The Gold Watch
By Helga Harris
I loved my stepmother. I
loved my father, too. My mother . . . that’s another story. My father was kind, hard working, and affectionate. It was
easy to read his feelings by looking into his dark, twinkling eyes. He was able to manipulate me by eye contact. “Do
this for me so that your mother won’t be upset.”
I often disagreed with her on subjects as diverse as religion, and her quick, superficial judgment
of people. My mother was conservative, and I, open-minded, the liberal in the family. I don’t know where that came from,
probably from my paternal side. Our separate outlooks were a bone of contention between us forever.
All rules
originated from her. I know that my father adored her and was loyal to her. Love? I don’t know, but I speculate that
he feared her. Papa was like Neville Chamberlain, “Peace at any price.” I felt the price to be too high.
The night after my mother died I spent
in my parents’ house. My father talked for hours into the morning about his life. The stories fascinated me, especially
when I realized that this was the first time, in fifty-two years, that he was able to say whatever he wished. I can’t
recall that my father and I ever had a one-on-one conversation before. My mother usually negated my father’s ideas,
which made me feel bad. Papa kept quiet. What could I do? I felt trapped. During those confrontations I never heard my parents
raise their voices. My mother ruled it impolite. In later years I became aware that I did the same. When angry, I spoke in
a low, modulated tone, looking the person straight in the eye . . . controlling.
After my mother’s death, my father and I met weekly for lunch. I looked
forward to those meetings. New York City is known for its 35,000 diverse restaurants, but for two years, until I moved to Florida, my father and I always went
to the same vegetarian restaurant that he favored. During these weekly meetings I got to know my father. After years of being
suppressed, he now wanted to talk. And talk he did. He told me about the numerous ladies who wanted to be introduced to him,
Papa, the new eligible bachelor. Even one of his sisters-in-law pursued him.
At one of our luncheons, my father mentioned Binnie. Her family and mine had known each other casually
for 15 years. A friend suggested, “Take the lady out for coffee.” I thought . . . just coffee . . .
how unimaginative, and so cheap. What kind of impression will that give the lady of my ‘eligible’ bachelor
father? Okay, maybe not dinner for the first meeting . . . but how about lunch?
Papa invited Binnie for coffee and pastry. For several weeks they met at the
same tearoom. My father didn’t share these events with me until later in their relationship. It worked. They fell in
love. They glowed. Papa was seventy-nine and Binnie seventy-five when they married, two years after my mother died.
Shortly after their marriage I moved to
Miami.
They, in turn, became snowbirds and lived in a residential hotel in South Beach. The weekly dinners we had were precious. It made me happy to see this elderly,
loving couple enjoy life. My stepmother was a lovable person with a sense of humor, very different from her predecessor. Everyone
loved her, so much so that once I told my father, in front of her, “I wish Binnie had been my biological mother.”
Once, on the last evening
before my favorite couple was going back north for the summer, I told my father that if he ever wanted to give me a gift I
would love to have his gold pocket watch and chain. I saw myself wearing it as a necklace. Papa wore it when I was young,
but in later years kept it in the vault. I was especially fond of it since he told me that the indentations on the gold watch
cover were from my baby teeth. He had permitted me to use it as a teething ring! My father’s response to my request
was shocking. “If you go back to your husband, I will give you the watch.”
I couldn’t believe what I heard. For the moment,
all was quiet. Then I burst out, but this time not in a modulated tone. My body reacted. I felt flushed . . .
my facial skin burning . . . the head throbbing. Looking deeply into my father’s eyes I shouted, “You never
even asked me why I left my husband. Do you think I would go back to an unwanted marriage just for a gold watch?”
I never understood why my father had never
asked about my two year separation. My parents had been against my marriage for three reasons: First, the man I intended to
marry came from a poor family. Second, he quit engineering school, and finally, he went into a lucrative trucking business,
which my parents felt was beneath their future son-in-law’s choice of business, and my social station. I deeply disappointed
my parents. I know my mother was the main culprit. She was concerned about how her friends would look at this marriage. They
expected a doctor or lawyer to be their son-in-law. Again, my father was quiet until one day my mother’s courier, Papa,
was sent to convince me to change my mind. But in spite of the dissension, my parents made a big wedding, to show face. Years
later, when my husband was successful in the book publishing business, my parents gained respect for him. I thought they were
hypocrites.
With my father’s outburst,
I perceived that now he was supportive of my husband, and against me. Probably he was angry because I was the first in the
family to separate, and eventually divorce. Why did he keep silent so long? How could Papa not have shown concern and curiosity,
especially since I was his favorite child? What happened to the loving man? Did my mother come back from the dead and enter
my father’s body? I was astonished. It was embarrassingly quiet in the room. Papa bowed his head in shame. Binnie and
I were stunned.
November
of the same year, my father and Binnie returned to Florida for the season. As usual, I went to their home for dinner. We greeted each
other with hugs and kisses, happy to see each other after seven months, never acknowledging our past falling-out. My father
gently released himself from our embrace and handed me a large shopping bag. His eyes were on me as I took out the magnificent
silver candelabra that had been in his family in Austria-Hungary, since the mid 1800s. I had a love-hate relationship with the candelabra, since
for years it was my duty to polish it every Thursday for the Sabbath, until I married and moved to my own home.
I was very touched by the
gift. It was the only memento of my father’s childhood. Tears of gratitude and love trickled down my cheeks. I was about
to crunch the bag, throw it into the garbage, and give Papa a big hug, when I casually put my hand in the bag one more time,
to be certain that all the parts of the candelabra were accounted for. My fingers felt crumpled soft tissue paper. I looked
into my father’s dark eyes as I lifted out the paper, and saw that look of love that I knew so well. I opened my hand
. . . gently unwrapped the tissue paper . . . .
There was the gold watch!
[Helga Harris was born in Berlin, Germany, and moved with her family to New York
City in 1938. As a young child she dreamed of being a fashion designer.
She attended Brooklyn College and graduated from Pratt Institute. Helga achieved her goal and worked in the fashion industry for forty
years. She moved to Miami in 1973, where she had her own fashion label. Helga taught fashion design at the University of Miami, and Bauder Fashion College. After moving to Sarasota in 1990,
she was a design instructor at The Sarasota Vocational Technical School. Throughout her life Helga painted and has had numerous
art exhibits in New York, Miami and Sarasota. For the past fifteen years writing has become her first love. Her memoir, Dear Helga, Dear
Ruth, was published, as well as several articles in The Sarasota Herald-Tribune and The Tampa Tribune.
Helga has contributed stories to anthologies, including Dolls Remembered, and various magazines. The most recent
collection, We Were There, was published by the St.Petersburg Holocaust Museum. At present, Helga is a Co-Leader in a writing program at
The Lifelong Learning Academy. (USF). She continues to paint.]
