Pictures of the Past (17 page)
Sarah was shocked by her mother’s verbal litany. She even managed a lower-class accent and demeanor. Sarah had no idea how skilled Mama was in thinking quickly on her feet.
She knew that she and her mother would not have to be like other friends and neighbors who had fled the city—where persecution of the Jews was becoming epidemic. The two of them would not have to hide in attics or barns. They could pass as pure Christians fleeing poverty and abandonment, thinking the countryside would offer more shelter and resources would be more plentiful—they would claim that they could not take the physical hunger of the city. At an inn they could clean, cook, and serve, whatever was asked of them, for a simple roof over their heads, a soft bed, and a couple of meals a day. Sarah’s mother, who had tried for more children—now understood God’s plan that her only child would be a blond, bobbed nosed double of herself at that age and not a boy—who could be betrayed by the mohel’s cut of his circumcision.
There were country homes they could have rented— lived more in a style they were accustomed to—but there were rumors of neighbors turning in Jews—even half Jews. No—Inga wanted her daughter to be totally safe, and she knew the best chance was to have her reunited with Taylor in America. And she had a plan to make their way to Hamburg, where ships were leaving for overseas.
Though it would have seemed most logical that they try to lodge with Inga’s family outside of Berlin, she knew that even there she would never really feel Sarah was safe from “friends” who might knowingly or unknowingly expose her. Instead, they left quietly and in the night from their Berlin residence, with only a few suitcases of precious items and, of course, Sarah’s cherished painting. They stored their possessions in the neglected carriage house of a summer cottage they often rented, they negotiated for a horse and cart, and then they continued further into the countryside, where they would not be recognized. Inga would return biweekly to that location, where she would be met with communications from trusted agents of her family who were working clandestinely to secure papers and passage for the trip to America. They both imagined that letters from Taylor remained unopened at their Berlin address.
After two or three unsuccessful attempts to find employment, when they had been circling the countryside for more than two days, they happened upon a fairly large inn with a neighborhood tavern attached and this was where she had been telling her tale.
One previous innkeeper had immediately shown an interest in hiring the pair, but Sarah’s mother was wise to his motives.
“In fact,” he had said, “I have two lovely rooms available—too little for guests, but each of you could have one. Let me show you to yours first,” he had said to Inga, “and then I will take Young Liesel.” They had changed Sarah’s name so that it would have no Semitic resonance and, ironically, as if to validate her insight, within the next year, among the many laws against the Jews that would be passed, was the edict that each Jewish woman was to take a new middle name—Sarah.
“I’m thinking perhaps that your husband in his drinking also beat you,” the man continued. “You are a sexual thing; perhaps he accused you of straying—perhaps you did.”
Many retorts ran through Inga’s mind at this point, but her aim was to remain as inconspicuous as possible. She had assessed their situation and was not being conceited, only realistic. They were two beautiful, desirable women alone in the German countryside—they may have more immediate fears than the Nazi campaign.
And so, understanding the motives of this particular proprietor whose strategy was, obviously, to divide and conquer, she made excuses for them to move on. Inga wondered if her daughter had noticed that among the valuables she was hiding was a shiny kitchen knife and she would not be afraid to use it for more than cutting vegetables.
And it was finally at just this next inn where they knew they had found safe refuge. Here they were greeted at the door by the large and imposing wife, literally blocking her thin and timid husband, who could barely be noticed wiping down pitchers and glasses behind her. She was almost grandmotherly; she told them immediately that she would be so happy to have such sweet faces in her establishment, as it was populated nightly by an increasingly rowdy crowd.
“I understand your plight,” she had told them. “Left the city myself some years ago, ‘cause I couldn’t take the factory smoke—breathing is much easier out here.” But she warned that she couldn’t host slouchers; there’d be plenty of work for them in their busy establishment.
“Got one room left—two beds—heat’s not great there at night ‘cause it’s low in the house, kind of a cellar, but I got some fine blankets.”
“Thank you, Frau,” Inga responded quickly, shaking the woman’s hand, as if extreme gratitude for the simplest acts of benevolence and charity had been an ingrained part of her upbringing. This woman would never have pictured that just twelve months ago Inga had been the mistress of a home that employed up to four workers at one time, and this just to maintain the residence of her small family, not as staff for an inn.
