Uprooted: Memoir

By Esti Skloot

When pregnant Esther—a young, adventurous, British-born Israeli—follows her new husband, Steve, to America, she has no idea what she’s getting herself into.







Even before their baby is born, Esther discovers the dark side of her charming film production manager husband, and learns that she must cope with his moodiness and domineering personality. Left alone day after day in a high-rise apartment in Queens, Esther struggles with culture shock, homesickness, and adapting her husband’s whims—like the baby goat he brings home to their eighth-floor apartment to keep as a pet.







Ten years and two more children later, thirty-four-year-old Steve is diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor. Despite aggressive treatments, he succumbs to the disease, leaving Esther to care for their three children alone, Esther at first feels lost and bewildered; as time goes on, however, she discovers that there is a freedom in her new situation—and that she has a greater inner strength than she ever before realized.

• Language: English
• Publisher: She Writes Press
• Release date: Aug 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781631526657

Esti Skloot

Esti Skloot is an adjunct professor of Hebrew at the University of San Francisco. She was born in England to Jewish refugees who escaped Nazi Germany, and grew up in Israel where she received her teaching credentials from the Hebrew Teachers’ Seminary in Jerusalem. After serving in the IDF as a singer in an army entertainment troupe, she married an American and immigrated to New York and later California, where she received her BA in music at Sonoma State University and her MFA in creative writing at the University of San Francisco. Skloot loves nature, music—she is now learning to play the flute—and books. She lives in Mill Valley, California with Elan, her Israeli husband, and their pit bull, Laila. She has three children and four grandchildren, all of whom live in the Bay Area.

Book preview

Chapter 1:

The Meeting

When I met Steve on the SS Zion, sailing from New York to Haifa, I never imagined I’d end up carrying his child. As an entertainment officer on the Israeli liner, which was part of the Israeli shipping company ZIM, I handed out my address to several young Americans who came to visit Israel. I was proud of my country, where I grew up watching our blue-and-white flag with the Star of David fluttering on top of buildings during Independence Day, where I marched along singing patriotic songs in boot camp during my army service. I liked having visitors and enjoyed showing them around. Besides, I believed it was part of my job to encourage tourists to stay in our country. Steve, who was going to volunteer on a kibbutz, was the only one of those tourists, however, who came to visit me in my hometown, Ashkelon, a small beach town on the Mediterranean, south of Tel Aviv.

When I first saw Steve, he was trying to get his big German shepherd to climb up a metal staircase leading to the main deck of the SS Zion. He wore a black V-neck sweater, blue jeans, and white sneakers. He dressed differently than Israeli guys, who walked around in shorts folded up to their hamstrings, undershirts, and sandals. I knew he was American right away since I had met other Americans on my previous trip to New York. He was young, in his early twenties, clean-shaven, and a few inches taller than my five foot five. I was surprised that he’d traveled all the way from New York with a dog, and it impressed me, though I wasn’t particularly intrigued by him. In Israel, at the time, we used to make fun of Americans, whom we viewed as naive and square in their approach to life. I thought of him as just another passenger. As the ship’s social director, it was my job to take care of him.

May I help you, sir? I said.

No, thanks, I can manage. His tone was very matter-of-fact, and I moved on.

Crouching under the big dog, he shoved him forward with his right shoulder. There you go, he said. He turned, flashed me a smile, scrambled after the dog, and disappeared.

Who was this strange guy with his huge canine? He must be a bit nutty, I thought, but I admired his devotion to his pet.

It was 1965, and I was on my second voyage on the large ship. At twenty-five I was proud to be the sole director of the entertainment program. I had attained that position after apprenticing with Victor Epstein, a veteran entertainment officer, for two voyages around the Mediterranean. I was glad the apprenticeship was over. He’d taught me the tricks of the trade but I had to do all the hard work, like manually blowing up fifty balloons for the Captain’s Ball or getting up to lead morning gymnastics. The worst was when he asked me to iron his stiff white officer’s uniform in his airless cabin. I obliged, believing he’d give me a negative report if I didn’t. I was scared of people in superior positions, especially men. I came by it honestly after years of being told by my Jewish German father to do as I was told and not talk back to him. I’m the oldest of three siblings. My parents lived in England as refugees after fleeing the Nazis in 1939. Once my siblings—Jeremy, a year and a half younger, and Rachel, four and a half years my junior—were born, my parents didn’t have much time or energy for me. My father was raised by strict German parents and knew only one way to bring up his children: you obey, or you’ll be punished, by a piercing look, a spanking, or being forced to skip a meal.

