Week 6, autobiographical 'slice' & imagination

Once a teacher…

Both my parents were teachers so it is not a big surprise that I became one too. What is surprising is that for the twenty five years I did it, there was not a day I did not wish to leave and do something different. And still in the same almost predictable way we fall into our different rolls in life I kept going. Holding on to something I was definitely good at but convinced was never meant to be my true calling.

Year after year I diligently performed what was asked of me. I invested my best in my students and the other responsibilities bestowed on me, as the years went by and I was perceived as someone who is dedicated, serious and highly qualified. The obvious irony of the situation seemed clear only to me. In those very long twenty five years I tried my hands in almost every facet of the educational  system following, what I thought was a great advice, given to me by a career counselor  I consulted  five years into my teaching career.

When I explained my ambivalence towards teaching, my love hate relationship with the school system this counselor suggested that I will search the endless possibilities available in the educational field and find my niche. I did exactly that. Every two or three years I made a mini career change. Teaching different subject matter, teaching wide variety of ages, teaching regular students and special needs ones and when that was not enough I proceeded to counseling and from there to supervising. Almost breathless I arrived to the twenty fifth year mark and with my trophy, my early retirement, I immediately secured another teaching position this time in a small college in a nearby town.

It took something stronger, more potent, to shake the “school teacher” out of me.

The final push came quite surprisingly from my twelve years old daughter, our youngest, when my husband and I realized she was becoming increasingly unhappy and withdrawn. A short probe reviled that she, an A student and actively involved in school functions, perceived it as a threatening place managed by fickle adults. Those adults scared her due to their inability to control the chaos and aggression of their students. When she refused to go back to her school we backed her, knowing it was against the law but preferring her peace of mind and happiness. While she was sitting home awaiting a solution we were forced to search different alternatives to public education. It was the first time I came across the concept of homeschooling and found other families, who were homeschooling their kids in spite of the fact that homeschooling in Israel was not legal. 

Legal or not it took over a month of her sitting home for the town educational board to go through the needed motions. Truancy investigation, psychological evaluation, some plain and not very subtle manipulations and when all failed and we managed to employ public opinion they caved in. She was allowed to go to another, new, experimental school and with that the homeschooling option was temporarily dropped.

It is a known fact that once you can see beyond a visual illusion you will never be able to return to your previous way of looking at things.  Our experience of standing up to the “accepted “way of doing things and putting our interests and beliefs onward ,altered our whole outlook for good. With that many other supposedly established “truths” lost their power too. What started as a mutiny against one system quickly affected our entire vision.

It took few more months for us to fully grasp the extent of the change in us and be able to act on it. To this day I believe that when we pulled our daughter from her school the process of separating from our home town was completed. Soon afterward we left and began our journey that landed us six years later in Ellsworth. Home schooling while we were moving from one place to another became the obvious choice and most of this time I was the teacher.

So here I was completing a full circle and yet light years away from where I started. I became a one student teacher to my daughter but unlike my prior experience this one was rewarding and very satisfying. I will never stop marveling at our first year of home schooling. We clearly had no idea what we were supposed to be doing and so we did pretty much what we felt like. Surprisingly enough we were busy all the time. We rediscovered freedom. Not the kind where you think you are free just because you have no obligations , the one where you free to explore your world and invest as much time as you feel  in anything  that truly interests you. You can do it for an hour, two hours a day maybe even a week. The bell will not ring every 50 minutes; a new teacher will not appear commanding you to put down what you are doing because it is not the right time. As if there is a right or wrong time for math, biology or whatever. We explored our new environment, we planted a garden, we raised a duck, we looked for gold in our back yard, we performed scientific experiments while cooking, rode horses, ice skated, read books, did a lot of drawing and  even some writing. We had no set schedule and no books, or tests and yet we worked at learning just as hard. In the years to come there were some changes and we incorporated a more structured way of studying, still, in essence things did not change much.

 I was my daughter teacher till she went to college and then and only then I truly retired.

Week 5: Audience & Adult Memoir/2

Wishes.

“I wish things could be easier” I said one day to my friend Naomi. We were sitting next to a small round table in the university coffee shop, sipping coffee and digging into huge slices of apple pie.

“Who does not” she replied shrugging her shoulders, concentrating on especially big piece on her plate.

