colleague of mine, an expert in this type of surgery, is at the hospital right now. I have spoken to him. He is ready to operate on you.”
“Doctor,” I ask, “have you told my wife?”
“No, but I will do it right now.”
In a moment he is back: “I’ve seen Marion. As well as your son, Elisha.”
The fact that my beloved son is already at the hospital does not surprise me. Since his earliest childhood, he has always made me proud, always been there for me.
“What do they think?”
“They agree; we have no choice. But the decision is yours alone.”
“May I see them?”
Marion and Elisha are not good at hiding their anxiety. Their smiles seem forced. And how am I to hug them without falling apart? Marion, holding back her tears, tries to reassure me: “The doctors are optimistic. The surgeon they propose is world-renowned.”
“It will go well,” says Elisha. “I know it, Dad. I am convinced of it.”
I remain silent.
“Shall we go?” urges the attending physician.
The nurses are ready to push the gurney toward the OR. I steal another glance at the woman with whom I have shared my life for more than forty-two years. So many events, so many discoveries and projects, unite us. All we have done in life we have accomplished together. And now, one more experience.
As the door opens, I look one last time at our son, the fine young man who has justified—and continues to justify—my life and who endows it with meaning and a hereafter.
Through the tears that darken the future, a thought awakens a deeper concern, a deeper sorrow: Shall I see them again?
4
MARION IS here. *
My eyes are closed, but I feel her presence.
I can almost see her.
I think of the extraordinary qualities of this woman. Her strength of character. Her sensitivity. Her intelligence.
I open my eyes.
Marion and Elisha stand next to the gurney, waiting to accompany me to the door of the operating room. Marion looks sad and forlorn. For once there’s nothing she can do.
This is the first time I have seen her like this.
She usually knows how to resolve difficult situations. But now she is vainly trying to find words to alleviate my fears. There probably are none.
Any moment now, the door of the OR willclose behind me. Marion is still here, and in a flash I relive our life together, the exceptional moments that have marked it.
I recall our first meeting, at the home of French friends. Love at first sight. Perhaps. Surely on my part. I thought her not only beautiful but superbly intelligent. Hearing her discuss with great passion some Broadway play, I became convinced that I could listen to her for years and years—all my life—without ever interrupting her. I invited her to lunch at an Italian restaurant across from the United Nations. Neither of us touched the food.
Her background? Vienna, then fleeing from place to place; being imprisoned in various camps, including the infamous Camp de Gurs; eventually finding freedom in neutral Switzerland. Finally New York. Everywhere, miracles of adaptation, survival and extraordinary encounters. For years now I have been advising her—begging her, in fact—to write her memoirs. In vain.
We were married in Jerusalem by the late Saul Lieberman, in the Old City (then recently liberated), in the heart of an ancientsynagogue, the Ramban, for the most part destroyed by the Jordanian army.
Since then, I cannot imagine my life, my lives, without her.
I owe to her the best translations of my work. Our Foundation for Humanity is fully her responsibility. Since its creation she has given it her energy, talent and imagination.
One day some twenty years ago, Marion called me from Tel Aviv to tell me that she had just visited an “absorption center” for newly arrived Jewish Ethiopian immigrants. She said she would like our foundation to help their children.
Since then, we have opened two large enrichment centers for these children. Marion named the centers Beit Tzipora (House of Tzipora),
“Doctor,” I ask, “have you told my wife?”
“No, but I will do it right now.”
In a moment he is back: “I’ve seen Marion. As well as your son, Elisha.”
The fact that my beloved son is already at the hospital does not surprise me. Since his earliest childhood, he has always made me proud, always been there for me.
“What do they think?”
“They agree; we have no choice. But the decision is yours alone.”
“May I see them?”
Marion and Elisha are not good at hiding their anxiety. Their smiles seem forced. And how am I to hug them without falling apart? Marion, holding back her tears, tries to reassure me: “The doctors are optimistic. The surgeon they propose is world-renowned.”
“It will go well,” says Elisha. “I know it, Dad. I am convinced of it.”
I remain silent.
“Shall we go?” urges the attending physician.
The nurses are ready to push the gurney toward the OR. I steal another glance at the woman with whom I have shared my life for more than forty-two years. So many events, so many discoveries and projects, unite us. All we have done in life we have accomplished together. And now, one more experience.
As the door opens, I look one last time at our son, the fine young man who has justified—and continues to justify—my life and who endows it with meaning and a hereafter.
Through the tears that darken the future, a thought awakens a deeper concern, a deeper sorrow: Shall I see them again?
4
MARION IS here. *
My eyes are closed, but I feel her presence.
I can almost see her.
I think of the extraordinary qualities of this woman. Her strength of character. Her sensitivity. Her intelligence.
I open my eyes.
Marion and Elisha stand next to the gurney, waiting to accompany me to the door of the operating room. Marion looks sad and forlorn. For once there’s nothing she can do.
This is the first time I have seen her like this.
She usually knows how to resolve difficult situations. But now she is vainly trying to find words to alleviate my fears. There probably are none.
Any moment now, the door of the OR willclose behind me. Marion is still here, and in a flash I relive our life together, the exceptional moments that have marked it.
I recall our first meeting, at the home of French friends. Love at first sight. Perhaps. Surely on my part. I thought her not only beautiful but superbly intelligent. Hearing her discuss with great passion some Broadway play, I became convinced that I could listen to her for years and years—all my life—without ever interrupting her. I invited her to lunch at an Italian restaurant across from the United Nations. Neither of us touched the food.
Her background? Vienna, then fleeing from place to place; being imprisoned in various camps, including the infamous Camp de Gurs; eventually finding freedom in neutral Switzerland. Finally New York. Everywhere, miracles of adaptation, survival and extraordinary encounters. For years now I have been advising her—begging her, in fact—to write her memoirs. In vain.
We were married in Jerusalem by the late Saul Lieberman, in the Old City (then recently liberated), in the heart of an ancientsynagogue, the Ramban, for the most part destroyed by the Jordanian army.
Since then, I cannot imagine my life, my lives, without her.
I owe to her the best translations of my work. Our Foundation for Humanity is fully her responsibility. Since its creation she has given it her energy, talent and imagination.
One day some twenty years ago, Marion called me from Tel Aviv to tell me that she had just visited an “absorption center” for newly arrived Jewish Ethiopian immigrants. She said she would like our foundation to help their children.
Since then, we have opened two large enrichment centers for these children. Marion named the centers Beit Tzipora (House of Tzipora),
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