“If I have a girl, I will call her Eliška, after you,” she told my mother. The two of them were now united in that secret sisterhood of mothers, with Marta and me looking on from the outside.
As Lucie’s body changed from her pregnancy, mine finally began changing as well. I had been holding my breath for some time waiting for my body to catch up with the other girls in school—all who seemed to develop before me. That autumn I spent increasingly more time in front of the mirror. I stared at my reflection; the image of the little girl was receding, while a woman’s face and body were coming to the surface. My face, once cushioned with baby fat, was now thinner and more angular, while my body was softer and more curvaceous. In what seemed like a final coup d’état over my body, my breasts seemed to grow several inches overnight and I soon discovered I could no longer close the buttons on some of my blouses.
Part of me wanted to give in to all these changes, overhauling my appearance completely. I came home one day with a fashion magazine and pointed to a photograph of Greta Garbo. “Please, Mama,” I begged. “Let me bob my hair!” I was rushing to be grown up, my head filled with the idea that I could transform into an American movie star overnight. Mother placed down her teacup and took the magazine from me. She smiled. “Keep your braids a little longer, Lenka,” she said, her voice tinged with wistfulness. “It’s taken you years to get your hair this long.”
And so my braids stayed. My mother, however, came to welcome some of the modern trends coming into Prague. She loved the new style of wide-legged trousers, a full blouse peeking out from a high, nipped waist. She bought these fashions for both herself and me, and even had Gizela, her seamstress, make several pairs of pants for us from a pattern book she ordered from Paris.
Unfortunately, my closetful of new, modern clothes failed to alter my perception of myself. I still felt as though I was trapped in a state of awkwardness. I wanted to be more confident and more feminine, but instead I only felt unattractive and insecure. My body seemed completely foreign to me now. For years, I had stared at a girl with braids and a body that seemed like it was cut from a paperdoll book. Now, with the changes of adolescence, I was more self-conscious about how I moved—even how I used my hands to express myself. An arm might now graze my breast when it earlier could move freely in front of me. Even my hips seemed to get in the way when I thought I could squeeze between two chairs.
I tried to focus my attention on my portfolio for art school. This was something that was tangible and something in which I had confidence. In my last year at high school, I had progressed from simple watercolors and pastels to a love of oil paint. When I was not doing homework, I spent my time painting or drawing. Our living room was full of the framed portraits I had done over the years. The small sketches I had done of an infant Marta were now replaced with a large portrait I painted of her in the white dress and pale blue sash she had worn to Lucie’s wedding.
I hoped my portraits could express more than just the appearance of my subject, but their thoughts as well. The hands, the eyes, and the position of the body were like the instruments of a clock, and I only needed to orchestrate them in such a way so as to portray my subject’s inner life. I imagined myself as El Greco, arranging my father in the large recess of his intricately carved chair, the red velvet seat a striking contrast to his black suit. I painted his hands, with the blue ribbons of his veins, the carefully manicured nails, and his laced fingers gently resting on his lap. I painted the blue green of his eyes, reflecting the light. The blackness of his mustache, resting above two closed, pensive lips. My mother, too, offered to sit for me.
Mother’s name, Eliška, when abbreviated to Liska, meant “fox,” and was a nickname my father called her lovingly. I thought of that as I painted her. I asked her to pose in a simple housedress, made of white starched cotton with an eyelet neck and trim on the sleeves. It was the way I loved her most, without her typically powdered face or her elegant wardrobe. My mother, simple and natural. Her pale skin, once revealed, was slightly freckled, like speckles of oatmeal floating in a bowl of milk.
She was always quiet after she studied one of my completed paintings. As if she wanted to say something, but instead held back.
She never spoke of her own time in art school, and certainly there was an air of mystery surrounding her former life as a student. She never displayed the paintings she had done before her marriage. I knew where they were because I had stumbled upon them around the time that Mother first announced she was pregnant with Marta. Lucie and I had gone to the storage cage in the bottom of our apartment building to look for a pump for my bicycle. Each apartment had a small locker, and Mother had given us the key for ours. I had never been down to the basement, and it was like a dark cave filled with everyone’s misbegotten things. We passed old furniture draped in heavy white cloth, leather trunks, and boxes stacked to the ceiling.
Lucie took the key and opened our locker. Papa’s bike was there, along with labeled boxes of china and even more boxes of glasses. We found the pump. It sat next to at least a dozen canvases that rested against the wall, covered by a white sheet.
I remember Lucie moving them cautiously. “I think these are your mother’s,” she said, whispering even though we were the only ones in the basement. Her fingers worked gently to separate each painting so we could both see the images.
Mother’s paintings shocked me. They were not elegant, meticulous reproductions of great masters, or sweet, bucolic landscapes of the Czech countryside. They were sensual and dark, with palettes of plum and deep amber. There was one of a woman reclining on a divan, her pale arm resting behind her head and a naked torso with two rosy nipples and a blanket draped carefully across two crossed legs.
