid, princess or ballroom. And the costs are more often than not over $5000. I shake my head over this. A fat girl is a fat bride. An ungainly girl is an ungainly bride. A beautiful girl is a beautiful bride. I don’t appreciate the wedding gown being a costume, disguising the personality of the bride.  Luckily, this custom need not apply to older, second-time brides.

 Even though the dress was perfect, it was not perfect for a near-winter wedding. Susan and Saul had hoped to have a summer wedding, but US immigration had other thoughts, and Susan did not receive her clearance until November. Her brother was to be the caterer. Catering parties was one of his many sidelines. My gift was to supply the wedding cake. The wedding would take place on their tract of land which was framed by Lake Champlain and a marsh.  I had spent a weekend there over the summer. There was a carpet of collectibles all over the main room, and tables were piled with tureens, cups, figurines—items that Susan hunted down painstakingly and sold on eBay, Etsy and Ruby Lane.

 After brunch, I help my mother wash the dishes; she usually eschews the dishwasher. I then decide to walk home. It will take about an hour, but the crisp air might do me good.  I am in turmoil. At my age, how could I have and be so little? And will I have and be even less once I stop teaching?

 

 

WHO ARE YOU TO ME? CHAPTER II

 

 

CHAPTER TWO—MATCHSTICK POETRY HOTEL

 Home, however, is not an easy place to be for two compelling reasons. First, my lover of seven years left me in late spring, early summer. He fell in love with one of his students. She is 37; I am 53. I cannot compete even though measure by measure I am slimmer, prettier, smarter, more charming, and probably a lot nicer. And then there is the matter of my imminent and premature retirement. My elderly, crippled directress, who drags her right leg, and implements capricious policies regularly has, at long-length, defeated me. I perceive  Alya as a crow, a spine-broken raven  umbrella.  She is as vain as any wicked queen in any fairy tale, and her alleged beauty is all smoke and mirrors: hair extensions, Botox injections, tooth veneers. At any rate, her rule of terror drove me to tender an early retirement, the notion of which both exhilarates and alarms me.

 Home is a shabby-chic  duplex on Royal Avenue with good bones but in a state of perturbing disrepair. (Like Charlotte? Like myself?)  My advance inheritance.  The first three years that  Ralph lived here with me , I felt so lovely and light. Every moment was an intake of breath, a ribbon of adventure until his moodiness and ambivalence toward me divided us.  I lived beside myself in a bubble of enchantment.  Strange that we should have met online even though we were residents of the same seductive city: Montreal.  Ralph moved out five months ago, and I’ve done very little cooking and cleaning since then. Just enough to get by. Things fell apart between us and my delusions  collapsed overnight. He became smitten with a younger woman, a Bulgarian student of his, and disenchanted with me. Suddenly I was too thin, my hair too messy. My lipstick was too thick and bright, my clothes too costumey.  In contrast, I was still enraptured by all of his flaws: slight stutter, round hips, shortish legs, putty nose, chipped teeth, flamboyant apparel, velvet and amber voice.

 We met on an online Poetry Community Website: MatchStick Poetry Hotel. My moniker was Dancing Bandit; his—Rasputin11.  His poetry was old-school, brooding, Heathcliff pacing the moors, Sweeney Todd hurling shabby women into the dragon-furnace. Mine was much terser.

We were instantly attracted to each other’s words and began to message each other privately. It was confounding  to discover that he also lived in anglo-Montreal and was an adult educator.

It took us months of phone calls before we met in person. The photos I had sent to him were retouched by Portrait Professional. My skin was perfectly smooth, my lips more plumply curved, my eyes deep-sea green. More distressing, however; he was five years younger. Whenever I’m out with a younger man, I believe he’s going to realize he’s made a mistake. He’s going to realize that my skin won’t do at all—too used, too loose. I postponed meeting  him  for as long as possible; our Internet romance was fierce and dramatic. I am so low-tech that Internet is like a magical kingdom to me; all the characters are larger-than-life. The electronic curtain is spun from such bewitching cloth. I remain transfixed by all that is not revealed.

 When we met for the first time, I was weak with fear. We chose Downstairs, a jazz club that was  situated downtown  but  upstairs in a two-storey building .   It was stony and dark, and I’m quite certain that the floor tilted. He was sitting all the way against the back brick wall. I had foolishly chosen to wear stilettos with pointe-shoe ankle ribbons, and walking was quite a chore. My steps sounded clumpy, as though I were wearing clogs. My dress was a witchy black swan number, and I had lightened my hair to two tones shy of platinum.  He stood up. A short, stocky man with moist chocolate eyes.  A deep cleft in his chin, big, shapely hands, long, strong fingers.

“Gloria, you are glorious.” He kissed my hand.

“I can’t believe we’re here. We must be crazy or brave. Either way, it’s so exciting to meet you.”

My voice was shaky, but at least I could still string words. What would my teenaged son think of me? Would he be amused or appalled? And what about my father, who still hoped that I would one day show reasonable judgement?

 We complimented each other, picked at our seafood, drank a couple of bottles of house white, asked and answered a posy of questions, listened to each other with apparent  respect and delight.

“You are so unusually beautiful, so pale. I love watching you. You move  your arms and hands and precise neck like a dancer.”

 I believed him.  It was a hot, white June night, and I felt like a woman of mystery, a platinum poet. We were both divorced teachers who lived in Montreal and were addicted to writing poetry. Though the evening was almost perfect, there were red flags, even as he was trying to fall in love. He flirted with the leggy young waitress, and he asked me if we could begin living together.

 “Let’s not waste time. Let’s experience this adventure and turn our lives inside-out and upside-down. Let’s live together. What do you say, Gloria? Are you going to stay or run away?”

 I was infatuated, drunk and lonely and so I said, “Agreed. When would you like to move in with me? There has to be one condition, though. No sexual duress. No erotic blueprint. We’ll make up the rules as we go along. Can you, will you, agree to that?” How peculiar that as I spoke these words, I wanted to be with my father, in either of our gardens, speculating, planting, but mostly just being close to his handsome, honourable, seasoned silence.

 I suppose that because Ralph was a native Montrealer, I didn’t consider him to be potentially dangerous. Even though he had flirted quite piercingly with a few female members at MatchStick, he was here with me, and he claimed to find me alluring.

 We didn’t go home together that night. Instead, we agreed to meet at an NDG sushi bar in precisely one week to either seal or break the deal.  I was wondering whether he felt more or less real to me now that we had actually met.  He walked me to the metro station, and drew me close when we said good night. He held me tight, and I was proud that my stomach was flat and that my thighs felt hard. In contrast, he was a little soft, but his skin was aromatic and warm.  He was his poetry, and nothing was going to contradict that for a good long while.  I didn’t know whether I felt ugly or beautiful, old or ageless, but I certainly felt alive.

