Early on in our marriage, Stefan introduced me to classical music, but it took several years before I, too, developed a liking for concerts. He often listened to music on the radio or played his records, and in time I began to recognize the works of the old masters such as Beethoven, Tchaikovsky and Liszt. When Place des Arts, the Montreal concert hall, opened its doors in 1963, we bought season tickets and attended many wonderful concerts.
I had many girlfriends then and craved their company. I was open, friendly and always willing to lend a helping hand. Stefan was more reserved and not always in favour of those friendships. Maybe he felt that I was too involved or that I paid more attention to my friends than to him. That may have been true at certain times.
People said I was well organized, but I know that I was rather compulsive. Everything had to have a time and a place. Supper was at 6:00 p.m. every night, and no one ever missed it. No matter how busy Stefan was, he made sure that he was at home before supper. Then he sat in the den with the kids and watched their favourite TV shows, and their howls of laughter reached me in the kitchen while I was putting the finishing touches on supper. My mother often joined us, and on Sundays in the summer when we had our traditional barbecues, there was often a friend or two enjoying a hotdog with us.
We became very friendly with Cila and Ernest, so much so that we spent almost every Sunday afternoon and part of the evening together. The children played in the basement either at their home or ours, and then we all had dinner together. Cila was by far the better cook, but we did not compete. In later years, we played bridge together, and both families enjoyed these afternoons. Once the children got bigger, their interests changed, and eventually, like everything else, our common Sunday afternoons were a thing of the past. Cila, Ernest and Dani moved to Ottawa and eventually to Toronto. Cila and Ernest divorced, but I still saw Cila whenever the opportunity presented itself, either in Montreal, Toronto or Florida.
After Christmas in 1960, we left the children in the care of Mrs. Hellermann and my mother and went on our first trip to Israel. Since Helen and Marvin got along well, they also had each other, and we felt fairly sure that they would not miss us too much. It was a long flight with a stop in Gander, Newfoundland, and absolute torture for me because of my terrible fear of flying. I did not relax for a minute, could neither sleep nor eat and worried about every little sound on the airplane.
Israel was an experience like no other. We had booked a bus tour of the country, and together with about thirty people, most of whom were Americans, we experienced Israel for the first time. Our guide was a young Belgian Jew who had made aliyah a few years earlier, but he knew every stone and bend of the territory we covered and proudly told us the country’s history.
My feelings on travelling through this country, which I, as a Jew, was allowed to call my own, were terribly mixed. I felt that I did not have the right to call Israel my country, since I had not contributed in any way toward its existence. I also felt like the complete stranger I was because I did not understand a word of Hebrew, which made me feel inferior and inept. I never lost this feeling of inadequacy, no matter how many times I have been to Israel. I was extremely impressed with the accomplishments of the Israelis, many of whom were my contemporaries, who were also survivors of the Holocaust. I felt guilty because I lived a good and easy life in Canada while my fellow Jews in Israel struggled so that Israel would be allowed to exist and be a haven for all Jews. Yet when Stefan suggested that we should perhaps move to Israel, I was horrified. I simply could not leave the home I loved and uproot myself again.
Our travelling companions were a mixed group. An elderly Christian German couple had somehow landed in this entirely Jewish English-speaking group, and their presence was frowned upon by the others. One day, a verbal fight broke out between one of the Americans and the German man, and our guide had to intervene. When the Germans had language problems, I sometimes acted as the translator. In a way, I felt sorry for them.
Yad Vashem, the World Holocaust Remembrance Center in Jerusalem, was not then what it is today. It consisted of only what is now called the Hall of Remembrance, where the eternal flame was already burning in memory of the six million Jews who were murdered during the Holocaust. One corner of the room was occupied by a pile of children’s shoes, another by a pile of women’s hair. The sight of this reminder of the horrors of the Holocaust brought tears to my eyes. But for some of the Americans, the visit to Yad Vashem was completely meaningless, as I understood from conversations that subsequently took place. The guide overheard some of the remarks and simply shook his head in disgust.
We visited Kibbutz HaZore’a, where my cousin Walter and his wife, Hagit, showed us around. This kibbutz is one of the oldest in Israel, and Walter was one of its original settlers. He has since died, but the kibbutz still exists as a lasting reminder of the courage and persistence of a handful of young German Jews who sought their future in Palestine. In Tel Aviv, we attended a concert and visited a distant cousin of my mother’s and some people from Stefan’s past. It was a memorable and thought-provoking trip that left me pensive for months to come.
In the summer of 1961, Beks and Renée arrived from Norway on their way to Cleveland, Ohio, to visit John’s brother Eli. John had died very suddenly the year before, in his early fifties. Renée had been very close to her father, and his death had left her devastated and rebellious. The purpose of this trip was to relax and to try to recover somewhat from the ordeal of John’s illness and death. Stefan, my mother and I showed our special friends around Montreal, drove them up to the Laurentien Mountains and introduced them to Canadian restaurants — we made the most of the few days they spent with us.