I met Steve again that afternoon. He appeared, with his dog tagging behind, while I was teaching Hebrew in the Carmel Lounge.

May we join you? he asked.

A German shepherd wasn’t my idea of an ideal student. What do you plan to do with him? I asked.

No problem, he loves to study.

Okay, so he’s joking with me. I can handle that. Let’s see where this will lead us.

Does he know some Hebrew already?

No, but he just had his bar mitzvah.

I laughed. Touché, you win.

This guy was like a big kid in every way—the way he looked, the way he joked around with his dog. He was so different from Israeli guys who at age eighteen had to enlist in the army and were serious and cynical.

He found a place on a side bench, patted the seat, and the dog settled down next to him.

Where are you from? I asked after the lesson.

I’m from Queens, New York. Queens sounded like a regal place. I pictured mansions and stately gardens.

Do you study there?

I finished my studies last spring—I majored in film at Boston University.

I was intrigued. As a teenager I went to the movies every single Saturday night. As I watched the screen, identifying with the heroes and heroines, the actors seemed to emit a supernatural light. I would run home, arriving breathless, heart throbbing, tears in my eyes. I’d be so taken by the romance or the historic epic I had just witnessed, convinced my life was meaningless and dull by comparison.

I sensed Steve’s eyes moving over my body, gliding from top to bottom. The blood rose to my cheeks while I tucked my cream-colored blouse into my narrow, knee-length skirt. I felt uneasy, with him looking at me that way, especially since to me he was just another passenger, not an object of my romantic dreams.

He asked me how long I’d worked on the ship. I told him eight months.

What made you go for this job?

I wanted to see the world and didn’t have any money.

You could have been a stewardess.

And be a glorified waitress? I sniffed. No, thanks. Besides, I love the sea. And you, why are you traveling to Israel? It was the standard question I asked passengers.

This was when he told me he was going to live on a kibbutz. He beamed, thinking it would impress me, and it did. For me, the kibbutz symbolized the Israeli spirit, communal living, equality, socialism, love of the land, and refuting capitalism and urban living. During my army service I spent time in various kibbutzim, where I’d made many friends. I felt a kinship with kibbutz members. I considered it the biggest compliment when someone asked me if I was a kibbutznick, someone born on a kibbutz.

Which one?

Kibbutz Hazore’a, he said, adding, near Haifa.

I couldn’t help but feel a bit offended by him telling me where the kibbutz was. I know where it is, I said coolly. I peeked at my watch; I had to run; I was in charge of the five o’clock music hour in the lounge. Sorry, got to go. See you later.

During the ten-day voyage I bumped into Steve now and then, always with his loyal dog, O’Hara, at his side. One morning while I chatted with some sun-tanning passengers on the upper deck, he joined in.

How are you both doing? I asked.

He nuzzled his dog. O’Hara loves all the scraps everybody feeds him.

Are you happy with the way things are on the ship?

Sure, you’re doing a great job.

Thanks. I felt a warm glow within. Steve’s compliment made me feel good. My work was important to me; by nature I was a perfectionist and tried to excel in whatever I was doing.

At that point I decided to give Steve my address in Ashkelon. It was common for Israelis to invite tourists to their homes. We took pride in our small country and wanted to share our way of living with others. It might be part of the Middle Eastern culture, where it’s customary to open one’s house to strangers, much more so than in the States. In my capacity as social director on the ship, I felt it was a legitimate gesture.

I went below and scribbled my address on a piece of paper. Here, I said, returning. You’re welcome to visit me.

He folded the note carefully and put it in his shirt pocket. I didn’t imagine he’d follow up. I’d given my address to other foreign passengers and no one had ever shown up at my parents’ house. Plus, my mind was elsewhere—on my work and on the affair I was having with one of the ship’s officers.

A couple of days before landing in Haifa we held the traditional Masquerade Ball, where the passengers dressed up and prizes were given for best costume. I was nervous, wondering if I could manage to pull the whole evening off on my own. I was the sole person in charge of the ship’s entertainment. I didn’t have any team members to assist me.

