by Marra B. Gad
When families go through losses, people come. They pay their respects. They hover. And people came, both when my father died and again when my bubbie did. However, Nette was conspicuously absent, even though she and my bubbie had been close since their grammar school days. In retrospect, I think it was because Nette liked a party. And no matter how delicious the food at a shiva might be, it is not a party.
What she did do was try to help soothe the pain for my mother by taking her on trips. Typically, they went on cruises. It was one of the ways Nette showed her love and affection for my mother, and no matter what else I can say about her, Nette did love my mother as if she were her own child. Or, at least, close to it.
Nette also felt that we should come to San Francisco to spend time with her. And by “we,” she didn’t mean me. She meant my siblings.
Chapter Nine
NETTE SENT A PLANE TICKET FIRST FOR MY SISTER. While I don’t remember much about the details of her trip, I do remember that Alisa came home with a beautiful garnet birthstone ring, which Nette and Zeit had bought for her. She wears it to this day, and I know it was very special for her to shop for it with them.
Never afraid to ask for what I want, I began to do what I do best: ask questions. “Aunt Nette, when will it be my turn to come?” I said. “I’ve never been to California, and Alisa said I will love it.”
“We need a long break between visitors, Marra.”
“You’re so busy doing other things, Marra.”
“We will work it out later, Marra.”
A later that would never come.
Next, Nette sent for my mother and my brother. As my brother was significantly younger than my sister and me, it was more comfortable for Nette and Zeit—and, I suspect, my brother—to have my mother present, and Nette was always happy to spend time with my mother. Again, plane tickets were furnished for them, and they had a lovely time.
One of my favorite sayings is “If the door does not open for you, it’s not your door.” It really is like hitting your head against a wall: painful and ill-advised. And as a girl who has spent her life quite literally begging to be seen—to be given a chance, to be liked, loved, wanted—I have also spent a lifetime knocking on the wrong doors. It took a long time, but I came to understand that I must stop wanting the people who don’t want me.
Never did I knock harder than on Nette’s door. And perhaps the pinnacle of that was my choice to fly myself to San Francisco and force a visit with Nette and Zeit.
My mother had begun to ask Nette when I would be sent for, and the litany of vague responses continued. “Oh, Ellie, don’t make such a big deal out of it,” Nette would say. “Marra will come when it’s the right time.”
And as Nette was clever and did not behave in the overtly racist ways that Goldie had—or call me schvartze under her breath as other relatives had—the conversation with her became a bit more complicated than were other ones. In retrospect, I suspect we both knew what her issue was. We just did not want to talk about it.
During the summer after my bubbie’s death, I was planning to be in L.A., and so I scheduled a stop in San Francisco and called Nette. “I’m spending the summer in Los Angeles, working at a summer camp there,” I told her, “and thought I would fly up to San Francisco first to visit you.”
“Well …,” I heard hesitation in her voice. “We have a very busy schedule …”
“I won’t stay long, don’t worry,” I said. “And I’m buying my own ticket.” I completely debased myself without giving it a second thought, and I did not give her any space to say no.
“Well, I guess we can find thirty-six or so hours for a visit,” she replied, “but no longer.”
My hopes, as ever, were high that this would be the moment Nette would come to really embrace me. That perhaps some quiet time alone would be enough to show her that we had a lot in common. I wanted to hear absolutely everything she had to tell me about her travels. About her ballroom dancing. About her romances. About her jewelry. About her life.
But from the moment Nette and Zeit picked me up from the airport, it was clear that the visit was not going to be nearly as romantic as I had dreamed it would be—and that Nette had little interest in doing anything special with me while I was there.
I came armed with a list of things my sister had enjoyed doing and took the liberty of asking if we might stop for lunch in Sausalito, which Alisa had said was just gorgeous. Deep inside, I’d known even before I’d booked my ticket that this trip was probably not a good idea. But, in my typical type A fashion, I wanted to get ahead of things. In my mind, having more planned time and less downtime would be a good thing—less potential time for awkwardness.
“I have things I need to do for myself, Marra,” Nette said. “I don’t have the time or energy to run you all over the place.”
Zeit, who had always been kind to me, noted my disappointment, and so he tried to find a way to create balance. “Why don’t we spend some time walking through the shops after lunch?” he said. “Nette, you love these shops …”
We wandered the main street of the town, going in and out of jewelry stores. Surely, I thought, Nette will offer to buy me a piece of jewelry as she did for my sister. I was not subtle in talking about how much I loved jewelry, commenting on the pieces Nette was wearing that day.
“Is this where you bought Alisa’s ring?” I asked in one store. “It’s so beautiful. And I really love the one you’re wearing today, Aunt Nette.”
Flattery was getting me absolutely nowhere. And so, I swallowed what was left of my, at that point, nearly nonexistent pride and asked directly for what I wanted. “I would love to have a ring like Alisa’s,” I said. “It would mean so much to me coming from you and Uncle Zeit.” For me to have a gift from Nette would mean that, even in some small way, she at least cared for me a bit. Or so I foolishly believed.
Nette, who was focused on the jewelry she wanted for herself, did not say anything.
