The Face Behind the Veil
by
Flora Reigada
Coipyright © Flora Reigada. All rights reserved.
No
part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.
First
published by AuthorHouse 05/11/04
ISBN:
1-4184-6404-X (e-book)ISBN: 1-4184-4364-6 (Paperback)
Library
of
Congress
Control
Number:
2004090565
Printed
in
the
United
States
of
America
Bloomington,
IN
This
book is printed on acid free paper.
PART 1 – NAOMI'S STORY
CHAPTER 1
Labor pains sliced into Estelle’s abdomen as she awakened that March
dawn in 1925. The buxom blonde's husband, Jacob, rushed into the
cold mist to awaken her brother who lived nearby. The two men
quickly returned. Franz, the only person the couple knew who
owned a car, had agreed to drive Estelle to the hospital. Even in
her pain, Estelle noticed the stench of the previous night’s bootleg
whiskey on her brother’s breath. It added nausea to her
discomfort. The pains stabbed deeper and harder as the young
woman clutched Franz’s arm and waddled into the morning chill.
Glancing over her shoulder, Estelle managed a feeble wave to Jacob, who
watched from the window. He remained behind to care for the
couple’s two sleeping toddlers. A nervous Franz helped his
swollen sister into the passenger seat of the Model T Ford. As it
chugged along, each bump seemed to jostle the baby farther down the
birth canal—making the woman feel as if she were being ripped apart.
Soon, the twenty-something blonde was at the hospital with her cries
echoing down the corridors. At last, the gray haired, mustached
doctor wrested the baby from her body. Estelle felt her flesh
tearing as the newborn emerged.
“It’s a girl!” the doctor announced, lifting a membrane from the baby’s
face.
The attending nurse stopped short, her eyes wide. “Why are you
just tossing that aside? Don’t you know what
it means? It's the rare birth veil—the sign of a prophet!”
“Nonsense,” the doctor chuckled, holding up the wailing infant for
Estelle to see. “It’s just part of the amniotic
sac.”
Despite her pain and blood loss, Estelle gazed at her daughter in
awe. As a child, she overheard old women discussing “the
veil.” One cackled that her father, a Navy captain during the War
Between the States, had carried a veil aboard his ship.
“They’re supposed to bring good luck,” the stoop-shouldered woman said,
clutching her cane. “Those born with the veil
are gifted with second sight into the spiritual world.”
At the time, Estelle believed that. Now it was like a prophecy
fulfilled in her own daughter. Indeed, this baby would see
wonders and understand great mysteries.
Another girl, Estelle thought while drifting to
sleep. Now I have two girls and a boy. I’ll name her
Naomi. I read somewhere it means “my delight.” And I know
that’s what this little one will always be.
Several days later, Estelle brought the dark-eyed infant home to the
family’s cramped apartment on Staten Island, New York. In a row
of brick apartment buildings, it ascended from the crest
of a steep hill. The upper floors offered a panoramic view of
New York Harbor and the hazy Manhattan skyline. From the bottom
floor where Estelle, Jacob and their children lived, a few windows
overlooked a tiny courtyard. With the building constructed into
the hill, some of the family’s rooms were partially underground.
Just like being in a grave, Estelle would sometimes
think. Stormy nights when cold winds howled up from the harbor,
phantoms seemed to roam the darkness. Echoing foghorns sounded
the agony of things seen and unseen.
And when he drank, Estelle’s husband, Jacob, seemed
as haunted as the night. Although Estelle disliked his cigarette
smoke that turned the apartment dusty and dingy, she hated the alcohol
that turned his ebony eyes sad and distant. Even during
Prohibition, he always managed to find illegal whiskey. But, so
did most people Estelle knew.
Because Jacob was a faithful provider and a devoted
family man, she accepted his drinking. It was part of the
raven-haired man she adored, who provided her with the important “Mrs.”
title. Estelle had been so thrilled to become Mrs. Kahn, she
didn’t protest when her brother, Franz, tagged along on their
honeymoon.
After that, he and her new husband spent the week drinking.
