Letter from my Father (14 page)

In choosing our new home, I took into consideration that both my sons were now at university, Simon studying Law and Jonathan in his first year of Medicine. That meant that we needed to be close to public transport and that the place had to accommodate two young men whose intellectual and social horizons were rapidly expanding.

I bought a three-level, light-filled modern townhouse, close to transport and beaches. It was not as
desirable
as our family home, meaning in one of the high-status suburbs where my friends and acquaintances lived. But it had large terraces at front and back and extensive views of the eastern beaches from Bronte to Coogee. It would be a great place for entertaining. In front there was a sheltered, sun-filled courtyard, where we could eat most of our meals, especially in spring and summer.

The actual day the boys and I moved in, however, was one of unrelenting grief. The physical dismantling of the furniture in our marital home, the carefully-chosen decorations,
the rugs, lamps, vases and paintings and the shelves and shelves of books, the pots and pans, the china, the boys' toys and sporting equipment, Jonathan's shell collection and Simon's camping gear, took a huge toll on me. But I did not anticipate my reaction to the day itself. I could not stop crying. The new people moving in, who dropped in to assist me and the removalists all tried to calm me. I was blinded by a waterfall of tears. Simon and Jonathan were at university, so when the removalists and I arrived at the townhouse, I called Richard.
I'm not coping. Can you help me unpack?
Without hesitation, he said that he would come over in half an hour, and he did so.

I continued crying for the next forty-eight hours. It seemed as if the tears would never stop. The woman who had been living in her marital home was still a Mrs, though no longer married. The woman who was moving into the townhouse was Ester, a divorcée. It was a huge transition.

I certainly had freedom but also felt desolate. A week later, having feverishly unpacked and found room for most of our surplus possessions in a large attic area right under the roof, I had a terrifying experience. I woke one night with a choking feeling. I saw myself quite clearly, trapped in a sealed capsule from which I could observe what was happening around me, but from where I could neither be seen nor heard. It was like being inside a silent tomb. My mind raced and my heart beat fast.

I knew I would not survive long in this state. What to do? One option was to wake the boys, who were asleep in their rooms next door. But how could I? They both had exams the following day. So I went upstairs to my study and wrote points for action as soon as the next day dawned: 1. Call the doctor for a tranquiliser. 2. Work on my current project. I knew that if I could just live through the dark hours until morning I would be all right. I spent the night walking up and down the attic, listening intently for any sounds that
might come from Simon's or Jonathan's rooms to indicate that they were awake. Then I would feel able to ask them for help. But they continued sleeping soundly. It was just as well.

After this I rolled up my sleeves and threw myself into lots of activities which I enjoyed. I asked my friends to help me make our modern townhouse a green oasis. We planted a large ornamental grape vine which invaded the boys' bedrooms on the first floor through the sliding doors and took over their balcony. I grew cumquats in large stone pots, herbs in the garden bed surrounding the courtyard and azaleas on the front terrace. I put a small table and some chairs on the first floor terrace adjoining my bedroom, where I could sit and sip a drink, looking out over the distant horizon along the eastern coast. I could even see the surf breaking on Bronte Beach. We came to love the place.

I joined a ski lodge and went to the Kosciusko snowfields where I learned to ski moderately well. I did a sailing course and got myself invited sailing to go out with friends who had yachts. I worked at my university job with renewed vigour. I entertained and had a number of relationships, none significant or lengthy. The first was with a Polish man who had all the externally attractive attributes which I associated with living joyfully. He was a superb skier, sailed, climbed mountains and was a great handyman. But it turned out that he lacked integrity and proved disloyal. As Simon put it in his succinct way:
He is certainly good at hammering in nails
.

The move to the townhouse also changed the relationship between me and my adult sons. We were no longer Mum and her boys, but three adults sharing a home. All of us needed to adjust. I learned to let go, a challenge for me, and trust their decisions about social activities, romantic involvements and career moves. I persuaded them to take greater responsibility for household chores. We agreed that one night a week, dinner would be prepared by one of them. Simon's
menu was without fail cottage pie, while Jonathan excelled in anything smothered in tomato purée.

In an attempt to assert the greater equality between us, one evening when distributing the dessert of strawberries, I allotted the same number to each of us. This was quite different from my years-old habit, inherited from my parents, of
always giving more of what is precious and rare and tasty to the children
. They gazed at me, stunned. I explained that this was our new way of living, with equal rights and responsibility.
But we thought you didn't like strawberries
, they said.

They developed an endearing habit of coming into my bedroom to say goodnight. I would say
Give me your paws
, and then kiss their outstretched hands.

This was a good time for me and I believe for them.

In October 1980, towards the end of the year in which the divorce came through, I took a ten-week sabbatical at Penn State University in the United States, where I started researching my PhD. I met interesting people and made friends, and enjoyed a madly stimulating week at Harvard University, learning about moral development in men and women and meeting the person who was to become an examiner of my thesis. One of the woman academics I befriended looked at a photo of my Polish boyfriend and immediately observed:
What a narcissis
t!

I also enjoyed the glorious colours of autumn in the north-eastern United States. With the arrival of winter, I delighted in the sunlit snowscapes, the pine trees and the fresh, cool air reminiscent of my birthplace in Poland and walks with my adopted father in the forests around Stuttgart.

Jonathan flew to Philadelphia at the end of his first year of university and we spent some unforgettable time together exploring the foundations of the United States in places such as the Independence Hall and the Benjamin Franklin Museum. In New York, in Manhattan, we walked up to ten streets a day, from the World Trade Centre to Fifth Avenue,
continually popping into art galleries or staring into the bejewelled windows of Tiffany and Cartier. We absorbed a fraction of the wealth of the offerings at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Frick Museum and shopped at Bloomingdales. Though I caught a bad cold during these ten frantic and exhilarating but also bitterly cold days, I remember them as a special interlude in my life with my son, for which I am grateful.

