Then once I finished and passed the bar, I had to find a job. Again race stood in the way, but I kept fighting, climbing uphill. And… I’ve managed. I have a good job now with a good firm in England. Of course, once again, and it’s to be expected, I guess… I’m the token black man. I’m here in Israel on business for my firm. Nobody else wanted to come. They thought it was too dangerous,” he laughed, “so they sent the black guy.”
She didn’t know what to say. He was making jokes, but she could tell that beneath the humor was pain. “How long will you be staying?” Katja asked.
“A year, maybe? Maybe a little more or less. Depends on how this case goes.”
Katja noticed that the birds had left. The bread was gone. A beautiful gold and black butterfly lit on a dandelion just in front of the bench where they sat. She understood this black man because Katja knew what it was like to be different.
She’d spent her life trying to fit in. Her secret was easier to hide than his. As she listened to him speak, it was easy for her to empathize with him. The color of his skin was right there for all the world to see.
She had kept hers well hidden, but it was always a dark reality in her heart. Katja was born to a pure Aryan mother and an SS officer. She had been genetically engineered by the Nazi’s and born in Hitler’s home for the Lebensborn. She was to be a perfect Aryan child.
Then, when she was very young, fortune had intervened. She’d been given to Zofia, a Jewish woman, and her husband, Isaac. They had loved and nurtured Katja and raised her as a Jew. Katja loved them and had always been grateful.
Since she found out the truth about her birth parents, she had carried the burden of shame. She was shamed by what the Nazis had done to her beloved adopted people. For years, she believed she was their blood. It was ironic. She was the result of an Aryan breeding program, and raised by Jews. “I understand how hard it is to be different. I mean not to fit in, not really…” she said.
“Do you? I don’t know if you could…”
“Believe me, I do,” she said, clearing her throat. “Much more than you know.”
They sat quietly side-by-side on the bench looking out at the beauty of Israel. Israel, the land Katja had come to love— Israel, the only country she could ever call home.
“My father was Jewish,” he said, “white and Jewish. My mother was black.”
She didn’t say anything. And again for a long time, there was silence.
“She was working as the maid in my father’s house. He was the eldest son of a big business tycoon in the garment district in Manhattan. She lived in her employer’s house, but her family was in Harlem. On the weekends, she would go home to see then and then return. “
She didn’t know much about America. She knew nothing about the garment district or life in New York, but she sat quietly and listened, not wanting to interrupt him.
“My mom was young and very pretty. She was only eighteen. My father was just turning twenty-one. I guess he was quite taken with her, and one thing led to another. When she became pregnant, my father’s parents panicked—my white grandparents, the grandparents who I never even met. His parents fired her. Then they sent my father away to school in Boston. He never came back to see my mom. In fact, she raised me alone with the help of her parents.
Then years later, I guess guilt kicked in, and Dad came looking for my mom. Well…he found her. He was already married and had a family. My dad came to our small apartment. My mother’s father had passed away from a stroke a few years prior, so it was just my mom, her mother and me.
When I first saw him with his white skin, it was hard for me to believe that the man who was standing in our little living room was my father. My mom turned pale when she saw him. Her hands trembled slightly.
I could see that she was still hurt by what happened, but she didn’t tell him. It was just that I knew her so well that I could read her emotions on her face. The crazy thing is, even then, even after everything that he did, I think she still loved him.
I was in my early teens and full of testosterone. To me, he was nothing but a stranger who’d abandoned us. I wanted to kill him. In fact, when he was trying to offer his friendship to me, I took a punch at him and bloodied his nose. My mother was furious. My gram didn’t say anything.
My father just stood there with the blood running down his face. He never raised a hand to hit me back. I’m sure it was because he knew that he had wronged us in so many ways. I’m sure he could see by our home just how poor we were, and he had to know how hard it was for my mother to raise a child without any financial help.” John shook his head.
“When I was growing up, my mother never talked about my father. When I asked, she avoided the subject. This was the first time I learned anything about him. His name was Michael Appleman, and that afternoon, when he appeared at our apartment, was the first time I’d ever heard his name.
From that day on, every month, my mother got a check from him. I begged her not to cash it, not to accept anything from him, but she did. I was young and proud, but she knew we needed the money. She was getting older, and the hard work of cleaning houses was taking a toll on her body. So she swallowed her pride and took what he gave us.”
He turned and looked into Katja’s eyes. “You know, my father never showed his face again, and I never went looking for him…”
“How is your mother? Did she ever marry?”
“She passed away last year from an aneurysm. I miss her every day. She was a good mother. But no, she never married. She dated a few different guys, but she was too busy working and trying to do her best to raise me properly. She gave her life up for me. God, she wanted me to get out of the ghetto. She didn’t want me to grow up poor and black. And you know what kills me?”
She shook her head.
“It breaks my heart that I am finally earning enough money to pay her back for everything she did for me. Now, I can take care of her, but she’s gone. Gram and Gramps are gone, too. So I guess I’m all alone in the world.”
