Letter from my Father (25 page)

He thought of himself as Australian but was sensitive to the anguish of people like me, who understood the Holocaust in every cell of our bodies. He was English, however, in many of his attitudes. He could not be expected to understand certain nuances of our experience. He was also much more conservative than he believed himself to be. His strength was also proving a point of conflict between us.

As a young man, barely eighteen years old, Sam had volunteered to fight the Japanese in World War II. He was on active service in Papua New Guinea, specialising in signals because of his mathematical ability. He found he had the ability to maintain his cool good judgement under fire, more than some of the older men. It was a quality that had also enabled him to handle the challenges of his subsequent life. Along with his natural robustness, this was something that made me feel I had met a man who could steady me during times when I felt vulnerable.

Sam had retired from being a senior respected partner in a major accounting firm. He was obviously a man who understood the world of business, shares and corporate life,
the real world
in contrast with my world of academia. This he did not really understand – another significant point of difference between us.

In those early months we often argued about education, about Aboriginal issues and about government policies related to these. I naturally believed that my views were correct but he refused to budge, drawing his opinions from such
sources as the accounts of pastoralists he knew. While I recognised that we both felt compassion, his understanding was, in my view, limited. I suspect he thought the same of me, of course. Sam was primarily interested in what we could
do
about a problem, while I wanted to discuss insights, context, and research findings.

My friend Anne, who had worked with Aboriginal people in Western Australia, came to visit. Sam came to dinner. He outlined his views but made little headway with us, two knowledgeable women on the same wavelength. When he left, I expected Anne to say:
How can you be in a relationship with a man who doesn't understand our experience?
But instead she said:
Ester, what a gorgeous, fine man. Grab him. After all, there are at least a hundred academic friends with whom you can discuss theoretical issues. But where do you find a man of such character and goodwill?

It took me a long time to accept that Sam's life experiences meant he knew the world in different ways. My son Simon soon passed his own judgement:
Mum, Sam is one of the best men I've met
.

On our first holiday together at a magnificent lodge on Lord Howe Island, with a backdrop of sunset, the sea lapping at our feet, I tried to get him to understand that my knowledge of the challenges Aboriginal people faced and ways to ameliorate their poor conditions had more credibility than what he had read and learned. He was puzzled by my insistence on continuing the argument rather than just enjoying the moment, but he persevered with me.

We shared some lovely moments together. There was the absolute bliss of feeling my body and senses come alive as we lay at peace in each other's arms on late afternoons, enjoying the mellowing of the bright summer light.

Within three months of our meeting, Sam indicated that he wanted a relationship that would lead to living together, to lifelong commitment – in fact, to marriage. I panicked.
This was not what I had envisaged. I had not lived with a man full-time since my divorce from Richard twenty years before. My part-time relationship with Henry seemed to have offered all the advantages of companionship without the day-to-day mutual irritations and compromises.

No, this was not what Sam wanted. He wanted a full time wife. I baulked. Simon and Ruth were on Sam's side. As Simon put it:
Mum, here is a steady yacht which welcomes you aboard and wants to take you sailing into the smooth waters of a sheltered bay. Why not take this opportunity to ease your life?
I protested that I had built my own raft over years of hard work, determination and tears, and had come to trust it to keep me afloat in troubled waters. How could I be expected to leave it for the yacht? I liked my raft, my independence, my self-reliance, my network of close female friends.

Jonathan came up with a solution:
Mum, step aboard the yacht, but tie your raft to it and tow it along. There is no need to abandon it
. That made sense and reassured me.

Sam was romantic, sending me beautiful flowers and surprising me with special treats. He gave me a card showing a magic carpet, a promise of exciting travel. Our sets of children seemed to be delighted with our getting together, and they all got on well.

