Madam Zira & the Henderson Affair

The room was very cold, but under the heavy blanket and crisp cotton sheet I was quite warm. I reached over and touched the pillow upon which Rolf had earlier slept. I fancied it too was still warm from his previous presence.

I rolled over and reached for the crumpled pack of Marlboros on the bedstand. I lit a cigarette, laid on my back and smiled up at the ceiling.

I had earlier sworn to myself this would not happen. I was not going to end up in bed with Rolf Henderson again. Yet the old adage "We attract what we fear" seemed to have come tangibly into play again in my life.

It had been a beautiful night. Gone was the almost rough, raw sexuality of our first encounter so many months ago, and replacing it had been a purely sweet and gentle encounter of thorough and thoughtful lovemaking. I was so hesitant to admit it – fearful even; but I knew what my heart was telling me. I was in love with Rolf Henderson. I knew better than to be and I knew how dangerous it was to feel this way about him. Yet I also knew I was now helpless to it. To him. While I was old enough to have the awareness to still proceed with caution, I also knew I was going to thoroughly relish how I felt at this moment. Light, content, excited, happy…young. And at the moment, I really didn't care why Rolf had tracked and enticed me this summer; didn't care what his 'mystery' was. I knew I should care very much about it, but for just these few moments while Rolf was cheerfully singing in the shower and I laid in this deluxe hotel room in the heart of Las Vegas, I was going to allow myself an interim of pure unadulterated happiness.

I heard the water stop and random clinking and clanking emanate from the bathroom. I snuffed out the cigarette and rolled over on my side to face Rolf when he entered the room. I quickly ran a hand through my tousled hair in a vain yet useless attempt to arrange it as neatly as possible. I suddenly realized I had no idea what to say to him.

The door opened, and as the steam from the hot water wafted out into the cool bedroom, Rolf emerged wearing a white terrycloth robe with the Ceasar's Palace logo emblazoned on the left lapel.

Any trepidation over what to say to him was eradicated by seeing Rolf fresh from his shower. He was freshly shaved, his moustache thick and bushy. But his dark, silver-tipped, almost bouffant hair was gone. Rolf Henderson stood before me almost bald. There was a fringe of hair around his temples – salt and pepper in color – extending at an almost equal delineation around the sides and back of his head. A thin covering of wispy brown hair was combed down wet on the top of his head. From the index finger of his left hand dangled what I now knew was his toupee, and he swung it around humorously like a flapper would her string of pearls.

"Well," he smiled, "What do you think?"

I liked it. Very much. I liked him. Very, very much. I had no idea why he'd ever bothered with a toupee. He was even sexier without it. His lack of hair accentuated his nose even more, which I instantly found enticing, and it made his dark eyebrows seem even more expressive. He did look a little older without the toupee, but I also liked that as well. It made the age difference between us seem less. Then I realized I really didn't know exactly how old Rolf was. I'd always assumed he was a good 15 to 20 years younger than I was. Now I wasn't so sure.

"What's not to like?" I commented with a knowing grin, curling up my finger and beckoning him over to the bed.

Rolf tossed the toupee on the mirrored dresser and moved toward the bed. He sat down next to me and bent to kiss me.

"So, what gives?" I asked him in reference to the unveiling of his true appearance.

"I thought Madam Zira's wig needed some company," he joked.

"You know you don't need it, Rolf," I told him; "You look just fine without it."

"I know," he responded teasingly, his smile sweet and beautiful. "Think I'll retire it here along with Madam Zira's black tresses. Too hot in Vegas for it anyway." Rolf was reaching for a cigarette as he spoke.

"Well, whatever your reason, "I told him as I stroked his smooth head and loved the feel of it, "I think you're sexy either way."

Rolf smiled. "Good." Then he stood and moved around the bed to reach for his watch laying on the nightstand on what had been his side of the bed last night.

"Shit," he frowned as he peered down at the timepiece. His tone instantly caught my attention. And I didn't like the sudden feeling it produced in me.

"Sorry, Edie," he said to me with a troubled smile; "No time for breakfast. We've got to get moving."

I quickly sat up, pulling the sheet up under my arms.

