by Paula Wagner
I tossed the dregs of my tea overboard and watched them float briefly on the foam before vanishing into the waves, exactly like my previous life. Yet the comforting taste lingered on my tongue, a bittersweet reminder of the countless cups of tea my mother had poured me as I was growing up.
As a young woman, my mother had made her own Atlantic crossing to bring Naomi and me to America from her birthplace, and ours, in London. She and Dad had met in the midst of World War II, when he was an American GI stationed in Britain. Despite the chaos and carnage of war, they had managed to fall in love. But for my mother, the marriage had meant leaving her own mother behind. As I grew up, Mom had never much mentioned that fateful decision, and I’d learned not to ask. Instead, she’d adapted to her new life in the US with a grace and courage I had taken for granted. Now a wave of empathy engulfed me, and my tears fell into the sea—“as if it needed more salt,” she would have said. Had my mother also felt the poignant mix of elation and dread that I felt now, as she too sailed toward an unknown future? My mother often said with an air of fateful resignation that her “life just happened” to her. Despite her training at the prestigious London School of Speech and Drama, World War II had dashed her starry dreams of acting on the London stage. Instead, she’d married and become the mother of twins, then immigrated to America. Two momentous years from 1944–46 had forever altered the course of my mother’s life. But headstrong and idealistic, I was determined to make my own life happen!
Jean and Leon with newborns Paula & Naomi, London 1945
My own voyage on the Theodore Herzl wasn’t nearly as romantic as this vintage poster for Zim Lines.
Chapter 2
ESTHER: A CHARISMATIC MENTOR
If Israel was our boldest adventure yet, it was by no means the first for Naomi and me. By the time we were ten, we had traveled from England to Texas, Iowa, and Kansas before our family finally settled in Arcata, a remote logging and fishing town with a small state college on the coast of Northern California. With each move, we had adapted like tumbleweeds to new schools, friends, and neighborhoods, only to be uprooted once again. Crossing the Atlantic at age four to visit our mother’s family in England, my clearest memory is of the Feins, an Israeli family on board who also had identical twin daughters. At fourteen, Naomi and I had returned to London once again for a year of boarding school at Channing School for Girls, this time without our family.
Initially, we struggled to surmount the steep academic learning curve and loneliness of boarding school. In our scratchy rust-brown uniforms with matching berets and ties, we felt like prisoners, allowed out on Saturday afternoons only as far as the local sweet shop. We could visit our newfound aunts, uncles, and cousins only during the holidays, but to reach their welcoming arms meant navigating the London Tube and daunting trains on our own.
For the first time in our lives, Naomi and I needed each other in a way we never had at home, where we had been more likely to compete than to cooperate. Without the ability to communicate via cell phones or internet in those days, we were forced to face our problems alone. While incredibly challenging, my year in England forced me to develop a level of maturity beyond my years. Though I greatly missed my parents and younger siblings, Jonathan and Laura, I learned I could survive without them.
But returning to fog-bound Arcata—population 5,235 in 1960—was an exercise in reverse culture shock. After the initial joy of reuniting with friends and family, my parents’ rules soon chafed like an outgrown sweater. I couldn’t imagine how I’d survive three more years until high school graduation. As a teenager, babysitting was the only job I could get, but just when my desperation hit bottom, it became my salvation.
“Are you available next Thursday?” asked a voice with an unfamiliar accent.
“Thank you for coming,” said the tall woman when I arrived. She wore a caftan of diagonal red-and-black stripes that set off her olive skin and angular frame. Her name was Esther.
Gold hoops glowed in her long dark hair, and a warm smile softened her beaky nose. Crossing her threshold, I entered a living room of colorful wall hangings accented by glowing copper. A savory aroma wafted from the kitchen.
Esther poured two gold-rimmed glasses of fresh mint tea and set them on a low brass tray. Although I loved my mother’s milky English tea, the mint was heavenly.