I later wondered about these paintings. The bohemian woman who painted them before she became a wife and mother was not my mother who was running her household upstairs. I tried to revise my image of her, imagining her as a young art student and in the arms of Father when they first met, and wondered if that part of her had disappeared completely, or whether it occasionally resurfaced when Marta and I were fast asleep.
Lucie never mentioned these paintings again. But years later—when I desperately tried to create a full and accurate picture of my mother—I would return to them. For the contrast of the woman and her paintings was impossible to erase from my mind.
I was accepted to Prague’s Academy of Art in 1936, when I was seventeen years old. I walked to school every morning with my sketchpad underneath my arm and a wooden box filled with oil paints and sable-haired brushes. There were fifteen students in my class, and although there were five girls in total, I quickly became friends with two girls, Věruška and Elsa. Both girls were Jewish and we shared many of the same friends from our grade school years. A few weeks into our first semester, Věruška invited me to her house for Shabbat. I knew little about her family except that her father and grandfather were both doctors, and her older brother Josef was now at university.
Josef. I still can see him so clearly. He arrived home that night wet, his curly black hair slick from the rain, and his large green eyes the color of weathered copper. I was standing in the hallway when he first arrived, the maid just slipping my coat from my shoulders. He had come through the front door just as I was heading toward the living room.
“Josef,” he said, smiling, as he put down his book bag and handed his coat to the maid. He then extended his hand to me and I took it, his broad fingers wrapping around mine.
I managed to utter my name and smile at him. But I was battling my constant shyness, and his confidence and good looks had rendered me mute.
“Lenka, there you are!” Věruška chimed as she bolted into the hallway. She had changed from the clothes I had seen her wearing in class that afternoon into a beautiful burgundy dress. She threw her arms over me and kissed me.
“I see you’ve met my brother.” She went over and pinched Josef’s cheek.
I was blushing.
“Věruška.” He la
ughed and swatted her away. “Go tell Mother and Father I’ll be there in a moment.”
Věruška nodded, and I followed her down the hallway to a large living room where her parents were deep in discussion.
The Kohns’ apartment was not unlike ours, with its antique red velvet walls, the dark brown wooden rafters, and large glass French doors. But there was a somber quality to the household that unsettled me.
My eyes scanned the parlor. Around the perimeter of the room there was evidence of the family’s scholarly life. Large medical journals in heavy bindings were stocked on the shelves along with other collections of leather-bound books. Framed diplomas from Charles University and a certificate of commendation from the Czech Medical Association hung on the walls. An imposing, large grandfather clock chimed to sound the hour, and a baby grand piano sat in the corner of the room. On the sofa, Věruška’s mother sat with a piece of needlepoint on her lap. Short and round, Mrs. Kohn wore simple dresses that hid her soft, plump physique. A small pair of reading glasses dangled over her large breasts, and her hair was wrapped plainly and practically in a bun at the nape of her neck.
Věruška’s father also seemed to wholly contrast with mine. Whereas my father’s eyes emanated warmth, Dr. Jacob Kohn’s were clinical. When he first looked up from his book, it was clear he was surveying whoever stood before him.
“Lenka Maizel,” I introduced myself. My eyes fell to Dr. Kohn’s two perfectly white hands, the nails meticulously filed and clean, as they unclasped and he stood up to greet me.
“Thank you for joining us this evening,” he said, his voice tight with restraint. I knew from my mother that Dr. Kohn was a distinguished obstetrician in the community. “My wife, Anna . . .” He touched her shoulder gently with his hand.
Věruška’s mother smiled and extended her hand to me. “We’re happy to share Shabbat with you, Lenka.” Her voice was formal and exact.
“Thank you. Thank you for inviting me.”
Dr. Kohn nodded and gestured for me to sit down.
Věruška was her bubbly self and plopped down on one of the deep, red sofas. Quietly smoothing my dress over my legs, I sat down beside her.
“So you are studying art with our Ruška,” her mother said.
“I am. And I am in good company. Your Věruška is the great talent of our class.”
Both Dr. and Mrs. Kohn smiled.
“I’m sure you’re being too modest, Lenka,” I heard a soft, low voice say from behind me. It was Josef, who had walked in and was now standing behind his sister and me.
“It is a noble trait, modesty,” Dr. Kohn added. He folded his hands.
“No, it’s true. Věruška has the best eye in our class.” I patted her on her leg. “We’re all jealous of her.”
“How can that be?” Josef asked bemused.
“Oh, make him stop, Mama,” Věruška protested. “He’s twenty years old and still taunting me!”
Josef and I locked eyes. He smiled. My face reddened. And suddenly for the first time in my life, I felt I could barely breathe.
That night over dinner, I could hardly eat a morsel. My appetite had completely vanished and I felt terribly self-conscious with every movement I made at the table. Josef sat to the left of his father, his large shoulders extending past the back of his chair. I am too shy to meet his gaze. My eyes focus on his hands. My own mother’s hands were smooth but strong. Father’s were large and covered in a thin veil of hair. Josef’s hands were unlike the small white hands of Dr. Kohn. They had the musculature one sees in a statue—the wide dorsal, the ribbon of pronounced veins, and the thick strong fingers.
I watched the hands of the Kohn family closely, as if each pair reflected the emotions running through the room. There was a tension during the dinner that was unmistakable. When Dr. Kohn asked his son about his classes, Josef gripped his knife and fork even tighter. His knuckles stiffened, the veins grew even more pronounced. He answered his father succinctly, without any detail, never once taking his gaze off his plate.
Věruška was the only animated one at the table. She threw her hands about like a lithe dancer. She peppered the conversation with little bits of gossip: the neighbor’s daughter who had grown so fat she looked like a cream puff; the postman who was caught having an affair with the maid. Unlike her more reserved parents, she took great relish in her every detail. There were great swirls and flourishes in her descriptions. When Věruška spoke, you couldn’t help but think of a rococo painting—all her subjects engaging in clandestine acts of love, their affairs painted in large voluminous brushstrokes of vibrant color.
I sat there, an observer of their household, all the contrasts in high relief to me. The elegant white cloth set with the Sabbath candles, the platters filled with meat and potatoes, the asparagus arranged like piano keys on a long, porcelain tray. Dr. Kohn, serious with his spectacles; his carefully, measured voice. His hands that never gestured, but remained at the edge of the table. Josef, the quietly bemused giant whose eyes looked alight with fire and mischief whenever he looked my way; his sister bubbly and effervescent as a tall flute of champagne. And Mrs. Kohn, who sat silently at the opposite end of the table with her hands folded, round and plump like a stuffed capon.
Eventually, dessert was served. Dry apple cake with a faint taste of honey. I thought of Mother and Father at home, how they loved their whipped cream. Chocolate cake, raspberry torte, palačinka. Anything was an excuse to have an extra spoonful.
“You don’t have much of an appetite, Lenka,” Dr. Kohn commented as he looked at my barely touched plate.
I took my fork and tried to force down another bite.
“I think I had too much lunch,” I said with a nervous laugh.
“And are you enjoying the Academy as much as my daughter?” He looked at Věruška and smiled. It was the first time I saw him smile all evening.
“Yes. It is challenging. I don’t have Věruška’s talent, so I must work harder to keep up.”
“I hope Věruška isn’t too much of a distraction in class. As you can see, it’s hard for my daughter to keep still—”
“Papa!” Věruška interrupted.
He smiled again. “She’s full of life, my daughter. I don’t know what our household would be like without her and her stories . . .”
“It certainly would be much quieter . . .” Josef murmured, smiling.
I smiled, too.
Josef saw this and seemed to be amused by my affection for his sister. “We should have a drink to Věruška!” He looked over at me then lifted his glass. “And to her friend, who is clearly too modest.”
Everyone lifted their glasses and looked in my direction. I felt my face redden with embarrassment.
And of course, it was Věruška who took great pleasure in pointing it out.
The dessert plates were cleared. Behind the kitchen door, there was the sound of porcelain and cutlery being rinsed and stacked away.
Dr. Kohn stood up. We all followed. He walked over to a pedestal with a gramophone. “Mozart?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. He was holding a record in one perfectly white hand. “Yes. A little Mozart, I think.”
He took the record from its sheath and placed the needle down. And the room was filled with a rain of notes.
I drank one small glass of sherry. Věruška had two.
Afterward, when the music faded and the decanter was taken away by the maid, Josef excused himself from our company. Moments later he was standing in the hallway like a summoned guardian. It was clear he would be the one to escort me home.
I insisted that I would be fine. But neither Josef nor his parents would hear otherwise. My coat was slipped over my shoulders, Věruška kissed my two cheeks. I closed my eyes, momentarily distracted by the smell of sherry mixing with her perfume. “I’ll see you Monday in class,” she said, before squeezing my hand.
I turned to leave and walked into the iron-caged elevator with Josef. He was wearing a dark green coat, his mouth and nose covered by a thick w
ool muffler. His eyes, the same color as his coat, peered at me like a curious child.
We walked for a few minutes without speaking. The night was black. The sky like velvet, studded with only a few bright stars.
We felt the cold. It was the cold one feels just before a snow. A dampness that slices through cloth, skin, and bone.
On Prokopská Street, he finally breaks the silence. He asks me about my studies. What subjects do I like? Have I always loved to draw?
I tell him I struggle in anatomy class, and at this he laughs. I tell him I love to paint most of all.
He tells me he is in his first year in medical school. That he has been told he will be a doctor since the day he was born.
“Do you have an interest in something else?” I ask him. The question is bold, but the wine and sherry have made me more confident.
He ponders the question briefly, before stopping to think about it further. We are steps away from Charles Bridge now. Long branches of light come from the gas lanterns. Our faces are half gold, half shadow.
“I love medicine,” he says. “The human body is part science, part art.”
I nod. I tell him I agree.
“But part of it can’t be learned in books, and that’s the part that’s the most daunting to me.”
“It’s the same way with painting,” I tell him. “I often wonder how I can be so insecure at times with something I love so much.”
Josef smiles. He turns away for a moment before returning his gaze to me.
“I have this memory from my childhood. My sister and I found a wounded bird. We placed it carefully in a handkerchief and brought it to our father.
The Lost Wife Page 3
