by Susan Finlay
Up until two months ago, he hadn’t wanted to be a soldier. Didn’t like guns and certainly didn’t want to kill anybody. But in letters from Pop and Ronald, they’d described what was happening to Jews; to their people. Then, in Ron’s latest letter, he’d described the way the damned Nazis were rounding them up, putting them into concentration camps, and starving them. Ron had even said he’d heard rumors that they were being gassed to death or taken out in the woods and shot point-blank.
After reading that letter, Mom had cried and cried, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, and finally announcing that she needed to go to the Synagogue to speak with the Rabbi. “Stay here with your brother,” she said to Teresa, then glanced at Thomas. “I won’t be long.”
Ten year old Teresa had turned to Thomas, her eyes moist and face red, and asked, “What can Rabbi do about it? Can he help save the Jews in Germany? I’m scared. Are they going to get us, too, and take us away?”
Thomas hadn’t told her that it wasn’t only Jews in Germany that were being targeted, and wondered now if it was wrong to keep her in the dark. It was bad in Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, France, and other European countries. Thomas had read the letter after Mom finished it. And neither of them had read the letter out loud or given it to Teresa. Mom had snapped the letter back from Thomas and taken it with her to show the Rabbi. Teresa only knew the parts that Mom had talked about.
He had patted Teresa’s shoulder and said, “No, you’re safe. The Germans aren’t in the U.S., and our military won’t let them come here. But as for your question about the Rabbi, he can’t stop the Nazis. That’s why Pop and Ron and I have to fight. I’m going to join in and stop the killing of innocents.”
He turned up the music to drown out his worrisome thoughts.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lucas Landry, July 2017, Sacramento, California—
“I STILL DON’T know how any of the people in the photos are connected to me,” Lucas said. He and Tawny were again looking through the boxes and file cabinets in the attic. So far, neither of his grandparents’ names had come up in the diaries.
After visiting Seth last week, he’d told Tawny about his brief visit and said while they had not resolved their issues yet, at least they were again on speaking terms for the moment. How could he tell her without hurting her feelings—or without pissing her off—that Seth was a racist and wouldn’t even meet her or Bianca? Hell, he would be angry if her family had broken off ties with her because they didn’t think he was good enough. Who wouldn’t be? Best to keep that from her, at least for now.
He diverted further inquiry about Seth by telling Tawny about his two aunts, Anna and Elsa, that he’d found out about and had gone to meet very briefly in Santa Rosa. He said they seemed nice, talked a bit about his father, revealed his grandparents names were Tom and Emelie Landry, told her about Elsa’s pending surgery, and had left telling them he would visit again when they were both feeling better.
His aunts didn’t know anything about Tawny and Bianca. He’d wanted to tell them all about his family and show them pictures on his cell phone, but he hadn’t. What if they were prejudiced, too, and would then refuse to answer questions about his family’s history because he had a mixed-raced child? He needed answers, so he kept quiet about his family to keep the door open between them—at least until he knew more.
“Maybe you should concentrate on the other photos, then,” Tawny said. “You know, the miners or farmers or whatever they were.”
“I don’t know. That would be harder, because those date further back. Besides, I’m not really into all that genealogy crap. That’s more of a women’s thing.”
“Lucas Landry, I can’t believe those words came out of your mouth. Shame on you! Men and women, both, are into genealogy. What a sexist thing to say.”
Lucas felt his face grow hot with embarrassment. Being called sexist was the last thing he wanted. “Sorry. I . . . I guess I was trying to find a way out of doing all that research. I mean, digging around for family’s roots is hard work, and what if I don’t like what I find out? What if I find rotten potatoes, so to speak?”
He looked away, pretending to examine a box he’d already gone through.
“I would do it in a heartbeat—and don’t say it’s because I’m a woman. Knowing your family history helps you know more about yourself, about where you came from, and why you do the things you do. The more you know, the better. You know that from your psychology training.”
“Yeah, I know.” Seeing his father’s eyes again in his aunt’s eyes had stirred up mixed feelings in him. He would never see his father again, but those two women were a link to him and had awakened his sense of heritage. Back when he was in Grad school, he’d had to look into his family and write papers about his childhood. That had been tough, but he’d done it. This time, he had a chance to look further back—back into his father’s and grandparents’ lives.
Tawny said, “At least with those possible ancestors—the ones in the 1800’s photos—we might be able to check public records here in Sacramento.”
“Yeah, I guess that makes sense,” Lucas said, looking at Tawny again. “I’d like to know more about them, for sure, though I’m thinking maybe they aren’t related to me. I mean, those photos might have come with the house when my ancestors bought it and emigrated from Germany. Anyway, I think I may have a chance of getting information about my German relatives directly from my father’s sisters. That’s the best way I can think of to get answers. Unfortunately, they are getting up there in age and both have some health issues. I mean, they aren’t that old, but Dad was younger and Mom was younger, and both of them are gone. I think I need to spend time with them now, before it’s too late.” His eyes teared up and he choked back tears that surfaced. Wow, where did that emotion come from?
“Aw, Luke. You must be hurting over the loss of your father. I should have been more sensitive, more comforting, and I’ve not really talked to you about your feelings.”
