Letter from my Father (18 page)

At our first meeting after the engagement, we sat in a coffee lounge in North Sydney.
I hope that we shall become friends
, I said to Paula.
But how can that be?
she replied.
You will be my mother-in-law.
I took this to mean that she envisioned a more formal relationship. This was definitely unfamiliar territory for me.

Since I had a minimal role in the preparations for the wedding, Henry and I set out for what proved to be a remarkable trip to Chitwan National Park in Nepal, followed by three weeks in India. Neither of us felt totally healthy during this time, since we suffered a series of minor bowel irritations. That did not deter us from fully appreciating the diversity of people, arts, crafts and food of the rich Indian tradition. Henry was the ideal companion, having spent a number of years working in Karachi and speaking some Urdu.

We enjoyed so many magical moments together. In Kathmandu, after much haggling, we purchased what we were assured was a genuine old Tibetan bronze statue of the goddess Tara and a delightful little silver votive vessel used for splashing water during sacrifices. Amusingly, it looked just like a teapot.

In Chitwan National Park, a vast reserve which had previously been hunting grounds for princes, we stayed at the Tiger Tops hotel, straight out of my romantic visions of the Raj. Early one morning we were taken on an elephant ride, my first. We climbed a few steps to a platform, and then mounted our elephant, four of us comfortably accommodated in a howdah on its back. The elephant moved daintily along a narrow track through sub-tropical forest, crossed a river and continued through twelve-foot-high grass. With my full being I absorbed the sensations of the moment: the early morning mist, the fresh smell of the grass, the swaying movement of the elephant, the occasional sighting of the rare unicorned rhinoceros and the accompanying expressions of delight on Henry's face.

In Varanasi, we made our way past the tiniest of unpaved lanes, dimly lit by oil lamps highlighting the white of the dhotis and longhis worn by the men, towards the Ghats on the Ganges. People emerged like shadows from the low door-ways of huts and dilapidated buildings. Artisans laid out their tools and market stalls were filled with all kinds of goods, among which goats and cows wandered undisturbed. We saw neatly groomed children having their hair combed before being sent off to school. We made our way on foot past the milling crowds and cycle rickshaws to the holy river, the majestic Ganges, where we hired an eight-year-old boatman, from whom we purchased a tiny candle and some flowers.

As we pulled out into the great wide waters, the warm pink light of the rising sun revealed the heavily weathered steps of the Ghats descending towards the river. All along the
shore, people of all ages, wearing the scantiest of garments, stood up to their knees in the healing waters. Washerwomen flung their laundry against the steps.

From the middle of the river, we could see all around us a parade of boats, each with its candle and flowers, rowing silently and reverently around a predetermined circuit. The light on the water changed from light pink to rose and then to shimmering gold. I could feel the spirit of the great river with all these others who had come from every part of India to pray, to be healed or to bury their dead.

When we stepped off our tiny, fragile boat, we found ourselves amidst the smoke of funeral pyres where bodies of loved ones were being burned. We asked if we could observe one such cremation and were told we could. A young woman's body, lovingly wrapped in glowing golden silk material, was gently placed on a prepared pyre. Then her family stood quietly as the flames caught the material and we watched it slowly burn until only the ashes, which would be scattered across the river, remained.

I was overwhelmed. How much more honest this ceremony seemed compared with Western cremations, where the coffin disappears and it is only later that you are presented with a closed casket of ashes. In our culture, we avoid witnessing the process of the destruction of the body. Henry and I made our way back to the hotel, deeply moved.

Varanasi is renowned for its magnificent weaving, so we went along with our cab driver to see the place he recommended. The shop was like a hole in the wall, but we were courteously given a couple of stools and served jasmine tea in tiny cups. In front of us was a metre-high pile of fabu-lously-coloured woven and printed silk and brocade. The merchant, with a virtuoso flick of his wrist, unrolled scroll after scroll of brilliant material. There was no stopping him. We were mesmerised by the imagination and superb crafts-manship of each piece. After what seemed hours, we chose
one big swath of the most glorious crimson silk. I could see it as a wall hanging over our bed. I also bought two metres of the most delicate silver and pearl grey brocade with a few threads of pink and green woven into the ikat pattern, which I intended to make into cushions.