Then we went into a store that sold fire opals. I was mesmerized by them. “These are the most incredible stones I have ever seen! The colors dance!” Boldly, I continued to speak. “I want a ring with one of these stones in it.”
There was yet another moment of awkward silence as my words hung in the air and Nette stared at me coldly. “I suppose I could buy you a little something …,” Zeit began. But Nette stopped him immediately.
“If you’re going to buy anyone jewelry, it’s going to be me. Not her.”
They had, as they often did, a bit of an argument, and I stood alone, looking down into the cases and trying not to cry. It was absolutely humiliating on every possible front to stand there, listening to them argue about why Zeit wanted to buy me something—and why Nette would not allow it. It was more humiliating to realize I had done all of this to myself.
“Nette, surely we can give her something,” said Zeit. “It’s not fair …”
“I have plenty of pieces with opals in them at home,” she replied. “She can pick from one of the pieces I don’t wear any longer. And in the meantime, I would like to have this one, Zeit …”
In the end, Nette won, as she always seemed to.
For me, it was a Cinderella moment—but not the kind that little girls dream of. I was dreaming of an exotic, glamorous fairy god-aunt, and instead, I was face-to-face with a full-blown brand of selfishness and meanness I had not fully comprehended before.
My sister was given a plane ticket, time together spent in meaningful ways, and jewelry. I was to get a castoff. Begrudgingly. And only because Zeit had insisted that I get something.
The ride back to their house was the kind of quiet that has no description. Zeit tried to break up the tension by giving me a bit of a tour as we drove, but Nette told him that she had a headache and that he should just shut up and get us home.
The house sat high atop a mountain, off a narrow, winding road, at what seemed to me to be the highest point in their town. And there was no fencing to protect me from falling off the mou
ntaintop—what a metaphor for the trip that would be. While it was clear to me that the property, with the mountain views and beautiful green lot, was a multimillion-dollar one, the house itself was shockingly quirky. It seemed to be oddly divided, half of it reflecting Nette and her tastes and half reflecting Zeit and his. It was filled with art from all over the world, arranged with what did not appear to be any thought whatsoever. Computers—at least ten of them, in varying states of repair and functionality—were everywhere, and dance trophies were on every surface that could hold them. Given how elegant my aunt and uncle were in every other respect, their haphazard house brought me great enjoyment. It was as if they weren’t nearly as perfect as they looked on the outside.
Once we were there, I was shown to their guest bedroom, which was in the basement, behind the in-home dance studio. Ballroom dance music from a time gone by was playing softly at all times, even when they weren’t home. I found it comforting. Finally alone and free to release, I collapsed onto the bed in tears, letting it fully wash over me that this trip had been a horrible mistake. I finally saw things as they actually were. And they were more than ugly. It wasn’t just Nette’s clear rejection of me that horrified me; it was that I had practically begged for it. I had paid for it. I had forced open a door that was not open to me, and what I found on the other side was a truth I needed to know.
I called my mother to let her know I had arrived safely.
“It’s OK so far,” I told her. “I don’t think Nette and Zeit are getting along right now, so I’m keeping to myself a bit …”
I didn’t have the words or the energy to share the real story, which I knew would have devastated my mother. Instead, we agreed I should focus on the fact that I would be off to Los Angeles soon. “It’s really only one day, sweetheart,” she said. “It will go quickly. I know how awful it is when they fight. Call me back if you need me.”
The next day at breakfast, Nette presented me with a small yellow-gold ring that had an opal in the center. I did not want it. But I had no choice but to thank her for it and tell her how much I loved it and how generous it was that she was giving it to me. “It’s beautiful, Aunt Nette,” I said. “Thank you so much for being so generous as to give me one of your rings.” The words stuck in my throat. Gracious and painful all at once.
As Nette’s fingers were child-sized, the ring did not fit even my pinkie.
“This doesn’t fit me,” I said. “So I will have to have it sized.”
“Of course it doesn’t.” Her words were clipped. “You’re enormous compared to me. We will take it to my jeweler today, and he will take care of it. We don’t have anything else to do anyway.”
As I contemplated how deftly she had woven in an insult about my appearance and size, I had no choice but to silently remind myself I had asked for all of this. But the final blow came when the jeweler asked if she wanted the charge to be put on her account.
“No,” she said. “My niece will pay for it herself.”
And so I did.
Later that day, we went back to pick up the ring, and I put it on so Nette could admire it on my hand, which I am quite sure was shaking with the anger I felt. “It’s perfect now,” I said. “Thank you again.”
We had planned to have dinner together that evening, but I lied and said I wasn’t feeling well. “I’d like to just try to sleep this headache away,” I said. “I hope that is OK …”
I escaped to the guest room to count down the hours until I was to be taken to the airport in the morning, quite certain that neither one of us lamented not having dinner together.
It was my first trip to San Francisco, and at that point, I assumed it would be my last. I never wore the ring again. Years later, I told my mother everything, and I gave the ring to a friend who, like me, loved fire opals. I thought perhaps giving it to someone out of love might give the ring and the beautiful stone a new life.