I like Naomi’s matter of fact attitude towards things. She always seems unnerved by the challenges life throws at her. Always calm and collected, she is using reason as her first line of defense, not emotions like I tend to do.

“Don’t you ever get upset or frustrated” I tried again. “Look around you, there is so much injustice and chaos, so many bad things and sad things and a sea of stupidity”.

Naomi just smiled at me with a mouth full of pie and waved with her hand towards the big glass windows.

“What?” I turned at that direction but all I could see were the trees outside and far away the skyline of Jerusalem. “What are you looking at?” I turned back at her. “I don’t see anything”.

The small cafeteria is on the first floor of the library building in the Mt, Scopus campus in Jerusalem has been one of my favorite places for a long time. Every time I go to Jerusalem I try to find some reason to visit the book store on the second floor and treat myself to a leisurely cup of coffee preferably with a good friend. Naomi has been my friend since fifth grade. Looking at her sitting across from me reminded me of so many things. School, girl scouts, my years in the army, old friends and long lost friendships. It is almost a miracle, I thought, that we remained friends after so many years.

 I looked at her and tried again. “Remember the days we used to walk home together after school and talk about life?” she nodded her head and her eyes looked straight through me. “Life, the future and making decisions” she chuckled. “We were so young and so sure we can make a difference, little did we know” she smiled at me going back in her mind to that time in the past.

“Remember what we used to wish for?” I kept probing.

“That we can have a cup of coffee on Mt. Scopus looking through the windows at the outline of Jerusalem?” she said jokingly but her eyes were serious.

I looked at the window again. The sun was low on the horizon and its rays caught the dome of the rock's golden dome and made it look like pure gold. Behind it I could make out parts of the wall surrounding the city and further away already getting hazy in the dusk, the tall modern buildings of the new city.

“Remember how we used to stand on the balcony of the old Notre Dame Monastery looking at the walls surrounding the old town wondering if we will ever get to see the inside and the Wailing Wall?”

“I remember the first time I made it to Mt. Scopus and saw the town from the other side that was different” Naomi laughed but there was a hint of sadness in her voice. 

“So, just like the stories, we got what we wished for…but” I was not sure where I was going with this thought.

“We were always told that seeing things from a different angel is good for a more balanced perspective” Naomi continued as if she did not hear me and was talking to herself. “It did not work in this case; it did not create better understanding”.

I thought of the many years of living in a divided town. A town with a wall running in its midst separating us from almost all the sacred places. I thought about the other years when the wall was not there anymore. Walls create a physical divide but people do the rest.

I touched my cup, it was cold. The remains of the pie on my plate looked colorless and bland. Somehow the day had lost its color as if a big cloud covered the sun and made everything look bleak.

“Lets’ go” I said to Naomi who was still gazing at the windows and seemed deep in thought.

“Do you ever think” she said as if continuing my sentence “how things could have turned out if this wish would not have been granted?”

Week 5: Audience & Adult Memoir

The summer we decided to leave.

    The summer we decided to leave was not different than the many summers before. Hot blazing days survived only by the help of air conditions and somewhat cooler nights, spent mostly outside on the open deck with huge glasses of cold coffee. Early in the morning I would stand and watch the desert from the big windows of our dining room, facing east. I loved the view, the sun slowly climbing up over the Edom Mountain range, on the Jordanian side of the border.

It was not the first time my husband and I considered leaving and going on a long journey unconfined by time. The idea was brewing for some time, surfacing for a minute and then returning to that place where all the untimely ideas are kept. But that summer, it refused to fade away, and kept coming up, until it became an inseparable part of every conversation we had. We could no longer disregard the feelings of anger and frustration, but most of all the heaviness that shadowed us everywhere we went. This heaviness colored everything we did, every meeting, every conversation, with a gray tint. At times it was impossible to see through it the true rich colors of the desert we used to love so much.

The summer we decided to leave when I was standing there, looking outside the windows, I would summon up all the good times. The moments of excitement that accompanied our first years in the small town at the edge of the desert. How I felt every time I looked at the distant, hazy mountains and caught a glimpse of the sea, so blue. Every time we drove down the sharp curvatures leading to the Dead Sea almost overcome with the feelings of owe. I recalled those moments of fresh beginnings, new friends, moving into our first home. Precious moments, everyday moments, moments that will never return. Deep in my heart I knew that if I could go back in time I wouldn’t give up even one of them. But that it was time to go.