Who Are You To Me? Chapter I

 

Who Are You To Me?

 

“We say of some things that they can’t be forgiven, or that we will never forgive ourselves. But we do—we do it all the time.”

                  Alice Munro

 

  CHARLOTTE’S NINTH LIFE

 

Charlotte is waiting for us. She is wearing the cherry-red jersey tunic I bought for her several visits back.  That and a black velvet skirt I purchased for her on eBay. I rap playfully on her door, and her posy face lights up when she sees us. “Are we going downtown?” she asks with a slight stammer. For Charlotte, downtown is the first floor at Spinoza Geriatric Center. We escort her to the coffee shop each time we visit. Every few weeks there are vendors in the main lobby selling somewhat gaudy and predictable garments at supposedly discount prices. This is where I take Charlotte shopping for scarves, sox,  gloves  and such. Each time I purchase an item for her, I email her daughter, who has the same given name as I do:  Gloria. I want Gloria, the “Other Gloria,” to step up even though I am largely sympathetic to her chronic ambivalence toward her mother.

 This time, however, we’re not going downtown. We’re doing better than that; we’re busting out!  We’ve booked an appointment for Charlotte at Encore & Toujours Jolie, an establishment I noticed during one of my treks along NDG’s proletariat Somerled Avenue.  We have taken Charlotte there once before—bundled her up and brushed her hair, signed her out and positioned her securely into Lydia’s silver Honda. She has forgotten how to negotiate complex motions, and she is like a marionette, whose limbs must be adjusted . The Vietnamese sisters treated her well, and one of them, May, painted her fingernails a perfect rosy pink.

 May was very curious: who were we to Charlotte and to each other? She noted that Charlotte had pretty skin but asked why she wasn’t wearing teeth. I explained that her dentures were uncomfortable and that she couldn’t get used to them.

 “Ah, that is the word for those kind of teeth? Dentures?”

 “Yes, although often they’re just called false teeth.”

 “Dentures. Thank you. Today I learn this new word.”

 Today’s outing proves to be less of a success. Lydia wants to nail a hat trick and leaves us at Encore & Toujours Jolie, promising, “I’ll be back in no time. I have to run a couple of errands.”

This time, Charlotte selects a deep plum bottle and I settle her  into a chair for her manicure.

The procedure is much faster than the one prior; I suppose because much of the shaping, pruning and buffing is still in good repair. I don’t appreciate dark nail polish, but Charlotte seems very satisfied with her shiny purple nails. She admires her hands and looks at me expectantly.

I oblige her by saying, “Lovely. Now your nails look like jewels.”

 I bundle her into her cranberry wool jacket, and pay the bill, leaving my signature tip: much too big. My motivation isn’t generosity. It’s something akin to a desperation to be invisibly accepted and unquestioned. Fat tips are shibboleths, reserved for honourary club members. Overweight tips offer immunity to snide comments and disdain. At least I hope they do, but I can’t be sure. What if, after I leave, May laughs at me with her sister. “Why that woman leave such a big tip? What’s wrong with her?  She must be as crazy as that other one.”  

 Dressed to go, we wait for Lydia near the storefront. Charlotte is stuffed into a slender reception chair, and my nose is almost pressed against the glass.  I am becoming upset. In addition to paying for the manicure, will I have to pay taxi fare? I can’t imagine Charlotte boarding a bus.  Movement has become so awkward for her. She has even forgotten how to properly get into bed.  Her vocabulary, on the other hand, remains almost unscathed.

 I am one of those freakish creatures who does not own a cell phone.  I ask the sisters to call a taxi for me, but they don’t know how to do that, so I find the number of Legionnaire’s Taxi

Service in the Yellow Pages. The younger, plumper sister whose name I have forgotten asks, “While you wait, you want some some tea?” Charlotte says, “Yes, please,” but I thwart her and state flatly, “No, thank you. Charlotte, we’ll have ice cream at Spinoza. We’ll be there really soon.” I can’t gracefully accept strangers doing any kind of favour, no matter how modest, for me.  Their motivation simply doesn’t make sense. I don’t really know Charlotte all that well, but I suspect she has lived her entire life automatically accepting acts of generosity from anyone who would be so inclined. She looks at me as though I were an annoying stranger,  one who has been neither invited nor welcomed to this outing.

 “But I want tea,” she tells me with an edge of bite in her voice.

 “No, Charlotte.  The taxi should arrive any minute. There’s no time for tea,” I answer sternly.

 Then I catch sight of Lydia approaching.  Her step has a bounce and she is smirking. She has changed into sportswear, all pink and black.  No sooner has she stepped inside the salon, do I sputter, “We’ve been waiting for over thirty minutes. I was worried. We called a taxi.”

 Charlotte is perhaps cognitively a five-year-old with a charming vocabulary.  She now eschews teeth and bras. Toothless, breasts fallen, hair no longer dyed a golden chestnut, she is, notwithstanding, a comely older woman with creamy skin, and fetching hazel eyes. I don’t know what she makes of all of this, but she is surely vexed. She hates to be kept waiting, particularly if distraction is not provided.  She has lost all aptitude for patience. In her world, everyone is a servant:  either good, bad or unimportant.

 Lydia explains that inasmuch as Charlotte’s first manicure took an hour, she calculated she had that time-frame to go home, change, text her daughters and do whatever else. My back is up. I am always waiting for the axe to fall: to be betrayed or at very least disappointed.  I am a true dragon, astrologically and temperamentally. My devotion to Charlotte stems from a source I don’t fully understand.  Alzheimer’s is a shameless robber. I yearn to be its vigilante, and take it on. Bring it on. It  is only after several months into my visits that Charlotte’s long-distance son, Evan, informs me that his mother is not suffering from Alzheimer’s but from something far worse. What could be worse than Alzheimer’s? I ask him in an email. He answers, “Frontotemporal Lobe Dementia.”  I disagree with the diagnosis, but he is merely repeating what he has been told. Whatever has afflicted her, I find it atypical.

 We are back at Spinoza, first floor. I purchase two coffees, one chocolate pudding, one strawberry pudding and one caramel ice-cream cup from the coffee shop. The sweet food is all for Charlotte. She will devour it fiercely, far too quickly, licking the undersides of the lids until they are colourless.  Charlotte and Lydia are waiting at a small table beside an immaculate window.

 Lydia will be attending a book launch and a Plateau Ballet this very evening. I will take the 138 or 104 bus back to Somerled to do my banking and food shopping.  At 5 o’clock, Charlotte will gum her scoops of potatoes-meat product-vegetables at the eating alcove on the third floor. By now, I recognize  the participants: the paid and the caged.

 Lydia announces that she’ll be back in a moment; she has to use the washroom.  That reminds Charlotte, “I have to go too.” She rises  and follows Lydia. I lurch after her with three coats and two purses while guiding Charlotte to the washroom. Once I install her and assume the role of cubicle-guard, she shrieks, “Too late! Too late!” 

