Wishes

"Sometimes god greatest gift is unanswered prayers…" (Garth Brooks)

“I wish things could be easier,” I said one day to my friend Naomi. We were sitting next to a small round table in the university coffee shop, sipping coffee and digging into huge slices of apple pie.

“Who does not,” she replied, shrugging her shoulders, concentrating on especially big piece on her plate.

I like Naomi’s matter of fact attitude towards things. She always seems unnerved by the challenges life throws at her. Always calm and collected, she is using reason as her first line of defense, not emotions like I tend to do.

“Don’t you ever get upset or frustrated?” I tried again. “Look around you, there is so much injustice and chaos, so many bad things and sad things and a sea of stupidity.”

Naomi just smiled at me with a mouth full of pie and waved with her hand towards the big glass windows.

“What?” I turned at that direction but all I could see were the trees outside and far away the skyline of Jerusalem. “What are you looking at?” I turned back at her. “I don’t see anything.”

The small cafeteria, on the first floor of the library building in the Mt, Scopus campus in Jerusalem has been one of my favorite places for a long time. Every time I go to Jerusalem I try to find some reason to visit the book store on the second floor and treat myself to a leisurely cup of coffee preferably with a good friend. Naomi has been my friend since fifth grade. Looking at her sitting across from me reminded me of so many things. School, girl scouts, my years in the army, old friends and long lost friendships. It is almost a miracle, I thought, that we remained friends after so many years.

 I looked at her and tried again. “Remember the days we used to walk home together after school and talk about life?” she nodded her head and her eyes looked straight through me. “Life, the future and making decisions,” she chuckled. “We were so young and so sure we can make a difference, little did we know,” she smiled at me going back in her mind to that time in the past.

“Remember what we used to wish for?” I kept probing.

“That we can have a cup of coffee on Mt. Scopus looking through the windows at the outline of Jerusalem?” she said jokingly but her eyes were serious.

I looked at the window again. The sun was low on the horizon and its rays caught the the rock's golden dome and made it look like pure gold. Behind it I could make out parts of the wall surrounding the city, and further away already getting hazy in the dusk, the tall modern buildings of the new city.

“Remember how we used to stand on the balcony of the old Notre Dame Monastery looking at the walls surrounding the old town, wondering if we will ever get to see the inside, and the Wailing Wall?”

“I remember the first time I made it to Mt. Scopus and saw the town from the other side that was different,” Naomi laughed but there was a hint of sadness in her voice. 

“So, just like the stories, we got what we wished for…but” I was not sure where I was going with this thought.

“We were always told that seeing things from a different angel is good for a more balanced perspective,” Naomi continued as if she did not hear me and was talking to herself. “It did not work in this case; it did not create better understanding.”

I thought of the many years of living in a divided town. A town with a wall running in its midst separating us from almost all the sacred places. I thought about the other years when the wall was not there anymore. Walls create a physical divide but people do the rest.

I touched my cup, it was cold. The remains of the pie on my plate looked colorless and bland. Somehow the day had lost its color as if a big cloud covered the sun and made everything look bleak.

“Lets’ go,” I said to Naomi who was still gazing at the windows and seemed deep in thought.

“Do you ever think,” she said as if continuing my sentence “how things could have turned out if this wish would not have been granted?”

Handwritten note

 

 

They usually come on a thin slip of white paper printed in red faded ink but this one was a neatly folded rectangle, hand written in black ink. I held the two pieces of the broken fortune cookie and looked around the table. If it was a prank no one seemed to show any sign of interest. They were all busy showing and reading their fortunes to each other. My husband looked at me and said “well, what you got?”

“Oh the usual obscure double meaning garbage” I said in a calm voice and tucked the note under my plate.

If it was a prank he will not get any satisfaction from me. I was not going to cooperate.

By now everybody’s attention was on Tal who was reading her fortune giggling aloud.

I took advantage of the moment and peeked at the note.

It was just an ordinary piece of paper, written in black ink. There was nothing unusual about it except for the message itself. I knew once I read it that it was not meant for me personally but to anyone who happened to open it.

