WHITHER THOU GOEST 1 - SARAH'S STORY - PART 1

I am sitting here in the sunny garden of my childhood home, surrounded by people I love – my two children Amanda and Joe, their partners and Amanda’s children Isla and Jack zooming around on their bikes – and of course my dear old Mum Lena.

 

My name is Sarah Green, and I moved back here to live with my parents in what people call ‘leafy Surrey’ a few years ago, when I got divorced and they were getting old enough to need looking after.  It is a large house, so it was a perfect solution for all of us.  But my life has not always been as straightforward as it may seem now.

 

My childhood was happy and quite conventional; as an only child I had doting parents who gave me pretty much everything I wanted.  Money was never short; Mum came from a very comfortable background; her parents were both from ‘old families’ as Grandma never tired of telling me; she had been presented at court, as had my Mum who Grandma said was so pretty she could have had her pick of eligible bachelors at the debutantes ball the year she came out – except much to my Grandmother’s horror, Mum chose to marry Jacob Strawinski, a businessman a few years older than herself.

 

 He was the descendant of Russian Jews who had fled to Britain during the pogroms at the end of the 19th Century.  They were ironworkers by trade and worked long and hard.  Dad took on the business ar an early age and it had prospered in his hands, especially at the outbreak of the war when his factory was converted into making munitions, and the firm became a household name.  So when Dad had asked for Lena’s hand, her parents could not object on the grounds of not being able to keep her in the manner….. etc., and she was old enough to marry with or without their consent.

 

I adored my Dad, so kind and clever; and my Mum Lena was such fun, rather unconventional for that time.  Grandma and Grandad always had an air of slight disapproval when we visited, but no-one could help but like my Dad, and by the time I took my ‘A’ Levels in 1968, they had quite accepted the situation, and were united with my parents in insisting that I should take up the place at Oxford which I had already been offered, pending exam results.

 

I had other ideas though.  I had recently met a boy called Richard, and we decided to spend some time travelling the world.  This idea went down like a lead balloon with my family, but as usual I got my way, and my university place was deferred.

 

We decided to try life on a kibbutz for 3 months, and then move on elsewhere if we felt like it.  Arrangements were easy to make as many young people were doing it and the kibbutzim had a constant need for volunteer workers.  Within two months we were stepping off an open backed lorry with four others of similar age on the Sharona kibbutz in South Palestine.

 

We enjoyed life there, plenty of fresh air and good food and company, tending the vegetable and fruit plantations by day, and sitting round campfires in the evenings, singing, drinking and smoking substances of all kinds.

 

I was having a quiet smoke one afternoon, leaning back against a shed with my legs resting high on a compost bin, when I noticed a good-looking man watching me.  He looked away embarrassed when he caught my eye and walked back to the group of children who were playing tag in the field.

 

Later in the day he sought me out, came to sit by me at supper in the chow hut.  He told me he and his wife Julia were from Boston Massachussetts, and had been here a month on a year’s teaching assignment.  He was a good ten years older than me, but I liked him right away.

 

Next night both he and Julia came to the campfire party, and I did think it slightly odd when she didn’t seem to mind me going off with her husband into the dark orchard, both returning half an hour later very giggly with leaves in our hair – but hey, this was the sixties.

 

And so our frantic affair flourished.  We took every opportunity possible to make love, and it was no secret round the kibbutz.  Richard was definitely put out about it, though I pointed out that me and him were not an item, and we were both free to do what we liked.  He packed his bags and left as soon as the 3 months were up, and I stayed on.  I never heard from him again.

 

Hank, my American, had a ready supply of condoms, or Johnnies as we called them, though I’m not sure how often or how carefully they were used; certainly, not that first passionate time, and I suspect on several other occasions when we were too drunk or high to think about it.

 

One morning, throwing up in the bathroom for the second morning running, it occurred to me that I was not hung-over – I was pregnant.

 

Hank took the news surprisingly well, as apparently did his mousey wife; but I was dreading telling my family – I thought Dad would be okay, but Mum, who had already upset her parents with her choice of husband, would be mortified at having a bastard grandchild – what would the neighbours think!

 

I decided to say nothing until after the birth.  I knew I would be well supported by the women on the kibbutz, and there were doctors, midwives and nurses on hand, so I would not lack medical care.  Hank said he would stay on too, but we made no definite plans.  That’s just how it was then:  live for today.

 

I gave birth to my daughter after a long labour, well supported by Anja, my doula. Hank visited daily, and on the fourth day he sat by me, and took the baby in his arms.  He said:

 

‘Sarah, me and Julia are going back to the states tomorrow, and we are going to take the child with us.  We’ve been married nearly ten years now, and it looks like Julia can’t have kids of her own.  We’ve got a nice home, loving parents, everything the kid could want.  I’m her Poppa after all, I love her already and Julia will be a great Momma’.

 

My eyes filled with tears – but I was too tired to object – after all, they were right.  She would have a home, a proper family – and I didn’t even know if I would have a home to take her to.  So I let her go.  As I watched Hank walk away with my baby in his arms, I called out : ’Hank – her name is Ruth!’.  I didn’t know if he’d heard me, he kept on walking and I kept on watching through my tears until they were in the station waggon on the way to the airport.

 

I stayed at the kibbutz for another two months, then went back home and resumed my old life.  I took up my place at Oxford, and it was only after I received my degree, watched by my very proud parents, that I found some courage, broke down and told them everything.

 

My Mum, Lena, was horrified;  she said nothing, just went to her room and slammed the door.  She didn’t come out for the rest of the day, and never mentioned the matter again.

 

My Dad, Jacob, just pulled me into his arms.  ‘My poor, poor girl’  he said,  ‘Why on earth did you think you had to bear all this alone?  We would have loved your child just as we love you!’

 

‘But Dad, I couldn’t be sure, and I was scared you would turn me away; you know what Grandma and Grandad Beauchamp are like!’

 

‘Oh Sarah, they love you too – and as for me, my family has known sorrows and hardships you can only imagine generation after generation – we Jews know the value of life, and of family ties.  I know my parents would have supported you too if they had been alive to do so’.

 

 

Life is full of ‘If  Onlys’.