 “Don’t worry about it, darling. You’ll get changed upstairs,” Lydia soothes her as she exits a cubicle and relieves me of her handbag and coat. Then we all walk to the elevators. Lydia and Charlotte hug goodbye and I am on my own. The elevator passengers are, for the most part,  despondently familiar.

 Charlotte is never certain that the third floor is her de facto home. I always remind her.  I hold her elbow and wrist as we disembark. Just as we are turning a corner, I catch sight of  one of the kinder and seemingly sincere nursing assistants or orderlies or auxiliary nurses.  I’m not sure what his job description is, but he has a gentle Latino face. I tell him that Charlotte’s diaper needs changing, and he promises to assist her in just a few minutes. I believe him.  I know him to be a man of his word. He’ll show up before too long . That’s the kind of person he is.

 Charlotte finds walking difficult. She doesn’t quite get the hang of it. The motion is familiar, but the know-how is growing dim.  As soon as we reach her room —329— another employee enters, scolding me gently. “Are you a family member?”“No, I’m a friend, a close friend.” Not exactly true, but I feel I have to bolster my credentials even though Evan has authorized Lydia and me to escort Charlotte on outings.

 “You didn’t sign out,” she admonishes. Her features are coarse; her complexion is greasy, yet she speaks kindly. For that, I am grateful.

 I smack my forehead. “Crap! Sorry! I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I absolutely forgot. I’m really, really sorry.”

 “That’s okay.” Her intention is not to torture me, but to get my signatures both  OUT and IN. Keep the staff off the hook.  I castigate myself several times, but  Ms. Broad-Face ushers Charlotte into her institutional ensuite. The woman calls out to me, “Can you find something for her to wear? She’s soaked through.” I rummage frantically through Charlotte’s closet, and the employee ( I am a piece of work; I cannot remember her name) mutters , “ A skirt, a skirt, a skirt is better than trousers.” I tug at an old frayed pink Indian skirt worn over and over again, and interestingly, it is now my task to dress Charlotte in this. Charlotte waddles out of the bathroom in a spanking  fresh pull-on diaper and the employee leaves us  wordlessly.   I instruct her to sit on her bed and I roll the cotton fabric up, politely asking her to lift her bottom, and she is dressed.

I study her still lovely face. Her wide hazel eyes are sometimes found, sometimes lost. I have no idea what she still manages to understand, but I suspect that it’s plenty.

This visit has not been smooth. Lydia made two major getaways, the first at the salon and the second in the lobby coffee shop. She’s one of those people who cannot easily spend time at home. As a result, she crams her days with busy-ness and always appears to be in a kind of solid rush.  I know that when I finish sulking over being deposited in the nail salon and left to fend for Charlotte on my own, I will unwelcome Lydia from my little life. I will cut her loose and she will either float or swim vigorously to new shores. Women like her never sink despite their bulk. They always latch on to some unsuspecting hitching post.

 Now comes the most difficult moment of the visit. Charlotte’s scoops of lump-dinner will be served soon and I cannot stay to watch her gum the mash potatoes, peas and beef.  There is no time for a story.

When things go right, Lydia or I read a story to Charlotte from a cushiony- covered edition of The Tales of Hans Christian Anderson. Story time with Charlotte is a sweet event. I am proud to have thought of the idea and then purchased a beautifully illustrated book. When I read to her, I love restraining my voice, throwing it, tweaking it, hushing it, lilting  it. I love how she follows the words, phrases, clauses, sentences, paragraphs. I love this graceful collaboration.

 This time, however, I must make an abrupt retreat.  I can tell by the way she swallows  that my haste distresses her. She senses that something is wrong, and so it is. So it is. Lydia’s behaviour has upset me fiercely, and I have to be alone to sort it out. I have to go home.

Charlotte watches me collect my belongings and pleads, “Don’t go! I don’t know what to do now!” She stamps a foot and then yanks her hair. Her voice rises; she caterwauls and I have to embrace her firmly to calm her down.

“It’s  okay; it’s okay,” I try to subdue her, but she wrenches herself free.

 “It’s not okay. It’s not. They’re fuckers here. They always forget me,” Charlotte rants, but her hissy fit has already worn her out and she sits down on her bed and begins to whimper. I tell myself that I will bring her an exit-bribe the next time I visit. I suspect that she would be far less agitated if she had some soft, sweet treats to pop into her mouth.

 “Good-bye. I love you. See you next week.” The words, even to my own ears, sound like cheap parting shots. Charlotte doesn’t turn to watch me leave. She doesn’t respond.

 When I arrive home, I feel brittle and rattled. Each time I think about Lydia’s disappearing act, my heart snarls, “What a cheap fraud.”  Busy people don’t impress me, especially if they perform tasks without paying attention to detail.  Truth be told, I have  grown tired of always being the one to pay for the small gifts, sweets, manicures, eBay trinkets, story  books.  Our system is fatally flawed. Even though I am the passenger (I don’t drive), Lydia is along for the ride. I despise myself for this mean-spirited, small-mindedness. Nevertheless, this imbalance cannot go on.  Lydia reminds me of the valiant little tailor, jumping up on the hoisted tree while pretending to toil virtuously.  I smile at the image. I have been reading too many fairy tales.

Who Are You To Me?

 This next novel is dedicated to Joyce Elliot, whom I both befriended and failed.

What is the State of your Raft?

 I don't understand why  how Twitter folk can post the most heartbreaking passages: deaths of children, spouses, parents. I am left feeling like an alien creature. The sympathy of strangers can bring me no succor. 

How flimsy is your life boat?

My raft is battered and bruised. I'm hanging on, but I don't know why. Wouldn't it make far more sense to slip away like a ballerina without any bones?

A WORLD FILLED WITH MANY LITTLE WORLDS

 

 

      A WORLD FILLED WITH MANY LITTLE WORLDS

 

 

They were Berliners, and proud of their enchanting city. The year was 1938. They were also Jewish, secular, very relaxed about religious laws but always aware of their traditions. The Gold family had been in the jewelry business for generations. Many of their clients were wealthy Gentiles until harsh new laws forbade that. They turned the other cheek, believing that the unreasonable persecution would be temporary. After all, it made no sense. They loved their country, its elegantly precise language, its natural beauty and deep, complex culture.

Still, life was good. The loss of one child had thus far been the only family tragedy. The third born, a daughter, died from meningitis when she was only five years old. Aaron and Hilda Gold had four remaining children, all blessed with robust health: Franz, seventeen, Hannah, sixteen, Samuel, nine, Rachel, five. 