"What's the hurry? Where are we going?" I did not like to be rushed in the morning…especially when I had no idea the reason or need for the rush. I'd hoped Rolf and I could spend a few more hours in bed.

"The convention for one thing," Rolf answered me as he began to dig in his large duffel bag for a fresh set of clothes to wear.

I'd forgotten about the convention, so entranced with Rolf and our night together. This convention was my 'make or break' event. If it went well and I was successful at this last big fair I would definitely have enough for a full winter in Cocoa Beach. Maybe permanent residence. Yet, I fleetingly wondered how Rolf might now fit into my plans. Or if he should become part of them. I didn't want to think about that right now, though I knew I really should.

Rolf was urging me again – "Come on, Edie honey, hop in the shower and let's get moving. Lots to do today…"

At the time it made sense to me when I asked Rolf why we were taking a cab instead of the Winnie he explained that the RV was too lumbering and large to maneuver around the crowded Vegas streets. While I knew it was not a bad idea to scout out the convention hall before unloading my gear, I also knew that the Vegas Convention Center was not located on Havenwood Avenue, which was where Rolf had told the cab driver to take us. When the cab finally stopped in front of the huge Beth Shalom Temple, I was genuinely baffled.

It's Saturday, isn't it?" Rolf had responded casually, as if trying to joke off my query as to why we were at this Synagogue.

It was a huge, beautiful structure. As if plucked from the dunes of Jerusalem, this beige, textured concrete and tile-roofed Temple looked more like the desert retreat of a wealthy entertainer than a place of worship for the Jewish denizens of Las Vegas. If it had not been for the modern wrought-iron sculpture of the Burning Bush that was encircled by the curved drive around the front of the Temple and the Hebrew writing on the massive mahogany doors, it could easily have been mistaken for a palatial private home. The lettering on the door read "Enter into His Gates with Thanksgiving, and into His Courts with Praise." Psalm 100. One of the few I remembered from my childhood teachings in Synagogue. At my Papa's insistence, of course. He clung to his faith fervently, and instilled in me – at least as a child – the values and lessons of our history, our heritage and our bloodline.

Rolf was holding my hand as he walked quickly toward the entrance. I almost felt like he was pulling me along.

"I haven't been to Temple in years," I told him with obvious hesitation. I don't know why I was suddenly very nervous about this, having Rolf surprise me by bringing me to this Synagogue.

Rolf turned to me as we walked and flashed a smile.

"Then don't you think it's about time you put in an appearance?"

I just stared at him for a moment. Then my mind was flooded with memories past of my many years faithfully spent in Temple. Harry and I had been devoted to our local Synagogue, and the congregation there had been enormously supportive when Harry had died.

Just outside the entrance, Rolf stopped and reached into his back pocket. I think my mouth visibly dropped open when I saw him place a yamilke on his head and turned to gaze down at me. There was a smile in his eyes that I simply could not read. All I knew is that it was genuine and sincere.

I have no doubt the expression on my face was one of total confusion.

Rolf placed his hand on my cheek as if to comfort and reassure my bewilderment.

"My mother was Jewish," he commented simply.

Rolf took my hand in his, gave it a tight squeeze, and with minor effort pulled open one of the huge doors to give us entrance into the Temple.

One could instantly feel it was a good 20 degrees cooler inside this large, open structure. One also could not help notice how incredibly quiet it was inside.

I'd finally had enough. I halted my steps and forced Rolf to stop. He still held my hand tightly, and I tugged on it to get his attention.

"Rolf, what are we doing here?!" I exclaimed in a barely contained whisper that desired to be a shout.

"There's someone I want you to meet," Rolf replied after searching my eyes for a good 10 seconds.

Now I was more than a little nervous. Had I traveled over a thousand miles across the country to find myself duped into a meeting with Vegas gangsters in a deserted Synagogue? Would they take my paltry savings, steal my Winnebago and dump me out in the middle of the desert to have my bones picked clean by vultures?

Just as quickly I realized what a ridiculous thought that was. Still…

Obviously Rolf saw the fear, the wild paranoid thoughts reflected in my eyes, and was quick to comment.

"Edie, don't be afraid," he smiled and squeezed my hand. "You are going to love these people. I'm sure of it."

Though his smile seemed genuine, Rolf's words did little to allay my nervousness.

