Letter from my Father (22 page)

Jermyn Street near Piccadilly, famous for its tailored gentlemen's clothes and accessories made me sad. Here were all these desirable goods but no Henry for whom to buy them.

After ten days, I travelled back to the United States to spend a couple of days in New York before a weekend staying at home with Adrian, Jonathan and Paula. In New York I stood before Matisse's painting of a ring of dancers, gazed at the Kandinskys and felt joyous. My senses responded to the gracefulness of Matisse's forms and the colours and fairy tale themes of Kandinsky's beautiful paintings. I was grateful for the discovery that I could derive physical pleasure from sources other than intimate relationships, which had been my bedrock.

Back with Jonathan and Paula, I spent some pleasant days with baby Adrian and Paula's mother, who had taken my place in the mothers' relay. In the couple of weeks we had been apart, Adrian had grown into an alert little fellow with a calm disposition. During these two visits I also became fond of Paula, who was gutsy and adaptable.

When the time arrived to farewell my little family, Jonathan took me to the airport for my flight to Los Angeles and gave me a true bear-hug. I felt the strength of this tall young man and departed comforted and happy, knowing that my son was flourishing in his work and was full of joy at his dream of being a father coming true.

In Los Angeles I enjoyed my time, professionally and personally. Pacific Oaks College was a centre for research on strategies for combating racism in young children. The likeminded people I met were passionate about their teaching programs which were relevant to my own work. I stayed with my academic host Maureen and her husband, a prominent attorney and a gentle and perceptive man. Maureen and I were from completely different backgrounds and quite different in appearance, but somehow felt an instant easy intimacy. We found that both of us had been close to our fathers and that we had wanted to study medicine but
being girls
were discouraged. On the day I arrived she took me to an afternoon tea party at the College. We walked there along a street shaded by huge old poplars leaning towards one another across the road, forming a green tunnel dappled with magical filtered light.

After a month of stimulation among these kind people, it was time to go home and meet my new granddaughter and resume relations with grandsons Zak and Nathan, now four and two. And, of course, I longed to hear Simon's and Ruth's voices.

XVIII

Building a Raft

O
n the flight home to Sydney I was overcome by anxiety and fear of a life without Henry. I knew that many moments of misery awaited me. And so it proved to be. As was my habit, I took stock of my strengths and wrote a number of injunctions to myself:
Be gentle with yourself. Reflect before making decisions. Be cautious. Let people come to you.

I arrived home on a bleak winter's day and the following few months were indeed grey, apart from the sunshine of Simon, Ruth and their little ones and the weekly phone calls from Jonathan, reporting on and sending video-cassettes from the United States of baby Adrian's doings. My diary from May-December 1992 tells the story of these early days of widowhood.

May 10
I am back home and feel daunted by the huge task ahead of me, like being at the foot of a mountain and facing a steep, difficult climb.

May 22
Today lunch with my family to celebrate Nathan's second birthday (he of the ‘excuse me' and ‘please' as he boldly proceeds to get what he wants) and my hard-working Simon's birthday. Zak is sick with flu but lovely, and so is Rachel, a most sociable, friendly and alert baby girl.

June 21
More than that. I have been feeling quite desolate at times. Waking up in the middle of the night, 3 am or 5 am, alone on a winter's night and nobody to cuddle up to. Saturday mornings are
particularly hard. I wake up and weep and weep. Especially this morning, when none of my friends has asked me to join them for Saturday night, the traditional going-out night among my coupled friends. What are the singles doing? I wonder. I suspect they are out with married friends or other singles. After this morning's crying, I cooked, went for a walk with a psychologist friend and then threw out Henry's toothbrush and contact lenses. Finished off evening quite calm, reading the papers, watching a videotape of Zeffirelli's production of
La Traviata.

Henry's mother, Erna died on Friday, close to 103 years old. Sad that I didn't see her before she died. I am psyching myself up for the Senior Lecturer interview on Tuesday morning.

