I came to with a start. And there and then, in front of our table companions, I embraced and kissed my wife.
As the lone fiddler let his bow fly, Esther whispered: ‘Come on, let’s dance!’
Yes (said the voice as we rose from the table). A four-some.
A new life was growing inside my wife. My Esther, a girl who had emerged from the burning ghetto, from Majdanek, Belsen and Dachau, and who for years couldn’t menstruate, was about to become a mother. ‘And there are still some fools,’ she would remark, ‘who say there is no such thing as a miracle!’
I recall walking along St Kilda beach early one Sunday morning. The sea, after a rebellious night, lay worn-out and obedient to its fate. One of Esther’s hands was locked into mine, the other played gently over her blossoming belly, caressing or protecting the little girl we hoped for. Esther was bursting with joyous plans, but knowing her husband’s superstitious nature she was cautious with her words.
Our daughter was born just before 11 p.m. on 2 December 1953. We named her Marcia, after my mother. I came home long past midnight. The flat was dark but for the scant light from a streetlamp through the slightly slanted blinds. I undressed and threw myself on the bed.
Then I heard the door open. It was mother — I recognized her by the clatter of her wooden clogs. She was wearing a grey coat trimmed with artificial fur, the only inheritance from her late father. She sat down on the edge of the bed and, folding her hands, spoke.
Sunrise West Page 16
