Lidia

Many years later, Lidia would remember her mother as 'loving, affectionate, maternal. I see you as you bent over my crib, to caress me and say good-night, to put your hand on my warm forehead before the thermometer told you I was really ill. I see how you bent over the household accounts, or how quickly your hand turned the wheel of the sewing machine, to make me a new simple cotton dress. And the cut- out scraps of material - oh, what joy! - would serve to dress my doll, my favorite one, who closed and opened her eyes.'

Though she was the only child at home, Lidia was not without companions of her own age. There were many young cousins who played together whenever their families visited each other. The children of the Zamenhof family had a special relationship with Uncle Feliks, Ludwik's brother. A pharmacist by profession, and something of a poet, Feliks Zamenhof often arranged entertainment evenings for the family and had a talent for writing little plays for the children. Whenever one of his children had a birthday or sometimes on other occasions, he wrote and directed little theater productions which Lidia and her young cousins performed.

Every week, all the Zamenhofs - brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins - would meet at one of their homes. This weekly Zamenhof family gathering was a tradition that lasted long after the children had grown up, although, as Lidia's cousin Stephen Zamenhofhas recalled, 'later on, the younger people had better things to do and just the old ladies attended'. While the children played, he remembered, 'the adults discussed what was going on during the week - mostly food prices and servants not being what they should be, and so on'. When the family met at Ludwik's home, all looked forward to Klara's strawberry tarts with cream. Many years later, cousinJulian Zamenhofrecalled that 'an atmosphere of enthusiasm and reverence' surrounded Dr Zamenhof. Stephen remembered that the children called him ' Wujaszek Ludwik'- 'little uncle Ludwik'. At those weekly gatherings, Julian remembered, his uncle sat 'cigarette in hand, talking quietly without flourish or emphasis, never gesticulating; and yet whatever he said seemed important: one had to listen to him.

'He was also a great listener himself; he would readily listen to a child, a patient, a tram conductor or royalty; he would always speak, behave and listen in the same way, with respect and attention.'

While the young cousins were permitted to roam through the house in their play, one room was strictly forbidden to them: Uncle Ludwik's consulting room. The children resented this, for the room was full of books and interesting objects, and had great possibilities for exploring. Once, the eleven-year-old Julian spoke up, giving vent to the bitterness the children felt because they were not allowed to go into the wonderful room.

"'. . . all these Esperantists, whoeverthey happentobe,"'heargued as spokesman for the rebellious crowd, "'may enter his study whenever they like and yet we, his family, would be admitted only in the case of a sore eye . . . They are strangers whilst we are family!"

'Uncle Ludwik listened patiently with a kindness yet without a trace of a smile.

"'They are not strangers; they are also my family; they share my greatest belief in the need of mutual understanding, and help me to propagate this idea amongst those who most need it but do not yet realise their need."'

From an early age Lidia knew that there were many other people who were important in her father's life. She knew she must wait until all the patients had left his office before she might play a game of ball with him, although sometimes, when she thought he had been working long enough, she would bravely enter and ask him to play ball with her. And he would cheerfully give in for a few minutes.

'From my childhood,' Lidia later wrote, 'I remember the patients' waiting-room, where some came with flaming red eyes, others would cover their painful eye with a piece of cotton wool, sometimes stained, and still others, the saddest ones of all, did not come alone; relatives or friends accompanied them, because in their own eyes all sight was gone.

'After the visit of those patients, I often saw grief on the face of my father-it was the deep, heartfelt compassion for those from whom fate had robbed their sight.'

Lidia learned that although her father cared deeply for his patients, he was even more dedicated to his Esperanto work. Long after the last patient had left, he would work on, answering the many letters he received from Esperantists all over the world, writing articles, and translating books into Esperanto.