Estelle wasn’t surprised or upset. Like other
women of her time, she had learned her lessons well; Keep your
mouth shut and never make any demands on a man. Otherwise,
the consequences could prove disastrous. A nagging wife might
drive a husband away. Aside from the disgrace, who would
then provide for her? So for now, Estelle was content to care
for her family and the occasional wounded bird she might find flapping
on the sidewalk.
Oh well, she would sigh to herself. That’s men
for you. Just like Mother always taught me, everything will be
fine if you just leave them alone and be agreeable. I can’t
complain. After all, Jake did land that great job as a
projectionist at the theater.
Despite Jacob’s job, the young family never seemed to have enough
money. Estelle hoped Jacob’s father would share some of his
wealth.
Having left Germany because of a domineering father
and anti-Semitism, Abraham Kahn was determined to never look
back. Arriving in New York, the young man changed his name to
Albert and his Jewish faith to Protestant. Albert’s conversion
was not due to a change of convictions, however. He remained
agnostic, attending church only for weddings and funerals.
After saving money from years of hauling sacks of coal, he purchased a
group of row houses on Staten Island. Originally called Horton’s
Row, the homes had gleaming hardwood floors, marble fireplaces and
decorative columns. Leaving these intact, Albert converted the
townhouses into apartments. He did the same with several
weathered homes he purchased across the street.
The row houses included the building in which Estelle would live.
More family members would move into other buildings. Estelle was
grateful that her father-in-law let them all stay there for a nominal
rent. Only two of Albert’s children moved out
from under their father’s wing.
Thrifty with money, the elder Kahn amassed a small fortune. He
and his wife, Rebekah, lived in the apartment above Estelle’s.
Although Albert was fair-skinned with blond hair and blue eyes,
his wife looked Eurasian, as did the couple’s children. No one
could have guessed they were really cousins who had their marriage
arranged by relatives in Germany. Using part of the money he had
saved,
Albert sent for his bride-to-be.
With silken black hair and onyx eyes, Estelle thought her mother-in-law
had an exotic, oriental look. However,
the hard work and adversity that showed on Rebekah's face, cast
a shadow on her beauty.
Once home from the hospital, Estelle would walk the
floors carrying little Naomi. Sometimes she would pause by
the window, think of her mother-in-law and feel compassion.
Of the thirteen children she bore, only six had survived.
It made Estelle wince to look at the older woman's discolored and
bandaged legs. As she limped from chore to chore, a bulging vein
would occasionally burst and bleed.
The memory made Estelle shudder. All that cooking, cleaning
and scrubbing on a washboard. It’s no wonder the
poor thing is in constant pain.
Like many others, Estelle suspected that Rebekah Kahn's pain went far
deeper than her legs—it went straight to her heart. Rumors had
long circulated among neighborhood housewives that Estelle’s
father-in-law had a relationship with a woman family members called,
“the slut on Victory Hill.”
Estelle agreed with other family members. If it did happen,
she asked for it, the way she threw herself at him.
Estelle also thought it pained the older woman to have left her Jewish
faith back in the old country. Only she and one daughter tried to
preserve the traditions, such as occasionally lighting the menorah.
My father-in-law said we’d be better off leaving the past in
Germany, Estelle recalled. That’s why he changed his name
when he came here.
She wondered if some lines in her mother-in-law’s face had been etched
by the unusual behavior of a son, Stanley. Only in his
mid-twenties, he lived in the building with his sister, Rose.
While eyeing him suspiciously, neighbors would whisper that
he was strange. Seldom speaking, he was often seen wandering in
remote and wooded areas of Staten Island.
Occasionally, he seemed to vanish into thin air, leaving the family
searching for him days at a time. Neighbors would wince as they
retold the gory tale of his only friend being found murdered.
“Red Quinn was his name. He was an old hobo. Some kids found his
bloodied body in an alleyway five years ago and still have nightmares
about it. They say they will never forget the
way he looked, with frightened eyes wide open. The sight even
shocked police, who found the broken whiskey bottle they say was used
to kill poor Red.”
Although no arrests were ever made, neighbors suspected and feared
Stanley.
And from nearby Tompkinsville Park, those neighbors
watched his sister, Rose. Men watched her because she was
beautiful. Women watched because they were jealous, not only
of her beauty but also of her talent. She had the reputation
of being a gifted seamstress in Manhattan's garment district.
The jealousy fueled local gossip.
