by S. Rose
I began to weep, understanding at last the source of my father’s agony. “A whole damned Hershey bar,” he’d lamented. “But why . . . why did the Germans put Polish and Jewish people in those camps? Why didn’t somebody stop them?”
“I don’t know, but they hated the Jews even worse than the Poles. Hitler set out to kill every last one of them—worked them to death, and if they didn’t drop dead, they killed them in the gas chambers.”
“Gas chambers? What’s that?”
“A building where they killed people with poison gas.”
“Jesus!”
“Then they burned the bodies in ovens. My ma saw the smokestacks pouring out black smoke—she said the smell was sickening. The Germans killed about six million people before they lost the war. In the last days, there was always smoke, because they tried to get rid of all the bodies before the Allies got there. That’s why my mother hates it when the woodstove backs up into the house. She runs outside no matter how cold it is, even if she’s not dressed for it.”
I sat on a log with my head in my hands. “I haven’t been this shocked since I found out about my dead baby brother. Only this is much worse. I feel like an idiot. Why don’t my parents ever tell me the truth about anything . . . about life?”
“Your mom and dad are just protective of you, is all.”
“They sure are good at keeping secrets . . . my aunt, too. But I’m not a little kid anymore.” I looked into her eyes. “I want you to tell me everything you know.”
There’s nothing like the first time one hears about the holocaust, of cattle cars disgorging terrified people and children ripped from their mother’s arms. I tried to imagine the women with shorn heads being herded like sheep into a building from which they never emerged, and naked skeletal bodies stacked like frozen piles of wood. Sparrow had not yet been told about the torturous medical experiments, so I was spared a while longer. I don’t think I would have been able to bear it.
“That explains why my father got ulcers. He got sent home sick with bleeding ulcers, but I wasn’t supposed to tell anybody. No wonder he hates the Germans—they must be the sickest people in the world.”
“Ya, sure seems that way,” Sparrow agreed.
“Then again, there must’ve been some good Germans.” I contradicted myself. “Kitty’s mother was really sweet. And I’m one-eighth German on the Schimschack side. Hey, wait a sec . . . how could your mom have married someone of German descent after what happened to her family?”
“Your great-grandfather wasn’t just German. He was born to Jewish parents.”
“What? I’m Jewish too?”
“I don’t know how that works, but I don’t see how you can inherit a religion. Ernst Schimschack wasn’t a religious Jew. He left Germany and married a Finnish girl and the family had no religion.”
“You know more about my family than I do. Do you know what Old Man Schimschack did to get carted off to jail?”
“No idea.”
“So I guess there are some good Germans and lots of bad ones.”
“Must’ve been that Hitler. He was their leader—he put ’em up to it,” she offered.
“But how? He didn’t round up millions of people and herd ’em onto trains . . . and build concentration camps all by himself. How could one man make everybody do such terrible things?”
She shrugged. “Maybe people were afraid of what might happen to them if they didn’t go along with it.”
“Maybe. I guess you’re right; even for the men, being a grownup is no picnic. Seems like we’re all just sparrows in the wind.”
32
I GOT TO miss the half day of school before Thanksgiving break so I could catch an early bus and get to Racine by suppertime. Next morning, I’d help stuff a big turkey. There’d be six at our table, because my aunt had invited her upstairs tenants, a young couple from Norway with two little girls. They had no family nearby, and this would be their first American Thanksgiving.
My parents came with me into the Greyhound station and stayed until it was time to board. The small waiting area was standing room only because of all the students from a college in nearby Ashland traveling south for the holiday. Their festive mood and lively talk contrasted starkly with our glum little party. Mom surveyed the crowd anxiously, gripping my hand as if I were a toddler who might wander off and get lost. Dad stood by the window with my luggage, frequently checking his watch and looking out for the bus.
