Inspiration
Every time I hold one of the silver spoons in my hand, I remember. My thumb strokes the simple design on the handle, the capital L and the flat, crossed ribbons. I admire the elegant shape of the spoon, and I remember. It is not even my memory. It is my grandmother’s.
I grew up with these spoons, stirring my hot chocolate with them, eating from the matching forks, and cutting my meat with the knives. I grew up with the furniture too. The round dining table that opened into a larger oval that barely fit into our tiny dining alcove. In my parents’ room, the set of beds with inlaid headboards and footboards nestled side by side to form one large, eiderdown-covered expanse that filled the room. Nearby stood a majestic dressing set with three tall, beveled mirrors and two marble-topped bureaus. In our living room, near the front door, place of honor was taken by what we called “the clock table” because of the matching clock with its sweeping shape and the large white face that helped me learn to tell time.
There was art too. I was fascinated by the drawing of a monkey playing the violin which my father proudly asserted was by a famous artist. In a corner near the door to our minuscule bathroom, a bronze sculpture of Mercury stood on display with his bow and quiver, his winged feet, and his muscled chest. The china cabinet was tucked in another odd corner because it would fit nowhere else. Behind the curved glass doors, safe from curious fingers yet easy to see, were more treasures—an elegant vase painted with lavender hollyhocks, a silver filigreed basket, and a cunning porcelain snail with a fairy riding on its shell. In the cabinets below, folded table linens, monogrammed with Ls like those on the silverware, were stored to be brought out for holiday dinners. A box at the top of my mother’s closet held old-fashioned ladies’ underwear, crocheted babies’ shirts, and a fine tulle wedding veil edged in lace.
These treasures, I was told, had traveled all the way from my father’s childhood home in Germany. How they had come to be in the two-bedroom beach cottage near the Pacific Ocean where I lived with my parents, my two sisters, and my grandmother was a mystery. The questions came later. Later still, when I was an adult, the truth of how these relics from a Jewish family had been spirited them away from Nazis who would have liked to keep them finally emerged.
Ashes and Ruins, a story of perseverance, courage, and strength during desperate times, grew from this family history.
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