“If you opened it” it said “know that this message is important, beware of the danger, keep your eyes opened and be ready…” Dot, dot, dot. I hate open end sentences. If you have something to say just go ahead and say it. If you have nothing to say don’t put dots as if you do and preferred to keep silent.

I was mad and a little apprehensive too. Now that I read the words it was hard to keep them out of my mind. “Danger, be ready, keep your eyes open…” and the dots!!! I knew that as hard as I will try the words will keep whispering in the back of my mind. It’s like opening a Pandora box; once you let the content spill out it is impossible to push it back in. Even if I could fold the note and somehow tuck it back into the broken cookie, and believe me the idea had crossed my mind, it will never work. The words, now out there gained a power of their own free to move in my head and shake my balance.

I looked around the table at my family happily digging into plates of food. No one was aware of me being so engrossed in thoughts or of the danger lurking in an unseen corner. Ah, the bliss of ignorance, I watched them with envy and longed to turn the watch back to the moment before I so carelessly broke the cookie in half. I looked around me, the restaurant was full, and everyone but me seemed content. The hum of voices, clicks of silverware touching the plates, the quick footsteps of the waitresses it all came together to create a harmony of sorts. At any other time I could have enjoyed it but now it seemed like a very thin cover ready to burst at any moment.  

And then, suddenly with a renewed insight I knew what needed to be done. I did not like it but realized I had no choice. You cannot fight the irrational with logic. You have to outsmart it, be quick and resourceful. I got up and walked towards the bathroom. No one seemed to pay attention. I walked slowly screening everything around me making sure there was nothing lurking in the shadows.  Everything seemed normal, ordinary, boring even. The tiny bathroom looked like hundredth I have seen before in public places. A little run down, in urgent need of some cosmetic repairs but other than that misleadingly normal. I still felt the tension building inside me threatening to explode. I was expecting something that will jump at me from the corner and kept looking over my shoulder.

‘Now that you are present and fully aware of the danger it will not happen” I kept saying to myself rather irritated, everybody knows that its 101 danger watching for dummies.  I knew I had to come up with some sort of deterrence, something that will create enough disorder and chaos to break whatever evil plan was brewing. Working quickly before I will have time to regret, I walked out of the bathroom straight towards the fire alarm system and pulled the handle. The deafening sound was almost unbearable and while everyone ran to the door I was already outside looking in through the back windows at the commotion I created single handed. I did not expect thanks and did not receive any. My family was relieved to find me standing outside safe; they thought they lost me in the turmoil. My daughter handed me my purse that I left hanging on a chair while walking to the bathroom. “I put your fortune cookie inside with the note” she told me. “We did not want you to lose it, don’t you think it was an odd looking fortune” She looked innocently into my eyes and for the life of me I couldn’t tell if there was something else behind her words.

Proof of life

I read about it in the paper all the time, one day a person stops getting his social security checks, his visits to the doctor are not being covered, people seem to look through him when they cross his way on the sidewalk and a strange sense of emptiness starts to engulf him.
In the beginning he tries to laugh it off as nothing but his sick imagination, a glitch in the mail,  a petty quarrel with a good friend, nothing to be alarmed at, but the signs keep mounting up and it becomes harder and harder to avoid the sickening feeling.
So the other day when I log into my bank account, as I do every third Wednesday of the month and the money wasn’t there I feel the cold crawling down my spine. Its true then, all these stories I refused to believe in, I am on my way to become one of these walking dead.  I too will walk down the street and good friends that I knew since we were kids will look straight through me as if I was not there.
I pull out of my failing memory all the times that I crossed them; in kindergarten in the sand box, in elementary school when I told the teacher on them, perhaps stole a girl-friend or two, but I am sure we got over it a long time ago, or did we?
With the disappearing friends more signs appear every day. I get  a notice in my mail-box that my health plan was terminated and a quick note of condolences from my family doctor, it is not even addressed to me, I notice with a growing sense of alarm.
Additional cards with “we are thinking of you in these hard times,” appear every day and it becomes harder and harder to laugh them off.
“What you need is a proof of life, “my wife suggests one morning over a cup of coffee. By now she is the only one who still believes that I am alive and by the distant look in her eyes I know that the end is in sight.
“I read about it in the internet, “She continues.
“It is a rather simple procedure; you go to a lawyer, fill up a form declaring that you are alive and get it notarized.”
Ah, the light at the end of the tunnel, my breathing stabilizes and for a moment I feel lighter than air.
The next day I make an appointment and dressed appropriately for the occasion, show up promptly at the office. The lawyer, a pleasant middle-aged woman, hands me the form with instructions to return the next day with two witnesses and a proof that I am still alive.
I look at her speechless, “a proof that I am still alive,” I croak, trying to clear the sudden dryness in my throat.
“I am here, standing in front of you, isn’t that a proof,”
She nods her head amazed at my naivety.
“All I have is your word,” she says announcing each word slowly, “you cannot expect me to rely on that.”