When we were getting ready to leave I looked around for days, measuring objects and views for the hundredth time and wondering. What was in that old faded couch I kept a year after year, pushing from one corner to another but still couldn’t throw away. This box full of old magazines under the table, was I really planning on reading them all? Greeting cards from people I didn’t even remember. A closet full of baby clothes, who was I keeping them for? In those last moments between the here and there my mind was playing tricks on me. Nothing looked the same. Things I used to treasure suddenly looked colorless and dull. Even my garden, in which I invested never ending hours keeping it alive in the harsh climate, looked somehow different.

When we made our mind and decided to leave we knew we were going to be criticized and misunderstood. Friends we had known for more than twenty years, and became part of the heavy feeling, will see this move as betrayal. We could foresee the misunderstanding and hurt in their eyes and the incomprehension in their questions;

“So what exactly are you going to do?”

“And for how long?”

“Isn’t it an irresponsible move?”

“What is so bad here?”

We realized we couldn’t offer a real explanation, none that could satisfactory explain our choice of action. Only that like a swimmer who has a pressing need to float to the surface of the water, we were longing for a breath of fresh air.

And so ten years ago by the end of a summer, not different than the twenty five summers that preceded it, we each packed two suitcases, gave the cats a quick pat, locked the front door and walked away.

I was often asked in the years to come how difficult it was, leaving everything behind. The only candid answer I have is that by far the most challenging part was not the physical act of leaving; it was that summer when we made the decision. It was the moments, or hours or maybe days of dealing with uncertainties and doubts. It was in the act of letting go of the known and familiar in favor of the unknown.

Week 4: voice; childhood memoir /3

Swimming

I grew up in Jerusalem and so people naturally assume two things about me; first that I don’t know how to swim and second that I cannot ride bicycles. This is a common notion among Israelis about Jerusalem natives unchallenged by time like so many others about people who are from Tel-Aviv or even Haifa.  

I can understand the first assumption; there is no sea in Jerusalem and except for the hint of blue, of the Dead Sea, that can be seen on clear days there are no other accessible bodies of water. When I grew up the only public swimming pool was at the YMCA, a graceful mandatory era building in the center of town.  But the bicycle myth evades me till this day.

Be it what it may I did not learn to swim till my parents decided when I was twelve years old that I am old enough to take the bus ride to the YMCA by myself. For my part I think it was my fear of water more than the lack of swimming opportunities that made me so slow in mastering this skill. Every summer since my brother was born we spent few weeks by the sea but most of this time I sat on the sand far away from the water edge preferably with my back to the water.

Those summer vacations grew out of my brothers’ frequent health issues and our family doctors’ recommendation to spend as much time next to salt water as possible. And so every year just before summer vacation my father would take a day off and travel to find us an apartment for the summer. We, my brother and me, would wait impatiently for his return at the end of the day excited to find out everything about our summer destination.

But this is not about our summer vacations by the sea which I don’t remember much about except that they gave me plenty of opportunities to learn how to swim; it is about me taking the bus by myself to the YMCA and finally learning how to swim. I don’t remember much about the bus ride either so I cannot convey a long exciting story about this courageous endeavor aside from the fact that it was a lengthy ride from my neighborhood on the other side of town. I don’t remember much about the swimming lessons though I  am pretty sure I was instructed  after shown the basic movements to let myself lay on the water and  trust their ability to carry me safely.  This was so hard to believe that for the longest time I resisted the whole implausible concept.

 What I do vividly remember is that one single moment when I finally did let go. A glorious moment when gravity let go of me and a bigger power took over. It was a mind altering moment and a huge victory.

So if I could really remember my long bus rides crossing the town on my own I’d probably describe them in details. How the bus went by our first home at the town entrance how it slowed down next to the open market and let on women with huge baskets full of vegetables and fruits. How it crossed Jaffa Street with all the stores and cafes and then passed by the old post office and the wall dividing the town into two rival parts, finally stopping next to the King David Hotel and the YMCA.  All of this is just the back drop to the important part of the story in which I finally let go of the swimming pool wall and my fear of water.