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As Helen grew older, I never quite got over the feeling of wonderment at being the mother of a little girl. From the very beginning, I resolved that the relationship between my daughter and me would never be anything like the relationship between my mother and me. When my mother came to Canada, I had hoped that we would magically become close, but unfortunately that did not happen. Now that I was a grown woman with children of my own, we did not argue as we had done during my youth. Thankfully, she had her own life, but she expected me to carry out her wishes at a moment’s notice. If I ignored her wishes, she felt insulted and became upset with me, as she did if I did not phone her daily. Stefan was a very good son-in-law, and the two got along well. My mother travelled a great deal in those days, and each time she returned, I childishly hoped that somehow the trip had changed her. It never did.
My mother was intelligent, courageous, optimistic — and selfish. If and when a problem arose, she would say, “Das wird auch schon vorbeigehen” (This, too, will pass). Strangely enough, she spoke to Helen in the same manner as she had spoken to me when I was young, always in a somewhat critical tone. She also once told me that Helen would “sich ausmausern” (become prettier) when I thought she was already the cutest little girl who walked the earth. I did not take this remark too kindly. My mother seemed to feel closer to Marvin, and, as the years went by, the bond between them became even stronger. Helen, on the other hand, was never that close to her Omi. What a pity; they both missed out on so much.
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Stefan and I tried to get away together once every winter when we could. He still had an aunt and an uncle living in Hungary, whom he had not seen since shortly after the war ended. I, myself, had not been to Norway since we left in 1951 and was longing to go back. Consequently, we decided that we would visit Morocco together to enjoy some warm weather and then go on to different destinations, Stefan to Budapest and I to Oslo. Leaving the children with Mrs. Hellermann and my mother, we departed for Casablanca right after Christmas 1962.
As always, I hated the flight and was relieved when we landed in Casablanca. We immediately boarded a train to Marrakesh. Even the train ride was an adventure. We stopped at many small villages on the way. Women in abayat (robe-like dresses) and men in colourf
ul shirts and Arab headdress were waiting on the platform, many of them carrying assorted livestock in cages. They were obviously headed for Marrakesh and its big market.
On arrival in that famous and populous Moroccan city, we were whisked to our hotel by taxi, via sandy roads crowded with people. Our hotel, La Mamounia, was surrounded by a big wall, and once we entered through the gate, we were in a different world. The luxury and beauty of the building and its surrounding garden were an almost unbelievable contrast to what we had seen on our way to the hotel. The garden, which was tropical, lush and green with flowers in abundance, surrounded a huge swimming pool. The interior of La Mamounia was also different from anything we had seen before, its opulent design of Moorish origin. Once back in Casablanca, we visited the souk (open marketplace) and met some of the few remaining Jews of Morocco.
When Stefan and I said goodbye to each other before boarding our respective planes, he said his now memorable line, “I will see you at Marvin’s bar mitzvah.” Since Marvin was only eight years old at the time, we had a good laugh, but mine was nervous laughter. It was the first time Stefan would be returning to Hungary after leaving the country in 1945, and I was worried about his safety. I reminded him for the umpteenth time to send me a telegram when he arrived at his aunt’s house in Budapest, and he gave me his promise.
From Fornebu Airport in Oslo, I took a taxi to Beks’s house. Her apartment had not changed in the years I had been away, but without John it seemed empty. Renée was not at home, and I did not see her on this trip. I told Beks about the telegram I was expecting from Stefan, but when we finally went to bed that night, I still had not heard from him. Beks had a grandfather clock that chimed every half-hour, and that night I barely slept. Every half-hour I was up, and every hour I called the telegraph office to find out if a telegram had arrived. By morning, the switchboard operator at that office recognized my voice and said, “Sorry, Mrs. Stenge; no telegram yet.” I was frantic by the time Stefan called me mid-morning but very relieved when I heard that all was well. He was scheduled to return to Montreal the same day as I.
I loved being in Oslo again, and after a day or two I spoke Norwegian as though I had never left. What surprised me the most during this visit, and something I had completely forgotten, was how dark it is there in the winter. One day I went out at 9:30 in the morning. and it was pitch dark; by 4:00 in the afternoon, it was dark again. During the few days I spent there on that trip, the sun never shone, and although the climate in Montreal is colder than in Oslo, the winter in Norway seemed more severe because of the lack of natural light.
On my flight back to Montreal, I amazingly was not nervous at all — for the first time in my life. Why was that? I asked myself, and then realized that my anxiety had always been due to the fact that Stefan and I were travelling on the same plane. What would happen to our children in the event of a plane crash? On the other hand, once our children reached an age when they could take care of themselves, my fear of flying together with Stefan became a thing of the past.
The children were disappointed when I came home without Daddy, but I assured them that he would be home a little later. He was not. When he did not arrive the following day, I was frantic. A call to the travel agent produced no results, and I had no idea where to turn. Two sleepless nights later and on the third day, there was a call from Stefan. Would I pick him up at Dorval Airport? He had been delayed by fog in Europe and had asked Sabena airlines to send me a telegram, which they had not done. I must admit that I had almost believed that his joke at Paris Orly Airport about not seeing each other again until Marvin’s bar mitzvah would come true.
