secret in my family, and it was the reason we had been divided.
I reach up to pull down a small volume. "May I?"
"Of course." He sighs as he looks out the window at the sea and sinks slowly into his chair. "All of this will be yours."
I try not to meet his eyes. I don't want to see the pain I hear in his words as I open up the page and see her handwriting.
Only art education can improve quality of life, understanding, and knowledge.
I read the words slowly to myself then out loud and look up at him.
"Art? Did she really believe that? What about science?" I reach out for him. "Smashing particles right?"
"We've been doing that since the 1950s, sweetheart. It's all theory, although it is now being tested by the Large Hadron Collider, the Supercollider as they call it." He smiles at me.
"I know."
"But your grandmother wanted more. She believed that art went farther—beyond merely practical needs or investigations of the mind."
"Like what?"
"The spiritual, the soul. Just like your work, Gabriella. Combining imagination and structure, I can see it in you, even now."
Hovering above the conversation was the inference, the suggestion of the connection between the different parts of my family. Those working in the field of science and others who explored the secrets of the mystical tradition we had inherited.
"Do you mean my parents? Art and science?"
"They chose to live in the ancient city of Zefat, to devote their lives to the study of mysticism. I have chosen science. But
you,
Gabriella, you are a combination of both these worlds."
I had been told this a thousand times and I was still trying to understand what it meant.
"I just want to make something. Anything."
I look away from him, the way his eyes burn into mine. The subject of my parents and what had happened was too painful to discuss.
I hold my grandmother's worn journal in my hands; the fraying edge presses against the inside of my arm. I can picture her recording her thoughts, the seeds of an idea for a future painting or poem. So many left unfinished, unrealized. I feel the obligation to continue her legacy, to make something of myself, to hear what she was whispering into my heart. I knew that she was all around me. I could feel her everywhere.
"You will not only make something, Gabriella, you will make a difference. You already have," my grandfather says the words quietly.
"How?"
"You changed my fate."
But it wasn't enough.
"I should have known, Papa. That night in Paris, I should have understood what it meant. Then I might have saved them, too."
----
11
----
T HE ROOM IS SO still that the words hang between us. I can feel the cool air from the window, blowing gently over my body and I realize that I need to change the subject.
"What is this—the music? It sounds oddly familiar; I remember her playing it for me." I walk over and turn up the volume on the CD player. I say it without fear of hurting him. I want to talk about my grandmother now; how I feel her with me, loving me, encouraging and showing me that the promises she had made to me were being fulfilled. I wait for him to respond, but he ignores me. I try again. "Did you hear what I just said? I remember this."
"How could you remember such things? Please, stop this talk. We need to think about today. Not the past." He swivels his chair away, and I see the subtle rocking motion as he rhythmically moves back and forth. "Everything you've worked so hard for."
"I know she's here. They all are, they're
here
—with both of us," I say softly.
We are quiet for a few moments. I walk over and lift a heavy frame that holds a faded photograph. I inspect the smile, the wild white hair, and the signature. It occupies an important place on the desk, which holds the treasured files that contain the correspondence they had shared. I knew this relationship was the one that had directed the course of his life's work.
"She told me the story of how you met each other in Jerusalem. At the party. And he
I reach up to pull down a small volume. "May I?"
"Of course." He sighs as he looks out the window at the sea and sinks slowly into his chair. "All of this will be yours."
I try not to meet his eyes. I don't want to see the pain I hear in his words as I open up the page and see her handwriting.
Only art education can improve quality of life, understanding, and knowledge.
I read the words slowly to myself then out loud and look up at him.
"Art? Did she really believe that? What about science?" I reach out for him. "Smashing particles right?"
"We've been doing that since the 1950s, sweetheart. It's all theory, although it is now being tested by the Large Hadron Collider, the Supercollider as they call it." He smiles at me.
"I know."
"But your grandmother wanted more. She believed that art went farther—beyond merely practical needs or investigations of the mind."
"Like what?"
"The spiritual, the soul. Just like your work, Gabriella. Combining imagination and structure, I can see it in you, even now."
Hovering above the conversation was the inference, the suggestion of the connection between the different parts of my family. Those working in the field of science and others who explored the secrets of the mystical tradition we had inherited.
"Do you mean my parents? Art and science?"
"They chose to live in the ancient city of Zefat, to devote their lives to the study of mysticism. I have chosen science. But
you,
Gabriella, you are a combination of both these worlds."
I had been told this a thousand times and I was still trying to understand what it meant.
"I just want to make something. Anything."
I look away from him, the way his eyes burn into mine. The subject of my parents and what had happened was too painful to discuss.
I hold my grandmother's worn journal in my hands; the fraying edge presses against the inside of my arm. I can picture her recording her thoughts, the seeds of an idea for a future painting or poem. So many left unfinished, unrealized. I feel the obligation to continue her legacy, to make something of myself, to hear what she was whispering into my heart. I knew that she was all around me. I could feel her everywhere.
"You will not only make something, Gabriella, you will make a difference. You already have," my grandfather says the words quietly.
"How?"
"You changed my fate."
But it wasn't enough.
"I should have known, Papa. That night in Paris, I should have understood what it meant. Then I might have saved them, too."
----
11
----
T HE ROOM IS SO still that the words hang between us. I can feel the cool air from the window, blowing gently over my body and I realize that I need to change the subject.
"What is this—the music? It sounds oddly familiar; I remember her playing it for me." I walk over and turn up the volume on the CD player. I say it without fear of hurting him. I want to talk about my grandmother now; how I feel her with me, loving me, encouraging and showing me that the promises she had made to me were being fulfilled. I wait for him to respond, but he ignores me. I try again. "Did you hear what I just said? I remember this."
"How could you remember such things? Please, stop this talk. We need to think about today. Not the past." He swivels his chair away, and I see the subtle rocking motion as he rhythmically moves back and forth. "Everything you've worked so hard for."
"I know she's here. They all are, they're
here
—with both of us," I say softly.
We are quiet for a few moments. I walk over and lift a heavy frame that holds a faded photograph. I inspect the smile, the wild white hair, and the signature. It occupies an important place on the desk, which holds the treasured files that contain the correspondence they had shared. I knew this relationship was the one that had directed the course of his life's work.
"She told me the story of how you met each other in Jerusalem. At the party. And he
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