Rolf and I walked toward the Bimah, which was visible through a pair of large doors standing open to our left. I could see the large stained-glass window – a good three stories tall – cut out of the southeast wall of the sanctuary. As we neared the doorway I could see the Bimah was huge. The ceiling was domed, inlayed with a richly colored mosaic depicting a crown-like design with images of the Lion and the Lamb in the center.

A light waft of incense caught my senses and it brought back vivid memories of my youth. My Papa sitting next to me on one of the hard wooden pews listening to Rabbi Mannheim espouse faith and hope and courage and devotion. I loved that man and had always looked up to him. He too had escaped Germany before incarceration by the Nazis, and therefore in the eyes of a young girl who'd been through similar peril, Rabbi Mannheim was a hero, a brother, an uncle, a kindred spirit. It then occurred to me one reason I might have stayed away from Temple for so long – it brought back too many memories, most bittersweet and unresolved.

Had Rolf not stopped and let go of my hand, I might not have been roused from my reveries and noticed the only other people in the sanctuary.

In the very first pew I could see an elderly woman sitting, now partially turned to look at me. Beside her stood a middle-aged man in a well-tailored suit and tie, the yamilke resting on top of his dark blond hair a rich azure satin. He stared at me intensely, smiling yet also looking on the verge of tears. His hands were clasped tightly together in front of him, and he stood totally motionless.

The old woman sitting next to him was white-haired and small. Her face was wrinkled and thin, but the beautiful Jewish nose on her tiny face was unmistakable. It is a joke among many – even Jews – that 'we', Jewish people, all look alike. But I knew this woman. And this man. They were strangers to me, but in the deepest core of my Being I was filled with an overwhelming sense of familiarity with these people. I'd never felt anything like it before in my entire life. My whole body was covered in chills as I stood there next to Rolf staring at these people.

The elderly woman was slowly standing up now – being aided by the younger man – and she turned and shuffled with careful steps to the aisle between the pews, to face me like two gunslingers on Main Street in the center of town at high noon. It would have been humorous if I had not been totally overcome with indescribable emotion when the woman spoke. Her voice was frail but convicted, her blue eyes swelling with tears.

"Edith," she sobbed. In an instant I recognized it. It was the voice of my Mother.

My mind suddenly went numb. But my eyes darted to the younger man standing near her. I knew him now. He was my younger brother David.

I could hear the undefined sound rising from my throat, but all that would come from my mouth was a choked cry. I felt Rolf firmly grasp my arm, as my knees started to weaken and I felt myself beginning to stumble forward.

Rolf Henderson was reading my mind again.

"It's real, Edie. They're alive. They've been searching for you for over 20 years."

I heard Rolf's words, but I was still in a blinding state of shock. Yet I knew his words were true. It was my Mother's voice, it was her face. Now ancient and worn, but I could see her as if she were 25 again – blond and beautiful and walking me to school over 50 years ago.

My brother David – whose golden blond hair was the only thing I'd ever been able to remember of him – was now a grown man. He looked so much like Papa. He was crying openly and laughing jubilantly at the same time.

I was now thoughtlessly moving toward my Mother at full running speed. I fell to my knees before her and grasped her around the waist tightly, almost screaming with sobs of profound shock and pure Joy.

I felt my Mother's frail hands caressing my hair and in between her sobs, her voice cracking with emotion, saying my name over and over. All I could do was cling to her desperately and cry against her bosom. Such utter contentment. To have my Mother comfort me. It was all I had ever dreamed of as a girl, and an unrequited wish I'd carried with me throughout my entire life. Growing up without a Mother was a tragedy I'd never quite come to terms with. Worse to know – or at least think all these years – she had died a painful, pointless death made the void even worse.

This all had to be a sweet dream. Surely I was still in bed in the room at Ceasar's Palace and was merely dreaming all this. As a girl I used to have many dreams of seeing my mother, but usually in those dreams I was chasing her and could never catch up with her. As I got older I realized how symbolic those dreams were, and noticed how they recurred less and less as I grew up. Then I remembered the last time I had dreamt of her had been…the first night Rolf and I had been together.