But their good fortune was about to run out. Aaron was convinced, 100% convinced that the populace would turn against the maniac, Hitler. He endured the humiliations, believing them to be petty and impermanent. His miscalculation had devastating consequences, yet he was not a reckless man. He had spent sleepless nights thinking matters through. He avoided the financially ruinous Aryanisation of his lucrative shop and house by signing them over to his junior business partner, Luther Volger, the father of Henry and Lise. When Luther protested, Aaron coaxed him, “It’s so much safer for me this way, Luther. I trust you absolutely. It makes sound business sense.”

The family then moved preemptively into a rundown apartment in the vibrant Scheunenviertel. His plan was to deflect attention. But when Aaron’s friends implored him to emigrate while he still had the chance, he demurred. “This city is my home. It is the home of my children. It was my parents’ and grandparents’ home. I am a rational man and I will not yield to this insanity. Reason will prevail again. I will not be forced into exile. I will assume the strength of a reed, bending but not breaking.”

He and his wife argued bitterly. She came close to taking the children and leaving him on more than one occasion, but couldn’t bring herself to rend the family. She was in love with him. She stayed. The children needed their father; she needed her husband. They endured. The inconvenient cracks in their lives deepened and swallowed their false hopes on November 9, 1938. Kristallnacht, The Night of Broken Glass, served as the perfect metaphor for the fate of Europe’s Jews.

The Judenbann soon restricted all areas of Jewish life: large parts of the city were out of bounds, Jewish students were expelled from public schools, Jews were required to turn in gold, diamonds, furs and other valuables to the state with no compensation, the passports of Jews had to be stamped with a prominent J.

Aaron Gold finally understood the error of his wishful thinking only when it was too late. His trusted friend, Luther, exhorted him to go into hiding. “I have a good place for your family, Aaron, a safe place. I have a room in my attic. We can easily make the door disappear with illusionist wallpaper on the other side. No one will suspect me. I have been disparaging you for months now, accusing you of overcharging me for your shitty little Jew shop. No one will suspect me of harbouring your family. You won’t be living comfortably, but you will be protected. I swear on the lives of my children that I will not betray you.”

Aaron wept. “I will speak to Hilda,” he answered.

Luther implored, “Don’t waste any more time, Aaron, I beg you. Time is a luxury you don’t have. Who knows what tomorrow will bring, but one thing is certain. It won’t be good.”

     Hilda’s first reaction was “Impossible. It can’t be done. Samuel and Rachel are too young.”

Aaron answered, “At least see the room. Assess it with your own eyes and then you can decide.”

“But what about his wife? Does Ilse agree to this?” Hilda asked, knowing the wife could be a weak link, a danger even if Luther himself were thoroughly trustworthy.

“We didn’t mention her in our conversation, but she must be in favour of the proposal or he wouldn’t have been so adamant. And you know, she’s taken nurses’ training even though it was quite long ago and she’s never actually practiced. But even so, if any of us were to fall sick….”

Hilda said nothing for a few long moments, after which she spoke, “Let’s get some sleep, Aaron. I’ll tuck this scheme of yours between my head and my pillow and tell you what I’ve decided in the morning.”

When Hilda awoke, she vividly recalled one sequence in a meandering dream. The entire family, including their dead daughter, was at a carnival. Hilda and Aaron and the three younger children were all watching Franz and Hannah going around and around on a carousel. Franz was riding a golden horse, Hannah a poppy-red pony. After many rotations, Aaron called out to his two older children, “Don’t stay on too long. You must be brave and jump off as soon as you can.”

Hilda nudged her husband into wakefulness. “Aaron,” she said, “I know what we must do. We must send Franz and Hannah into hiding, but not the younger ones. We stay here with Samuel and Rachel, but Franz and Hannah — they must leave. At once. They’re old enough to be separated from us and they can be of comfort to one another.”

Although not fully awake, Aaron nodded his head. “You are right, Hilda. They’ll leave today. I’ll call Luther from a phone booth and make the necessary arrangements.”

Breakfast in the shabby kitchen was meagre. The coffee was an acorn brew but comfortingly hot. When told of the plans, both older children protested.

“We can’t split up the family,” Franz implored. “We have to stay together; that alone will give us strength. Please, Father. Please change your mind.”

Hannah sat in shocked silence, wondering how it had come to this. How could her father have been so wrong? Wasn’t it his duty to protect his family? Why hadn’t they all emigrated when it had still been feasible?

Aaron insisted, “I have called Luther. They are waiting for you. Take no luggage. None. Wear as much clothing as you can, starting with layers of underwear. God willing, everything will normalise soon and we can all be together again.”

“But why can’t you join us? Why can’t we all go into hiding?” Franz asked for the third time.

Hilda spoke up, “Your father has already explained that to you. The space is too small and Samuel and Rachel are too young. It’s much safer for everyone this way.”

Franz rose and asked his father, “Will you at least walk with us?”

Aaron answered, “It’s best to part ways here. I’m a conspicuous Jew, a target. Both of you are young and fair. It’s highly likely that you’ll be left alone. Don’t look afraid. Don’t look at the pavement, and whatever you do don’t step off it. Pretend to yourselves that you’re Aryan; you have every civil right, but make no eye contact. Set your faces like stone. Walk briskly but not obviously so. Look purposeful and confident. Save your tears for later when it’s safe to cry.”

Hilda embraced her two firstborns, “Be safe, my darlings. Be brave.” Then she let them go. They held hands and walked as their father had instructed them to. They didn’t look back. It was a cold day in early March, but they felt hot and heavy in their many layers of clothing. The walk seemed endless. In fact, seventeen kilometres separated the Golds’ shabby apartment in the Scheunenviertel and the Vogels well-appointed house in Spandau. It took them two-and-a-half hours and all their will-power not to run wildly. They passed several Grüne Polizei, but their light eyes and hair shielded them from harassment.

Luther was waiting outside his door. When he caught sight of them from a distance, his face lit up and he had to stop himself from running toward them.

Ilse and the children were seated in the kitchen, the table set with festive sandwiches and little cakes. Henry, five, and Lise, four, were scared out of their wits. They sat with hands folded on their laps, eyes downcast. They had been warned by both parents that their new older cousins would be living with them but that their presence had to remain a secret. They must never, under any circumstances, tell anyone about Franz and Hannah or their parents would be taken away from them forever and they would be forced to live in an orphanage until they reached adulthood. Luther cautioned them, “We are doing something very dangerous but very important. We are saving their lives. But if we are caught, Mama and Papa will be arrested and shot. Do you understand?”

They did and they didn’t, but they were so gripped with fear that they couldn’t open their mouths. Not even to say hello to the older cousins, not even to eat the tasty cakes set out so prettily on the floral oilcloth.

The Volger children kept their vow of silence about the cousins for six years. There was only one time, a few months after the Gold siblings’ arrival, that Henry almost slipped up.