Week 4: voice; childhood memoir /2

Sabbath

Friday afternoon, the piercing sound of the horn announcing the coming of the Sabbath was just heard and a complete silence follows.  No cars or buses or any other sounds that normally fill the rest of the week days. There is no other place in the world; I was always sure, where Friday afternoons feels like that. Where even the air changes and takes on a different quality, it becomes hushed and almost transparent.

******

I am holding my breath while running up the stairs in the dark, not stopping until I reach the third floor and touch the door handle of our apartment.  It’s Friday evening and in our religious neighborhood, once the Sabbath starts you are not allowed to turn the lights on or off so I clutch the stone railing for guidance and take off. When I enter the apartment I am breathing heavily but feel as if I just won a race.

******

Every Sabbath in the afternoon my parents and I are walking across the open fields to visit my grandmother on the other side of town. Her one story house in the middle of the most religious neighborhood in Jerusalem is always dark. The heavy furniture and gold framed black and white pictures on the walls add to the feeling of stuffiness. A peck on my cheek and a fist full of candy; she pulls from her pocket is our only way of communication. She does not speak Hebrew and I don’t understand her language. I stand on her narrow balcony for what seems like hours and watch the people walking down the street wearing their heavy black clothes. The men with their oddly shaped fur hats followed by women dressed in dark long dresses always holding at least one crying baby in their arms. The adults, my parents, grandmother and her second husband are all drinking tea inside talking in that language I do not understand.

******

In the evening I keep searching for the three stars that mark the end of the Sabbath and then my father performs the end of Sabbath ritual. “Blessed are You, LORD, who distinguishes between the sacred and the secular."He tips the braided candle and then dips it in the wine. The fire hisses as it is touches the red liquid. I love the sound and the smell. “He who differentiate between the sacred and the secular”, it sounds like a secret code after which we are allowed to turn the lights on. We leave the holy and walk into another week of secular. It is one of these moments, I think, when the world stops for a minute, hesitates and then rolls on.

******

Flashes of memory, unsullied and sharp as if the passing years have not touched them, unaffected by time they are vivid reminders of other times and different places. And still every now and then I catch myself on Friday afternoons taking a deep breath of air, searching for that unique and subtle quality. As a force of habit I still raise my head to look at the three stars that mark the end of the Sabbath and when I do that I can hear these words of the Sabbath end prayer in my head. I whisper them to myself and enjoy how they taste on my tongue.

Week 4: voice; childhood memoir

Best friends

In the year of my tenth birthday a new girl joined our class and immediately changed the fragile balance of power. Growing up in a tiny neighborhood we were a small group of kids, together since first grade. We knew each other well and established a fine tuned equilibrium. Our neighborhood on the outskirts of Jerusalem managed to maintain a satellite sort of feeling. Even though the town kept creeping towards us, street by street, we were still separated from the center of town by open fields and only one main road and one bus arriving few times a day.

Every morning I walked to school, a green prefab building at the end of a dirt road. My walking path was always the same. It went by the house where my dentist clinic was, then the shortcut to my kindergarten, down the hill, where my brother later went. It then curved by the house of my classmate Leah who everyone called Litzi and the last house before the road turned into dirt belonged to Negba. Her father worked for the Jerusalem zoo and his biggest love were scorpions. Many years later I came across a book he wrote with big shiny pictures of these deadly creatures. Passing by her house I always peeked over the fence to see if there were any exciting additions to their small collection of animals.

But now there was an inescapable change, a new girl.

From the moment she walked into the classroom I knew there was something different about her. The teacher introduced her as” Chava, who just moved from the U.S” and gave us the usual lecture about being nice and helping someone new and so on.  I was too busy studying her and trying to push down the growing sense of alarm. She was pretty; there was no doubt about it. Shoulder length straight and shiny black hair and pale skin, she looked nothing like us, burned to a dark brown tan cultivated over the long summer. But there was something else about her I couldn’t put my fingers on. Everything from her cloths to the way she carried herself was different and proclaimed a clear message. “Let’s face it, I am not one of you, but for the time being I am stuck here.”  Almost like a princess from a remote country forced to spend time with the natives. From the way everyone else gazed at her I knew they all sensed it but weren’t really sure how to act.