I prepared the prizes—bottles of wine from Zichron Ya’akov and cosmetic products from the Dead Sea. I worked with the band director to coordinate drum rolls for the appropriate times, hung paper decorations, and announced over the loudspeakers that everyone should gather at 8:00 p.m. in the Galilee lounge. The passengers, dressed as gypsies, fairies, and cowboys, and the ship’s officers in their sparkling white uniforms arrived in high spirits. On stage, in a décolleté sequined gold-green dress and white pumps, I welcomed everybody and introduced the panel of three judges. I felt very sophisticated in my fancy dress. I had bought it during a sale at Macy’s when we stopped for a couple of days in New York.

The costume contest started with a drum roll. The dressed-up passengers paraded before the judges, who negotiated briefly before handing me their verdict on a piece of paper. Third place was a prisoner with a white beard, striped pajamas, and a number written on cardboard across his chest. Second place was a lovely fairy queen with a silken gown, a sparkling tiara in her hair, and a magic wand. And then finally, after a long drum roll, I announced the winner of the first prize: the Russian diplomat. A pudgy gentleman of medium height with a hefty belly, sporting a black beard with a monocle in his right eye, leaned slightly on a silver knobbed cane. Wearing striped black pants, a gold watch hanging from his vest pocket, he walked slowly toward me. Smiling, I stretched out my hand to shake his. He had a surprisingly firm grip.

Congratulations, I said, playing the role along with him, Where are you from in Russia?

In a thick accent he answered: I’m from Leningrad, a beautiful city.

His voice sounded familiar yet I couldn’t place it. Later, when the dance music started, the Russian diplomat removed his beard, toupee, and monocle, after which he pulled a pillow out from under his shirt. Only then did I realize it was Steve.

At the end of the ten-day voyage, I received a letter with thirty signatures on it. In beautiful calligraphy letters it stated: We’d like to thank you for your hard work, caring, and sympathy for each one of us. You gave us a sense of warm Israeli hospitality. The lively entertainment and your personal attention helped make our trip truly delightful. The first signature, matching the handwriting of the letter, was Steven P. Skloot. I felt so grateful to him. I was surprised and honored. The letter felt like a warm hug to my ego.

Growing up, I never felt acknowledged. I worked as hard as I could polishing my father’s shoes or cleaning his bike to a shine, but he never thanked me or said, What a good job! When I brought home a report card with straight As, he’d barely glance at it. I felt I could never get a good word from him. I grew up feeling I wasn’t good enough, which made me try to excel in everything I did, to push myself to the utmost, but I was never satisfied with the results. When we first came to Israel, we slept on the floor of British barracks that served as an immigrant camp in the small town of Pardes Chanah. From there we moved to kibbutz Regba in northern Israel. My father hated communal living, so half a year later we moved to an old house in the midst of orange groves in Pardes Gan Chayim on the coastal plain of Israel. I loved playing with Elana and Aliza, two girls who lived nearby, among the citrus trees, inhaling the fragrance of orange blossoms. When, after two years, we left that home, my heart was broken.

I remembered being nine and a half, sitting with my little brother Jeremy on top of an open truck loaded with our household belongings: chairs, cabinets, boxes filled with pots and pans, metal bed frames and thin mattresses. Rachel sat in the cabin with our parents. We passed eucalyptus and orange trees while the warm wind blew in our faces, drying the tears trickling down my cheeks. I had to leave my two girlfriends—the only friends I ever had.

It had been the same during the war in England. My parents, who in 1939 had escaped the Nazis, moved often; they would pick up their kids and travel by train, tram, or bus to a new destination, where my father would work as a gardener while my mother served as a maid, cook, or both. From the time I was born in Gloucester to the time we immigrated to Israel when I was eight, we changed residences every year or so.

After docking in the northern port city of Haifa, I traveled home, to Ashkelon, where I stayed for a weeklong shore leave. I then returned to the ship for my next voyage to New York. Ten days later, after coming back from my trip, I walked along the path to our little home in Ashkelon, whistling our family arrival tune—the beginning of a German folk song. I looked forward to seeing my parents, especially my Mom, who liked to spoil me when I returned. My mouth dropped open when I saw Steve, O’Hara at his side, sitting on the doorstep.