Of course, we would have liked to buy more, but how would all this brilliance look in our suburban townhouse? When I returned to Sydney, I sadly gave up the idea of the exquisite cushions. The sheer brilliance and luxury of the fabric outshone our other furnishings and transformed what had appeared a pleasant and a tastefully furnished room into something drab and worn.

Henry was so moved and inspired by our experience with the fabrics that the next morning he wrote in his diary:

I even dreamt about it at night, feeling how a whole lifetime (indeed the whole of history) could be unrolled before one's eyes in this manner, with a scroll showing lighter and darker patches, brilliant colours and greyer areas. It seemed to contrast in my mind with the idea of memory in Proust's
Remembrance of Things Past
and Proust's quote from Shakespeare's sonnet ‘When to the sessions of sweet silent thought / I summon up remembrance of things past', where the past appears as a dark deep well from which one draws laboriously and deliberately pitcher after pitcher of memories.

What he wrote resonated with me. I was deeply conscious that this time together in ancient India was one of the light patches of my life.

In Jaipur, we stayed in a former hunting lodge of the Maharajah. December was wedding month because of the fine weather, and the spectacular palace was a popular place for these festivities. Anticipating our own family celebration, we watched several and were even invited to one. They were occasions of great pomp, with the bridegroom arriving on
the back of a gorgeously-decorated horse, camel or elephant to the sound of pipes and drums. The bride was brought in by her family, a little more modestly. The wide lawns of the hotel were adorned with superb flower arrangements in the form of arches, amid flower beds, splendid bougainvilleas and trees garlanded with electric bulbs. I had fantasies of Jonathan arriving on a sumptuously-bedecked elephant at the gate of the Great Synagogue, in the heart of the city of Sydney.

The day came for that great event, but there were no elephants. Rabbi Apple officiated at the Great Synagogue, as he had done at Jonathan's
Bar Mitzvah
. We met Paula's parents, Betty and Stan, and her siblings, and felt quite comfortable with one another. In our smart new clothes we received congratulations from friends waiting outside. Though Richard had rarely seen his sons since his remarriage, Jonathan had invited his Dad to be part of the ceremony. But neither Richard nor his wife turned up. It was a blow for Jonathan, but one to which he never referred. There was nevertheless all the excitement and goodwill that weddings generate, symbols of hope and joy and faith in the future.

I was exceedingly nervous just before the ceremony, when along with Betty and Stan, we were ushered into the small room at the back of the synagogue where we signed the necessary documents
.
But once under the wedding canopy, I calmed down as I watched Jonathan and Paula, both looking splendid, being married.

Paula had organised a beautiful and elegant wedding reception. Oval tables decorated with white flowers filled a room in a gracious old home, now a reception centre. There was a view through French windows to a well-tended garden and a lively band and dancing. Some 120 people, friends and family, wished the young couple the best for the future.

My mother looked a bit grim, but I later learned that this was a particular feature of the Parkinson's disease from
which she suffered in her later years. A typical symptom is that people's faces freeze, so they appear not to be expressing emotion. I was also a little disappointed in Henry. On the way home from the wedding party, I was still excited and couldn't stop talking about it, while he merely commented:
Yes, it was rather pleasant.
I told myself that no matter how good one's second marriage was, it was unreasonable to expect someone like Henry to feel as deeply about my son as I did. But I missed the enthusiasm. I felt lonely. My perceptive friend Susi observed the next day:
I felt your loneliness, how you carried it all yourself
.

When we got home, we found a lengthy note from Jonathan on the kitchen table, in his inimitable scribble. It was an expression of gratitude for my love and support, and hope for a good future for all of us.

On the following Monday night, I woke at 3 am feeling wretched, as if a deep root had been torn out of my heart. I suppose it was the separation from my youngest son, to which I now would have to adjust.