Her shaking, cool, wrinkled hands upon my cheeks, my Mother gently pulled my face up to look into hers. I could hardly see through my blinding tears, but I was laughing with her as we gazed at one another. I could see so much of my own face in hers. I also saw that she still wore the wedding ring Papa gave to her when they married so long ago. I recognized it immediately. It was just a simple gold band, but I remembered as a child how when the sun hit it just the right way it would shoot off sparkling beams of light. I suddenly now remembered how I had always thought that when it did that God was showing His blessing on my parent's marriage.

My brother's voice drew me out of my racing memories. I could never recall David's voice in my memories – only his youthful baby blond hair. And now his voice and countenance was that of a grown man. And very handsome. He looked a great deal like Papa.

I took the strong hand David held toward me and felt instant warmth as he aided me to my feet. We stood staring at one another for a moment. His eyes were sparkling with mirth and tears as he said my name. Then we fell into one another's arms and held each other so tightly I'm sure both of us had trouble breathing. But it felt so good to touch him, hold him, and hear his voice. Something I had never thought would ever be possible until I met him again in Heaven. And here in this Synagogue, with the sun shining through the glorious stained glass window beside us, this all felt like being in Heaven.

I pulled back and looked at him, caressing his face and hair – not being able to touch him enough out of disbelief he was real.

"David, is it really you?!"

He laughed tearfully, "Yes, Edith, it's really me. And you are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen!"

"I can't believe this is real! That you are real," I told him; and turned again to Mama. I reached out my hand to her, still beside myself she was alive and standing there next to me and taking hold of my hand. I gazed from Mama to David and back again at Mama. It was then that my knees gave way.

David guided me to the pew and sat down next to me, Mama on my other side.

I couldn't get enough of looking at both of them, touching them. Then I noticed Rolf Henderson moving out of the shadows to stand in front of us. He was holding out his handkerchief for me. I took it from him, and finally now understood the enigmatic smile he'd been wearing around me all these months. He knew what was going to happen all this time; had been instrumental in making it happen.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" I sniffled into his linen handkerchief.

"I did try," he smiled slightly; "But when I met you, I just couldn't find the words."

"I don't know whether to be furious with you or grateful…or both," I responded, still teary and still holding my mother's hand tightly.

I did not feel in the least angry at Rolf. Certainly he could have just found me and told me straight out that he was searching for me on behalf of my mother and brother; but if he had, we would never have come to know one another in the way we now did. Maybe that was what he was trying to say without actually saying it.

"Be nothing but grateful, dear sister," David now spoke up, sliding his arm around my shoulders and hugging me to him. "If not for Mr. Henderson we might never have found you."

Rolf Henderson now crouched down in front of me and took my hand.

"Edie," he began, "I work with a small private organization that tries to reunite Jewish immigrants with their relatives who survived the concentration camps. Understandably there are very few left, and success is quite difficult considering most immigrants who fled to America to escape the Nazis changed their names at Ellis Island. When your brother and dear mother approached me they of course had no idea if your father had changed his name when coming to America, nor if you had married and what your husband's name might be. Which in turn made tracking you down quite a challenge."

Rolf smiled at me; but what seemed once an enigmatic smile now I understood to be one of understanding, compassion and warmth.

"You see, Edith," David now spoke, "Papa's real name was Reubenovsky – so we had no idea if Papa had changed it when you came here. And then there was the possibility of your taking your husband's name…"

"Yes," I quickly interjected. "I didn't really know this until I was older, but Papa did change our last name to Rueben. Or rather, the Immigration Department did when we came into the country. And then I took my husband's name – Rosenberg."

"Exactly," David responded with a smile. He was so handsome; just like Papa. "And we knew none of that until Mr. Henderson actually found you and was able to talk to you."

"You may be surprised, Edie," Rolf now said, "to find out how I did actually come to locate you at last."

I gazed at him expectantly. Nothing really surprised me about Rolf anymore. He'd truly topped himself with this surprise.

"Your stepson Isaac."

My previous estimation had been wrong. I was not only surprised I was stunned.

"Isaac?!" I exclaimed. "You found Isaac?"

Rolf nodded with a pleased smile. "Yes, Edie. He told me his story. He has never forgotten you, Edie. He loves you very much, but said he never knew how to 'come home'."