It was a beautiful spring day. Ilse took the children to a nearby park for a picnic. Since Franz and Hannah had arrived, the Volger children spent most of their days in the house. Their parents agreed it was much safer that way. But this day was so mild, so fragrant that Ilse thought it only fair that the children fill their lungs with sweet fresh air.

Another mother arrived moments later with three children in tow. She was a stiff woman with a nervous smile, very well-dressed, impeccably groomed. The children were blond, blue-eyed, model youngsters, not at all shy and reserved. They gravitated toward Henry and Lise, and all five of them began playing hide and go seek. It did Ilse’s heart good to watch her children frolicking on the lilac-scented grounds. The other mother hung back, stroking her long neck with agitated fingers. An NS-Frauenschaft    badge hardened the effect of her fluffy beige sweater.

After a half-hour of gamboling, Henry returned to where Ilse was standing and said, “Mother, I am having such fun, but at the same time, I miss my cousins. Can we go home now?” Ilse paled as though seized by cramps. Henry immediately realised the nature of his error, and started to laugh. He looped his fingers in the crazy gesture near his right ear and confessed, “I know, mother. I know you think my cousins are imaginary, but I miss them anyway.”

Lise glanced at the other mother and answered, “Yes, we should go home. It’s really too damp for a picnic. You and your sister will catch a chill if you sit on the grass. We’ll eat at home.” She nodded tersely at the other woman and the three Volgers walked back home in silence.

Once they were indoors, Henry grasped Ilse’s hands in his. “Forgive me, Mother. I promise never to be careless with words again.” She patted his head. “I know, Henry. Don’t fret. That woman seemed to be in a troubled world of her own. I doubt that she even heard you.”

During the early days of hiding, Hannah wept a lot into her soft pillow. She was achingly “family sick.” Franz did his best to comfort her, but his own heart was filled with fear and pain. They came to love and trust Luther and Ilse and became fond of the Volger children, who worshipped them in return.

They spent most of their days and all of their nights in the secret room in the attic. It had a high, tiny window and one overhead lightbulb that could be clicked on and off with the tug of a chain. It contained a narrow bed, a desk with one chair and a small curtained partition which hid a metal slops pail. Ilse explained to them that the pail could be emptied once or a twice a day in the water closet on the floor below but the timing of that had to be carefully monitored. They could also bathe once a week and join the family downstairs on occasion.

Aaron procured books for them. Some he bought; others he borrowed from a local library, and there were games as well: cards, chess, checkers and Gameplay. Whilst perusing items which might interest the Gold youngsters at a local toy shop, Luther spotted a board game he hadn’t previously noticed: Juden Raus! — Jews Out!

 

 

The tokens were wooden figurines wearing conical hats. Painted on these hats were caricatures of supposedly Jewish faces. The object of the game was to be the first player to round up at least six “Jews” and banish them to Palestine through the gates of a walled city. On the side of the box was the advert promise: “Entertaining, instructive and solidly constructed.” Sickened, Luther left the shop and vowed to do no commerce with stores that carried this game.

Later on, after the war began, the Gold children would join the Volgers in their potato and wine cellar during the terrifying air raids. “We can’t bring them to the shelter. That would raise dangerous questions, nor can we leave them here alone. So we all stay together.” Henry and Lise were told to say that their mother suffered from hysterical claustrophobia; hence, the family could not enter a public shelter.

Along with food rationing, came hunger. Six people were being fed with coupons for four, but Ilse was resourceful. She did wonders with potatoes, prepared them in a variety of appetizing ways: home fries, crisp sandwiches, pancakes, croquettes, knodel, pickert, pommes Anna and reibekuchen. Franz and Hannah bore their hunger well. For the younger children, it was more difficult partially because they were so active, but they never complained.

What made the food shortages entirely bearable were the occasional reprieves and surprises. Many of Ilse’s customers were wives of high-ranking Nazi party members. When they visited her home atelier for a fitting or an alteration, they would often catch sight of the two well-mannered, if overly subdued, children. The serious, beautiful youngsters were endearing to these privileged women, who often left them gifts of nuts, dried fruits, and chocolate. Both Henry and Lise invariably shared their windfalls with Franz and Hannah.

Luther received gifts from his customers as well. Before the war, a fad for Nazi jewelry appeared among certain members of the NSDAP. Luther didn’t get any official orders, but quite a few men requested personalized pieces for their wives and children. When particularly pleased with an item, a Gauleiter or Kreisleiter would give Luther a token of his appreciation in the form of a cash bonus or food vouchers. But he was also teased fairly often about his former Jew-pig partner. The banter was light-hearted, but it never failed to anguish Luther.

“So, whatever became of that Jew who used to call the shots here?” a jovial customer would ask.

“I don’t know. I heard rumours that he emigrated to Palestine with his family. Good riddance,” Luther would answer while inwardly hoping “please, dear God, let me seem convincing.”

Speculation about Luther being a Jew-lover still lingered, but he did his best to dispel it. Ilse asked him, “Don’t you feel ashamed saying all those horrible things about the Jews to those despicable people?”

“Of course, I do. I feel sick to my stomach, but it’s the best way, the only way,” he answered.

The business flourished and he rented out the handsome Gold house in Charlottenburg to a Gauleiter for a tidy sum. He set away as much money as possible for the time when life would return to normal and he could say to Aaron, “You’re safe now, my friend and so are your children. I return to you your properties and here is a sum of money to get you started in your new life.” But where and when would that new life be?

Aaron and Luther had arranged to conduct weekly updates in telephone booths. Luther was invariably the one to make the call and he changed the location of his booth as often as possible. The designated time was always the same: Sundays at 13:00. Their coordination efforts were remarkably successful until Sunday, October 19, 1941. Luther dialed the number, which he had long ago memorised, but there was no answer. He refused to panic. He walked to a different booth, and tried the number ten minutes later. Still no answer. He visited a coffee shop where he ate a spritzkuchen and then strolled around trying to appear unconcerned until he arrived at another phone booth. No answer yet again. At this point, his heart began pounding. He paced the streets until 18:00, dialing the number every fifteen or twenty minutes, each time repeating to himself, “Please answer, please answer. Aaron, for the love of God, please answer.” A few times the line was busy, but Luther never again heard Aaron’s voice. He tried the following Sunday, and the Sunday after that and the Sunday after that.

It was only many months later that he learned that thousands of Berlin Jews had been deported to the Lodz ghetto in Poland beginning October 18. He decided not to alarm Franz and Hannah with this information, and so he pretended that he had spoken to their father each and every Sunday at 13:00 for the duration of the war. He invented stories about their family: Samuel and Rachel were attending a special Jewish school and were performing in community theatricals. Aaron was working in a metal factory. His skills as a jeweller were invaluable; hence, no harm could come to the family. Hilda was earning extra marks selling her home-baked goods. All four were well; everything was fine.

