One Eye Laughing, the Other Weeping (11 page)

be.
We
would be all right, somehow. Just knowing that she, too, was suffering a similar fate made it almost bearable.

Now that she is gone I suddenly feel uncertain and alone.

TUESDAY, MAY 31, 1938

Max has left, too.

When I awoke a piece of paper had been slipped un-der the door. On it Max had written, in his neat, tiny handwriting, his favorite Rilke poem:

God speaks to each of us as he makes us, then walks with us silently out of the night.

These are the words we dimly hear:

You, sent out beyond your recall, Go to the limits of your longing. Embody me.

Flare up like flame

and make big shadows I can move in.

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.

Don’t let yourself lose me.

Nearby is the country they call life. You will know it by its seriousness.

Give me your hand.

There was also a note on the dining room table but it hardly said anything. All it said was that he was going where he belonged. By that he means Palestine. I think Max didn’t say more because he was afraid of who might read it.

Daddy was sitting there reading the note when I came in, tears streaming down his gentle face.

How I wish I didn’t have to see Daddy cry.

FRIDAY, JUNE 3, 1938

Daddy said some men were coming to see him tonight, and no matter what happened, I shouldn’t come out of my room.

When I heard them come in, I lay flat on the floor,

hoping I could hear what they were talking about un-der the door. I could hear patches of conversation here and there, but most of it was drowned out by the sound of shuffling feet as people came in and out of our apartment.

Then there were more voices, louder than the first ones. They were laughing and having a good time, go-ing up and down the elevator and carrying things. This went on for nearly an hour, and then finally it was quiet and Daddy knocked on the door and said it was all right to come out.

I didn’t know what I expected to find when I came out. These days it could be anything. Thankfully, Daddy looked all right so I was relieved.

Then I saw the walls. And the floors.

They were bare. All our pretty paintings and beautiful rugs were gone. All of them, gone. The only thing left on the walls were the nails the paintings had hung on. The men had taken everything.

I didn’t want to cry. I wanted to say something, but so many thoughts were crowding my mind that nothing — not one of them — was able to make its way out of my mouth.

They’re only paintings, Precious Jewel, Daddy said, only paintings.

FRIDAY, JUNE 10, 1938

The letter from Aunt Clara and Uncle Martin arrived today. Aunt Clara writes that she will vouch for us and they will meet us when we arrive in New York City. All we have to do is let her know when that is.

I jumped into Daddy’s arms and gave him the biggest hug, but he didn’t hug me back. I could feel him shrinking from me.

He said that our lives have been shattered. That I must be brave and pick up the broken pieces and go on.

Why was he saying this to me? What was he hiding?

Then he told me.

He isn’t going. He isn’t going to America. He wants me to go without him. He has known this all along.

He could never leave. His sick patients need his help. They depend on him. He can’t just abandon them. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he did.

He needs to know that I am far, far away from here, safe in America.

I told him I want to be with him. That I can stay and help with his patients. That he wouldn’t have to worry about me.

But I had to stop because of the tears that now finally came, bursting forth from a place so deep inside me I was unable to reach in and stop them.

Looking at Daddy I knew that all my words wouldn’t be enough to change what is happening to us, and that the only thing I can do for him is to say as little as possible.

“‘Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to walk from here?’

‘That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,’ said the Cat.

‘I don’t much care where —’ said Alice.

‘Then it doesn’t matter which way you walk,’ said the Cat.

‘— so long as I get
somewhere
,’ Alice added as an explanation.

‘Oh, you’re sure to do that,’ said the Cat, ‘if you only walk long enough.’”

SATURDAY, JUNE 11, 1938

It was dark and still in my room last night and I was thankful for that. I lay there with my eyes wide open, staring into the blankness, seeing nothing.

I wondered what it would be like to be dead. Would you know? Would it hurt? Was it like sleeping or “going out altogether, like a candle”?

I wondered what it was like when I was first born, unable to talk or reach out and touch whoever was holding me.

Slowly the sun filled my room with morning light, and I wondered what it would be like in America.

PART TWO

NEW YORK, NEW YORK 1938

MONDAY, JULY 11, 1938

Last night I had the dream again.

I am sleeping in my bed, the one back home, in Vi-enna. There is someone else in the room. I can feel it. When I open my eyes, Daddy and Mother are standing at the foot of the bed, like they’ve been waiting there for me to wake up.

Mother is wearing her blue velvet evening gown — the one she wore that night. She even has on the same sapphire earrings, and her gown is torn at the shoulder, just as it was then.

She looks happy — like she is going to a ball and doesn’t realize what has happened to her.

Daddy looks sad — like he
does
know. He seems far away, even though he is standing right next to Mother. He is about to say something, I am sure of it. But his face remains motionless, frozen.

Mother puts her hands on Daddy’s shoulder, to comfort him. Then Mother starts to speak, but although her lips are moving, she makes no sound.

“Louder, Mother,” I say, but she doesn’t hear me and just keeps moving her lips, filling the room with silence.

“Louder, Mother,” I keep repeating.

Daddy is holding his hands over his ears, and I am afraid the sound of my voice is hurting him.

The next thing I know, Aunt Clara is holding me and I am soaked with sweat. She holds me in her arms and hums a tune that sounds familiar, and I fall asleep.

Aunt Clara comes in each night to look in on me. I pretend I’m sleeping because I don’t want her to worry. It does make me feel better, though. It reminds me of when Daddy would come in and give me my good-night kiss.

WEDNESDAY, JULY 13, 1938

I have been sleeping for days. I wake up and wonder where I am but I am so tired, I just fall back to sleep. The journey across the ocean seemed to take forever. I was so sad. I didn’t talk to anyone, even though people tried to be nice to me. All I could think about

was Daddy and Max.

When we finally arrived, a morning mist darkened

the sky. Occasionally the incredibly tall buildings emerged from the fog, their needle-point tops piercing the sky.

New York City looked more like a fairy-tale castle than a real city.

I was in America and I was afraid.

Afraid someone would stop me from leaving the ship and make me go back to Vienna. Afraid no one would be there to meet me. What would I do then?

The pictures Daddy gave me only showed Aunt Clara when she was young, but I recognized her immediately. She looked so much like Mother.

I worried that she wouldn’t like me. That they regretted doing this and only did it because they had to. Because they felt sorry for me.

They took me back here and said I should get some rest. I hoped there would be a letter from Daddy when I arrived but there wasn’t.

I remember someone bringing me toast in the morning, and soup later in the day. I ate some of the soup but mostly I just left it on the night table.

FRIDAY, JULY 15, 1938‌

I wrote Daddy a letter.

Today is his birthday. Max’s, too. This is the first time I have not been with them.

I told Daddy that I arrived safely and how nicely Aunt Clara and Uncle Martin are treating me. I know that will make him happy. I asked him if he could write as soon as possible.