“Ariela…” I heard the teacher calling me with a tinge of impatience in her voice. Becoming conscious that everyone was looking at me I could feel my face turning red. “Can Chava walk home with you today, she lives very close?” embarrassed I just nodded my head in silent agreement.

We barley spoke on the way back and only when she turned and walked into the small yard of her house I realized the new girls’ house was sitting right at the point where the two parts of the neighborhood met. The older part of one story Jerusalem stone houses and our seven long ugly apartment buildings, I could almost see her house from our apartment across the road.

 In the coming morning and every morning hence I wanted to stop at her house and ask her to join me on my morning walk to school. Barely awake, I would tell myself to "just do it" but couldn’t. For a whole week as I passed by her house, pretending nothing changed. I would steal a quick look at the small Iron Gate leading to the yard trying to guess what the house was like. But all I could see was the entrance door and front porch.

 By the middle of the next week the teacher started the day telling us the new girl was sick and her parents upset that no one came to see how she is. Even though she directed her words to the whole class I could sense that most of the blame was aimed at me. And so on the way back from school I stopped, open the gate and walked in.

The distance from the gate to the front porch was shorter than I thought.  As I walked slowly up the stairs leading to the heavy wooden door I felt as if someone was watching me. I looked around but the small yard shaded by big old pine trees was empty. Hesitantly I knocked on the door and it opened immediately making a soft squeak.  There was no one there. I stood for few seconds adjusting my eyes to the light and feeling very confused. When I heard her laugh just beside me I stepped back and almost fell on the front doorstep. She was standing right next to me clearly pleased with herself.

“I thought you were sick” I said sourly, trying to recover my dignity.

 “I was, but I am better now” she said looking serious and sincere.  “Thanks for coming.”

 I could trace a hint of foreign accent in her voice and a vague sense of being toyed with.

“Oh, it’s OK, I brought you some homework” I handed her a bunch of papers sent by the teacher. She sent her hand, held on to the loose tied pack as if it was a dead rat and let it fall to the floor.

The white pages spread all over the floor. She shrugged her shoulders walked backwards into the house and waved at me.

“I am not allowed to be out of bed, but I’ll be fine by the end of the week. Come back on Saturday we will have fun”

I turned around and walked down the stairs. As I walked towards the gate I could hear the door closing behind me and her laughter fading away.

This scene of our first meeting troubles me every once in awhile. I am pretty sure there was more to it then I can recall; there must have been. Somewhere in there was the clue to how in a very short time the new girl became the ultimate queen of our small circle of girls and how we both became best friends. But all I can remember is the constant sense of excitement and adventure I felt every time we were together. How upset I was when she left with her parents, back to the U.S, when we were in the 6^th grade. She left me her address and put a sticker with purple flowers next to it .I never heard from her again.

Week 3: tone; travel essay /rewrite

What’s in a name? (was Virtual)

Her full name was Karolina Levia Bee and she lived in Stupava a small Slovakian town not far from the capitol Bratislava, on 90 Hlinkova Street. She was born on April 19^th 1887, or at least that what the records show on 1942 when she and her sister Ester were taken by the Germans to Poland never to be seen again. She was my mothers’ aunt and I believe I was named after her.

I did not know all that two winters ago when I started to search for my family roots. At the time I was not aware that I was embarking on a trip, but looking back I am amazed at how much ground I managed to cover.  This was definitely a journey and even though I never left the comforts of my home it had all the components of a good journey in it. There was the realization that something was missing, the pressing need to find answers, the unknown terrain and the slow and at times painful progress.  The frustration was there in the moments I felt lost and stuck and the deep satisfaction when another piece of the puzzle matched the rest perfectly. The journey like so many others started with a seemingly clear destination only once started gained a momentum of its own and the journey in itself, not the port on the other side, became the main thing. Every answer gained opened the road to another and every piece that fell into place widened the overall view and pointed to other possible trails not yet travelled.

But let me take one step back and offer some explanation for this trip.

 It was about two years ago when I suddenly realized that I have no idea where my name came from. Initially I was somewhat amused but mostly embarrassed.  It was sudden as until that moment I had a nicely rehearsed story about this name, Ariela Levia. I liked the story how I was named after my maternal grandmother and how both my first and middle name have the same meaning.