“I’m so sorry,” Katja said. “I don’t know what to say…”
“Nothing to say. I’m one of the lucky ones. By the sheer force of my mother’s will, I went to school and got out of the ghetto.”
Katja thought about the ghetto in Warsaw where her mother had been forced to stay until she’d been taken to a concentration camp, but she didn’t say anything.
“I’ve seen some of the Ethiopian Jews that have been settling here in Israel,” she said.
“Yes, and so have I. It’s funny isn’t it? They are Jews, but they are still looked down upon because of their black skin.”
“I don’t understand people. There is far too much hatred in the world,” Katja said, shaking her head.
“Yes, well, I had a professor once who said that as long as there are two human beings alive there will be war and hatred.”
“That’s a terrible way of looking at life.”
“But a truthful one,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
Then, as John sat listening, Katja began to open up and tell him her problems. It was easier to talk to a stranger than someone she knew. This man who sat beside her on the park bench had no connection to her friends or family.
Katja told him the secret that she kept so close to her heart: the truth about her birth parents. She talked about Elan, about Mendel, and a little about Ima. The anger, the guilt, the pain, it all poured out of her, and she cried. But once she had finished speaking, Katja felt more at ease than she had in many years.
John listened without judging. Without realizing it, he had given her the very thing she needed most.
The afternoon was growing old. The sun had turned golden as it began its descent from the sky. It had to be after four pm. Katja knew that the other women at her organization would be wondering where she’d gone.
“I have to go,” she told him, regretting that she had to leave.
“It’s bold of me to ask…I know…but perhaps can we meet here again?” H
e looked away so she could not see his eyes if she rejected him.
“Yes, I’d like that. Tomorrow? The same time?”
“I’ll be here,” he said, smiling.
And so…Katja and John met in the park the following day, and then again the day after that. From that day on, they only spent an hour or so together, his lunch hour and hers, but for Katja it was a time of peace. She worked so hard to keep the secret of her birth parents from her Israeli friends at the organization, but with John she was free to be herself.
Weeks passed. One day she brought lunch, another day he did. They discussed politics, religion, race and romance. They talked about books, films, and live theater. Katja told John about Mendel and how much she had come to love him. But most of all, they talked about Ima. Katja explained what happened the day that Ima had experienced whatever the tragic event was that had changed her so drastically.
“I was at work, and I didn’t even know that Ima was not home. When I got back to the house, I was late, so I started dinner, assuming Ima was in her room doing her homework.
My mom, who lives with us, is older and always takes afternoon naps. I figured today was no exception, and I was right. Ima was missing for several hours. I went crazy. I called the police. You can’t imagine how I felt. I was sure she was dead. I’d never felt so desperate in my entire life, and there was nothing I could do.
I drove around but couldn’t find her. I called her friends, but no one had seen her. My mother and I sat by the phone waiting to hear something from the police, and at the same time, we were terrified that they would call and say they’d found her body.
Then much later that night, Ima came home. She was a wreck. Her clothes were torn, and she was filthy. I tell you, she was a mess. I tried to talk to her, but she locked herself in the bathroom. I thanked God that she had returned, but I had no idea what to do to help her. My mother said to let her be, just to wait. I lay awake all night in my room. I was so afraid that she might hurt herself.
The next day, she came out of her room and looked like a different girl. She was so troubled, and she still is. I can see it in her eyes. Ima had always taken pride in her beautiful hair, but she had chopped all of it off in her bedroom sometime during the night. I am beside myself, John. I just don’t know how to reach her.”
John took Katja’s hand. It was the first time they had made physical contact. She felt a strange mixture of desire, comfort, and fear. It had been a long time since she’d opened her heart, and she knew how intense the pain of love could be.
“Kat…” He had come to call her Kat over the time they’d gotten to know each other. “I think she might have been raped.”
“I know,” Katja said. “So do I… I think that, too…”
He gently squeezed her hand. She was aware of the difference in color as she looked at his hand on her own and yet, it didn’t matter. Katja squeezed back.
“My mother tells me over and over that all we can do is to wait. She says that Ima will have to come to us. The more we try to force her to open up, the harder she pushes us away. I can see such terrible changes in her. My daughter was such an innocent girl, and now I can see by the way she dresses and stays out all night, that she is becoming more promiscuous.
Boys hover around our house like dogs in heat. It’s horrifying. I’ve even found illegal drugs in her room…and large amounts of cash. Oh God, John. I think she might be selling her body for money to buy drugs. And the hardest part of it all is that I feel so alone. I wish that her father was still alive. I keep thinking he would know what to do…because I certainly have no idea. All I know is that every day I am getting closer to losing my little girl.
I pray that nothing happens to her but, John, it’s just a matter of time. With the life she is leading, she can only fall in with the wrong people…and then…well… God knows what will happen.”
“Have you tried to get her to go and see a professional?”
