E
STHER
G
ANTMAN
Dear Esther,
You remember what a rush and panic I left in. There really was no need. A week has passed since the stroke and the doctors tell me her condition has stabilized. Everything is rather sad, but at least it is better than a funeral. She has been transferred today out of intensive care into an ordinary ward. She is still festooned with tubes and flat on her back but the doctors say there is a “positive dynamic.” They are very good. They operated on Mother to remove the haematoma in the brain and believe she can be rehabilitated to some extent. At all events, she can feel the right side of her body although she can’t move either her hand or foot. She isn’t talking but I have the impression that is just because she doesn’t want to talk to me because I went to Santorini instead of going to see her. Yesterday while I was with her she said fairly distinctly to the nurse, “Bastard!” which made me think I could come back home now. She is well looked after here, much better than she would be in America unless she was in a private clinic. No, do not think that I am going to leave right now. I shall stay here some time yet, at least until she is moved back to that almshouse of hers.
I have nevertheless allowed myself one little treat and went to Jerusalem for a couple of days. I was there a few years back, just passing through, and it was so hot I hardly poked my nose outside the hotel. As if that wasn’t enough, I decided last time to go and take a look at my roots. I went to the religious quarter and got mugged. Well, not mugged perhaps, just scratched, but it was tremendously interesting. The males were all wearing caftans and had their hair in payots, and the females were in wigs and hats. In America you sometimes meet this kind of thing, too, but here it all seemed much more real. The faces were attractive. I was incredibly curious because I can see that if fate had taken a different turn, these medieval beings might have been my own relatives, friends, and neighbors. While I was just staring at them everything was fine, but when I went into a shop to buy some water, two old ladies pounced on me. One pinched my criminally bare arms, and the other started pulling my hair. They were completely off the wall. I was barely able to fight them off and escape. At the edge of this kosher paradise I stopped by some school railings. It was time for their break and boys of every caliber, from scrawny five-year-olds to well-fed bullocks came primly into the courtyard and started walking around in pairs, occasionally forming groups, and gravely discussing weighty matters. I stood by the railings gaping and waited for them to start playing football or at least fight. It never happened. My first attempt at investigating my roots thus came to an entirely inglorious end. I didn’t much care for the roots, and my arms were all scratched.
This time I decided to adopt a different approach to delving into the past and went to the Old Town to see the two main sights, the Temple of the Holy Sepulchre and the Room of the Last Supper. The Temple of the Holy Sepulchre I found less impressive than expected. There was a crowd and it was an ordinary tourist attraction just like anywhere else in the world. There were even Japanese groups. Where the sepulchre used to be, there is now a small chapel with a queue, and before entering, each tourist turns around and the next one photographs him or her. I just left. I found my way to the Room of the Last Supper using a guidebook. I have to confess, dear Esther, that I still have a few favorite themes from my Catholic childhood and the Last Supper is one of them.
I went inside and immediately felt that nothing of the sort had ever happened in this building. The Master and the twelve disciples had never assembled here, no bread had been broken, no wine had been drunk. They had clearly met in a different place which did not have Leonardo da Vinci windows. That room had been small and quite possibly had no windows at all. It would have been somewhere modest on the outskirts of town and not right on top of the Tomb of King David. In other words, I was having none of this Last Supper of theirs.
The next morning, though, I climbed up to the Garden of Gethsemane, and the olive trees growing there were entirely real and so old that they might well have been growing there all that time ago. The olives I really did find convincing, and stood there desperately wanting to break off a twig as a souvenir but could not bring myself to do it. Just then a little monk who looked completely penniless came out of a door, broke off a twig and gave it to me. I was so delighted. I climbed higher up the Mount of Olives, walked along the walls of the old Jewish cemetery and came to a chapel. It was a small modern building in the shape of a teardrop, the Dominus Flevit Church. The Lord wept. It was in this place that Christ lamented the coming destruction of Jerusalem. Since then Jerusalem has been destroyed and rebuilt so many times that now there is no knowing quite which destruction he was lamenting. Do we have to expect another or have there already been enough?
The view which opens before you is indescribable, but the place itself is compact and welcoming. The grass is vivid with tiny poppies and white daisylike flowers. It reminded me of my favorite tapestry from Cluny, only without the unicorn or Virgin, but you feel they will be back any minute. It’s because of that precious grass. The spring is so short here, and the fact that in a week’s time everything will become parched and turn into whitish hay means that you are particularly aware of the blessedness of this place.
I did afterward go into the old Jewish cemetery, which takes up half the mountain. I was reluctant at first because I don’t like cemeteries, but if I had to be dragged to the Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, it was ordained by heaven that I should go in here. It was a place of dust, stones and rubble. Near one rock an elderly Arab suddenly materialized and offered to show me around for $10. I declined saying that I was not an American tourist but a simple woman from Poland. Then he offered me a cup of coffee but this, too, seemed to be fraught with far-reaching implications and I again declined. Then he told me he had 50 camels and I expressed my admiration. I said, “Goodness, very well done! 50 camels is better than 50 cars.” He was terribly pleased and we parted as friends. Tell me truthfully now, Esther, do you know anybody who has 50 camels? Then I took a taxi to the bus station and a few hours later I was in Haifa. I ran to the hospital and sat under the burning coals of her eyes. She is not speaking, but in any case I know everything she wants to say to me, down to the very last word.
In the depths of my heart worries about Alex and Grisha are constantly stirring, but I drive them away.
Love from
Your Ewa
17. April 1988, Boston
L
ETTER FROM
E
STHER
G
ANTMAN TO
E
WA
M
ANUKYAN
… I just can’t get through to you on the phone. I have a favor to ask. I’m not sure whether you can do it, but perhaps while you are in Israel you will be able to help me. The thing is, recently all my time has been taken up with sorting out Isaak’s papers, of which there are a great many, and I unexpectedly happened upon a registered parcel he had not opened. It proved to contain a book sent after his death from an auction sale. Only now, two years later, I have opened the parcel and found an antique book of heavenly beauty. It seems to be a manuscript with wonderful illuminations. I took it to the Jewish Museum and they told me it was a rare edition of the Haggadah. They immediately offered to buy it, but for the time being I have no intention of selling the book.
What I really want is to restore a number of damaged pages. They told me at the museum it was best to have such books restored by Israeli craftsmen, but the one they employed died recently and they have yet to find a replacement. Perhaps you could ask your friends whether they can find such a person. If not, never mind. After all, the book has been lying there for such a long time that it can lie a bit longer just as it is.