by Amy Newmark
“You are not to make eye contact with the soldiers,” Tsena ordered.
Maria tried to obey. But one afternoon when she lay in bed with a high fever, a shy, young soldier knocked on the bedroom door and offered Tsena aspirin from his medical supplies. In those few seconds, Maria turned her flushed face toward him and their eyes met. He was blond and handsome, with gentle eyes. In another world, in another time, the two of them might have walked to school together or shared a first kiss. But not in this world; not in this time.
[Two years later, for a high school class assignment in Steelton, my mother would give a speech about him. “The Germans soldiers were so kind and good,” she began. After class, the teacher had to escort her home. Students were waiting outside the classroom to beat her up.]
When the war was finally, thankfully, over, the U.S. Embassy arranged for the family to be on the very first ship leaving Belgrade—a cargo ship, courtesy of the U.S. Marines.
As it pulled into New York Harbor that September afternoon in 1946, the girls and their mother stood on deck as the Statue of Liberty greeted them.
“What’s ‘liberty’?” one of the girls asked.
Maria took a long, deep breath and smiled. “It means freedom.”
She looked toward the shore as they moved closer, knowing her father was standing there.
Suddenly, two hundred feet from land, the ship stopped abruptly. Moments later, a Marine found them to explain:
“The dockworkers are on strike, we can’t approach the port,” he said, as the anchor splashed into water. “We could be stranded here for days.”
This couldn’t be! After all those years, they were so close! Close enough to touch their dream.
There was nothing they could do but wait a little longer. They quietly watched the sun set behind the Manhattan skyline and the city light up like a Christmas tree. Six hours later, they were about to go to bed when the Marine returned, excited.
“Mr. Christoff paid a man with a tugboat to come get you!”
The Marine led them to a rope ladder against the ship, and one by one they carefully climbed down into the tugboat. Their father, meanwhile, had been told it would be a few hours still, so he’d gone to get a cup of coffee.
Which is how they ended up on the pier, uncertain, as Maria looked for her father’s face.
But it wasn’t his face she first recognized.
Off in the shadowy distance, maybe four blocks away and silhouetted against the street lamps, she recognized her father’s walk. Maria dropped her mother’s hand and ran.
“Tato!” she screamed, “Daddy!”
Her sisters ran after her.
“Stop! Maria! Girls!” my grandmother screamed.
As soon as he realized the far away figures were running toward him, Elia began to run, too.
In the middle of a Manhattan street, my mother leapt into her father’s arms. A minute or two later, so had her sisters.
The girls sobbed and Elia was in such shock, he couldn’t speak. It would be hours before he would utter a word. He held his daughters tightly, and together they made their way toward the dock and his wife.
It was time for the family to go home.
~Natasha Stoynoff
The Season for Discovery
Family is not an important thing, it’s everything.
~Michael J. Fox
The Christmas season often brings wonderful opportunities for renewing old friendships and developing new memories. As the Christmas of 2006 approached I had no idea that a miracle was about to happen to me. It was far more than an occasion to partake in the exchanging of gifts and the celebration of a delicious meal . . . it was the blending of two hearts joined together as a family.
All my life I had yearned for an older brother. As a small child, every year I asked for an older sibling and every year I was disappointed. It was lonely growing up as an only child. As I got older, and one year melted into the next, I realized that to have the brother I yearned for would remain a dream unfulfilled.
Then, in late fall of 2006—just a few weeks before Christmas—my life suddenly took a profound turn. A telephone call from my cousin, followed by a flurry of breathtaking events, indeed produced a full brother I had no idea I had.
I had only just recently met Fred for the first time, and now my husband Tony and I were about to spend Christmas with my newfound family.
On a night with gently falling snow, we gathered together at my brother’s home on Christmas Eve to enjoy this most special of nights together for the first time. My heart was lighter than it had been in many years. After the death of my son, I had lived a life of depression and anxiety. Finding a brother and his whole family was most certainly the perfect remedy for my ailing heart.
Fred was as eager to learn as I was to share as many memories as I could about the parents he had never known, but I had grown up with.
“What was Christmas like when you were a child?” he asked.
“It was usually just the three of us,” I explained. “Dad loved music and could play the organ and piano really well. When I was a young girl, he entered a contest, and as a result he won an organ. He played all kinds, including Christmas carols, and he was teaching me to play.”
“I would have loved to have heard him,” commented Fred.
“He also took charge of all the wrapping of gifts,” I shared. He would spend hours folding the tissue paper into intricate pleats. He worked so hard on it.” Fred listened intently as I continued. “Both Mom and Dad were good cooks and they prepared the Christmas feast together.”
“What was Mom like?” he queried.
“Mom loved the Christmas season just as much as I did. She would make special treats for Dad and me, and she was in charge of decorating the tree. It always looked beautiful to me.”
“I wish I had known her,” sighed Fred. “I only saw her once, when I was about four years old. My dad and I were on a streetcar in Toronto just before Christmas and it was snowing. We had just come from visiting a relative to give them their presents. It was late in the day—suppertime — and I was getting hungry. I sat next to Dad playing with a little toy truck. As I watched, a lady boarded the streetcar. She was pretty, with dark hair; glasses and she wore a tan coloured coat. She seemed to be mesmerized by both of us. She watched me intently as if she was trying to absorb everything there was to know about me. Then I saw her start to cry and she fled the streetcar into the darkness. I asked Dad about the lady, but it was only later that I found out her true identity.