When they were very young, Marvin and Helen got along extremely well, with Marvin always looking out for her. As they grew older, they often squabbled but no more than most siblings. Stefan continued to be an excellent father. He would take Marvin to the driving range to hit golf balls, and when he discovered how much Helen liked pony rides, he found places to take her riding. For Stefan, the kids came first and he spared no effort on their behalf.
We had been forewarned that sending our children to a religious Jewish school would create a conflict between what they saw at home and what they learned in school. Although nothing could induce Stefan and me to become religious, we always observed the holidays: Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and Pesach. Since we were such a small family, we usually celebrated Pesach with friends, either at their house or ours. Once we even travelled to New York to spend Pesach with my cousin Elfriede and her family.
Marvin became greatly influenced by the teachings of his Hebrew teachers. Several of them were Israelis, some of them Canadians and one, Mr. Goldstein, was originally from Poland and a Holocaust survivor. Of all the teachers, it was Mr. Goldstein who wielded his influence most widely, so much so in fact that some of the parents objected that he was too religious for the school. He taught Grades 2 and 6, and by the time Marvin had finished the latter, he had already begun going to synagogue by himself every Shabbat. Rabbi Halpern at the Beth Ora synagogue noticed Marvin’s steady presence at his services and introduced him to the leader of the Junior Congregation, Ralph. The rabbi often invited Marvin for dinner on Friday nights and holidays. Helen was only marginally influenced by Mr. Goldstein’s lessons.
In the meantime, the workload in my basement office kept growing, and I often compared myself to a piece of furniture that is shuttled between the upstairs and the downstairs of a house. However, the arrangement was convenient. My life was complete; I was busy and content.
Venturing Out of the Nest
The year 1967 was eventful. The Six-Day War, a conflict between Israel and the neighbouring states of Egypt, Jordan and Syria, had been fought victoriously, and Jews everywhere were rejoicing. This would be the beginning of a lasting peace in Israel — or so we thought. Fortunately, we cannot look into the future, and the present victory gave us all renewed hope for the country that had become the backbone of Jewry all over the world.
Expo ’67 was a huge success, and, like all Montrealers, we visited the marvellous exposition many times. My mother turned sixty-five years old in 1967. She had had a few minor car accidents, and when we took her out to dinner on her birthday, we suggested that it might be for the best if she gave up driving and took taxis instead. To my great surprise, she did not object. Thinking about this today, it is hard for me to understand why she so readily agreed to give up the convenience of driving. She sold her car and began to take taxis. I often offered to drive her to appointments and to meet friends, which in retrospect I realize was a mistake, since it encouraged her dependency on me from then on.
It was also the year of Marvin’s bar mitzvah, which he considered an important occasion. For him, the religious significance of the event played a major role, and his preparations for the big day took precedence over his schoolwork. I often heard him singing his Haftorah in his room, so I was confident that he was well prepared when the day of the big event arrived.
Elfriede and Erik, with their children, Sandy and Sidney, came from New York, as did my Tante Selma. Stefan and I had decided early on that Marvin’s bar mitzvah celebration would be a modest event, so we hosted a luncheon at the synagogue for our relatives and Marvin’s and our friends. I have always thought that there is something touching about a bar mitzvah. For me, the chanting of the boys, who are usually still small and immature, is very moving, and the thought that they are to be considered men in the Jewish tradition seems incongruous.
As time went by, my children’s lives went in different directions. Marvin became more religious, and Helen’s interest in horses and other animals — which she had acquired from her experiences at her first summer at day camp — grew. She had never really played with dolls and did not like to wear dresses. As she got a bit older, she often stated that she preferred animals to people. Yet she got along well in camp, as well as in school, and always had enough friends to satisfy her needs.
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&nb
sp; Marvin spent the summer of 1970 at Camp Ramah in Ontario, which had an excellent reputation. It was a Conservative Jewish camp with a good Jewish educational program. He enjoyed everything about this camp, and by the time he came home, he had decided that he would go on his first trip to Israel with the camp the following summer.
Around the year 2000, I attended some lectures in Jewish studies in Florida and found out that our excellent professor, Dr. Gittelson, had spent several summers at Camp Ramah in Ontario. Marvin actually remembered him well, and at the end of one of the lectures, I handed the professor a brief note from my son. Dr. Gittelson was thrilled to learn that one of the campers remembered him after so many years, and he told me that the note had made his day.
While Marvin was away that summer, I bought new dishes and separated them into two groups, one for dairy and one for meat. I could not run the risk that my son would one day refuse to eat the food I had cooked because it was not kosher. I have never regretted the decision I made that year.
When Helen was about fourteen years old, we bought her a horse called Maybelle. Owning a horse of her own was a dream come true for our daughter. By this time, we were quite aware of what this decision would entail: we would have to pay a stable to board the horse, we might have veterinary expenses and we would have to drive Helen to the horse on weekends. We knew that we could trust her implicitly with taking care of the horse and acting in a responsible manner. Marvin had had his bar mitzvah and this would be her coming-of-age present, since in those days very few people celebrated the bat mitzvah of their daughters.
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