“Please,” she offered, “let’s just get to know each other a little. I’m not actually going anywhere today.” Most of my babysitting clients were only too eager to leave me with their charges. But Esther took her time.
“Daniel, come meet Paula,” she called to her tousled three-year-old son, playing on a woven rug. “She’ll be taking care of you when I’m busy.” The boy looked up briefly before continuing to rev his toy airplanes as if launching them from a magic carpet.
If this was an interview, it felt relaxing. I too wanted to ask a million questions of this charismatic woman. Where was she from and how had she come to live in Arcata? Over the steaming tea, she began her story: She was originally from Morocco but had immigrated to Israel when she was young.
“After my own university studies, I married an American professor. That’s how I came here. He was just hired in the English department at HSU—Humboldt State University.”
“My dad teaches in the Music Department,” I interjected. “My sister Naomi and I babysit for almost all the faculty families.” So that’s how she’d found me—through the faculty network.
In the coming months, I would learn more of Esther’s story. Along with virtually the entire Moroccan Jewish community, her family had left for Israel in the early 1950s, draining Morocco of doctors, teachers, lawyers, businessmen, and entire villages.
“We went to Israel to help build the new country—but ironically, we weren’t well received when we arrived. The European Jews who were already there—the Ashkenazim—thought we Sephardic Jews from North Africa were uncivilized. It’s true we had different traditions, but to them, we were only fit for raising chickens! Even though I spoke four languages—English, French, Hebrew, and Arabic—I still didn’t feel respected.” Her voice rose with ire.
“Now I’m stuck in this tiny town with a three-year-old. In a big city, I could be a French pastry chef or an interpreter. But there is no market for those talents here.”
Pausing to reflect, she fixed her large dark eyes on me. “You have your whole life ahead of you. Don’t let anything hold you back!”
In fact, Esther may have been barely ten years my senior, perhaps in her midtwenties. But an invisible bond of solidarity soon bridged our differences. Ambitious and charming, Esther had looked to America for opportunity. Now her plan had apparently stalled. Clearly, she considered Arcata a backwater, despite the melancholy beauty of its craggy beaches and towering redwoods.
Each time we met, our friendship deepened as we compared differences and shared aspirations. While my family was secular and unaffiliated with the Jewish community—we celebrated only the major Jewish holidays like Chanukah and Passover—Esther came from a traditionally observant background. I knew next to nothing about Israel, but her descriptions fascinated me. Transcending her personal experience, she described the challenges of a young socialist nation rising from the ashes of the Holocaust. The seeds she planted fell in the fertile soil of my adolescent idealism and soon germinated. I yearned to identify with a community whose beliefs I shared. Despite its problems—including the conflicts with its Arab neighbors—which Esther neither glorified nor minimized, Israel was a land where young people could make a difference.
One especially gloomy day, Esther mentioned a work/study program or ulpan where students could learn Hebrew while volunteering on a collective farm called a kibbutz.
“That sounds exciting,” I sputtered. The more she described, the more captivated I became.
“Maybe you could go after college,” she suggested.
As if she had handed me a magic key, my heart sprang at the idea. But how could I possibly wait that long?
She took some time before responding. “Well, I don’t see why not. The work isn’t easy, but they always need young people. Lots of European kids do go between high school and college.”
The ulpan appeared to offer a solution to my wanderlust that was both ideal and practical. I decided then and there to find my way to Israel as soon as I finished high school. If I could survive away from home at age fourteen, I could certainly do so at eighteen. As I headed home in high spirits that afternoon, the coastal fog lifted, revealing a horizon as boundless as the vision I would nurture to fruition over the coming three years.
Although I was an A student in high school, the hands-on work/study program would offer a welcome break from classroom learning as well as the chance to pursue my love of languages. After my year in England, I’d gained a much fuller understanding of my mother’s culture. Now it made sense to explore my father’s Jewish roots, however distant and deeply they were buried. Only secretly did I dare to hope that in Israel I might find the key to his elusive heart.