“You know, I never forgot seeing my mother that evening. When I later learned who she was, I wondered what had happened.”
I took his hand and gently spoke. “I know our mom, Fred, and I know that giving you up would have broken her heart.”
I gently wiped the tears from my eyes and suggested to my brother that we go through photographs. He was anxious to know everyone in the pictures and the role they had played in my life.
“I have pictures too,” he said. “Would you like to see them?”
My brother produced photo after photo that he held dear. It was only when he came to one of a lady holding him as a young baby that I was startled. It seemed surreal. Tucked away, lovingly protected against the elements of time, lay the most beautiful picture I had ever seen.
“That’s me when I was about four months old with a friend of the family,” he explained. “I know I was placed for adoption when I was about six months old.”
I sat quietly trying to absorb everything that was happening. I could feel my hands start to shake and my breathing become a bit laboured.
“I really don’t know how to say this, Fred,” I explained, “but the woman in that photo is more than a family friend . . . that is you with our mother. And you—you are the brother I spent my childhood longing for.”
Christmas of 2006 will always hold a special place in my heart. My brother and I made wonderful discoveries together that year. We continue to grow as a family and I am eternal
ly grateful for Fred, his wonderful wife Janet, and my beautiful nieces and great-nieces. They are truly my ultimate gift.
~Gail Sellers
The Mark of Angels
A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it.
~Jean de La Fontaine
Many years ago I visited Bern, the charming capital of Switzerland. Feeling liberated from itineraries one evening, I wandered through the medieval streets into the heart of the city. The warm twilight breeze had lured swarms of people into the town square. Old men played checkers at cement tables amid musicians, jugglers and other assorted street performers. I paused to drink in the carnival of sights and sounds.
An American accent rang out above the bustle. “One . . . Two . . . Three!”
A burst of laughter erupted from the crowd around a juggler. I moved in closer, drawn in by his act and familiar accent. After a finale of quick-handed magic tricks, his appreciative audience threw coins and moved on.
As the juggler bent down to collect the loose change, I felt compelled to connect. “Excuse me. Uh, I liked your act.”
The juggler looked up with a surprised expression, as if he didn’t expect anyone to stay around. “Hey thanks! You sound like an American.”
I laughed, admitting that I’d been drawn to speak with him partly because of his Yankee accent. As travelers tend to do, I politely asked him what part of the States he was from.
“California,” the juggler replied. “And you?”
I responded in the same general way. “Pennsylvania. Outside Philadelphia.”
The juggler stopped picking up coins.
“Oh . . . where outside Philadelphia?”
I was slightly taken aback. Why did the name of the town matter if he was from California? Feeling silly again, but strangely compelled to talk, I answered. “Haverford.”
The juggler’s jaw dropped and his bearded face softened. He spoke barely above a whisper. “I went to Haverford High School.”
“But I thought you said you were from California?”
The juggler got up off his knees and sat on the edge of a concrete flower container. He drew in a breath and poured out a story he’d locked away for a long time.
“I discovered I loved to perform while I was in high school. I wanted to study the arts in college but my stepfather felt I should study a serious subject, like dentistry. I felt I had no choice, so I went to college in California, but I couldn’t study what I didn’t love. Rather than go home and face my stepfather, I left the States to pursue my dream in Europe.” With a quiet sigh he concluded, “I haven’t spoken with my mom in seven years.”
After further discussion, I learned the juggler’s mother lived three minutes from my house. In fact, I drove past her home every day on the way to work. We stood in quiet awe of the “coincidence” of our meeting.
The juggler broke the silence. “If I give you my mom’s number, would you call her for me when you get back home? Would you tell her I’m okay?”
As a mother, I ached for a woman who was separated from her son. I nodded a tearful yes and tucked the number away. The juggler and I parted, forever changed by our meeting thousands of miles from home.
On the plane ride back to the States, doubts crept into my thoughts. What if his mother was angry? What if she didn’t want to hear from me?
Once back home, I picked up the phone and put it back in the cradle countless times; but I couldn’t ignore the strong inner voice that urged me to call. After taking a deep breath, I dialed the number on the crumpled piece of paper. A woman answered the phone. I spoke before I lost my nerve.
“Hello. You don’t know me but . . .” The story of my trip to Bern spilled out, rapidly reaching the part where I met the juggler in the town square. As I relayed her son’s greeting, the woman cried, “Oh, thank God!”
In a voice thick with emotion, her questions tumbled out one after another. “How did he look? Is he well? Is he okay?”
I found myself in the peculiar position of describing a son to his mother. I assured her that he was healthy, happy and seemed to be doing well. I described the juggler’s hair, his beard and his request that I contact her. The juggler’s mom cried even harder.
“My son’s last letter said he was thinking of coming home. He wrote that the next time I heard from him would be a sign that all was forgiven and he’d be home soon. This is the sign I was waiting for! Thank you so much for calling!”