Although Franz was not placated, he attempted to change Luther’s mind only one time. “Mr. Volger, we are most grateful for your hospitality, but my sister and I have discussed the matter many times over, and we feel strongly that rejoining our family is the right thing, indeed the only thing, for us to do.”

Luther hardened his face and voice, “Impossible. It is your father’s will that you stay here until this accursed war is over. I’m sorry, Franz, but I daren’t defy your father. He knows what’s best for you and Hannah. End of discussion, my boy.”

A kind of miracle, perhaps, bloomed for those six years in that cramped attic hideout; Franz and Hannah fell in love. It was a full-blown love, a lotus-eating kind of love that is born in desperate times and is beyond the laws of social order, an illicit, lifelong love. This young man, a boy really, cut off from everyone and everything — his mother, his father, his education, his passions, interests, quirks, foibles, severed from everything except for one sister.

And this sister, slender, golden-skinned, soft-spoken, heart-broken. At night, brother and sister held tight to each other and fell asleep this way. Night after night, until one night, she stretched a long, pale thigh over his legs and a slice of moonlight entered their chamber and she began weeping softly. “Hush, shhhhhhhh, my sister, my love. We have each other; you are not alone, Hannah, my darling,” Franz tried to soothe her. And she kissed his throat, one of his earlobes, his eyelids. And his mouth fit perfectly over hers, the same shape only larger and not as soft. He thought, “Her lips are velvet. Her tears are so hot and salty that they sting me. There is no one, no one in this Godforsaken world, no one, no one, no one, only her.”

He had to silence her lips with his, so piercing were her cries, and after that somnambulistic first time, being together in that way was all the two of them thought about. It became their fuel. They knew it was taboo, but what did it matter? The laws were ugly and cruel, so the secret embraces they offered each another were their only consolation. But more than that: it became their reason for living.

Ilse was suspicious, “Those children, they are turning  demented in captivity. Do you see their eyes, Luther? They look like feral children raised by a she-wolf.”

Luther’s answer tasted bitter, “Ah, yes, my dearest. The she-wolf is this Third Reich, this 1000 Jahre Reich that has devoured their lives. ”

“But Luther…”

“No more!” he bellowed. “I simply cannot bear it. Leave them be, Ilse. Let them do what they must do to somehow find life worth living.”

“But what about after the war, Luther?” Ilse’s voice grew shrill. “How will they carry on with their lives under the burden of this monstrous secret, this devastating sin?”

“Say no more about it, woman.” Luther’s eyes shut her out. It has nothing to do with us, nothing whatsoever. I forbid you to raise the subject again.”

Neither Franz nor Hannah was stricken with guilt. Their love-making was executed in a trancelike state. It felt like an underwater dream-dance, something that happened but did not happen. “I am an insect,” Hannah said to Franz one day not long before the war was over. “I am all instinct, and my life feels endless but it is soon to be complete. I am a Jew; I am an insect.”

Franz joined his sister on the thin mattress. “My beautiful insect, my exquisite praying mantis.” His erection was always so spare, so hard. It reminded his sister of an ivory tusk. After each time they coupled, they both felt as though they were adrift on a flimsy raft in toxic waters. It was always, this fusion, this coming; it was always a beginning and an end.

Lise began following her mother around the house like a forlorn little tail. When customers tried asking her a few questions, she would hide behind Ilse, clinging to her smock. When she had been a truly young child, merely two and three years old, her vocabulary was remarkably full and varied. But after Franz and Hannah went into hiding, Lise became fearful of words. She understood how much damage they were capable of wreaking, and she spoke as little as possible.

She became fascinated with her mother’s sewing machine, fabrics, and embellishments. She loved to study and stroke the bolts of silk, taffeta, satin, tulle, chiffon and her favourite, velvet. Ilse never actually taught her daughter how to sew by hand or operate the machine, but her daughter watched her raptly, day after day until her eyes and hands understood how to work in tandem and produce first handkerchiefs and pillow-cases, then tablecloths, aprons, skirts, blouses, dresses, jackets, coats.

Ilse had become terrified of Franz and Hannah, referring to them as “the Ghosts in the attic.”

“We are their jailers, their tormentors,” she would confess to her husband in the dead of night.

He did his best to console her, “Not true, darling. They love us. They trust us. We are protecting them.”

“But the things you say, Luther, when you are speaking with those Nazi pigs, how the Jews are vermin, parasites, leeches. Those words make my blood run cold. When the subject of the Jews is raised, why can you simply say nothing?”

“Because, Ilse, as I’ve explained to you repeatedly, I must be convincing. We have to avoid suspicion. Many people know that I used to be Aaron’s junior partner. People talk. They spread rumours. Rumours often hold a shadow of truth. Ilse, please can we sleep now? It’s the middle of the night. Fears are at their deepest and strongest during these hours. Daylight will soften and sweeten your thoughts.”  

Ilse developed chronic insomnia. She would pace the house and visit the wallpapered room in the attic. There she would sit by the dividing wall and listen to Franz and Hannah sleeping or enacting their desperate love. Her feelings for them were murky, complicated. She loved them, yes, but she sensed that their lives were ruined and she held herself responsible.

Aaron finally insisted that she seek help. A chemist with whom they were acquainted, prescribed Veronal, which calmed her for a time. But one morning in May, 1944, Luther was unable to rouse Ilse from her deep sleep. She had slipped into a coma during the night. An ambulance rushed her to The Charité–Universitätsmedizin Berlin, where she died three days later. Was it a suicide or a mistaken overdose? Luther realised he would never know the answer to that.

The lives of the Volgers and the Gold siblings became increasingly complicated. Luther walked Henry and Lise to school every morning and he would have gladly closed the jewellery shop for an hour to accompany them home in the afternoons, but people would ask questions. He would be expected to hire a housekeeper, but that would be dangerous. What if the Gold children made noise? What if she snooped in the attic and discovered their hiding place? What if? What if? No, a housekeeper was out of the question; it was far too dangerous.

Instead, He would hire a shop assistant. Leaving an unknown person alone with the precious metals, the diamonds, the emeralds, the rubies and the cash was imprudent, but what choice did he have? He would be able to justify this decision, moreover, by saying that he needed to spend more time with his bereaved children.

Franz and Hannah were nearly as devastated as Henry and Lise by Ilse’s death. “Thank God I haven’t told them the truth about their own parents. All of this would be simply too much for them to withstand,” Luther thought.

“Please don’t despair,” he counseled them. “I know you are very sad, but I’m still here for you and nothing so much will change, except, of course, the pain in your hearts. That will deepen, but know that Ilse loved you like her own and she was tormented by how difficult your lives had become.”

And because the Volger children had lost their mother and had no relatives to care for them, Luther was able to secure an exemption from serving in the Wehrmacht and later on in the Volksstrum. Ah, the Vollksstrum, a raggle-taggle contingent of callow boys and elderly men who were supposed to do what exactly? Win the war for Germany? Defend its honour?  He had to pull strings and pay exorbitant bribes to achieve this exemption, but he was successful.