Despite my growing independence from Naomi, I wasn’t ready to go so far away without her. But when I first broached the idea, she was skeptical. For months we argued the pros and cons of the trip like two tightrope walkers in a tug of war.
“C’mon, it’ll be an adventure,” I cajoled, invoking our childhood watchword.
I reinforced my case with glossy brochures from Ha’Shomer Ha’Tzair, the left-wing youth movement, showing “young pioneers” happily picking oranges, driving tractors, and excavating precious archaeological artifacts in the desert. Naomi’s resistance only strengthened my resolve until eventually she relented. Once united, we poured our energy into planning all the details. Earning enough money would be our biggest challenge. With no work but babysitting in our neck of the woods, we would need to get summer jobs in San Francisco after high school to supplement our savings.
When the time came to tell our parents, I dreaded their reaction. Seated at the head of the table for a family meeting, Dad flared his ample nostrils—a familiar sign of disapproval that Naomi and I referred to as the Big Sniff. Mom poured tea to ease the tension, her solution for all occasions. After listening to our plans, Dad flared his nose again. A long and awkward hush fell over the room.
“Well, girls, that doesn’t sound very realistic,” he pronounced at last.
“Don’t you think it’s a shame not to use your scholarship to UC Berkeley, Paula?” added Mom in a tone that filled me with guilt, although I’d anticipated the question.
“Don’t worry,” I answered confidently. “I already contacted the university. They say I can defer it for a year. Besides, think how much more I’ll be learning than I could ever learn in a classroom!”
But Dad had more objections. “And exactly how will you finance this, uh . . . jaunt?”
I’d been prepared for Mom’s guilt attack, but not Dad’s sarcasm. In his eyes, the plan was absurd, our babysitting money was paltry, and our prospects for finding jobs in San Francisco virtually nil with only a high school education. Under his calm but withering logic, my dreams shrank until I felt as small as Alice in Wonderland. But what had I expected? Dad liked to be in control. And here I was challenging his authority by proposing to escape to the far side of the world! Ever since Naomi and I were young, whenever we acted up, Dad would order us to act more grown up. But now he seemed unable or unwilling to acknowledge that, in fact, we had grown up.
Like an archer’s fist, my heart tightened as I let fly the last arrow in my quiver, aiming straight for Dad.
“I thought maybe you’d approve of us going to Israel,” I ventured. “After all, you are Jewish, aren’t you?”
My arrow hit Dad’s sore spot squarely at the core of his being, the place where he tried to keep his ambivalence about his Jewish identity hidden. He flinched. In my zeal to protect my dreams, I saw how much I’d hurt him. After another excruciating pause, he simply turned his palms upward in a gesture of surrender.
“Well girls, if it’s only a year, and if Paula stays with our old friends the Feins, and Naomi stays nearby, then I guess I can’t stand in your way.”
The resignation in his sad brown eyes and voice seemed to well up from deep in his soul. He had always taught us to challenge authority with a capital A—as long as it wasn’t his authority. I had won my freedom, but had I lost my dad? As I’d grown older, we’d both grown more distant. Now the fun we’d shared when I was a little girl seemed to recede like laughter from a deserted playground.
After this conversation, Dad made no further resistance. But neither did he offer any encouragement, advice, or financial support. Perhaps he and Mom simply hoped our harebrained scheme would blow over.
However, as graduation approached in the spring of 1963, my anticipation and doubts grew in equal measure. What if my parents were right—what if I was planning to drop off the edge of the earth? What about my scholarship to UCB? And what would I be missing? The Civil Rights Movement and antiwar protests of the sixties were still nascent, but I could feel them rumbling below the surface. Their growing energy was palpable at the American Friends Service Committee (AFSC) youth conferences I had begun to attend in the Bay Area. If I went to Israel, I’d miss all that. But I could not regret what I did not yet know.