The next year, 1991 was emotionally tumultuous for me. Jonathan and Paula had moved into his flat and were busily preparing to go to the United States at the beginning of the following year. Since they would be away for at least three years, I wanted to have as many family occasions as possible while they were still in Sydney. Nena, as the boys and their wives called my mother, also worried about her
innocent
(as she called him) grandson going off to another continent. She wondered aloud whether she would live long enough to see him again.

A couple of months after the wedding, I was preparing for Passover Seder, the celebration of the liberation of the Jewish people from bondage in Egypt. I wanted to make it very special, since this would be the last Seder before Jonathan and Paula's departure for overseas. Then they suddenly informed me that they were going camping over this period
and so would not attend. When I explained to them that they would need to tell Nena this themselves, since I did not want to be involved with the devastating effect it would have on her, they changed their minds and stayed.

I was aware how sensitive I was to the slightest indication of a threat to the closeness of my tiny family.

XV

A Changing Family

M
ost Friday nights I prepared lavish dinners, deeply satisfied to have Simon and Ruth, three-year-old Zak and twelve-month-old Nathan, and now Jonathan and Paula also sitting around my table. Sometimes Kim joined in to make these worthwhile occasions for Henry and Nena, who was nourished by them.

In September, we were informed that Jonathan and Paula were expecting a baby the following April, and Simon and Ruth their third child in March. Jonathan was not only thrilled at the prospect of his very own baby but also that his child would be an American citizen. He or she was due a couple of months after their arrival in the United States.

I squealed with delight when they told me. Soon I would have four grandchildren. My mother and I shared our joy of these events.

I did, however, experience a great deal of anxiety about Jonathan and Paula's departure overseas and general anxiety, the cause of which I could not pinpoint. I realised how irrational my feelings were. During the days that Henry spent with me in Sydney, he was exposed to my unease. I also noticed that Henry did not seem his normal vigorous self, but attended to this less than I should have.

None of this deterred us from making travel plans for the next year, that eventful year of 1992. I had been granted a four-month sabbatical and the plan was that in February, I would go to McGill University in Montreal for two months to work on a research project. After this, I would cross the
border to the U.S. to welcome my grandchild and stay for a while with Paula and Jonathan as a helper. Paula's mother would then take over from me in the mothers' relay. The parents-to-be told us how much they appreciated this.

Henry would join me when his business commitments allowed. His Swiss cousin had arranged for us to rent a converted mill in Provence in May, when this intoxicating part of the world was at its best. Genuinely relaxing in Provence with my husband, who so delighted in frivolity and lightness, seemed within my reach.

As I would be separated from Henry for a period the following year, we decided to spend part of our summer holiday swimming, snorkelling and hiking at Rarotonga, the capital of the Cook Islands. We wanted to go to a place with a different culture and Henry picked these lush Pacific Islands, with their volcanic soil, tropical vegetation, splendid beaches, peaceful little villages and friendly people.

The return flights to the islands required us to change airlines in Auckland. We had been put on a wait list for the Auckland to Rarotonga leg of the trip since the flights were full due to many Cook Islanders working in New Zealand going home for the Christmas period. I found waiting to secure our booking quite unsettling. I phoned the travel agent every couple of days. Henry told me to relax. But I seemed quite obsessed with making this holiday happen.

On 7th December, four days before we were due to depart, the missing leg still unconfirmed, we heard breaking news about Hurricane Val. Dubbed
the storm of the century
, this severe tropical cyclone reaching 240 kilometres per hour had hit Samoa and was heading for the Cook Islands.

The travel agent advised us to be ready to fly on the set date, but not to be disappointed if all flights to and from the islands were cancelled at a moment's notice. Meanwhile we listened to every broadcast about the route the cyclone was blasting for itself. On 11th December our travel agent informed
us that we could take our flight to Auckland, since there had been cancellations for the flight to Rarotonga. She warned us, however, that when we got to New Zealand, it might be unsafe to fly on. Because of the extreme conditions, we could get our money refunded if we chose not to proceed with the trip.