“Do you really think she’s seeing a married man?" they'd whisper.
Family members would defensively point out that he relentlessly pursued
her but she rebuffed him.
Another sister, Eva, lived in one of the weathered houses with her
husband, Ray and his two sons from a previous marriage. Neighbors
often heard Ray yelling at Eva, and everyone knew he occasionally got a
little carried away with his fists. No one thought much of it,
though, not even Eva.
She often told family members, “Being married is better than being an
old maid.”
Eva felt lucky to have caught the widower twelve years her
senior. Unable to have children, she raised her husband's boys as
though they were her own. The beatings and responsibilities of
child rearing were a small price to pay for the security of having a
husband.
Sisters-in-law and in their twenties, Eva and Estelle became good
friends. Getting together to shop or take the
children to the park, they’d occasionally visit the plump old Irish
woman who told fortunes.
Birdie O’Brien lived nearby in another of the weathered houses, and
read palms and tea leaves. Estelle’s fascination with the
readings was the only thing that brought her to the gloomy
apartment. Though it was kept tidy, something about the creaky
floors and spider webs in hard-to-reach places, made her jittery.
She always expected to see evil eyes leering from the darkness.
Most bothersome, however, was that the apartment smelled like a musty
cellar. It took Estelle days to wash the stench out of her
clothes and hair. But she never could get it out of her
mind. “The place smells like a mausoleum that's been sealed for
centuries,” she’d complain to Eva.
With an exaggerated shiver, Eva once replied, “it’s
as if the walls are crawling with invisible cockroaches. I
always expect to feel them creeping up my legs.”
Visiting Mrs. O’Brien made Estelle wonder about the
existence of good and evil. Her husband would dismiss her
concerns. “Religion hasn’t been proven to me. I believe
that all good and evil exists right here on earth.”
Like many women in her day, Estelle accepted her husband's opinions as
her own. Men know best about things like religion.
Despite their doubts, she and Jacob joined the local "Brighton Heights
Church,” where they had their children baptized and later planned to
send them to Sunday school." It's nice for
little children to believe in God,” the couple agreed.
Kissing Naomi’s soft skin while the other children played nearby,
Estelle whispered, “You have an important destiny, Precious One.
You were born with the veil.”
But neither the veil nor destiny would prevent Naomi from growing into
a challenging toddler. Her angelic freckled face, framed with
curly, chestnut hair belied her strong-willed personality.
Throwing temper tantrums, she'd forcibly spit out food she didn’t
like. Nor could she be restrained by any boundaries, such as
her crib. Climbing from its confines, she would crawl into
forbidden
places.
Wiping her brow after an exhausting day with Naomi,
Estelle often moaned to Jacob, “That girl needs to be watched
constantly.”
One spring afternoon, following Naomi’s first birthday, Estelle opened
some windows to let the balmy air inside.
She then leaned her big, buxom body out the kitchen window to reel
some freshly washed sheets out onto the clothesline. Estelle
moved quickly so she could sit and chat with her sister Wilhelmina,
who had come to visit. The sisters were especially close after
a childhood bout with black diphtheria nearly claimed Wilhelmina.
It was said she contracted the illness after falling into an open sewer.
A chesty blonde, Wilhelmina (whom everyone called Willie) was nearly
her sister’s twin. “Zaftig” (Yiddish for plump) is what family
members called them. Waiting for her sister,
Willie sat on the sofa puffing on a cigarette. As always, the
two called back and forth to each other in English and German.
“I’ll be there as soon as I get these clothes hung and the children
down for a nap,” Estelle shouted.
Scooping up Naomi who’d been playing on the floor, she disappeared into
the children’s bedroom. Wiping her hands on her apron, she later
emerged triumphant.
“I can’t believe I got them all to sleep at the same time!" she said,
plopping down next to Willie.
In the lazy afternoon, a warm breeze blowing through the windows made
the curtains flutter. With their fleshy calves sticking out of
their skirts and their plump arms from their sleeves, the sisters
talked and laughed.
Puffing defiantly on a cigarette, Willie blew smoke
rings.
Estelle raised her eyebrows. “It’s not ladylike to smoke.
You should take up something more feminine like
embroidery,” she added, motioning toward an embroidery hoop on which
she had been stitching intricate flowers.