When I returned home, I broke off the already tenuous relationship with my Polish friend. Subsequently I dated some interesting men, most of them doctors, but none a man I could see as a potential life partner. There was a recurring pattern to my relationships in this period. I was introduced to a suitable man (Jewish, professional and in the right age range), and if we found each other attractive, we started dating. Too soon, however, I would cast them in the role of protector, someone who would take care of me, would be emotionally accessible and would commit to a long-term partnership. I refused to accept the fact that protectors who wanted to commit were a rare breed in my age group.

Trying not to appear too eager and letting the man be the hunter, I determined that I would let
him
take the initiative in the relationship. But I rarely acted on this resolve. I would call them and then felt annihilated if they did not respond, if they refused to be my designated
rock
. They, in turn, were surprised, since I presented as so independent. Many a time I confided to my diary during those early post-divorce years that I longed to be held warmly and protectively in a man's strong arms. I disguised my feelings of enormous sadness, my despair at ever finding a life partner. Fortunately, with time, these feelings diminished, especially during my busy professional weekdays.

I also revelled in the company of an increasing number of women who, like me, were newly independent or single and with whom I could go to movies, the theatre and on excur
sions, without being painfully aware that I was somehow incomplete. This is how I felt with some, though not all, of my married friends. Many considered me as in a transitional state between one marriage and the next, rather than making the most of a completely acceptable way of life as a single woman.

An enduring feature of my friendships was the special connection with women who, like me, were only children born immediately before or during the War, who had spent our childhoods surviving the Nazi terror. This had not been a time for Jewish parents to have children and, for many, when the War finished it was too late. We were sisters to each other, the sisters we would have liked to have had.

I gained deep satisfaction and energy from seeing my sons blossom as they progressed through their university studies while I was researching and writing my doctoral thesis. I prepared and delivered my lectures, attended meetings and did research during university hours, then came home and attended to the shopping, cooking, laundry and household chores. I had dinner with Simon and Jonathan and sometimes with their friends, and then went up to my study and wrote until midnight. Next morning I would wake early to go to work. In many ways I felt fulfilled. How could I envisage that within two-and-a-half years I would meet what I perceived to be my destiny?

XI

Henry

O
ne spring evening in 1981, my friend Renata called me to say that Henry, a friend of her husband Kevin's from his days as a transport engineer in Papua New Guinea, was visiting Sydney. Would I like to meet him? Renata told me that Henry was an economist who had made a distinguished career as a public servant in the Department of Territories and now ran his own economic consultancy in Canberra, advising on government policy. He had been born and received his early education in Germany so we had a European background in common. He had recently divorced and had an eleven-year-old daughter and an aged mother, both living with him. He was Jewish and was sixteen years older than I. He was a highly-respected and witty man with an original mind, much loved by his numerous friends and colleagues. He was rather lonely, however, so they suggested we meet.

This was enough information to frighten me off. What was the point of meeting someone so much older and living in another city? Why would he be interested in me and I in him? But I was attracted by the
original mind
and the risk-taking part of me agreed to meet him on the proposed blind date. It was May 1981, a wintry evening. Renata and Kevin picked me up and we drove to a restaurant in Kings Cross where we were to meet Henry. My first reaction was shock. His face really did look older. His forehead was broad above penetrating steely blue eyes, slightly sunken cheeks, a protruding nose and a narrow chin.
Certainly not for me,
was my snap judgement,
though I noted also that though Henry was short, he had a strong, muscular body.

But when he started talking in his deep gravelly voice, I listened – and kept on listening. Here was a man of intellect and wide knowledge. He had a pithy comment on every subject that came up, from politics and economics to art and literature. It was a lively evening, with Kevin and Henry reminiscing about their times in Papua New Guinea and the many acquaintances they had in common, and gossiping about what was going on in Canberra politics. On the way back to the car, as we walked and talked, Henry lightly put his hand around my waist. An electric current went through my body. I felt that this was the touch of a man.

He asked whether we could meet again and I replied that I would enjoy that, but was in the throes of finishing my PhD. Another meeting would have to wait until I had finished. A couple of months later I sent him a note saying that I had just handed in my thesis and would be pleased to meet him on his next visit to Sydney.

Henry called Kevin and asked him to arrange another foursome. Renata said that they would be happy to arrange an evening together but that Henry needed to phone me himself and ask to meet me. He eventually did. We arranged to meet at a restaurant near the arty Five Ways in Paddington. He arrived at the appointed time, an astounding feat for Henry, as I would soon learn. He was never on time for anything else.

Renata and Kevin did not show up. There was some issue about a tradesman coming late, they said, so they regretted they could not join us. I wondered if they had done this on purpose. In any case, Henry and I were thrown into each other's company. We talked for hours. After dinner we transferred to a café in Double Bay to talk some more. We discovered that we had much in common. For instance, as children we had both been great fans of Karl May, the German
adventure writer who had been my passion in my last year in Stuttgart.

We were fascinated by each other's backgrounds. Henry was an ‘enlightened' German Jew with strong anti-religious beliefs, a German of the Jewish persuasion. He expressed his feelings about the claustrophobia of a solely Jewish setting such as a synagogue, where I felt at home within my people. I also detected a rather superior attitude towards Jews from Eastern Europe,
Ostjuden
like my family, most of whom had lived in the small
shtetls
(villages) of Poland and the pale of Russia, many in great poverty, steeped in their traditions of religious observance and the study of the Torah. It was true that some, like my father's family, were engaged in small business, but like my father had entered the professions and formed a lively circle of intellectuals, writers, poets and painters.