Thirteen months after that first walk in the park, Sam bought a large, luxurious, light-filled apartment in a new building. It had extensive views of the Harbour and the eastern beaches. It was a place for us to move into together. I took the plunge and we did. Though at times we felt that its size, few walls and lots of glass and its open plan design were too modern and rather cold, we managed to warm and soften it with furniture from each of our previous homes, rugs and a collection of paintings.

We found that we had similar tastes, though I was initially more adventurous. The process of looking at, discussing and selecting the various necessities and adornments for our new
home, the weaving of its texture, brought us closer. Right from the start we had the sense to allocate the two spare bedrooms as an office for each of us. These studies were entirely our own domain, furnished to our individual tastes, kept at a temperature that suited us and left tidy or untidy according to our own level of comfort.

That first year was, however, a challenge. At times it was very difficult. We were two people who had lived independently for years, each boss of their lives, suddenly thrown together every day into a common area. Sam, a natural hoarder, wanted to display all the little acquisitions from his travels or inherited from his grandparents, parents and aunt, while it was plain to see that there was absolutely no room for all
these knick-knacks
(my description). Admittedly, many were pleasing to the eye – but there were too many. Sam agreed to comply with my suggestion that they be given away to family or charity, but months later I found his drawers crammed full of the little treasures he had managed to salvage from
the razor-gang
– that is, from me. Though we argued and got angry and irritated with one another, performing the Ester–Sam bickering act that our friends and family came to witness with some amusement, a bond grew between us and a commitment to each other's happiness.

In the middle of May 2000, we set out on a carefully-planned journey to Europe, Israel and the United Sates, a journey which was one of the light-filled interludes in my life. In Paris, Sam savoured a sole meunière in a little bistro while I enjoyed a perfect pear tart on our way to view Monet's paintings at the Musée Marmottan. It took our breath away to see them shimmering with light and colour on the walls of this elegant mansion. An evening at the Opéra Garnier, seeing Debussy's
Pelléas et Mélisande
under Chagall's ceiling and parading at interval among its mirrors and chandeliers on Sam's arm, filled me with delight. Attending Verdi's
Requiem
, the music literally soared up to heaven through the
church's lofty ceiling lit by the late afternoon light pouring through the Gothic stained-glass windows. I had never seen Sam so engaged.

The following two weeks we spent in two charming places in Provence. One morning after breakfast, as we were standing by the stone wall surrounding the outdoor paved breakfast area, Sam said casually:
Why don't we get married?
I replied, equally casually:
Let's see how things develop
.

We went on to Israel, where I met Sam's sister and he met my cousin and his wife at their respective kibbutzim, as well as my other cousins in Tel Aviv. Each family approved and, in fact, embraced the prospective partner to whom they were being introduced.

The last leg of our trip took us to Seattle, where I participated in a political psychology conference as part of a panel discussing contributions we had made to the newly-published book
Light from the Ashes.
I met its editor, with whom I had enjoyed an email correspondence for years. Our session went very well, as each of us talked about the impact of writing our chapter for the book. Though mine was probably the most revealing presentation in terms of the emotional impact of my childhood experiences, during the session I remained icy cool.

At dinner that evening with the inspiring group of cocontributors, we talked about the bond that had developed between us as we had exposed our motives and our scars to each other in the book, in the formal session, and now as we shared experiences that for years had remained dormant. Sam was moved by this experience and I was glad to have him with me at this professional (as well as deeply personal) event.

Sam again mentioned marriage during one of the few breaks from the conference as we were resting on the bed in our hotel room before the next activity. This time I answered:
Yes, let's go ahead.
Though from time to time I panicked and
wondered whether I was being foolhardy, mostly I felt that marrying Sam was what I was meant to do.

We came home and began to organise the wedding for the end of that year. We held it in our home, in the presence of our four sets of children, my step-daughter Kim and our twelve grandchildren. Our living room with its Harbour views and extensive terrace was full of flowers and the table was beautifully decorated. Rabbi Apple, who had been closely associated with both our families for
Bar Mitzvahs
and weddings, carried out the religious ceremony under the
chuppah
(canopy), with three grandchildren holding each of the four flower-decked poles. Tears were shed, but it was a true celebration of the marriage of a man and a woman who had suffered misfortunes but again were saying
yes
to happiness.