July 5
I've got my Senior Lectureship. I did well at the interview but am suffering an anti-climax. One seems to get things when they no longer matter. Yesterday much weeping over being alone, bereft. Also overtired. Last night nice evening with friends. This morning, with my neighbour Herta, I did the cliff walk from Bondi to Bronte Beach alongside sparkling waters, followed by magnificent lunch at the Pier restaurant with my South Australian colleague and friend Anne – so full of vitality, intelligence and warmth. Carrying anger at my friends in my ethnic community living, like me, in the Eastern suburbs of Sydney, for not allowing me into their married circle in a relaxed way. They seem to be so densely programmed. ‘Sorry, Ester. This weekend we have the opera and next Saturday we have already made arrangements.' It seems that they are locked, by choice, into these arrangements well into the future. My immigrant friends from Holocaust and displaced backgrounds similar to my own tend to organise themselves rather tightly. As one said to me perceptively: ‘Having arrangements in the future gives me a sense that the future will come.' And in fact they are being good friends, inviting me for a meal, welcoming me warmly, glad to hear of any good news, and indeed very loyal. My Aussie friends are more relaxed. ‘What are you doing this weekend, Ester? Why don't you come round for lunch or a drink or a walk?' I am grateful for the friends who are there for
me unreservedly. It's those damned Saturday nights, written so firmly into my expectations of how one lives one's weekly life, that are disturbing.

31 July
I am spending the weekend at Nambucca, a small town six hours by car north of Sydney teaching Child Development to Aboriginal students studying for a teaching degree, as part of a team that flies up twice each semester for face-to-face teaching. Our venue is a large classroom in a small demountable building situated in the grounds of South Nambucca Primary School, transported from what had been an Aboriginal mission in the area. It has a large colourful mural on its main exterior wall, painted by local Aboriginal people under the direction of their well-known resident painter, Robert Campbell.

I love teaching these Aboriginal students. They are eager, though very sensitive to any possible indicators of prejudice, a sensitivity I understand in my bones and they somehow know that I understand. I relish the opportunity to come to grips with what teaching is about
–
and it is about the students and what motivates them, what is in their minds rather than mine. It is also, perhaps primarily, about our relationship, our mutual trust. At my first lecture in another course they have been offered on Communications, I quickly realise that my nicely-developed course program, based on assumptions arising from another culture and perspective on what and how we shall teach and what students will learn, is quite irrelevant. So I toss it away and ask: ‘What do you want to get out of this course? What is important to you?' And they tell me, at first warily, and then with greater confidence as they notice that I am listening.

I am enjoying this teaching experience more than my regular work with non-Aboriginal students back in Sydney. I also love our evenings, often in one of the students' extended family homes, sitting on a blanket in the garden under the stars, cooking barbecue, eating and talking to their elders. Among them there are some remarkable, wise Aboriginal women who are struggling to keep their children on the path to education and away from alcohol, that dreaded scourge.
They are eager to learn, while coping with deprived conditions such as refuge centres, overcrowded homes, and demands from extended family members, frequent ill-health and often lack of support from their communities. They also have the challenge of developing a concept of themselves as people who can read and write and analyse ideas in the face of the insidious, covert or overt prejudice of non-Aboriginal people in the country towns in which most live.

I am involved. I feel alive. And then suddenly I am overcome by a wave of sorrow, aloneness and longing for Henry. The good thing is that I know that when I come home from such a weekend, there is invariably a call from Simon, practically as I open the door, greeting me with his dry: ‘How are you, Mum?' A life-saver.

Henry's secretary Greta, with whom I keep in touch, and who has been a widow for a year or two longer than I, says that I still have a long, weary journey ahead of me before I perceive myself to have a life as a single woman without a husband.

28 September
First day of Rosh Hashanah
.
The week has been full of grief. I am hurting inside. My friends Mark and Susan daughter's wedding was lovely but I felt alone and lost at the reception. On Monday morning was interviewed by Ruby for the Holocaust exhibition at the Sydney Jewish Museum. On Friday morning I drove out to Rookwood Cemetery and sat by Henry's graveside. Such a strong sense of connection to him
–
and with this comes a moment of peace.