As promised, I was bringing Kissy and Chatty Cathy home to Kitty. They were packed in a cardboard box with plenty of tissue paper for their ride in cargo with the suitcases. I held a carry-on travel bag laden with a full lunch and personal items. For my wardrobe, Mom lent me the old valise that she’d taken on her trip to Arizona.
My mother had insisted upon packing three nice dresses, even though I’d only be gone four days and would need play clothes most of the time. I wanted to wear slacks for the long trip, but she made me put on the gray wool dress with the cape collar. I would arrive dressed for best in the velvet-trimmed maroon coat with the matching hat—she warned me repeatedly not to lose the hat.
Mom wanted her sister to believe that business was booming and we were rolling in dough. Before I boarded, she took me aside and told me one last time not to mention the birthday fiasco or the land dispute—and not a word about my father’s condition. Condition? He drank himself stupid. Anxiety gnawed at my insides like a sharp-toothed rodent, but I was supposed to keep a lid on it and have a jolly holiday. It seemed terribly unfair, but I didn’t dare complain, lest they cancel my trip.
AFTER ELEVEN HOURS on a bus, I saw her from the window, standing tall above all the other ladies and quite a few of the men. Aunt Gudrun came outside to greet me, even though it was sixteen degrees. I fell into her outstretched arms and began to sob uncontrollably, shivering in the shocking cold, because the bus had been well heated.
“Oh, Cassandra, whatever is the matter?” she asked in concern.
“Ah . . . I . . . oh . . . everything,” I wailed.
“Shhh . . . let’s gather your things, and I’ll get a taxi. It’s too cold and dark to wait for a city bus . . . and this is a special occasion,” she said out of the habit of frugality, as if it were necessary to justify the expense of a taxi.
“I have a box and a suitcase,” I said, sniffing. “I’m so glad to see you. I’m never going back to Blackstone,” I heard myself say, although I hadn’t planned to say it.
“We’ll talk about it all when we get home,” she soothed. “Don’t you look beautiful,” she added, as she ushered me along with an arm around my shoulder toward the baggage area. It was packed with people, all grabbing for their bags. Aunt Gudrun looked over their heads and stepped into the fray, towing me close behind by one hand; people just seemed to step aside, as if she were a celebrity.
“There.” I pointed to my mother’s brown-striped valise. She excused herself and bent in front of a couple to grab it. “But I don’t see the box with the dolls,” I said.
“Is that it?” she pointed to a cardboard box, secured with duct tape.
“No, it’s bigger, with cellophane tape. Look, it’s over there, on the other side of the pile.”
“Hold onto this.” She handed me the suitcase. “I’ll go around and get it.”
We were snug in our taxi long before most of the others managed to collect their bags. As the driver pulled away, I leaned against Tante Gudy’s shoulder and snuffled quietly, like a distraught three year old. My heart ached all out of proportion, as if to make up for the months I had quashed it. In the warmth of the heated car, the smell of fresh soap emanated from her neck but did not mask the familiar scent of her skin. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, as if to draw something of her inside; her scent was like food to a starving child.
“I’M SO SORRY, Cassandra,” Tante Gudy said. I had defied my mother’s orders and told her of our troubles in Blackstone.
We were by the mirrored dresser in her lovely spare bedroom, t
he twin of my old room upstairs. The turkey was already in the oven, and she was giving my hair a much needed trim before our dinner guests arrived. It had grown so long that I could sit on it and then some, so I had to stand up while she sat on a chair behind me to cut it. Even though I could see her face in the mirror, it was easier to talk about difficult things while looking in the opposite direction.
The discussion of financial ruin and drunk driving was interspersed with the practical matter of the haircut. We decided the most flattering length would be to let it fall to the curve of my back, at my newly developing waistline. As I talked, she carefully extended a hank of hair and snipped off between three and four inches, beginning underneath and working it into layers so the curls wouldn’t stand out like a thick bush at the bottom.
“Your birthday party sounds like a nightmare,” my aunt declared. “And you weren’t even supposed to tell me?”
“No. Mom’s too ashamed, I guess.”