At the feast which followed, a son from each side of our families proposed a toast. Simon said that when he was taken home from St Luke's hospital as a week-old baby, he never imagined that he would be making a speech at his mother's wedding. Twelve-year-old Zak also welcomed Sam to our family, referring to him as a
mensch
, a widely-used Jewish word for a person of integrity and honour, a most apt description.

After lunch we spilled out on to the terrace to dance the
horah
, the most popular of Jewish folk-dances. It has long been used by Jews to express joy and other shared emotions. Everyone forms a circle and dances holding hands, to the music of
Hava Nagila
(Let Us Rejoice). We had photographs taken amid lots of hugging and kissing. Sam's six-year-old twin grandsons were intrigued when their grandpa actually kissed the bride.

And so I boarded the yacht.

Sam's and my time together took on the shape of what is called a
normal life
. I cooked meals more to his taste than mine, though I did not always succeed since he was used to, and preferred a heavier cuisine. We spent quiet evenings reading
and chatting, watching television, attending theatre, concerts and movies, entertaining and being entertained by his, mine, and soon our friends. We celebrated family occasions, attended to our separate financial affairs, planned and went on some wonderful holidays while decorating our home with purchases of furniture and art.

I tried to bring the two sets of families together by inviting them for Friday night dinners in different combinations, but found after a while that this effort at family building did not work. All of them had at this stage of their lives developed their own particular friends and social lives, so I stopped trying.

Sam and I were thrilled in the early years of our marriage when the whole family gathered at our place for a special celebration such as the first night of Passover, to see our grandsons and granddaughters all rapidly growing towards their teenage and adult years. They spread themselves all over our living room, chatting, playing games or just making fun of their grandparents,
the young couple
. It was regrettable, of course, that Sam and I did not have sons and daughters and grandchildren in common. I observed among my long-married friends how central to their life as a couple were their shared concerns and activities related to the welfare of their children. Though Sam and I became very fond of one another's children, they were not
our
children.

My life with Sam was good and promising. Waking up in the arms of a loved and loving man was blissful. I felt grateful to have been given another chance.

Five years into our marriage, my son, my Jonathan, died suddenly. I will not write about this unthinkable chapter of my life at this stage. Not yet.

XXII

Die Liebe bleibt

A
few years later, I followed a powerful urge to write my life history. And as I wrote I came to the startling realisation that it was I who had lived through all these traumatic events. This was
my story
– all of it. As a psychologist, I understood that I was finally beginning to own my life. Perhaps for the first time I was able to acknowledge that it had been defined by more than loss and grief. Along with the losses, there was resilience. I had laughed and cried and frivelled and climbed mountains. I had known physical passion. I had experienced beauty, the satisfaction of productive work, deep friendships and connection with a diverse range of people.

My life had been defined by love as well as by loss. There was the love of my parents Szulem and Chana, who gave me away so that I would live. There was the love of my adoptive parents Gita and Welo, who above all wanted to protect me from risk and danger, offering me survival love. I had known love within each of my marriages. There was the love of motherhood as I saw my sons, my saplings, grow into independent trees with their own young shoots. And now Simon's and Jonathan's love is living on in their children.

Memories of so many moments of love came flooding in, starting with the memory of that powerful embrace by my father Szulem when I was very young. And of course his plea that
his little daughter, his infant branch
be saved is at the centre of my being. I recalled the walks in the forests of Stuttgart with my father and teacher Welo, who brought out the best
in me with his love and infinite patience. I remembered the overwhelming feeling of love and happiness as my newly born baby sons were put in my arms. I remembered my first sight of my grandsons and granddaughters.