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.