Permutations

Time travel

I arrived at the Tel-Aviv new, glass and chrome, train station around noon and the train was already on the platform. I stepped into the first car holding the railing with my left hand and walked along the train looking for a sitting place next to a window. When I found one I sat down stretched my legs and put my pocket book on my side. A quick look revealed a newer much modern looking version of the old train I remembered from my childhood. The air-condition was humming softly and the chair was yielding and comfortable. I leaned back and stretched my legs. Old or new a train ride is always exciting.

The high-pitched sound of the horn and the slight rocking movement got me out of my dreamlike mood. We were moving.  Soon the pace grew and the klick-klack of the wheels became a rhythmic background sound. I sighed with satisfaction. I love trains. Their slower pace and spacey sitting makes the journey enjoyable.

Tel-Aviv’s high risers and crowded neighborhoods were soon behind us. We went through few smaller towns, Ramla, Lod, Beth-Shemesh, and suddenly the train made a sharp turn and entered a narrow mountain ravine. At once I felt as if transported years back. The mountain’s ravine name Emek Refaim - valley of the Refaim, derived from a legendary race of giants who lived in this region in biblical times. As a child hearing it and going through the narrow mountain path with the small brook running alongside, was an added excitement. I kept watching with a mixture of fear and anticipation hoping I‘ll get to see one.  The touch of mystery was the highlight of the trip. I noticed it was still there, the brook, the mountains on two sides and being able to see both ends of the train when it was going around the curves, turning right and left like a long hissing snake.

When I heard the horn again we were getting closer to the town, it startled me. I must have been dozing off.  I could see the first white buildings spilling down the hills. “Jerusalem! Mountains are round about her” the words of the biblical phrase suddenly were going through my mind. Jerusalem stone, I recalled, the only material allowed by the municipal laws dating back to the British Mandate. This required all buildings to be faced with the local stone. The pale lime stone shined in the sun and gave the houses an almost unified white gleam.

The train came to a full stop. I sent my hand to collect my things and there it was a rolled parchment next to my pocket book.  It was tightly rolled, tied with a burgundy color ribbon and appears old and withered.  Leery but very intrigued I opened it.

It was written in old looking script letters on one page.

“Do you realize that while you were asleep you had, successfully, completed a journey through time of a hundred and twenty years? If you want to go even further into the past contact us.”

I continued to read.

“This train you have taken is following the Jaffa–Jerusalem railway that was built in Ottoman Palestine by a French company and inaugurated in 1892. This line is considered to be the first Middle Eastern railway. The Jerusalem station was opened in 1892 as a terminus of the Jaffa–Jerusalem line, at the 86.6 kilometer mark, at an elevation of 747 meters. The rail line to Jerusalem was closed down in 1998 and the station has been decaying since. It was not included in the restoration of the Tel Aviv Jerusalem line. If you want to know why, you will have to follow the old route to the Turkish station via the long forgotten Templers settlement.