That first night Sarah crawled from her own bed in their small room and lay down next to her mother, sharing just the edge of a wonderfully plump and soft pillow. For the first time, she noticed the gray strands that were multiplying in her mother’s hair, distinguishing it from her own. She stroked that hair now, wishing she could be giving more comfort to this amazing woman, but knowing that, in her own case, circumstances were actually rendering her less mature, more needy. Soon she turned, and when she cuddled against her mother she was facing away from her. Knees tightly bent and tucked to her chest, encircled by her clasped hands, she had unconsciously maneuvered herself into a fetal position, as if she could retreat into the protection of her mother’s womb once more.
“Mama—I think the world is a mystery to me. I don’t think I understand anything anymore.” Her mother was surprised to hear her speak now, thinking her slow rhythmic breathing had indicated that she was finally asleep.
“My darling, my sweet Sarah,” her mother answered with a very slight ironic laugh, “we are not meant to understand it.”
“Don’t say that, Mama. Say that I will understand it when I am older.” Sarah stretched her body abruptly and turned to face her mother. “Say that when you were my age you posed that same question to your mother and she told you that you would understand one day.”
“But it isn’t true.” She put her hand under Sarah’s chin and gazed directly into her eyes. “Look at me. I am older now, my hair is graying prematurely, and I do not understand still. The world changes. You can learn the rules, but then the rules change.”
There was only a slight silence, and then Sarah spoke again. “Mathematics doesn’t change. You always said that to my incessant questioning. You said I would understand more when I was older. Like when I was frustrated after I learned addition and subtraction, and I only wanted to continue on and learn multiplication and division. And I did learn it soon enough. And then you told me to be patient once I discovered there was algebra and then geometry and eventually, like you said, I learned that as well.”
“Yes,” her mother agreed now, as she stroked the back of Sarah’s head and breathed in the familiar scent of her daughter’s skin.
“And, Mother—what about love? Do you understand how that works?” Lately, she had been tortured by the memory of what it was like feeling Taylor’s arms holding her firmly, then his hands so lightly tracing her skin, skimming just the tops of her breasts, awakening unfamiliar sensations in her, sensations that were new to her, that caused her to have some sort of warm, stirring feeling that she wanted to recapture. Often at night, she wouldn’t just think of their conversations and replay them in her head, but she would recreate the feeling of his body pressing against her as they lingered with kisses in the dark front portico.
She was embarrassed to share with her mother the real questions she had wanted to ask. She could never articulate the physical desires prompting this dialogue. In this tumultuous year of changes, she had also made passage from eighteen to nineteen years old. But there had been no opportunity to discuss the natural changes of her burgeoning sexuality. And so again she repeated only the question about love to her mother, because she was not sure what, if anything, she had said aloud and what she had just thought. “I wish I had loved Taylor more when I was with him—I didn’t know that he’d be gone so soon—that we would be gone ourselves—that our world would be gone and I would have no chance to really love him. I need to know, Mama, if you understand love.”
“For sure not love,” she said, though she knew that would frustrate Sarah even more.
“But it can’t be true that you understand physics, and yet you do not understand love.”
“Darling,” her mother said, smirking now because she knew she could finally lighten the moment, “even the brilliant Albert Einstein got divorced.”
“Mama,” Sarah finally whispered, “will we ever feel safe again?”
“Sleep—my sweet child—we may only feel safe in dreams. Awake—I can promise only one thing—we will survive.”
With those words, Sarah retreated to her own bed. But her mother was wrong already. There were no sweet dreams. She was plagued once again with memories of the nightmarish rifle butt entrance of the police in their Berlin home—them rushing into their parlor and attempting to grab her father as he sat working with papers. She was impressed and proud of his handling of the police bullies, his leading them himself out of the house, so you would barely observe him as a prisoner.
B
y the time Rusty was five years old, Rachel had been in a two-and-a-half-year relationship with Richard Stone. It was one that was more than just comfortable; it was tender and sweet and loving and passionate.