“You mean, like a therapist?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve tried. She refuses. She spends most of the time when she is at home in her room with the door closed. I knock, and try to offer to take her shopping. She used to love to go shopping for clothes. Now, she doesn’t even answer me. I’m so afraid I am going to lose my daughter. Anything can happen. She is taking drugs, running around with dangerous men…anything can happen, John, anything…”
“I don’t have any children, and I’ve never been married, so I can’t say I know how you feel, but I can imagine.”
“John, I believe that it is all my fault. I was a terrible mother. I was too busy putting all my time into building this organization for the wives of soldiers who perished in Israeli conflicts that I forgot about the needs of my own child.
I thought Ima was fine. I never worried about her. In fact, I never realized that we should have been closer before all this happened. How could I do that? What was I thinking?
You see, Mendel left me with plenty of money, but so many of the women who have lost their husbands in the wars are struggling. I wanted to help them. I believed that it was my duty to help. In a way, I felt guilty because I had so much material wealth and so many of the others had so little.
And then...somewhere…somehow… I forgot to spend time building an important bond with my daughter. I mean…I thought Ima was all right… I didn’t realize that I wasn’t being a mother to her. Then all of this happened and she doesn’t feel close enough to me to open up to me. Somehow I feel that I have lost her.”
John did not say anything, but he put his arm around Katja and let her lean on his chest. He felt her body rack and knew she was crying, but she made no sound.
“There is a good chance that she will get herself killed,” Katja said. Then she looked up at John. “I hate to admit it to myself, but she is really in danger and every day could be the day that she crosses the line. Between the drugs and prostitution…and the strange men… Oh, John, what am I going to do?”
He patted her back and squinted his eyes against the sun. “All you can do, Kat, is love her and let her know that you are there, and you will be there when she’s ready to come to you.”
“I just pray to God that she will come to me in time before it’s too late.”
CHAPTER 6
One sunny afternoon, when the sky was cloudless and even brighter blue than Katja’s eyes, Katja and John met in the park.
“My mother is sick. She is going to be having chemo,” Katja said as she laid out a blanket for the picnic she’d brought for John and herself. “I’m distraught. My mom has always been my best friend. If something happens to her, I don’t know what I will do.”
“When did you find out about the cancer?”
“Yesterday.”
“My mom didn’t even tell me that she had been to a doctor. I guess she wasn’t going to tell me if nothing was wrong. But now, she will need me to take her to the hospital.”
“How can I help?” John asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t know if you can. Just be here for me to listen to all of my problems. You know, John, you’ve been such a wonderful friend all of these months. I come here to the park, and you let me unburden myself…”
“I’m always here for you, Kat.”
“My mom has been writing her memoirs. I haven’t read them yet, but they are all about what happened to her in Poland during the Nazi occupation. They are about what happened to my father, too.”
“That’s a story that must be told,” he said, “like the stories about the slaves who were brought to America from Africa. Those are stories that must be told, as well.”
“We have a lot in common, John, and we have so many differences at the same time.”
They sat, silently nibbling on the pita and hummus that Katja brought. She took a slice of green pepper and bit into it. It was fresh and crisp, but she didn’t enjoy it at all.
“Yesterday on my way home from the market I saw two Ethiopian Jewish women. I never noticed it before, but y
ou’re right. There is a lot of prejudice against them. I saw how they were treated as they tried to purchase some fruit from a peddler on the street. People stared at them. And although they had arrived at the stand first, the peddler helped another woman who came after they did and he let them wait. It was obvious to me why he was acting that way. It was terrible…”
“And you thought of me?”
She nodded. “Yes, and it hurt me to think that you have been treated this way.”
“I’m used to it. It’s been like this for me all of my life.”
“I know, John, I know. And I wish that I could do something to change the world.”
After six months of chemotherapy, Zofia was doing better. The cancer was in remission, but she was thin and worn.
The treatment had been very difficult. It had taken a lot out of her, but she was alive, and for that Katja gave thanks to God every day.
Now that she was able, Zofia was even more adamant about finishing her memoirs. Katja knew that her mother wanted to be sure to get everything down on paper before she passed away. Zofia said that she wanted to leave a tiny footprint on the earth, a memory of what had happened to the Jews under Hitler.
Ima was getting worse. She stayed out for days at a time without telling Zofia or Katja where she was, or when she would return. Katja could not sleep on the nights that Ima was away from home. It was difficult not to ponder all of the terrible things that might happen.
Katja and John were forced to miss a few days of their meetings because of Zofia’s treatments. But for the most part, they met every day but Saturday because Saturday was Shabbat and it would have been too difficult to explain to Zofia why Katja needed to leave the house. On Sunday, Katja would give Zofia the excuse that she was going to the market, to escape and meet John.
CHAPTER 7
Ima’s rapist was never found because the rape was never reported. Katja tried her best to convince Ima to cooperate with the police, but Ima’s mind was a locked safe and Katja did not have the key. Ima avoided her mother. Katja told Ima that as long as the man who hurt her was free, he would go on to hurt other girls, but Ima just walked away. Zofia tried too, but even that connection was broken.
Forever, My Homeland: The Final Book in the All My Love, Detrick Series Page 4
