Just One -- Chapter 1

(Read the Prologue first)

Everything was because of the war. It was why Momma watched me all the time, told me I had to be perfect. It was why I was born in Germany and would never quite be an American.

On New York's Yiddish-speaking Lower East Side, everyone knew about the war, talked about it, lived it. We were called the greener. I hated the war. I hated the way I had to be because of the war. Being a greener was not good. Being American was good.

In 1951 we moved from the Lower East Side to the Bronx, right before the birth of the first real American in our family, my brother Benjamin Harold Grynwald. His Jewish name was Beirel Herschel, but we always called him Heshi.

I started kindergarten at P.S. 39 and began to learn English. Maybe one day I could be an American--no longer a greener.

Then came my friend Carol's birthday party, my first.

Before I could leave for the party, Momma had insisted on trying to tame my curly hair. "You shouldn't look like a shlump," she said.

We had to wait till Heshi was napping. Momma brushed and prodded. I was sure I'd miss the whole party. Finally, she let me go. "Have a good time!" she said.

When I finally arrived, Carol ran over to greet me. "Hello! Esther, I was afraid you weren't coming--everyone's here already!"

"I'm sorry," I said, afraid I'd done something wrong.

I wasn't sure what to do with the Little Golden Book I'd brought as a gift--thank goodness someone in school told me to bring one. "I'll take that," said Mrs. Berger, Carol's mother, and she put it into a big pile of boxes. It looked small and naked among all the wrapped gifts.

Carol was wearing a pink nylon dress trimmed with shiny buttons and a black velvet bow. I wore my usual navy blue skirt and white blouse, just like at school. I saw how pretty all the other girls' party dresses were.

"You're just in time for ice cream and cake!" Carol said. Mrs. Berger lit the seven candles on the cake. Carol made a wish and blew out the candles. We all sang "Happy Birthday!" Mrs. Berger gave everyone a piece of cake and some ice cream on a little white paper plate.

Then Carol opened her presents. My eyes grew big. She got crayons, coloring books, storybooks, paper dolls that looked like movie stars, toys and games. I realized the Little Golden Book I'd brought was not special; Momma said we could spend only twenty-five cents. But Carol thanked me. She said Cinderella was her favorite story.

Then she opened a package with a doll dressed like a little girl from France. And another with a little girl from Spain. I wanted dolls like those.

Carol saved the biggest package for last. Out came a dollhouse with beautiful furniture. It looked like a real house, not an apartment, with an upstairs, a downstairs, and beautiful furniture. More than anything, I wished for that dollhouse. I wished I could live in that dollhouse.

Grandma Evie, a big woman with gray hair and glasses who smelled like apple cake and smiled all the time, had given Carol the dollhouse. Later, Carol introduced me to Grandma Evie, who said, "Pleased to meet you, Esther. You're such a pretty little thing with your Shirley Temple curls. I'll bet your grandmother must be as proud of you as I am of Carol."

I looked hard at her, not sure I understood. My grandmother? Was I supposed to have a grandmother? Carol's mother whispered something to Grandma Evie. I caught the words refugees and camps.

When I got home, Momma was sitting in the rocking chair in the small bedroom, holding Heshi. He'd just finished a bottle and was falling asleep in her arms. Momma seemed to be almost falling asleep over him. The night before he'd cried a lot because he was teething.

When she realized I was there, Momma asked, "Did you have a nice time?"

I told her about the cake and ice cream and all the wonderful presents. Then I asked, "Where is my grandmother?"

Suddenly, Momma became very awake. She started to say something; and then began to cry instead, first softly, then more loudly. Her crying woke Heshi, who also cried. I was scared.

Poppa rushed in from the living room. "What's wrong?"

Momma didn't answer. Poppa looked at me with his dark eyes and asked loudly, "Why is she crying? What happened?"

"I was telling Momma about Carol's party," I started in a wobbly voice. "Then I asked her where my grandmother is."

Poppa's eyes filled with tears also. He stared hard at me. For a moment I thought he would hit me, and I cowered away. He wiped his eyes, went over to the window, and looked out, as if he were talking to someone I couldn't see. I hiccoughed and then held my breath.

When Heshi had stopped crying, Momma, her eyes swollen and red, gently put him in his crib. She said something to Poppa in the language I didn't know--not English, not Yiddish. Then Momma put her arms around me and wiped away my tears. At last she spoke, almost a whisper.

"You don't have a grandmother."

The words stung me. "But I want one," I said, snuffling.

Poppa had come over to us. "She wants one!" he shouted.

"Shaa," she said to him. "Speak quietly." Her eyes filled with tears again. "Your grandmother is dead. She died in the war."

Poppa's brows were pulled very close together, and his eyes looked bright. "Don't say a word about this to anyone, you understand?" Now, he was also speaking in a whisper, like Momma. "It's nobody's business about our family."

"But what if someone asks about my grandmother?" I asked, my lips trembling.

"You just be quiet and don't say a word. If you don't answer, they'll stop asking."

"But, but..." I protested.

"Finished," Poppa said. He looked at Momma. "Finished."

Once again, it came back to the war. No matter what I did, it always came back to the war.

I hated that Carol had a grandmother who gave her things, and I didn't. But now I also knew that somewhere, somehow, I too had had a grandmother. I didn't know how; but I resolved that I would find out about this grandmother I was supposed to have.

Maybe God decided my life had gotten too easy--Heshi, God bless him, was a trial to me every day. Esther was always a good baby. Sometimes, I think she was born a little old lady. But with Heshi, every step forward was a battle. Every new tooth brought fevers and sleepless nights. After six months with him I felt ten years older.