And then out of the blue a stubborn thought emerged. “Not possible” was the first stage of the process. “Your version of being named after your maternal grandmother makes no sense at all.” Jews do not name new born babies after live relatives I always knew that.  I might have adopted the story my mother told of her grandmother who died when she was three, still living in Vienna before “The war”. Who knows, memory is a tricky thing. Yet I am pretty sure my grandmother was alive when I was born, and her name was Ethel Stern. I actually came across her birth certificate signed and stamped 114 years ago.

I know this is not earth shattering. A name is a name and so what if this story and many others I used to rely on became instantly dubious and imprecise. At first I was going to let this whole thing fade away, I even laughed it off and threatened to take a new name, something easier to pronounce and shorter.

Instead I set off on a trip to see if I can find something more. Both my parents were no longer alive so I had to make do with whatever little information I had.  A handful of old documents, few black and white pictures and one video of my mother retelling her life during the war were the start. I have two old aunts in Israel but unfortunately they are from my father side and last my cousin Miki who turned out to be even less knowledgeable then me.

The unexpected happened, when I was searching the internet as a last resort.  When I clicked the miserly information I had into different genealogical sites and felt as if I was calling for directions in a total darkness. But the information start coming in bits and pieces. It came from all corners of the globe from people I never met and probably never will. These strangers took a moment and researched old files, registries and data lists and found the information for me.

Karolina Levia Bee or Carola, I like this name. I think of her now as a real person. I wonder what she was like, what did she look like. Why she moved to the big town, why she never married? I wish I had a picture so I will have a visual image of her. Maybe a name is not just a name after all, something to treat lightly and change on a whim. A name sometimes is the only memory left of a persons’ whole life.

Week 3: tone; travel essay /2

For better or worse.

The empty parking lot should have been a clue. No security in the doors even more so. But we were so engrossed in our luggage and tired after a long day of good buys we were not aware of anything until    we walked into the terminal, few minutes before midnight and it was completely deserted. The lights were dimmed and it was dead quiet. An empty terminal that normally is exploding with people; it was so eerie that the sinking feeling in my chest became overpowering. I looked at Chuck who was, like me, moving his eyes from side to side taking in the deserted departure hall. Without people dragging suitcases behind them and the usual frenzy it looked bigger than usual. I think we were both waiting for the lights to come up suddenly and flood the big empty surface revealing the people like a big surprise party. After all we were getting married and on our way to our wedding so it was almost a reasonable expectation.

But nothing happened, just a short elderly lady with a big broom appeared from the other side of the hall dragging her feet and humming an unknown melody under her breath. She almost bumped into us, gave us a tired look, as if by now she has seen everything and nothing will surprise her. As if two passengers on a Friday night in a closed airport was an everyday view. She shrugged her shoulders and turned in the other direction.

“Hey, where is everybody?” I said just to break the silence and my voice sounded strange and hollow in my ears. Chuck pulled out the tickets from the blue pouch holding our passports and other vital papers. He leafed through them looking hopeful, maybe the answer will jump from one of them. I did not have to look; I knew what was written there, we checked the tickets many times as we always do but now I suddenly got it.  We were one day too late.

I could see that Chuck had the same premonition from the look on his face. I knew many years from now this is going to be funny. Many years from now we will tell this story on how we missed the flight to our own wedding and everyone will laugh.  I will describe in great detail how we walked into the airport on Friday night only to find no one. I will giggle telling how we had to lay low all through Saturday and wait till Sunday for the travel agency to open so we can purchase another set of tickets. 

Standing there in the airport looking into the emptiness I wished I could leap into the future and avoid facing what I knew was coming next.

“Flying on Friday…? Isn’t the airport closed Friday night?” That will be my mother on the phone from the other side of the ocean in that remote South American town on the banks of the Parana. She and my father were living there for the past year teaching Hebrew and running the local Jewish school.

“So when are you going to make it here finally?” that will be Chucks’ mother from her living room in Connecticut. “You know how much more work there still is? We could use some help…” she will leave the sentence hanging in the air. We never asked his parents to plan a big wedding we kept insisting on a small gathering but standing in the airport we were in no position to argue.