By 1944, it was evident that Hitler would lose the war, and Luther fervently hoped that Germany would surrender sooner rather than later. He allowed Franz and Hannah to spend more time out of their little cell. They avoided windows, and ran back to the attic if the doorbell should ring, but they ate some of their meals in the kitchen, and used the water closet whenever nature called. It was little Lise, by then nine years old, who remarked to the Gold siblings “Your skin is as thin and white as paper.”

Franz wondered if he would ever get used to life as it was on the outside. He felt agitated, uneasy, whenever he left the secret room. In contrast, his sister was looking forward. She longed to step outdoors, into that other world which had become hostile, but remained infinitely appealing to her. But in one crucial sense, they both responded to the promised taste of liberation in the same manner. They lost their appetites for each other, and abandoned their nightly ritual. Their love changed colours as it were: from scarlet to rose to nude to ivory-white. Franz knew that he would never love a woman the way he had loved, still loved, his sister, who had become all things to him. Hannah never thought that far. She yearned to test her legs, strengthen them, strengthen her heart which felt to her like an injured moth trapped under her ribcage.

But the one who suffered the most was Luther. He had to tell Franz and Hannah that their family was no longer in Berlin. What did deportation to the Lodz Ghetto truly mean? There were vivid rumours that the Jews had been expelled from Europe via death camps, gas chambers, crematoria. There was talk of a killing ground named Auschwitz, whose air was so fouled with the odour of burning corpses that birds refused to fly over it. Luther understood that the war first had to end before he could get word of the Gold family. Perhaps, just perhaps they had somehow managed to survive and would return from Poland.

By early 1945, the elegant house in Charlottenburg was vacant, the Gauleiter and his brood having disappeared without a trace. Luther visited it often to check up on it and make necessary repairs. It consoled him to know that if Aaron and Hilda had managed to survive and would return to Berlin, they would find their home decently maintained and habitable.

It was just after the new year of 1945 that young Lise’s hands sprang into action. “I shall make us all new clothes, magnificent new clothes to celebrate the New Year.” Her mother had seen to it that Franz and Hannah were decently dressed after they outgrew their many layers of garments with which they had arrived. But now it was Lise’s duty to assume the task. She removed bolts of fabric almost as big as she was from the shelves in her mother’s atelier and began to measure, and pin, and baste and bind and stitch various textiles into an assortment of sturdy and stylish garments.

“She has her mother’s gift,” Luther thought proudly, but it was greater than that. She never required a pattern, and she boldly mixed fabrics to create unique and detailed pieces. She strayed from the sewing machine and the work table only long enough to sleep and eat. In a matter of weeks, Hannah had two new frocks, a gabardine suit and three silk blouses.

“Now if only I had shoes, I would be the best-dressed lady in all of Berlin!” But shoes were dangerous to procure. Luther and Franz wore almost the same shoe size, so the young man remained decently shod throughout the war, but Hannah’s feet were much larger than Lise’s and much smaller than Ilse’s. Ilse had once tried to pay for a beautifully constructed pair of Oxfords and a low-heeled pair of pumps at Werheim’s (aryanised and renamed AWAG in 1939). The Oxfords were a distinctive colour known as oxblood, and the pumps were black patent. The saleswoman was aghast, “But those are not for you, Madame! They are much too small.”

Ilse kept her cool, “No, they’re not for me; they’re for my daughter. You see, she hates to go shopping. She’s a genuine tomboy. I’ve measured her feet very precisely, you see. These will do nicely.”

But the diligent woman wouldn’t yield. “No, Madame. We do not accept returns with footwear. Surely you can convince your daughter to accompany you.”

Ilse pretended to consider the woman’s advice. She was afraid of drawing too much attention to herself, of being remembered as a peculiar customer. It was safer to acquiesce. Hence, Hannah hadn’t had a pair of shoes since 1939, when she outgrew the sturdy pair she had taken her last walk in.

There was another thing she hadn’t had since that time: a period. She supposed it was the absence of fresh air and the constant stress. So when it resumed as though there hadn’t been a six-year interruption, she didn’t know whether to feel relieved or annoyed. At first, the cramping alarmed her, but then she realised she was menstruating. She confided in Lise, who cut a bolt of muslin into dozens of squares and handed them over to Hannah.

The daily diet had been reduced to boiled potatoes or turnips and the five members of the household were hungry all the time. They went to bed hungry and they started each day hungry. Luther had stopped going to his shop altogether. He spent much of his time drinking his home-made schnapps and trying to catch the voice of Britain on the illegal short-wave radio.

One day in the beginning of May, Lise timidly invited Hannah to take possession of her late mother’s perfumes and cosmetics. “Take what pleases you, Hannah. I know Mother would want you to. She has lovely fragrances from France, and some almost new compacts and lipsticks.”

“But you’re her daughter, Lise. These are your inheritance,” Hannah demurred.

“I’m too young for such things. Please, Hannah, I know what Mother would have wished.”

So Hannah inherited a few bottles of intoxicating perfume as well as a Persian Pink and rose-red lipstick and a Helene Winterstein pressed powder foundation in Porcelain Bisque.

Suddenly, it was over. The war. Luther praised the God he no longer truly believed in. It was a sun-drenched day. They stepped outdoors, all five of them, Franz and Hannah were barefoot. He wore a pair of navy gabardine trousers and sky blue silk shirt. She wore a yellow silk sundress. It had a flared and flounced skirt. Her hair was the colour of butterscotch. Her lips were Persian pink.

May 7, 1945. Franz and Hannah shielded their eyes with their moth-white hands. The air was fragrant and warm. Luther and his two children stood with them. Luther’s thoughts went like this: “Now we must trace Aaron and Hilda. Now I must return to Franz and Hannah what is theirs. Now I must teach them everything their father taught me. Now I must somehow find the courage to be a father to four children. Damn the Reich. Damn it to Hell and back. Damn the Führer, who led us to the abyss, and damn those who followed out of stupidity, cowardice and greed. How could an entire nation be so — wrong?”

A few days after Berlin capitulated, Luther gathered the two children and two young adults into the kitchen and confessed:

“Franz, Hannah, pardon me, for I have lied to you. In truth, I stopped speaking with your papa long, long ago.”

Hannah sobbed, “Are they still alive?”

Luther answered, “I don’t know. This is what we must discover. Your family was deported to Poland in 1941. They were sent to the ghetto in Lodz. But please do not despair. At least they know where to find you. That should give you courage.”