What are you doing here? I asked. O’Hara raised his black ears as if I were addressing him. Steve grinned, displaying his perfect white teeth.

Just visiting, he said. His pale, bony knees protruded from Bermuda shorts. I thought, only American tourists wear those shorts. As a young Israeli, I dismissed a kind of attire different than the norm in Israel. Except for the Orthodox Jews, we all dressed similarly, in the spirit of our new, pioneering country, the way kibbutznicks dressed; short shorts and undershirts or tank tops in summer, and simple, usually khaki, pants and cotton shirts, in winter

I brushed my hands over my pants, trying to straighten the creases. I hoped I didn’t look too disheveled after traveling by bus all the way from Haifa. How long have you been here . . . in my home? I said.

A couple of days. His deep-set blue eyes stared at me. I felt the blood rise to my face while I wondered if he’d waited around just because he wanted to see me. I also couldn’t figure out how come my father let a total stranger stay in our home for several days.

May I? He took my valise and opened the screen door, spreading out his arm as though welcoming me home. After you, he nodded.

My mother, busy in the narrow kitchen, an apron over her floral print dress, walked up to welcome me with a warm embrace. The way she looked at me, with her laughing blue-green eyes, I knew she was proud of her adventurous daughter. Her dark, wavy hair framed a gentle oval face tanned from years of working outside in a plant nursery, where she showed older women, mostly of North African and Yemenite descent, how to pot plants, transfer them, and take care of them.

Estherlè, how are you? How was the trip?

"Okay, eemalè, I’m fine, it’s good to be home."

She nodded her head toward Steve. It was fun getting to know your friend from the ship.

Is that how he introduced himself? I thought. Well, he’s not really—

My mom smiled at us. Would you like a cup of tea?

Before we had a chance to answer, my father appeared, gave me a brief greeting—Hello, Esther—and turned to Steve. You can join us for supper. Obviously, Steve has made himself welcome here, I thought.

I wondered why my father was being so nice to this American stranger. They rarely had guests stay over. I joined him in the kitchen, where he was retrieving bread from the breadbox.

"Abba, I said, it was kind of you to let Steve stay." He raised the corners of his usually closed, thin lips as he looked at O’Hara. My father had always preferred the company of animals to human beings.

Well, if this young man traveled with his dog all the way from America, he must be a good person, he said.

As we sat down to a simple meal of white cheese, olives, salad, and soft-boiled eggs, my father poured himself a cup of tea from the teapot. He asked Steve how he liked Israel, and Steve, seeking my eyes, replied that he loved it, especially the kibbutz. Listening to them speak, I chuckled at their different English accents; my father, with his strong German diction, Vot do you think about our country? And Steve with his Yankee-New York accent, skipping consonants and turning vowels into diphthongs. I tried to teach the passengers Hebrew, but in such a short time none of them could learn to speak the language. My mother’s smile deepened. She loved the company of people, especially from faraway places.

How do you get along with the Kibbutzniks? she asked.

Great. Steve tapped his spoon to crack open the top of the egg. They’re so friendly, and material things don’t mean a thing to them. His full lips closed over the spoon as he savored the egg yolk. Neither my father nor my mother asked him about his life in the US. Like most Israelis, it was more important for them to know what impression our country made on an American tourist. It would be nice if they asked him about his life back home. It would be more polite, I thought.

Steve finished the last bit of egg, scraping the inner shell with his teaspoon.

This was delicious; may I have another?

My father looked surprised.

I’m sorry, but we only eat one egg at a meal, no need for more than that. He handed the bowl of olives to Steve. If you like, have some olives; seven of them amount to one egg.

Steve glanced at me sideways, the half smile on his lips disappearing when he addressed my father.

Very well, there’s no harm in asking—right? he said, winking at me. I peeked at my father, who sat poker-faced, not revealing his thoughts. I guess he thought Steve was a spoiled American who had no idea about food shortage or rationing, which we, refugees in England and new immigrants in Israel, knew so well. I wondered whether he picked up on Steve’s humor, but I assumed not; my father rarely joked around.