During her years in New York, she had continued to live with Aunt Ida, and then as a threesome with Rusty, but she remained very close to her parents. It seemed that twice a year they made the trip out East and at least that often she brought Rusty to Chicago. There were many friends and relatives so accepting and eager to see the pair. And there were museums to explore. Rusty was probably no older than three when she made sure he had an outing to her beloved Art Institute of Chicago and then farther south to the Museum of Science and Industry to watch the incubators with the baby chicks hatching and to go down in the coal mine and ride the train. She had a wonderful bank of cherished childhood memories and she wanted them to be a part of Rusty’s history as well.
But she wasn’t ready to move back yet. Though times were considerably more liberal than in past decades, she still enjoyed the nonjudgmental anonymity of New York. She was a Chicago girl at heart and wanted to return to raise Rusty there, but maybe not until she was “husband in hand,” maybe not until she finally accepted Richard’s proposal.
The first time he came to her on bended knee she was not really surprised. He was too predictable. It was their dating anniversary and they were at Tavern on the Green Restaurant, where there were probably at least five or six engagements on an average weekend. But she had not exactly said yes yet. It was, by no means, the Sharon Lee Stein fiasco, although Rachel did joke with him about the ring.
“Don’t even try to give me that old, rejected one,” she had said when she laughed off his first proposal.
“Rachel,” Richard began, trying to make light of her noncommittal answer, “the sale of that ring financed a portion of my MBA at NYU, so you can just thank Sharon Lee Stein that my debt level is low.”
This time he did not hold forth for her an exquisite marquis cut diamond. For her, he was smart now. He came only with words. When she would say “yes,” they would go to Uncle Chal at the diamond exchange and together they would choose a stone she would want to wear forever.
“Richard, you have been more than patient,” she had finally said to him some months later. “And I am going to ask you to indulge me just a little longer. I need to go to Chicago one more time and I need to call on Court Woodmere. I have his address in Kenilworth or at least his parents’ address, so maybe they can lead me to him. I just want to talk to him once. It has been over five years since I had that last awful encounter, and once I talk to him I will be ready to begin a life together with you.”
Richard, of course, heard nothing past the words “call on Court Woodmere,” and that was why Rachel had not told her neurotic boyfriend what her plans were months ago when she made them. She waited until two days before her planned trip home and to Kenilworth, in an effort to reduce to days what she knew might be a difficult time for Richard.
She had actually booked this weekend around her demanding work schedule at
Young Miss Magazine.
After graduating the year before, with highest honors and distinction, she had immediately secured a sought-after junior editing position there. But she was often tied to the hectic schedule of fashion openings in the city and feature layout shoots elsewhere, ever appreciative for her wonderful babysitter, Aunt Ida. Finally, Rachel had found a weekend to schedule herself out of any work commitments and to return to the Midwest with Rusty.
O
n Saturday afternoon, as she left from her parents’ home in Rogers Park on the North Side of Chicago and wound her way along the beautiful, peaceful, elegant route of Sheridan Road to Court Woodmere’s home, she was silently reviewing her motivation.
She didn’t want anything from him. But she wanted to be fair to him. Maybe he had grown up, matured. Maybe he suffered emotional ramifications for what he thought he had made her do. She convinced herself that she was coming this day for his benefit. Rachel knew that eventually she would be moving back to the area. She did not want to run into Court on the street one day, while she held her precious boy’s hand, and when he saw them, he would be tormented, or worse, maddened, that he was excluded, that he never really knew. And so today, for the first time in a long time, she followed Sheridan beyond Chicago’s limits, leaving behind the mixture of apartment buildings, storefronts, and small diners that lined its route, and entering the realm of the upscale suburban residences. In the spring and summer months, the extensive foliage of the mature landscaping fronting the houses on either side of Sheridan and bordering the intermittent parks of the lakefront to the east would actually camouflage the resplendent character of the area. But now, through thin, bare branches, she was astonished at the size of the homes and could barely keep the car aligned to the curves of the winding road, as she searched for the address of his parents’ house, in a town where addresses were not even needed for those in the know.
She had no preparation, however, for the grandeur that would meet her. Over five years ago she had met a boy, a “college hippie” like herself, dressed shabbily in worn jeans and a T-shirt, driving in what, she initially thought, was a friend’s new red Mustang. Even when he said it was his, no bells went off. In her world, yes, such a car was the mark of indulgence of middle- or upper-middle-class parents, but it was not reserved for the wealthy only or the upper-wealthy—whatever this house would portend.