Willie tossed her short crop of golden curls and rolled her blue
eyes. “Mutter (Mother) taught me how to embroider, just like she
did you. And I wish you wouldn’t talk to me
like I'm an evil child. Our ‘dear’ stepfather, Johann does,
and I'm tired of hearing what good girls should and shouldn’t do.”
Casting Willie her indignant, big sister look, Estelle gave a small
lecture. “It’s almost scandalous that you've been living alone
since you took that job at the candy factory in Brooklyn.”
Willie took a long puff on her cigarette. “As
you well know, I had no choice. Stepfather told me to leave
home after I had my hair bobbed. Brother Franz already left
because he couldn't stand the strict rules.”
“Stepfather thumps his Bible too much and takes his
born-again religion too far,” Estelle groaned.
Willie nodded while squashing her cigarette in an overloaded
ashtray. “After all these years, I’m still sad that Vater
(Father) died. Stepfather has ruined Mother’s life with his silly
rules. And why did Mother ever have his baby? Little Karl’s
cute, but Mother’s almost fifty and has sugar diabetes.”
Estelle frowned. “If all religion offers is rules and endless
babies for women, how can you still believe in God?” “A girl at
my job told me that religion isn’t the same as knowing
God,” Willie answered. “And she says ‘God is Love’”1
“Maybe God is only a figment of our imagination," Estelle injected,
rising from the couch to peek in on the children. A few moments
later, her screams filled the tiny apartment.
Leaping to her feet, Willie ran over.
“What happened?” she gasped, bursting into the children's bedroom.
“Naomi’s gone!” Estelle screeched. “I can’t find her anywhere.”
Awakened by the turmoil, Estelle’s two other children stood in their
cribs crying: Three-year-old Jacob with his mother's golden curls and
two-year-old Ruth, rubbing her chocolate-brown
eyes.
Panic escalated as Willie rushed around the room searching for little
Naomi. Willie looked in the closet, under the cribs, behind a
chair. Suddenly, her gaze riveted on an open window and she
yelled, pointing. “She must have crawled out onto the fire
escape!”
Instantly, both women thundered to the window, their heavy legs
pounding the wooden floor. Willie thrust her big body outside,
but no baby could be seen on the fire escape. Willie's heart
pounded as she looked down, then called to her sister, “thank God she
didn’t fall to the ground!”
Almost wincing, she looked up. Straining to see beyond the white
sheets flapping on clotheslines, her eyes scanned the fire escapes
ascending to the second, third and fourth floors. Then, glancing
toward the roof, she saw Naomi's gleaming, auburn hair. The
baby’s smiling face looked down at her. “Himmel! (Heavens!)
She’s on the roof!” Willie shouted. “I’m going up to get her.”
After hoisting her plump legs onto the windowsill, Willie squeezed her
body out the window and onto the fire escape. She got there in
time to see Eva running hysterically across the
street, screaming, “Naomi’s on the roof! Naomi's on the roof!”
“I know,” Willie called out. “I’m on my way.”
Realizing her dress was blowing up in the wind, Willie tried to hold it
down while scrambling up the iron ladder. In a sweet but shaky
voice, she called to the baby. “Auntie Willie's coming, Liebchen.
(Sweetheart) Don’t move. Wait for me.”
By this time, the neighborhood lech, old Mr. Brown was leering out a
nearby window at the spectacle of slip and legs. Even in the
turmoil of the moment, Willie managed to cast him an indignant
look. “Schweinhund!” (Swine!) she yelled.
At last, reaching Naomi, Willie extended her arms. Squealing with
delight, Naomi tumbled into them. From the window, Estelle cried;
from the ground Eva jumped up and down applauding, and from his window,
old Mr. Brown continued to leer.
Naomi turned her smiling face into the wind and sun. Only one
other knew how much she had enjoyed herself. Though no one but
the baby had seen him, his powerful arms had kept her safe.
Such thrills were rare for Naomi. As a toddler, she caught one
illness after another: pneumonia, tuberculosis and scarlet fever.
Her face as pallid as a sheet, she’d watch
old, hunchbacked Dr. Johnson bending over her and pacing anxiously
back and forth.