And here came an elaborate signature - Matthaus Frank   followed by detailed directions.  

Standing at the gate going through the security check the young man asked me if I received anything from a stranger “No,” I started to say  but  on a second thought I pulled out the rolled parchment  and showed it to him.”Maybe you can tell me where this is,” I pointed at the directions. “Oh, this,” he laughed.” This is in the old Kahn building, the falling apart old Turkish train station. There is nothing there. This old guy is convinced that he is the last descendant to the Jerusalem Templers and he does it all the time. “

It was late afternoon when I walked away from the station.  The sun already disappeared behind the mountains. The air was as I remembered it, cool and clear with this special subtle quality some will call holiness. I held the rolled parchment in my hand and for some reason decided to take the bus going by the old station. We passed through the German Colony, an upscale neighborhood bisected by Emek Refaim Street, an avenue lined with trendy shops, restaurants and cafes. It was hard to picture it the way it was in 1837 when the Templers, lived there. They built their homes in the style to which they were accustomed to in Germany but used local materials such as Jerusalem stone instead of wood and bricks. They waited and prepared for their part in the Messianic salvation until deported by the British Mandatory government in World War II for their affiliation with the Nazi party.

The bus passed by the old train station; neglect and deterioration were visible everywhere. I could see falling apart walls and torn, open windows. It looked so out of place in the midst of the wealthy neighborhood.  For a moment I was tempted to follow the directions and go in. But then being realistic and rational person I shook the thought away. I tightened my hand on the old parchment and wondered if I really saw a glint of a light from one of the windows on the second floor. It was there for a second and when I looked again it was gone. Now I remembered, the word “Refaim” in Modern Hebrew means also a “ghost," or "spirit,” and an uncontrolled shudder went through me.

Across the generations

   The meeting was set to noon on a Sunday in the old family house on Hlinka St. no 90, in the town of Stupava, Slovakia. Isral Bee, my third great grandfather, and I are going to meet there for the first time. I can hardly contain my excitement.  Isral Bee is where the story of my mother’s family begins. All I know about him is that he was born in 1784, and years later, appears for the first time in the town registrar’s lists as part of the 50 Jewish families that resided in town at that time. This is a handwritten list, sloppily smeared in an alphabetic order in it names of the families; husband first, then wife and children.

    I am accompanied by my youngest daughter Keren. Together we planned the details months in advance, starting with the flight to Vienna, from where we are going to take the train to Bratislava. Once there we will have to find someone to guide us.  

    The planned meeting is the culmination of a long search, and Isral Bee is where my search got to a stand- still.  It is impossible to determine but he could be one of the first people to move into the town following a special permission granted by the empress Maria Theresa, the Austro- Hungarian Empress, in the mid 1700, but where he came from remains a mystery.

    Isral married Marie Charlotte Wertheimer (according to another short illegible note in the town’s registration book) had several offspring , the last two were my grandmother’s sisters Ester, and Karolina Levia (whom I am named after) Bee.

    The Bee sisters run a small grocery store on Hlinka St. no 90. When Czechoslovakia was annexed at 1938 all Jewish real-estate and businesses were liquidated and so was their store. That was the beginning of the end. In 1942 the sisters were taken with the rest of the town’s Jews and killed.

    But this is not about them; this is about my grandfather whom I am going to meet today and can finally ask the questions that for some years now I am yearning to know the answers to.

    Once in Bratislava, Keren and I decide to take a taxi to our destination, and as if by magic a young man in his late thirties stops next to us. He introduces himself as Yan. His English is fluent with a slight accent. He asks if we need a ride and when I name our destination - Stupava, he repeats it with the right Slovakian accent. Hearing it makes me shiver, I know now, it is a ‘real’ place, not just a story.

   He can definitely help us find the house of my family, he explains, while pointing proudly toward a small dark blue Fiat parked in the street. Within minutes we are speeding through the busy streets of Bratislava going North-West getting farther away from the Danube, and towards the wide plains bordered by a mountain range called the Little Carpathians.