“But that’s not fair to you. Well, don’t worry—I won’t let on that I know. Oh, Cassandra, I was so afraid something like this might happen,” she concluded.
“You knew about the old land dispute?” I asked in surprise, turning sharply to look at her.
“Hold your head still—I almost made a mistake. No, that’s not what I meant. I had no idea about the conflict with the Indians any more than your poor mother. I mean that George . . . your father has struggled with drinking all his life, up and down, on and off. There,” she said, laying down the scissors and turning me about to face her. “So pretty now . . . you didn’t need it flopping all over your heinie. I still can’t get over how you’ve grown,” she added, taking a hand in each of her own. “You’ve changed so; you went away a little girl and came back . . . a big girl.”
“I feel changed,” I said somberly, releasing her hands to pull up another chair so we could sit knee to knee. “For one thing, I don’t play with dolls anymore.”
“No more dolls?” she asked wistfully.
“No, not since I went to Blackstone. I hope Kitty still likes them. I hope she hasn’t changed. It’s too bad the Gundersons went out of town for the holiday,” I added.
“Ya, Kitty was very sorry to miss you. But don’t worry; I see her all the time, and she’s hardly changed a bit. She still loves her dollies. Rosaura from upstairs is a grade younger, and they play together so nicely. The little sister Lilli is only four, and they dress her up and play house as if she were a live doll—so adorable to watch.”
“Ah,” I sighed. How simple everything was only last spring. “I found out where babies come from,” I continued in stream of consciousness. “Everything about it,” I added pointedly.
“You have? Well, I suppose it was time your mother explained. You’re much too big to believe in the stork,” she said with a sly little smile.
“It wasn’t Mom who told me—it was Sparrow. I learned all about it from their goats.”
“Oh, I see. Ya, goats leave little to the imagination. I think they’re nasty, really. Of course, I grew up on a sheep farm. I saw that going on all the time. I don’t remember when I first understood they were making baby sheep, but I was very little when I saw them lambing. I saw the neighbors’ horses and goats being bred. We farm children didn’t have the luxury of the stork story.”
“I found out about all that just in time before . . . well . . . I didn’t want to mention it over the phone,” I said shyly, “but I got my period. Just before my eleventh birthday—thank God it was over before the party. That party was bad enough.”
“Oh dear, already? I hoped it would hold off a while longer,” she blustered. “I was twelve—just barely; they say girls are starting younger these days. But I should say, congratulations.” She smiled. “You’re a young lady now.”
“I think it’s just a big pain in the butt,” I said.
“Well, that’s not very ladylike,” she said with a smirk.
“Sparrow told me about something else,” I continued. “She told me about the holocaust . . . what the Nazis did to the Jews and Polish people.” On the surface it seemed like an abrupt change of topic, but it was part and parcel of my overall transformation.
“She did? Such a hard thing to learn. Well, you had to find out sometime, but I wish I’d seen to it myself before you heard it from a child.”
“I had no idea that they killed Polish Christians, not that it’s any worse,” I added. “People are people. Which brings me to another thing: did you know my father’s Schimschack grandfather was a German Jew?”
“What? Are you sure? Did your father tell you that?” she asked in disbelief.
“No. Sparrow told me, and she was sure of it. Her brother’s father was Lester Schimschack, and he told her mother a long time ago. But Dad’s grandmother was Finnish and the Schimschacks weren’t practicing Jews.”
“Well, it comes as quite a shock. I’m sure your father never mentioned it to your mother. But so long as he was a baptized Christian, I suppose it makes no difference that his grandfather was Jewish,” she concluded.
“No, that doesn’t matter . . . but Ernst Schimschack wasn’t a good man. He did something bad and went to jail for the rest of his life—Dad told me that himself.”
“How scandalous. I had no idea. What a terrible time you’ve had—so much to face and all at once, too,” she sympathized.
“I don’t care about old man Schimschack, but I can’t get the holocaust out of my mind. It’s the saddest, most awful thing I’ve ever heard. I didn’t know human beings could do such things.”