Standing in the doorway, her father would look grimfaced and her
mother, teary-eyed. With hard economic times beginning to settle
over the land, the couple sometimes paid the doctor with a meal.
When they were able, they would give him a few coins. Other
neighbors, who raised chickens, often sent him home with one clucking
under his arm.
Time after time, Naomi would look out her window to
see the old doctor pulling up with his horse and buggy. If
he wasn’t coming to care for her, he was coming to care for Ruth or
Brother Jacob, who caught the same illnesses. Their crying and
coughing frightened Naomi.
One Palm Sunday morning when Naomi was three-years-old, an eerie
stillness settled over the apartment. Someone whispered that
Brother Jacob had died. Later that day, choked sobs whispered the
same about Ruth.
Without her brother and sister, little Naomi felt lonely in the weeks
that followed. She also felt afraid and confused. Die
must mean something bad. Grownups cry when they say it.
On a rainy afternoon, the girl found her mother weeping while scrubbing
laundry in the washtub. Streaming down her face, Estelle’s tears
dripped into the soapy water. Naomi tugged on her mother’s
housedress.
“Mommy,” she questioned, looking up. “How come Jacob and Ruth
aren’t here anymore? Where did they go?”
Estelle hesitated a moment then said the only thing
she could. “Your brother and sister went to heaven, Darling.”
Heaven? the child wondered. Where’s heaven?
Even though Naomi’s siblings had gone to that mysterious place, Jacob
and Estelle made sure the child didn't forget them. Their memory
was kept alive through conversations within the family.
Shortly after the children’s passing, Naomi’s father began to smell
more like what her mother called whiskey. Naomi knew it had
something to do with him hiding glass bottles around the
apartment and in the cellar. He also began spending more time
at a restaurant where Aunt Willie had whispered that bootleg whiskey
was served. Naomi’s father and Uncle Franz sometimes took the
little girl there with them. While nibbling on a sandwich, Naomi
would watch the men gulp down one shot-glass of whiskey after another.
Even though Naomi felt lonely without her brother and sister, a kind
man would appear to her. Sometimes she'd be playing in her room
and suddenly, he would be there, watching over
her with tender, caring eyes. Naomi knew she could trust him
because he had a fatherly presence. Although no one had told
her, she also knew his name was Jesus.
Taking her small hand in his, he’d smile and say, “You're a good little
girl. I love you.”
And whatever love was, Naomi knew it felt like a ray of warm sunshine
and a kiss. In other words, it felt like Jesus.
Naomi never could remember who she talked to about him, but they smiled
the way grownups smile at childish things.
They also told her that Jesus wasn’t real. This confused the
little girl. Naomi believed that Santa Claus was real.
Why wouldn’t Jesus be real too? But if a big person
said he wasn’t, it must be true.
After that, Naomi didn’t see her kind friend anymore. Although
she never forgot his visits, they began to seem like a
dream. Gradually, Naomi came to believe that’s what they had
been all along—a dream or her imagination. She told her friend
Jenny about them, but made her promise to tell no one.
Jenny’s brown eyes lit-up as she moved tangled hair
from her dirt-smudged face and told secrets of her own.
“I like to pretend I’m a boy, and sometimes I dress
like one too. I do that cause when I’m big, I’m gonna run
away from my mean uncle an’ ride the rails with the hobos.”
Naomi’s mother mildly protested the girls’ friendship. "You know
we love Jenny and feel bad that after her parents died, she went to
live with that drunken uncle. Everyone knows he beats her, but
she should be playing with dolls, not boys and baseballs. So
should you. The neighbors call Jenny a wildcat. If you keep
playing with her, they’ll call you one too.”
“I don’t care!” Naomi protested, her small face determined.
And Naomi truly didn’t care. She would have worn the title
“wildcat” like a badge of honor.
No disciplinarian, Estelle relented and welcomed the ragamuffin into
her home.
After Naomi turned four, a worrisome cloud descended over the
land. Grownups began using strange words like "stock market
collapse” and “depression.”
When Aunt Eva’s husband lost his job, she ran to Estelle and through
blackened eyes, wept in her arms. “Ray beat me again! I
don’t know why he had to do that!”
Estelle smoothed her sister-in-law’s luxurious, ink-colored hair.