We were the first of our friends to move away from the Lower East Side. I was scared to leave the old neighborhood. When we moved to the Bronx, it was as if we'd finally come to America.

The apartment was wonderful--spacious. From the front door you walked into a long foyer. The first room was the bedroom for the children. Then came the bathroom, complete with a tub. How much better than the Lower East Side, where the tub was in the kitchen! Next a nice big kitchen, a square room with two windows. The foyer emptied into a very large living room. Two French doors led to our bedroom. The minute I saw the large and airy rooms, I loved the apartment. Too bad it was on the fourth floor.

We moved in January, and Heshi was born in April. Esther was so excited. She was also lonely. One little boy in the building, Arthur, spoke Yiddish. He would play with her if the other boys weren't around. But most of the time, she was alone. I told her, "Wait till you start school. Then you'll have many friends." And she would content herself helping me or looking at a picture book.

We didn't get our television set until after Esther started kindergarten. Maybe if she'd had it before she would have known a little English. That first day, when I walked with Heshi to the school to bring Esther home, I found her in tears. I was so surprised. In the morning, many of the children had been crying, begging their mothers not to leave them. But Esther had just smiled and waved good-bye.

Seeing her tears I asked, "What's wrong?"

"The other children are laughing at me," she said. "They don't understand when I talk. I have to talk English from now on."

I looked around. There were many Puerto Rican children and Jewish children. I was sure Esther wasn't the only one who couldn't speak English. Nonetheless, I promised her we would now speak English with her. When Shmuel came home, I told him.

He looked at me. "Isn't it enough that we have to speak that ugly language everywhere else? Can't we at least keep our language in the house?"

Actually, Shmuel worked in a shop where everyone spoke Yiddish, so I knew he was exaggerating.

"This is what the child wants. Her teacher sent a note that says the same thing. We should help our children learn English--it's the only way they can succeed in school."

"Amerika goniff," Shmuel said. America is a thief.

Whatever America was, Esther wanted to be part of it. I certainly wanted her to succeed at being part of it but also to hold on to her identity. My most important job as a mother was to see that my child--unlike all the other loved ones I'd lost--survived. I agreed with her teacher--and regarded speaking English as the necessary first step. So, English it would be in our home.

That's not to say I was about to agree about everything my daughter labeled American--and, thus, better. She wanted American clothes, rejecting the ones I made--even though they were nicer than the cheap little dresses I saw in the stores. I used to knit her beautiful sweaters, but she wanted the ordinary pullovers her friends wore. She wanted me to buy cakes and cookies and bread from the supermarket, though what I baked was more delicious. I baked challah each week, but she wanted Wonder Bread.

And then came that birthday party. Esther didn't even realize she was supposed to have two grandmothers. And grandfathers. Supposed to. I was supposed to give my child a family, including grandparents, and I had failed.

Shmuel and I met and were married six months after I was liberated from Bergen-Belsen. Our wedding and honeymoon, hah!, were at Barma, a displaced persons' camp in Germany. We almost never talked about those we'd lost, never talked about home. We had to pick up the pieces and start our new lives. That's what everyone said. Don't look back. Don't think about what happened. Don't talk about any of it.

And, mostly, we didn't. But our losses were always with us, a pot of water perpetually boiling on a gas burner. Sometimes, the gas was turned low; sometimes, I felt the flame would engulf the pot and boil it dry.

Maybe, I thought, I should tell Esther about my mother. After all, I'd given her my mother's name. I was sure my mother would have loved Esther. I remembered how my mother spoiled Surele, my little niece. I had wanted her to spoil me like that.

"A mother has to raise her child. Only when she is a grandmother can she be so soft," Mother said when I protested.

How many times I wished I still had my mother with me. I never learned all I should have from her, never told her everything I wish I had. And now my child was also mourning her absence.

I decided to tell her my memories--as soon as I could bear to. It was all I had to give.

"Can I go to them? Can I tell them that I am here?" Seeing the children, I felt like I had another chance. I had lost Surele. I would have to do better for Gittel's children.

"No, my dear," the queen said.

Now, her calm was beginning to disturb me. No matter what happened, she always stood there--beautiful, unchangeable. And unmoved by my family's plight.

"But they are suffering, and I could help them," I begged. One thing I knew about was raising children. "My poor Gittel--she married and became a mother with no mother to turn to. And this child wants so much. What a beautiful child she is, this girl, and now the baby brother, too. Gittel named the children for us, for her father and me. She has not forgotten us."

"No, she could never forget you."

"Please, Your Majesty, let me be with them for just an hour of Earth time, let me tell them that I will be with them always."

"It is not possible."

"How cruel! That I can see them and feel them, but they cannot know I am with them."

"My dear Estera, please listen to me. Gittel will never more be able to know or feel your presence--but your granddaughter, yes. You will be able to make yourself known to her and be in her life for a time. When the time is right. When you start to be ready."

I felt like she was playing with me. "Start to be ready? My dear lady, when will that be?"

"Soon, my dear. When you have begun your own journey away from anger."

And then she turned, and the Earth disappeared from our view. I was beginning to have an idea of what this queen meant when she said I would have to work, when she spoke of my journey, and I did not like it. She acted as if I could turn away my bitterness. What could she know of my reasons for being angry and bitter?

I certainly did not intend to rid myself of my deepest feelings. Not after all that had happened. But I could sense the queen was not going to be so easy to persuade. I would have to find a new way of doing things, expressing myself, to get what I wanted from her.