“Ever since World War Two, it’s become almost a rite of passage to hear about it for the first time. Of course, I was an adult when the news came to light—it was incomprehensible. It changes one forever.”
“It did help me understand Dad better,” I offered.
“Ya, he had a very personal experience and I guess it just . . . broke something inside of him. Your father is a complicated man. Part of him is so tender, so loving. The death of all those people, especially the children, haunted him for a long time. He really seemed to love children,” she said wistfully. “When George first drove home that enormous Ford station wagon, he told your mother they were going to fill it with kids, three on each backseat and a baby up front. They were newlyweds.”
The revelation let loose a whirlwind of feelings. I decided to tell all—to confess my transgression with my mother’s private box and ask about my dead baby brother. But first I had to know: “Then . . . why didn’t they have more children?”
“Your poor mother couldn’t have anymore. She had fibroid tumors in her womb, just like our mother. They caused her terrible pain and loss of blood. The doctor kept removing them, but they grew back. Tina had several miscarriages. The doctor didn’t think she should try again; he was afraid of the complications if she gave birth. That’s how our mother died . . . in childbirth with your mother.”
“Ohhh . . . so that’s why you and Mom would only say that Grandma got sick and died.”
“Ya, it was such a terrible way to die—much too frightening for a child’s ears. Our mother’s womb was so scarred that the placenta came off first and she hemorrhaged . . . bled to death. It was over very quickly. Mama shouldn’t have tried to have another baby but she and Papa wanted a boy. The doctor warned Kristina that she was also at high risk, but she kept trying to get pregnant anyway. You were only a toddler when she lost the last baby, at five months along. It took such a toll on her; she finally agreed to a hysterectomy—an operation to remove the womb.”
“Oh, how terrible for her . . . she must’ve been so sad.” I suddenly understood why Mom had to make a special drugstore run for me; even more important, I knew why she was so uncomfortable. It brought up feelings that she just wasn’t prepared to share.
“Ya, my poor little sister was devastated,” Tante affirmed. “She was only twenty-four. And physically, it was a very tough surgery. I took over her cooking and cleaning and kept you downstairs with me most of the tim
e; it took over two months for her to fully recover.”
“I remember. I remember Mom lying in bed, and I only got to visit for a little while. I wanted to climb onto the bed and hug her, but you wouldn’t let me.”
“She was in too much pain to be jostled. But your mother suffered from something far worse than physical pain. Both of your parents had to accept that there would be no more children. Afterwards, Tina regretted giving in to the doctor . . . she was so young. The doctor staunchly insisted that it was necessary; he said she should consider herself lucky to have had even one baby. His bedside manner left a lot to be desired, but . . .”
“My mother had more than one baby,” I interrupted. My aunt’s fair complexion lost all trace of color.
“I meant one living child, of course,” she said, trying to conceal her confusion, “but I’ve gone and burdened you with far too much. The turkey needs to be basted,” she added, standing up. “I’m starting to smell it cooking.” She moved as if to leave the room.
“Tante!” I grabbed the skirt of her dress to hold her back. “I know; I found out what happened just before I was born. I know all about little Edward James Parsons.”
“Dear God.” She was facing away, speaking toward the wall, but I could see her profile in the mirror over the dresser; I could see the anguish on her face. “Your mother promised me . . . she swore she wouldn’t tell you until you were grown up . . . until you could understand.” Aunt Gudrun turned and sat again in the chair, leaning forward with her large hands covering her face, like a child caught in the act of some naughtiness.
“It’s not her fault, it’s mine,” I said quickly. I was terribly confused and sorry to have upset her. “It was an accident, really. After we moved, some boxes got mixed up. I found the box with the pictures of the baby under my bed . . . and all the papers . . . the documents,” I said, finding the proper word. “Sparrow opened it by mistake, and we started going through it. I knew it was wrong, but after I saw the pictures, I just had to know.”