“I’m sorry for you, Eva. I understand.
We women have it so hard. Men mistreat us and there’s nothing
we can do.”
When Jacob came home from work one afternoon, it was Estelle's turn to
cry.
“I lost my job today,” he said, looking stunned.
Collapsing onto a chair, Estelle buried her face in
her hands. “Oh Jake, Jake,” she wept. “How will we
pay our bills? How will we feed little Naomi?”
Before long, Aunt Willie moved in with the family, sleeping in a tiny
room near Naomi’s. Choking back tears, Estelle thanked her sister
for giving them the money she'd been putting away for the wedding she
hoped to have one day. With a bittersweet laugh, Aunt Willie
joked about staying a virgin forever—whatever that was, Naomi
didn't know.
Even with Aunt Willie’s help, the family still stuffed cardboard into
their worn shoes and lined their coats with newspaper. The adults
also told Naomi that they liked eating onion sandwiches. Years
later she would learn they really didn't, and had saved the better food
for her.
Usually happy and well fed; the child never knew that her parents and
aunt often went to bed hungry. And, when
Uncle Franz began eating meals there too, the adults went to bed
hungrier
still.
Blissfully unaware of the suffering, the little girl enjoyed having her
aunt and uncle close by. Uncle Franz gave her horsy rides on his
back. He would also sit her on his knee to tell stories about
three talking horses. Naomi didn’t realize the yarns about
Blackie, Goldie and Brownie, first came into focus through the bottom
of her uncle’s beer mug.
Although Uncle Franz came and went, Naomi was glad Aunt Willie stayed,
even when her father landed a projectionist's job at the new, Saint
George Theater. In English and German, a
medley of sweet songs flowed from Aunt Willie’s lips. And when
snuggling with Naomi on a chair, she could recite stories and nursery
rhymes for hours on end.
On scary nights when Naomi remembered stories about
Uncle Stanley’s friend being found dead in an alley, she'd crawl
into Aunt Willie’s bed. Curled-up against her soft skin, little
Naomi savored the fragrance of talcum powder. And when Willie
could sneak a cigarette beyond Jacob's disapproving glance, Naomi
smelled
tobacco too. To the little girl, these scents represented home
and security.
All the neighborhood children loved Aunt Willie. The candy she
brought them from the factory was a treat during hard times. But
her dimpled smiles and enveloping hugs were sweeter than any
candy. Even Jenny the wildcat couldn't resist being gathered
inside Aunt Willie’s fleshy arms and being called, Liebchen.
Willie and Estelle were also liked by the gaunt and
unshaven men who came to the door begging for food. The sisters
gave the men whatever they could spare. If food was sparse,
it might be one of the onion sandwiches. When food was more
plentiful, the men would be invited for a “sit down” dinner with the
family.
One afternoon Naomi found a large, charcoal-scratched “X” on the
sidewalk, outside her apartment building.
“What does that mean?” the child asked.
Aunt Willie explained. “When a family feeds a
hobo, he'll often mark the sidewalk in front of the home.
It’s a sign to other hobos that the people inside will share what
they can.”
One hobo stood out from the rest. Winding through the
neighborhood and courtyards, he’d play mournful melodies on
a violin. From a distance, Naomi would hear selections that
she later recognized as classics, such as Meditation, The Swan
and most often, the haunting Träumerei. (Dreaming)
After she called for her mother and aunt, they’d lift her to the
window. Together, the women and child would listen to the music
drifting closer. When the unshaven maestro paused in the
courtyard below, Estelle and Willie would toss him coins
wrapped in paper. Pulling a whiskey bottle from his coat,
he would guzzle greedily, then stagger across the street to serenade
Eva. She also tossed him coins. Like the other hobos, the
old violinist sometimes joined the Kahn family for a “sit down” meal.
Naomi once overheard her mother and Aunt talking about him.
“Before the depression he was a concert violinist, playing at places
like Carnegie Hall. Then he lost everything and began to
drink. Now look at him. He still plays beautifully, but
isn’t it a shame?”
Indeed it was. As he played, the howling wind, groaning foghorns
and mournful violin joined in a lament, echoing the pain and suffering,
rampant during those troubled times.
Copyright © Flora Reigada. All rights
reserved.
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