Missing Jonathan and Paula and baby Adrian.

My mother seems to prefer complaining to me about her shoulder pain and the burning feeling on her face rather than seeing a doctor. She is a sad woman who dumps her misery on me. I react to this with heartburn and chest pains which, I am assured by my doctor, are tension-rather than heart-related.

In December, Jonathan, Paula and Adrian arrived home for a holiday. We decided to spend a week together with Simon, Ruth and their children as an extended family. I rented a
couple of apartments at Shoal Bay. I was still fragile but found the experience of being with my four grandchildren and their parents deeply nourishing, in spite of some tensions between the couples. They had quite different attitudes to raising children, one relaxed and on the permissive side, the other with firm schedules and on the over- protective side. I formed the impression that when in one another's presence, each family exaggerated their beliefs as if to emphasise the correctness of their position. I tried to remain neutral, seeing the benefits and limitations of both approaches.

There were some unforgettable times on this break, such as eight-month-old Adrian and nine-month-old Rachel crawling side-by-side and on top of each other and exploring toys belonging to them both, all the while babbling in their baby language. In the swimming pool, Simon encouraged the two older boys, Zak and Nathan, to swim. Simon and Jonathan chatted and swam together while we girls were in the kitchen cooking. Then we would all sit at a big table eating, talking and attending to the little ones' stream of demands.

The end of the year was approaching. I was paralysed with fear at leaving the year in which Henry had still been alive. I just did not want to cross into 1993. How would I survive New Year's Eve? My dear friends Julie and Max arranged for me to join them at the Sydney Opera House at the play
Dancing at Lughnasa.
Afterwards we strolled along the promenade in front of the Opera House gazing at the beautiful Harbour nightscape. They were so gentle with me. When I returned home, I joined Jonathan and Paula for a short time. They were entertaining a group of their friends at my place. I chatted to them all but felt as if I were on another planet – and in a way, I was.

Jonathan and his little family returned to America a couple of weeks later, expecting to return home permanently
in two years' time. I was sad to see them go but pleased that Jonathan had this opportunity to extend himself in a challenging research environment.

At the beginning of 1993, I felt I had
done it
. After a dangerous swim in dark waters, I had managed to stay afloat. I was deriving pleasure and nourishment from a number of sources. I kept up my early morning walks with friends and stuck to a sensible diet. I deliberately made an effort to develop friendships with single friends, both female and male. We went out together to the theatre and movies and planned bush-walks and short weekends away. My married friends also remained part of my life.

I started entertaining. If I was invited to a dinner party, I invited people back. I did not want to be thought of as
poor Ester
. I loved my occasional visits to Ruach, the country home of my friends Naomi and Olek.
Ruach
is the Hebrew word for
spirit
. As part of an eighty-acre property with steep rocks and bush they had created a place of peace and tranquillity. I recharged there. They usually also had other friends staying, so I took time out to explore the bush tracks on my own and absorb the healing environment of magnificent eucalypts and banksias. The sight of the gold-coated Haflinger horses with their flaxen manes and tails grazing peacefully on the sunlit fields of the neighbour's property also gave me pleasure.

But every day I missed Henry. I missed intimacy. Once I had a vision of him on high casting down a thin filament, the tip of which touched my skin ever so lightly and transmitted his love. If only it were really so.

My research was the one area in which I could invest energy, and in turn it energised me. In collaboration with my colleague Andrina, I set up a project exploring mainstream Australian children's attitudes towards Asian Australian and Aboriginal children, applying the methodology I had learned at McGill. We set aside every Wednesday to write up the results. Andrina would come over in the morning, bringing
beautiful ripe tomatoes and red onions to add to the lunch I had prepared. We would go upstairs to my study and, with me at the computer, write, clarify meanings of words and phrases, and write some more. This was a time-consuming and ultimately most rewarding task.