Although Rachel had originally planned to park on the street in front of the home in Kenilworth, the wide expanse of the half moon driveway was so elongated that parking anywhere else would have required an extremely long walk just to reach the front door. And since the open position of the entry gates, decorated with the filigree monogram detailing of an iron master, was actually more inviting than intimidating, she decided to follow the curve of the brick pavers with her automobile and actually park inside the property, right in front of the steps leading to the impressive portico. After exiting from the driver’s side, she moved around the car and opened the door for Rusty who was easing himself out of his position in the backseat. Closing the door behind him, the two of them just stood there, visibly awestruck, and took in the exterior of the Woodmere residence.
Impressive and imposing, but not at all garish, the white stone edifice presented itself. On either side of the five broad steps leading to the entrance, four marble columns accentuated the grandeur of the structure, gleaming with a polished finish that was enhanced by the beams of the midday sun. And it brought the observer to understand not just the mansion’s towering presence with its surprising height, but the tremendous width of its footprint on the lot. For once the eye followed the columns in each direction, right and left, it became apparent that the home had north and south wings that jutted back out toward the driveway, stretching for four more sets of windows on either side, like broad shoulders protecting the more ornate middle section.
Holding Rusty’s hand, Rachel continued up the steps, edging closer to her destination, but still moving slowly, in a somewhat nervous, guarded manner. Glass windows on either side of the huge wooden doors allowed them to peer through the whole depth of the home and Rachel now saw that beyond the backyard was a panorama of Lake Michigan. She envisioned that the astute architect when drafting the orientation of the blueprint had maximized the number of rooms that could boast views of the bustling waves of the dark blue water.
Once she self-consciously wiped Rusty’s small prints from the beveled glass pane he had been fingering, she began searching for the doorbell. Her son, however, found the huge pair of lion head metal door knockers irresistible and he was jumping up to try to reach them. His childlike enthusiasm helped her to refocus on her mission, and so when she found the appropriately camouflaged heavy plastic rectangle she was seeking, she held Rusty up so he could be the one to ring it.
As the front door was opened and the interior was revealed, it was all she could do to keep herself from releasing an audible “Oh…wow,” yet the words resonated so clearly in her ears, that it took her a moment to realize that that exact phrase had come instead from her young son by her side. The enormous foyer had such a broad diagonal pattern alternating black and white heavily grained marble squares, and the formally attired butler stood so rigid in his black uniform, that she felt she was stepping on to a giant sized game board and was greeted by a chess piece. And then her eye was drawn upward in the same manner as the outside columns had led her gaze skyward, but this time she followed the lines of an exquisite ebony, iron, and gold winding staircase that led to a second-floor landing and encircled a magnificent multilayered crystal chandelier.
In their brief period of togetherness, except for the words Court had spoken at the end that wounded her, she had no indication of his background. She laughed now. When someone in her world said that three generations were living together in the same home, it usually meant a third-floor walk-up apartment. But now she understood—this is where he grew up—this impressive mansion—these were his roots.
Although she had not really been cognizant of his social standing, she acknowledged to herself that part of his draw had been due to prestige. But it was that he must have been bright to be attending Northwestern University, not a city college like so many of the boys pursuing her in the restaurant. In her family, in her circle, education was what was valued. True, education that would lead to a respected career was always best; mothers spoke with highest pride when sons were doctors, lawyers, or accountants. Northwestern University— that had been her dream. But its private tuition made it unattainable at the time. Maybe graduate school, she had always thought, at the Medill School of Journalism.
What Rachel had not known at the time was that Court had actually been accepted at Northwestern because of his family’s donations and not his own accomplishments. Although the two generations of men before him had attended the same Eastern Ivy League school, they wanted to contribute to Northwestern’s acceptance as an upper-echelon institute, as they were dedicated to the Chicago area. And what Rachel would never have imagined, clouded by her love and infatuation of the summer of 1968, was that Courtland Woodmere would never be an NU graduate. She could never have known that after his sophomore year, he would do poorly or do nothing in enough courses that his father, Taylor Woodmere, would be called by a college dean to consider finding an early place for Court in the family business.
Yes, Rachel was a smart girl, but not street smart— more book smart, less worldly.