“Back so fast? We didn’t even have time to miss you” that will be my cousin husbands’ who just minutes ago drove us to the airport. His wry humor will do very little to cheer us up.

“So, let me understand what you’re saying” that will be the travel agent on Sunday morning. “You think it is my fault that you were twenty four hours late for the flight and I should reimburse you? Are you out of your mind?”

We were.

At that moment in the empty terminal, the two of us were desperately hoping for a miracle that will make this go away or at least help us disappear for the coming twenty four hours. In the car on the way back from the airport to my cousins’ house ,sitting low so no one will see me, I remember thinking, so that’s what it means, for better or worse and it starts right now.  

Week 3: tone; travel essay

Virtual.

So the question is, can you go on a journey without actually travelling and if you don’t leave the boundaries of your house will that be still considered a travel?

Judging from my experience in the past two years I’d say definitely yes!

About this time two winters ago, I started a search for my family roots, I was not aware at the time  that I was embarking on a journey, but looking back I am amazed at how much ground I managed to cover.  This was definitely a journey. It had all the components of a good journey in it. There was the realization that something is missing, the pressing need to find answers, the unknown terrain and the slow and at times painful progress.  The frustration was there in the moments I felt lost and stuck and the deep satisfaction when another piece of the puzzle matched the rest perfectly. The journey like so many others started with a seemingly clear destination only once started gained a momentum of its own and the journey in itself, not the port on the other side, became the main thing. Every answer gained opened the road to another and every piece that fell into place widened the overall view and pointed to other possible trails not yet travelled.

Let me take one step back and offer some explanation for this trip.

 It was about two years ago when I suddenly realized that I have no idea where my name came from. Initially I was somewhat amused but mostly embarrassed.  It was sudden as until that moment I had a nicely rehearsed story about this name, Ariela Levia. I liked the story how I was named after my maternal grandmother and how both my first and middle name have the same meaning.

And then out of the blue a stubborn thought emerge. “Not possible” was the first stage of the process. “Your version of being named after your maternal grandmother makes no sense at all.” Jews do not name new born babies after live relatives.  I might have adopted the story my mother told of her grandmother who died when she was three, still living in Vienna before “The war”. Who knows, memory is a tricky thing. Yet I am pretty sure my grandmother was alive when I was born, and her name was Ethel Stern. I actually came across her birth certificate signed and stamped 114 years ago.

I know this is not earth shattering. A name is a name and so what if this story and many others I used to rely on became instantly dubious and imprecise. At first I was going to let this whole thing fade away, I even laughed it off and threatened to take a new name, something easier to pronounce and shorter.

I toyed with the idea for few days but the persistent thoughts did not leave and so I set off on a trip to see if I can find something more. Since both my parents were no longer alive I had to make do with whatever little information I had.  A handful of old documents, few black and white pictures and one video of my mother retelling her life during the war were the start. I have two old aunts in Israel but unfortunately they are from my father side and last my cousin Miki who turned out to be even less knowledgeable then me.

The unexpected happened, when I was searching the internet as a last resort.  When I clicked the miserly information I had into different genealogical sites and felt as if I was calling for directions in a total darkness. But the information start coming in bits and pieces. It came from all corners of the globe from people I never met and probably never will. These strangers took a moment and researched old files, registries and data lists and found the information for me. Projects like the name project of Yad Vashem in Jerusalem, the Mormon Church microfilm archives in Utah and yes, the institute for memory in Slovakia contributed more details.

Modern day technology enabled me to conduct the trip, most of the time, from the comfort of my home with my computer being my companion and guide. That’s’ not to say the journey lacked the excitement of meeting other travelers and being rewarded by their experience and knowledge. More than once I was helped out of a rut in the road due to the generosity of my fellow travelers.

What are the merits of this type of traveling you might ask?

This was a journey of the mind if you will but still about movement, getting from point a. to point b. with the real change of scenery going on internally.

The places I found are far-off and with no pictures of the many distant relatives it is difficult to see them as more than meaningless thread of names. Still these names are the only connection I have to my family and my past. Maybe a name is not just a name, something to treat lightly and change on a whim. A name sometimes is the only memory left of a persons’ whole life.

OK, this is only me and everyone is entitled to their own view on the matter.