What I really mean—the subtext of so many of my choices and beliefs
—is, “I don’t deserve to have survived.” I am so obsessed with proving
my worth, with earning my place in the world, that I don’t need Hitler
anymore. I have become my own jailor, telling myself, “No matter
what you do, you will never be good enough.”
* * *What I miss the most about Béla is the way he dances. Especially the
Viennese waltz. As cynical and angry as he can be, he also lets joy in,
he lets his body wear it, express it. He can surrender to the tempo and
still lead, hold steady. I dream of him some nights. Of his childhood,
the stories he told me in letters when he courted me. I see his father
collapse into an avalanche, his breath lost in all that white. I see his
mother panic in a Budapest market and confess her identity to the SS.
I think of the sad tension in Béla’s family stemming from his mother’s
role in their deaths. I think of Béla’s stutter, the way his early trauma
marked him. One summer day Béla comes to pick up John. He’s
driving a new car. In America, we have always owned frugal cars—
dumpy cars, our children say. Today he’s driving an Oldsmobile with
leather seats. He bought it used, he says, defensive, proud. But my
look of disbelief isn’t about the car. It’s about the elegant woman
sitting in the passenger seat. He’s found someone else.
* * *I am grateful for the necessity of working to support myself and my
children. Work is an escape. And it gives me a clear purpose. I become
a seventh- and eighth-grade social studies teacher in the El Paso
barrio. I receive job offers from more coveted schools in the wealthy
parts of town, but I want to work with students who are bilingual, who
are facing the kinds of obstacles Béla and I did when we came to
America: poverty, prejudice. I want to connect my students to their