After Steve helped clear the table, we sat on the patio, chatting and listening to the waves from the sea. I was tired from my long trip, so I said good night and went to bed in the little room under the terrace that my parents had added to our home. Steve slept in the living room on the old sofa. I lay on my narrow bed in my bunker-like room, my mattress just a few inches wider than my torso. My eyes open, peeking at the garden lights through the narrow windows near the ceiling at the height of our garden lawn, I thought about our foreign visitor, this English-speaking guy with a huge dog. It appealed to my sense of adventure, yet I still didn’t feel attracted to him; there were no sparks flying. I felt odd about him staying in our home, but part of me was excited, looking forward to getting to know this strange guy.

The following day Steve and I walked along the beach while he recounted the escapades of his crazy family, as he called them. It was my beach, where every summer I spent hours swimming in the deep waters beyond the line of crashing waves, playing paddle ball on the silken sand, and watching fiery sunsets while crabs scurried sideways into their holes.

Steve’s feet sank in the sand as he charged forward into the wind. He told me his grandfather and uncles loved gambling. I was surprised; gambling didn’t exist in my world. My parents wouldn’t dream of playing with money; they needed every penny for survival. The money I made just covered rent, food, and transportation. While studying in Jerusalem, I couldn’t afford a bag of potato chips, and once, after purchasing deodorant, I tried to return it because I didn’t have enough money for the bus. I looked at Steve but kept quiet; I didn’t want to share my stories of poverty and need.

They gambled even on the Sabbath, he chuckled, when you’re not supposed to touch money.

The white-crested waves come roaring down. The spray splashed in my face as I laughed with pleasure; I loved the salty air on my tongue. I felt free, light-headed, and alive. With Steve next to me I felt a sense of adventure; I touched his arm, feeling the soft fabric of his suede jacket, and a shiver of excitement ran through me.

You know, I said, my mother lights candles, but we don’t really observe the Sabbath.

How about Yom-Kippur? Do you go to the synagogue?

No; instead of praying, I pilfer guavas from our neighbor’s tree.

Steve laughed. You were pretty naughty, huh?

That afternoon while my parents had their siesta in their small bedroom, I sat on our living room sofa watching Steve look at objects familiar to me: the small wooden coffee table, my father’s desk stacked with magazines and newspapers he planned to read, my father’s prized object—a record player on which he played the music of Brahms, Schubert, and Mozart—and the bookcase with books in German, English, and some Hebrew. Steve picked a hardcover book with gilded letters engraved in German on its cover, Poems by Goethe, and leafed through it. He turned to me. Where are all these books from?

My parents brought them from Germany. I paused. It’s strange; I never really thought about it.

The books must have meant a lot to them.

I guess . . . I never saw them read those books; they were too busy working.

He walked over to the sofa, the book in his hand; he opened it and pointed to one of the pages. Can you read this?

I shook my head tentatively. Just a bit. My parents never spoke to me in German. In England they never spoke it, since it was the language of the enemy, but once they came to Israel they resorted to their mother tongue. I learned German by listening to them.

Steve looked at me with wide eyes, mouth slightly open, absorbing every word I said. He was interested in me, in my life. Guys I’d met before didn’t care about my history; I couldn’t share much with them. A surge of warmth spread throughout my body. He’s getting to know me, I thought, my home, my background, my world.

After checking out a few more objects in the room—a black-and-white wedding photograph of my parents and a delicate, painted porcelain fruit bowl, the only wedding gift they managed to bring with them from Germany—Steve came over to the sofa. He sat down next to me, so close our arms touched. When he spread them to make a point during our conversation, I could feel the silky hair on his forearms. My heart beat faster while I smiled and nodded without hearing a word he said. And then he stopped talking; it was quiet. I felt Steve’s arm around my shoulder, gently pulling me toward him. I sensed my skin radiating heat under his touch. I looked at him. His eyes had a soft, imploring look, but he didn’t say a word. I didn’t react; the presence of my parents down the hall unnerved me; what if my father walked into the living room? But then Steve embraced me, holding me tightly, and before I knew it I found myself horizontal on the sofa with Steve upon me, his torso the length of mine. With my arms around his broad back, whatever resistance I had melted away. I relished his silken, smooth-shaven cheek, the scent of Old Spice, and the warmth of his body. When his lips, soft and gentle, met mine, I tasted fresh peppermint on my tongue. My body tingling, I closed my eyes, savoring