After I hung up the phone, I marveled at the odds of meeting the juggler at just the right place, just the right time and just the right moment in his life. I smiled through tears of my own and knew that chance had nothing to do with it.
Destiny, serendipity, sweet forgiveness — all marks of angels at work.
~Teri Goggin-Roberts
The Spoon
Be realistic: Plan for a miracle.
~Bhagwan Shree Rainees
My life has been full of surprises, but none quite like the surprise that came in the mail on the last day of July in 1999. That was the day my forgotten childhood was returned to me—courtesy of a young stranger blessed with curiosity and intent on doing a good deed.
It arrived in a large manila envelope from the Social Security Administration. I thought it was just another notice about benefits—until I saw the postmark: Batesville, Arkansas. Curious, I thought. I’ve lived in many places, but never Arkansas. The contents of the envelope were equally puzzling.
There were four enclosures. The first was a cover letter from Arlinda Gardner, Service Representative. “Dear Ms. Fader,” she wrote. “We are enclosing a letter which Kim Anderson has asked us to forward to you.”
Who in the world was Kim Anderson?
“Because of the circumstances, we agreed to forward the letter. However, we have not revealed your address and cannot disclose whether the letter has been delivered. You are free, therefore, to reply or not as you choose. You need not notify us of your decision.”
Now my curiosity was truly piqued. I turned my attention to the first item Ms. Gardner had included: a two-by-three-inch color photograph of a smiling young couple. A notation on the back identified the young blond woman as Kim Anderson, age eighteen, and the dark-haired young man as Kris Holenbeck, age twenty, and noted that this was their engagement picture.
The photograph was attached to a neatly typed letter. In the upper right hand corner was a drawing of a stork holding the traditional bundled baby in its beak. “Strange choice of stationery for a newly engaged couple,” I thought.
“Dear Ms. Sonia,” the letter began. “My name is Kimberly Roneau Anderson.” Kimberly proceeded to tell me about herself. And then this intriguing statement: “About thirty years ago, my mother was on Manasquan Beach and found a baby spoon. You might wonder what this has to do with you. On this beautifully engraved silver spoon were your name, birthplace, birth date and time, and your weight. I am curious,” Kimberly wrote, “about how the spoon got lost, and I would like to know more about you.”
I slipped the third enclosure out from behind Kimberly’s letter. It was a photocopy of the spoon. I had not seen that spoon for more than sixty years. The sight of it triggered something in my head, or perhaps my heart — a surge of extreme joy, inexplicably mixed with a deep sense of sorrow.
I lost both my parents within three years before I was twenty-one, my father to heart disease, my mother to cancer. Their lingering deaths, plus the need to create a safe, stable home for my eleven-year-old brother, triggered a kind of amnesia in me that not only blocked the pain-filled memories connected with my parents’ passing, but all the happy memories that came before.
Through my tears, I studied the picture. The spoon handle was molded in the shape of a bespectacled stork poised on a brick chimney, holding a baby in its feathered wings. Engraved in the bowl of the spoon was a grandfather’s clock that indicated the time of my birth. My full name was there too, and the date and place of birth, as well as my length and my weight when I entered this world.
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I turned my attention back to Kimberly’s letter. She wrote that she discovered the spoon in her mother’s silverware drawer. Her mother, who thirty years earlier had lived in New Jersey, told Kimberly she found the spoon one day while she was playing with Kimberly’s older sister on Manasquan Beach. Charmed by its design, she took it home, polished it, put it in her silverware drawer, and forgot about it. Then Kimberly found it one day when she was rummaging through the drawer for some serving pieces for her future married life.
When I called the number in the letter, Kimberly told me that she got the idea to go to the Social Security office from a movie in which the main character had traced someone that way. But, as Kimberly learned after taking the hour’s drive to the closest Social Security office, such things only happen in the movies. In real life, Social Security employees are forbidden by law to give out any information concerning private citizens.
That should have been the end of the story. However, perhaps impressed by Kimberly’s resourcefulness, or intrigued by her tale, Ms. Gardner agreed to help her. She told Kimberly if she would write a letter to me and bring it back, she would forward it.
It took Kimberly a month to compose her “perfect letter.” It was Arlinda Gardner’s idea to include a photocopy of the spoon.
Kim refused any money for returning my spoon, but she had mentioned that she was planning to have daisies, her favorite flower, at her wedding. I sent her a daisy-themed place mat and napkin set, along with a check, as a wedding gift. Her thank you note included an invitation to the wedding, which, unfortunately, I was unable to attend.
Having a stranger return something precious that had been missing more than half a century in itself qualifies as a miracle. What is truly remarkable, however, is the impact Kimberly’s curiosity and thoughtfulness has had on my life. That returned spoon unlocked a floodgate to sweet memories I thought I had lost forever.
The spoon and a picture of my mother holding me are now framed in a shadow box that hangs on my bedroom wall. I was about two years old when the picture was taken in front of a house “down the shore” my parents rented one summer. What happy days they were, filled with love and laughter; it was a precious part of my life I had sadly forgotten, until a young woman from Arkansas decided to look for the owner of a lost spoon.