Chapter 3
A FANTASTICAL FAREWELL
By the fall of 1963, Naomi and I had finally saved enough money to reach New York and Haifa. We wouldn’t need much once we got to Israel. As a farewell, we planned to spend our last night with our mentor Esther, who now lived in Philadelphia. It seemed only fitting to thank her for her inspiration and support. The next morning we’d catch our last bus to the New York Port Authority at five o’clock. But Esther’s fantastical send-off almost cost us the trip.
She was thrilled to see us. “We must celebrate with a special meal at my favorite Moroccan restaurant!” she exclaimed, promptly calling a sitter.
At the entrance, a mustachioed maître d’ welcomed us warmly. He and Esther exchanged three kisses on each cheek in the Moroccan tradition.
Inside, I’d never seen such sumptuous décor. From high on the ceiling, huge chandeliers sparkled over a sea of silverware and ruby lamps on white tablecloths. Thick gold cords held back velveteen drapes at vaulted windows. Somewhere out of sight, a woman sang in a sultry minor key to the beat of a hand drum.
Soon, plates of hummus, pita bread, and olives appeared, while Esther ordered main dishes of succulent lamb, chicken, and steaming vegetables served over mountains of couscous, spiced with cumin and turmeric. Midway through the meal, Esther pricked up her ears at the sound of four businessmen at the table behind us chatting in Arabic.
“Pardon me, gentlemen,” she murmured, catching their attention with her kohl-rimmed eyes. “I couldn’t help wondering if you are from my hometown of Marrakech?”
“But of course!” they answered, delighted to meet a compatriot.
By the time we’d finished our dessert of flaky baklava and tiny cups of Turkish coffee, the men were insisting that we accompany them back to their villa on the outskirts of Philadelphia.
Cupping his hand to Esther’s ear, her husband, Richard, protested. “We don’t even know these guys, and it’s already late. What about the sitter and the girls’ bus at five?”
“But it’s an insult to refuse their hospitality,” argued Esther, invoking the sacred rules of Middle Eastern etiquette. “Especially since I made the first move.”
Taking Esther and Naomi with them, the men tore out of the parking lot, down dark alleys and onto the turnpike, with Richard and me in hot pursuit. After what seemed like forever, the silver Mercedes swerved suddenly onto a long tree-lined side road before finally slowing at a pair of wrought-iron gates.
Ushering us into their large private mansion, our hosts smiled graciously before disappearing to prepare some drinks. Glancing around in disbelief, I saw rich Persian rugs covering the floors and st
ern-faced Middle Eastern potentates staring down from the walls. Each gilded frame bore a name like King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia, King Hussein of Jordan, King Hassan II of Morocco, and members of the infamous Assad family of Syria. The Arabian Nights had nothing on this.
Our hosts soon returned bearing large red goblets.
“Just pretend,” breathed Richard. “You have no idea what’s in these drinks.” Luckily the opaque glass obscured the contents as we feigned small sips. Just then a grandfather clock bonged twice.
“We really must go,” said Esther. “The young ladies have a five o’clock bus to catch.”
“But where are they going? Why not stay overnight?” our hosts persisted.
Desperate to escape without mentioning Israel, the sworn enemy of its Arab neighbors, we sputtered our regrets and hurried out into the waning night.
After barely two hours of restless sleep, the alarm jolted me awake. I nudged Naomi and rose quietly. Unshaven and haggard, Richard drove us to the Philadelphia station.
“Take care!” he cautioned, hugging us goodbye at the cavernous entrance. Shivering in the predawn chill, I returned his wishes as warmly as I could.
“Give our love to Esther.”
Under the yellow glare of the street lamps, the city of brotherly love looked littered and forlorn. Naomi and I rode the last leg of our overland journey in numbed exhaustion.
Chapter 4
“GINGIT!”
Gingit, gingit!” shouted the sailors, going wild at the sight of our bright red hair and identical looks whenever Naomi or I poked our heads up on deck.
It didn’t take long to learn that gingit meant redhead, a derivation of the English nickname ginger, just as we’d been called in London.