Russian soldiers were everywhere in Berlin. Luther reopened his shop, feigning bravery. He would bring Franz here, show him how things were done, how they were made. He would put up the old sign, the original sign, the one that read Golds Fein Juweliere, ‘Gold’s Fine Jewellers.’ He felt utterly estranged from the Berliners he encountered. Their faces resembled haggard masks. They also were going about their daily business, trying to cobble their broken lives back together, but he didn’t know what they were feeling in their hearts. Who had loved the Führer and who had loathed him? Rubble lay where homes and businesses used to be. The Zoo was gone, as was the Lessing Theatre, Jerusalem Church, Kroll Opera House, City Palace, and Hotel Excelsior, among many other magnificent structures.

“I am a most fortunate man” he attempted to convince himself. My children are well. I am not homeless. The store still stands; I can transfer the deed to Franz and Hannah. I can sell their family home and give them the proceeds. I lost my wife, yes, and my health, surely but my mission succeeded. I was able to save Franz and Hannah. Now I must find a way for them to leave this country that did everything in its power to murder them and obliterate all traces of their People. They are old enough to emigrate and if I were only younger, stronger, I would choose to accompany them.”

He had to do some basic mental arithmetic to calculate the ages of the children — his own as well. The results shocked him. Franz was now twenty-three! Hannah, twenty-two! How was that possible? Little Henry was twelve, Lise, eleven, and he, Luther, a prematurely old forty-eight. His hair had gone completely grey, he had deep pouches under his eyes and his shoulders appeared to have caved in.

It took him several weeks to convince Franz to accompany him to the shop.

“It’s yours, Franz. You must learn how things are done. Before you leave Berlin, you will sell the store. You and your sister will require money to establish yourselves wherever you go: America, Palestine, England. But first you must learn the trade.”

“I don’t want the store, Luther. You keep it. Hannah and I will go to Palestine. But we must try to find our family first. Perhaps they have survived. If Hannah and I have, why couldn’t they have as well?”

Eventually Luther persuaded Franz to set foot outside the house. He wore a pair of Luther’s shoes, which were too tight and too long, and caused him to walk in both a pinched and shambling manner. But his charcoal gabardine suit that Lise had designed and sewn for him draped his spare frame elegantly. He tucked his Jewish documents into an inner pocket, ready to produce it should a Russian soldier demand identification.

His almost preternaturally pale face gave him away as someone who had been in hiding, and that was a good thing for Luther, who was now under Franz’ protection. A Russian officer walked into the store Franz’ first day there demanding to see their documents. The officer, a Moscow Jew named Bronsky, was astounded to discover that the thin young man was also Jewish. This red-haired officer spoke Yiddish and was thus able to carry on a conversation of sorts with Franz.

“But you’re Jewish! A Jew in Berlin! How is this possible?”

“Surely there are others?” Franz couldn’t believe that he and Hannah were the only ones.

“Yes, I’ve heard there were a few here and there, but you’re the first one I’ve met. This man, he saved you?”

“He hid my sister and me in his home for six years. This is my first outing since 1938. Where can we go to record the names of my family and find out where they are?”

Bronsky answered, “Lock up and follow me. I’ve heard of a place not far from here.” The three men left the store. Luther and Franz felt protected by the presence of their flame-haired escort. Bronsky stopped a couple of times to get information from other Russian soldiers. He pointed at Franz while speaking. Franz understood only one word, which the officer repeated a number of times: Yevrey. Bronsky looked pleased as he reported, “I have an address. You’ll meet others who are also looking for missing loved ones.”

After thirty minutes of brisk walking, they arrived at a building with the door ajar. They climbed three steep staircases and entered a large room filled with battered desks, behind which sat exhausted-looking volunteers.  There was a long lineup of people of assorted ages waiting to be heard. Bronsky insisted on staying with Luther and Franz.

Franz understood that the people in line were all Jews. Some of them were engaged in loud and lively conversations. There were even a few debates in progress. But most of the Jews were silent. They waited with tension etched on their faces. The room was ripe with the odour of unwashed bodies. Everyone looked shabby and dusty. Franz thought, “They all look as though they’ve been pulled out of walls, somehow flattened, like cardboard.”

After about an hour of waiting and only barely inching forward, Bronsky lost his patience and pulled rank. He walked up to a central desk where a comely woman was talking on the telephone while smoking and taking notes. Bronsky commanded her full attention, and within less than a minute, he motioned Luther and Franz to join him.

The woman requested, “What are the names of the people you are looking for and what is their last known location?”

Luther answered, hoping against all odds that she would be able to offer them words of encouragement. But she shook her head and informed them, “The Lodz Ghetto was liquidated in August, 1944. At this time, we have records of very few survivors, truthfully only a handful. All you can do now is wait. We will register the young man’s name. I advise you to come back once a week in case we receive any pertinent information. If anyone has survived, it will be much easier for them to find you than for you to find them. I’m sorry. I wish I had more encouraging news for you.”

Franz asked, “But what exactly do you mean when you say that the ghetto was liquidated? Was everyone shot on the spot?”

“No,” she answered. “They were transported to Auschwitz, but it’s possible that your family went into hiding. Please don’t give up all hope, not yet, not until you hear something final.” And then she said something which Franz found surprising and mysterious: “Got hot zikh bashafen a velt mit klaineh veltelech.” God created a world full of many little worlds.

Disheartened, Luther and Franz exited the building with Bronsky leading the way. He took down their address and indicated that he would visit them shortly and wished them all the best. They never saw him again.

A few months later, Spandau became part of the British zone, and Luther was hopeful that Franz and Hannah would be able and willing to emigrate to England. In the meantime, he taught Franz as much as he could about the business. They went to the store every day, leaving Hannah at home with the children. Luther and Franz returned to the Jewish Family Reunification Centre every week, sometimes more often than that, but no news was forthcoming. Six months passed, a year. Arrangements were made for Franz and Hannah to relocate in England. Luther had convinced them that Palestine was too dangerous a destination. They begged him to join them, but he told them he was too old, too tired. He was heartbroken that Ilse hadn’t lived to see this day.

On a beautiful summery day in June 1947, Franz and Hannah began their journey. They boarded a train which took them through Dutch and Belgian borders and then by ship to England. Their throats were swollen with longing, but Luther had insisted that they go. He had prepared a food basket for them, a wicker hamper filled with sausage, cheeses and a pot of translucent rosehip jelly, and he had stuffed their pockets with British banknotes. Perhaps hardest of all was bidding farewell to Henry and Lise. By the time Franz and Hannah left the continent, they had endured the loss of two families.

Luther died of a massive stroke in 1949. He was fifty-two years old. His affairs were meticulously in order. Franz and Hannah, by then managing a small but flourishing business in England, sponsored Henry and Lise to immigrate. For many, many years, life was calm and blessedly uneventful. Henry chose wood-working as his trade, and Lise opened a dressmaker’s shop when she turned eighteen. All four recognised the coincidence that none had chosen to marry and that both pairs of siblings lived together in respectful if subdued harmony.

FFF