I am grateful to know now, without a shadow of a doubt, that forcing things is not the way. And I still love fire opals, even if I have never quite had the heart to own one.
Chapter Ten
SUMMER CAMP IS A HUGE PART OF JEWISH LIFE. Usually it is sleepaway camp, and it is not unusual for multiple generations to attend the same camp with a great sense of pride. My family’s camp is in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin, where my sister and her husband met. Her children were also campers there, and I suspect that my brother, who also went, will send his daughter there someday. After visiting Nette and Zeit, I was on my way to work as the program director at a Jewish overnight camp in Malibu, once again bucking tradition by exploring a camp far from home where I had not ever been a camper.
Once I left San Francisco, I settled into camp life in Malibu and found it was the kind of place that, for me, promoted clarity. Something happens in the mornings there—the sun rises, the fog burns away, and on a clear day, from the right vantage point, you can see forever, including dolphins frolicking in the ocean. In Malibu, I was able to see Nette and Zeit clearly.
Nette was constantly in attack mode, Zeit constantly in defense mode. But Zeit could not defend me against Nette’s viciousness. He would start to defend, to deflect, to try to change the direction of the conversation, but he always folded and gave Nette whatever it was she required in the moment, whether it was material or emotional comfort. I found it horrifying and fascinating that my Chinese uncle, who so well knew what it was to be hated for his ethnicity, would allow me to be treated in the same way—in his own house.
I was able to see.
This new clarity should have prepared me for what lay ahead at Alisa and Keith’s wedding, which was only a year later. But it didn’t. That’s the thing. No matter what had come before, I don’t think there was any way for me to be truly prepared to hear “Nothing is worse than black.”
When a moment like that happens, it is impossible to go back to the way things were. And we did not. It had become something of an odd routine to silently bid farewell to family members, but none of them had ever behaved so badly in public. Even at my father’s funeral, the person who chose to attack me during the service was not someone with whom we had any sort of meaningful relationship. He was not in my life before the funeral, and he was not in it afterward either.
My mother and I have often talked about how different Nette was from the others we’ve cut out of our lives. For my mother, Nette and her racist betrayal were far more difficult to metabolize than some of the others. It’s a bit easier to banish a family member you never really enjoyed in the first place. But my mother loved Nette. Deeply. And for all of the things Nette was, she loved my mother and had always been good to her. My mother’s witnessing her outburst inflicted a pain that, to this day, breaks my heart when I think about it. For me, her outburst caused a combination of utter degradation, pain, and embarrassment. But it was also a moment of relief. The truth was, at last, out there.
Still, my mother and I shared a strange kind of heartbreak over Nette’s undoing. We both wanted her to be something—someone—she was not able to be.
For years, Nette’s behavior had been so elegantly executed as to never be public. She was careful not to be as overtly aggressive as my other relatives had been. It was easy—for both my mother and me—to find other reasons why she treated me differently from my siblings. We probably wanted to. And whenever Nette was confronted, she refused to say anything other than that we were making something out of nothing.
Nette was a master at manipulating people. And she certainly did quite a job when it came to me. Until that day.
For Nette, however, there was also pain. My mother was the closest thing to a daughter that Nette would ever have, and she did not want my mother to see her ugliness, which was usually so carefully masked. When she dropped that mask at Alisa’s wedding and my mother saw her naked and unapologetic hatred, Nette’s life changed too. In that moment, Nette lost my mother’s respect, and that hurt both of them.
We could not go back to the uncomfortable but previously accep
ted way things had been. And so we didn’t. Nette and Zeit did not come back to Chicago after Alisa’s wedding.
And life went on.
PART TWO
Something to remember when hope gets hard: Anything is possible and love is the only way forward.
—CLEO WADE
Chapter Eleven
WHEN I SAY THAT LIFE WENT ON, I MEAN THAT I transitioned from the world of musical theater to graduate school to pursue a master’s degree in Jewish communal service and then to a career in fundraising. First at the nonprofit level and then in finance. If Nette chose to build her journey through her many marriages, I built mine through what was an oddly organic series of career moves that eventually brought me to film and television production in Los Angeles, where I have happily stayed.
In the summer of 2010, I was ensconced in a life in finance, working with early-stage companies of all sorts. Biotech. Hospitality. Entertainment. Real estate. It was a strange place to land for a girl who could not balance her own checkbook without help. I had made the choice to live part-time in New York and part-time in Chicago, where I would stay with my mother at her house. My work allowed me to travel all over the world, and I did so. First-class flights. Gorgeous hotels. And I travelled for both business and pleasure. From Abu Dhabi to London to Montana to Las Vegas, I had found a way to live and work on my own terms. And I loved it.
But then, an unexpected phone call came.
Fifteen years had passed since my sister’s wedding when my mother received a phone call saying that Nette had listed her as her next of kin and that she and Zeit were in rather serious trouble.
In my lifetime, I have eagerly awaited many phone calls. The calls a girl waits for from her current crush. The calls one waits for to find out the plans for the evening. As an actress, I often breathlessly waited by the phone to find out if I had been cast in this show or that one. And I waited by the phone to find out the same when I applied to graduate school. And for jobs.