“No, you’ve been great,” he said, hoping he’d squashed the emotion enough that it wouldn’t try to surface again while he was speaking. “You haven’t pressed me to talk, and that’s exactly what I need—not to be pressed, I mean. My father and I . . . well, you know, there’s never been any love lost between us. It’s just that with the aunts, I felt something, like they gave me a sense of family, maybe.” He ran his hand through his hair. Why can’t I figure out what I’m trying to say? “I guess maybe I have a sense that we could be family. You know, that we might be more than just linked by blood. More than names on a family tree chart. Does that make sense?”
“You want to share your life with blood relatives. I get that.”
He reached out and pulled her close, his chin resting on the top of her head. “No, it’s not that. Not exactly. I mean, you and Bianca and our new baby—and your mom, too—are all the family I need.”
She looked up into his eyes. “Of course we’re your family. But I know it’s more complicated than that. You need other ties, too, heritage to ground you. You need to know where you came from. It’s important to find those links.”
Roots. Back to that genealogy stuff. Maybe he did need roots for his family tree. Huh.
He reached over and kissed her. “I don’t know what I would do without you. I sometimes think you know me better than I know myself.”
“We need each other.” She ruffled his hair. “It’s funny how we came from completely different backgrounds and cultures, yet none of that mattered. We’re family and we have each other. We share the same moral values and the same beliefs. Maybe some of that comes because we both studied psychology, do you think?”
“Yeah, probably what we learned in college influences us and we share that commonality, but it goes beyond that, too. We understand each other,” Lucas said. As he held Tawny in his arms, though, his brother’s face and words broke through Lucas’s self-preserving armor: We want Americans to be a pure race, yes. But my beliefs are totally different from
Dad’s. You seem to think that if we’re both racist, we’re the same. It doesn’t work like that.
Oh, God, I can’t keep something like that from Tawny, but how can I tell her what kind of family I come from? And what if Seth is right and my family were Nazis?
“Maybe it’s dumb to dig around in the past,” Lucas whispered into Tawny’s ear. “Don’t they always say that you should let go of the past and live in the present, or something like that?”
Tawny pulled back and said, “Don’t you dare wimp out. You need to do this. I’ll help you as much as I can, but you might never get this chance again. Not after your aunts are gone. Use it.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but what could he say? What reason could he give for stopping? Tell her what he feared? She would ask why, and then he would have to tell her.
“No one wants you to live in the past, but you should know what happened in the past. Didn’t you ever see posters in your history class that said ‘Those who don’t study history are destined to repeat it’, or something like that?” She smiled at him.
“Yeah, I remember that. You’re right. I need to find out what my ancestors did.”
THE NEXT MORNING, he called his aunts and was told Elsa was going in for surgery ahead of schedule in two days. An opening in the surgeons had come up. Lucas got the information, arranged for a day off from work, and agreed to meet them at the hospital.
He strode through the hospital’s antiseptic-smelling corridors, trying but failing, to block out errant thoughts of people suffering in lonely rooms, some dying, and some waiting for word that an organ had finally been found.
Watching for signs that would lead him to the waiting room where he was supposed to meet Aunt Anna, he didn’t notice, and almost collided with, an orderly pushing an empty gurney. “Sorry,” Lucas said as he swerved out of the way, chastising himself under his breath.
A voice came over the loudspeaker, calling for a doctor, stat. A shiver raced down his spine and along with it came a memory he’d shoved to the back of his mind—the day the paramedics had arrived at a different hospital, rolling in a gurney with his father strapped to it.
Someone, he couldn’t remember who, had called Lucas on his cell and told him to meet the paramedics at the hospital. He had actually been nearby and arrived right behind the emergency vehicle. He’d followed them into the emergency room and down a corridor, but was barred from going into the room where they were going to work on his father.
He’d sat for a long time in the waiting room, barely holding off tears and guilt. Why hadn’t he tried harder to get his father into rehab? Good God, drug addiction treatment was his specialty. He should have been able to get through to his father. His father’s addiction problems had gone on for years and probably subconsciously influenced Lucas’s decision to specialize. For all the good that had done. Yeah, maybe Lucas helped other people, but what good was it when he couldn’t help his own family?
Before Tawny could get there and offer her comfort and support, the doctors had spilled out of the room where they’d been working on his father, one of them walking over and calmly, quietly assuring Lucas they’d done everything within their power. His father was gone.
Shaking off the past, he finally found the right elevator and took it up to the floor where he was supposed to meet his Aunt Anna. He sat in the waiting room with her quietly for an hour, and then her daughters and Elsa’s son and daughter, along with a bunch of kids and grandkids filled up the waiting room. Lucas became an outsider.
He was introduced to everyone, and they were all friendly enough, but he quickly realized it was too soon to be accepted into their circle. That’s what he told himself, as he said goodbye to Anna.
“I’ll keep in touch,” he said, “and we’ll get better acquainted later, when everyone is less stressed. Please call when Elsa gets out of surgery. I’ll come visit her later when she’s ready.” Whether they would ever be close, he couldn’t say. But it almost made him weep as he walked to the elevator comparing this family to his relationship with his father and brother.
Outside, the June air was warm and smelled of flowers from the garden beds in the parking lot. Flowers made the hospital look less intimidating, more inviting. Not everything that happens in a hospital comes out bad, he reminded himself. People get well, babies are delivered, and maybe Aunt Elsa will be okay.
Since he had the rest of the day off, he decided to stop back at Seth’s house. With any luck, Seth would be at work and he could ask Allison if she could give him the contact information for their relatives in Germany.
When he rang the doorbell, it wasn’t Allison who answered.
“Hey, brother, what are you doing here?” Seth said, “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon, considering it was five years between the previous two visits. