Jewish Mothers Never Die

by Natalie David-Weill

  Amalia wanted to speak but the others wouldn’t let her have a word in. Hadn’t she been the one to start them on the subject and didn’t that earn her the privilege of making herself heard? She thought she ought to demand that everyone be allowed an equal amount of time and that it should be strictly adhered to, like in presidential debates.

  “As for Sigmund, when it came to choosing a father, he ignored the fairytales and the movies and went right to his half-brother, Philip.”

  “What!?”

  “It’s true. He actually wondered if Philip wasn’t his father. You see, I was the same age as his half-brothers Philip and Emmanuel, while Monica, the aging governess whom we had hired, was Jacob’s age. So it was natural for Sigi to think she was his wife, rather than me.”

  “If I understand correctly, he thought he was the son of his half-brother and the grandson of his father? It’s no wonder he discovered the Oedipus Complex. You must have been a very attractive mother for him to marry you off in his head with this younger man. Did Philip deserve to be a father figure?”

  “To tell the truth, he didn’t spend much time with us.”

  “So you were completely available for your son,” Rebecca said, warming to the idea of this ‘family romance.’”

  Mina seized the bull by the horns.

  “Amalia, was Jacob Sigmund’s father?”

  Amalia blushed and stammered but said nothing.

  “Because there are rumors, you know. Is there anything to them?” Mina continued. “Didn’t you marry Jacob because you needed to get married as quickly as possible? In other words, you were pregnant! Why else would a happy, educated, pretty girl of barely twenty, like yourself, have married Jacob, an old man with no financial prospects whatsoever? Maybe Sigmund was right to think that the man who called himself his father wasn’t biologically related to him.”

  “Absolutely not!” Amalia cried, horrified. “He called it a ‘family romance’ because it’s all fabulation, a complete and utter invention. His doubts about who his real father was are just proof of the high esteem he had for me; it was a way of making me seem more desirable because the textile merchant I married was not good enough for me in his eyes.”

  “So he was in love with you after all!” Rebecca exclaimed.

  “Whatever our sons reproached us for, they nevertheless set us on a pedestal, and sometimes idealized our characters of their novels,” Jeanne said.

  “It was the least they could,” Mina agreed. “After everything we did for them!”

  “Could we finally watch Oedipus Wrecks?” Amalia suggested.

  13

  We’ll Live Forever

  For to one who loves, is not absence the most effective, the most tenacious, the most indestructible, the most faithful of presences?

  Marcel Proust, A Young Girl’s Confession

  People are afraid of death because they can’t get it into their heads what it would be like to live forever. Death is a kind of reward.

  Romain Gary

  Eternity is a very long time, especially towards the end.

  Woody Allen

  After having dissected their lives and those of their adored sons, after having examined them from every angle, Rebecca’s friends arrived at a unanimous conclusion: they had done well! Sigmund Freud, Albert Einstein, Marcel Proust, Romain Gary, Albert Cohen and the Marx Brothers were all famous. They were the brilliant products of the education they had lavished on them. It called for a celebration. What better way to crown the occasion than to throw a dinner party like they used to give?

  The decision was unanimous but there was much to be done and they couldn’t agree on everything. Jeanne was a perfectionist with the most expensive tastes; there could be no dinner without flower centerpieces and fine silver. For Minnie, the most important detail was the music. Louise wanted to spoil herself for once with elaborate decorations. Amalia was happy with whatever they decided, as long as she would have enough time to make herself as beautiful as possible. Mina’s primary preoccupation was the amount of food in the cupboards: would they have enough to eat? Rebecca was the only one who had no conditions: she loved all their suggestions.

  The big evening arrived at last. The dining room glowed with candlelight and the flowers were exquisite. They took up their conversations where they had left them off, never so happy as when they were sharing marvelous stories about their sons.

  Rebecca wore a long blue taffeta dress, and her hair and makeup were carefully done for the occasion. She was happy, beautiful, radiant. Her thoughts turned peacefully to Nathan. She felt at home among her friends, whom she was beginning to know so well, and their sons. They were so amusing, in fact, that she was finding it difficult to tear herself away from them to read a book alone or watch a movie.

  The meal was festive. They feasted on delicacies of braised partridge and truffles and drank far too much champagne. Delighted by the immortality which their presence in this heaven proved, they were even more thrilled to be remembered on earth, where their names were still invoked. Yet the conversation turned again and again to their deaths and the moment they had always dreaded when they would finally leave their sons behind.

  Jeanne was as dignified as ever in diamond pendant earrings and an elegant chignon.

  “Marcel was so afraid of leaving me,” she said. “All our lives we tried to accustom ourselves to living apart. But I knew he couldn’t do anything without asking himself how I would have reacted. Marcel was thirty-four when I died, and I was sure he would not be able to bear the loss. However, he outlived me by seventeen years. I never imagined he would go on so long without me.”

  “But, since you knew him to be so dependent on you, when you were sick and the end was near, how did you prepare him for your death?” Rebecca asked. “It must have been terribly difficult for you.”

  “I never had the courage to tell him the truth. He was so fragile, so sensitive. To keep his spirits up, we played our old quotations game, as if nothing was wrong. By chance, I quoted Corneille to him: ‘If thou art not a Roman, be at least worthy to be one; and if thou art equal to me, give better evidence that thou art.’ It never occurred to me how cruel that must have sounded, that he would think I was exhorting him to be brave and to hide his grief.”

  “I’m sure Marcel didn’t think you were quoting Corneille to be reproachful. Don’t worry yourself about that. He knew you so well you didn’t have to say anything to him; he could put himself in your shoes, just like the mother in Sodom and Gomorrah does with her own mother (the beloved grandmother of the Narrator), adopting her tastes and mannerisms the instant she dies. Marcel remarks how much they are alike: ‘It is in this sense . . . that we may say that death is not in vain, that the dead continue to act upon us.’”

  “Albert Cohen wrote: ‘What is so terrible about the dead is that they are so alive,’” said Jeanne. “I think he’s quite right.”

  Louise Cohen blushed with pride, as she always did whenever anyone quoted her son.

  They were particularly animated in their discussion that evening, everyone speaking at once. Louise helped herself freely to the champagne and Minnie to the food, all the while struggling to keep her blonde wig in place.

  “I was lucky. I couldn’t have dreamed a better death,” Minnie said. “The whole family was together, at Zeppo’s house, on Long Island. There were seven of us at the dinner table, just like old times, and how we laughed and remembered: our shows in Texas, our illusions in Mississippi, our success on Broadway. And we finished off with a song! Afterwards, we played ping pong. I wasn’t on top of my game at that point and my new wig kept slipping over my eyes. Chico won, I think. We laughed and laughed. The dinner was so good I wanted to start all over, so Zeppo, who always did as I asked, set the table again.”

  “You didn’t really eat another meal?”

  “It was a mistake no one should ever make. On the way back to New York, I began to shiver with cold. I remember I told my husband I shouldn’t have eaten so much. Tho
se were the last words I ever spoke. I began to suffocate. I felt like a fish out of water. Frenchie, my husband, reacted like a hero: he ordered the chauffeur to turn around, and, with a determination I never knew he had, jumped out of the car and stopped the traffic in both directions. We rushed back to Zeppo’s; he was still doing the dishes. Frenchie carried me into the house and the doctor arrived but I heard him say there was no point in taking me to the hospital. My sons came to say goodbye, one by one, in order: Chico, Harpo, Groucho, Gummo and Zeppo. I knew I had to put on a happy face or they would become hysterical. It was the hardest thing I ever did: smile, though I knew I was dying. I waited until I saw each of them one last time before I let myself go. I don’t know who was in the room when I felt a sharp pain: a brain hemorrhage. And then it was over. I had never heard of Woody Allen, but I have to agree with him that even if you’re not afraid of death, it’s better not to be there when it happens.”

  “Well, the main thing is that everything worked out for the best,” said Louise. “We’re here together in heaven, and the living still remember us down below.”

  “Because we were all mothers,” Rebecca cried with delight.

  Louise proposed a toast to motherhood and to mothers, in whom her Albert saw the archetype of all women, the Jewish race and its prophets.

  “Sanctuary and consolation: that’s what we are to our sons. Albert said it best: ‘My mother’s thoughts have fled to the land where time does not exist, and they await me there.’ He knew I would keep for him all those stories of the Jewish ghetto in Corfu that he loved to listen to as a child.”

  Pauline Einstein arrived as they were getting up from the table. She was wearing a slim-fitting tweed blazer over a green skirt and she held a suitcase in her hand. She had the worried, hurried look of someone who has to arrive at the train station two hours early.

  “Are you going somewhere?” Rebecca asked her.

  “I am. I was made to be alone, just like Albert, who hated a crowd. This endless commotion’s worn me out.”

  What had they done to drive Pauline Einstein away? It was true they hadn’t spoken much lately of Albert, but why did she have to get angry about it? Unless she really did want to be alone like she said?

  Minnie, who had a way with Pauline, had no intention of seeing her disappear again:

  “What if we convinced Nettie to join us finally? She’s always so amusing, isn’t she?”

  “Oh, that’s a wonderful idea!” Pauline exclaimed. “I’ve missed her, and she loves to play mahjong.”

  “So, you’ll stay?”

  Pauline was back to her grumpy self as she stowed her suitcase in a closet and removed a folding card table, which she set up immediately.

  “Will someone finally tell me what happened with Woody Allen’s mother?” Rebecca demanded to know.

  “I suppose I managed to exasperate her,” Minnie said.

  “That’s true. You and your good mood all the time, always smiling and happy, and with such extraordinary energy and enthusiasm: nothing at all like Nettie, who spends her time complaining and cursing a life which seemed too difficult for her,” Pauline agreed.

  “How about the fact that you reminded her how much Woody Allen admired your sons?” Jeanne chimed in. “Rather insensitive on your part, don’t you think?”

  “Perhaps I did brag a bit,” Minnie admitted. “But is it my fault if, in Manhattan, Woody Allen’s character cites Groucho as the one thing that makes life worth living, before Sinatra and Brando, before Flaubert and Cézanne. Did I tell Woody Allen to say he was a Groucho Marxist? Did I write the screenplay of Stardust Memories, where a participant at a film festival claims to have written the complete filmography for Gummo, though he was never in a single movie? Is it so unbelievable that Woody Allen was a fan of the Marx Brothers? Why did Nettie have to take that the wrong way?”

  “She’ll be back eventually,” Pauline said with the shadow of a smile. “She knows as well as I do that between our arguments and our apologies, we get along wonderfully. Just look at me: I’m staying, which just goes to show that it’s impossible to leave you all.”

  “Have you heard this joke?” Rebecca asked, laughing already at the punch line. “What’s the difference between French leave and a Jewish goodbye? In the first case, you leave without saying goodbye. In the second, you say goodbye but you never leave.”

  Minnie grabbed Pauline in her arms and spun her around the room, humming a tune. Rebecca began to sing “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” at the top of her lungs, jumping and swaying in all directions.

  “It feels so good to dance and sing and think about nothing! But have you even heard of the Rolling Stones?”

  Pauline Einstein placed a mahjong set on the card table. Minnie rolled up the carpet, put on a foxtrot and danced with Rebecca. Amalia Freud, Jeanne Proust and Louise Cohen set up the mahjong, carefully counting out tiles. Mina took out a sheet of paper and wrote the names of the players to keep track of their scores. The dice were thrown and the game began.

  Minnie and Rebecca went from tangos to the Charleston without missing a beat, laughing all the while. The only sound coming from the card table was the periodic announcement, in a serious tone, of a new set of tiles: pung, kong, mahjong.

  Jeanne sighed noisily several times.

  “If Jeanne is sighing, that can only mean one thing,” Minnie observed, stopping the dance and catching her breath. “She’s worrying about Marcel again.”

  Rebecca halted as well but kept time to the music with one foot.

  “But we agreed! No more talking about the children!”

  The End