   The distance between Bratislava and Stupava is only 15 km, so minutes later we park in the center of the town and show Yan the street name and house number. He in turn speaks with few people in the street, in what sounds as a complete incoherent exchange of sounds. As he walks back into the car and slides in, he looks very pleased with himself. Hlinka St. no’ 90 was the address given to me. This was also the name of the Hlinka Guard, Slovakia's state police and most willing helper of Hitler during the war. The street name has been changed since, and cannot be found on the maps any more. Coming here with Yan turned out to be a good idea.

    Yan drives his car slowly maneuvering through the narrow winding streets and finally parks in front of an old looking stone-face house. I hold my breath and remain motionless.

   “Mom,” Keren is tugging at my arm looking a little worried.

   “Mom, say something, we can't just sit here in the car.”

   I am shaking my head trying to clear it while everyone is looking at me waiting.

 So many questions and they swirl in my head in an infinite dance. “Who were you Isral Bee? Where did you come from leaving no trail behind?”

    Is he going to confirm my suspicions that he was not even Jewish? The name Bee is not a Jewish name, I know that now. Only handful of people, in that region of Eastern Europe, all of them relatives, carried that name. And Israel is a name given to those who converted to Judaism.  Was my grandfather a handsome stranger, who won the hand of the rich Wertheimer girl to the utter displeasure of her parents?

  “OK, what are we waiting for, let’s go in,” I shake my head to clear it, open the car door and step out. Keren is following me still looking a little puzzled and Yan follows at the back.

    The house is not different from the others in the street. The first floor facing the street has no windows, just two big iron doors held closed by a big metal lock. I am lost, looking around trying to locate the entrance. Yan steps forward and knocks on a wooden door at the side of the house. It is painted blue and a small wreath is hanging from a metal hook. I hold my breath.

 From behind the door, we can hear laughter and soft music. Then the door opens and I am surprised to see a young woman with a small boy hiding behind her and another draped around her hip. She is wearing an apron and her wet hands show that we disturbed her from her house work. She stands there unsmiling and clearly waiting for an explanation.

    It is Yan again who steps in. He speaks very fast, in that incoherent language he used before in the street, using his hands to make his words more persuasive. The exchange seems to be going forever but in the end the young women appears more relaxed and almost smiles when she is gesturing for us to go in.

    “This is Karola,” Yan is playing the host,” she lives here with her husband and her mother. Their old house was destroyed and her parents moved after the war into this one that was deserted.”

    They are both nodding their heads as if this explanation makes everything clear.

   “I told Karola that your grandparents used to live here before the war,” He continues.

   “She said she was not even born then.” He continues as if he can read the look of disappointment on my face.

    We are all standing in the big kitchen now. I remember my mother’s stories about the kitchen and the many hours she spent with her sister, my aunt, on their visits during the holidays. It looks like any modern kitchen, no signs of the old wood stove, or the big kitchen table I heard so much about.

    Karola gestures for us to sit and pulls a big bottle of coke from the fridge. It looks like any coke bottle, only the writing is in Slovenian. We all sit quietly for awhile and then Karola says something to Yan and disappears into another room in the back of the house.

    “She has something she wants you to see,” Yan explains while we smile at the two small boys sitting on the floor playing with what looks like a pile of plastic cups.

    When Karola returns she looks very pleased. She holds a small rectangle wood box she lays carefully on the table in front of us. The three of us watch quietly as she opens the latch, and pulls out a small notebook and a black and white picture. She hands me the picture .There are two people in the picture. A slender, rather short woman in a white dress, and a taller awkward looking young man dressed in a tuxedo. The woman is smiling and leaning slightly against the man whose unease even after all the years and the faded photo, is clearly visible, yet the half smile and shine in his eyes reveals affection. I turn the picture and look at the back. Isral Bee and Charlotte Marie Wertheimer, the letters are faint but the names are readable. 

I run my fingers along the faded script and closed my eyes. The flutter on my face felt like a touch of a hand or a soft puff of air it happened I knew when the door between the worlds opened.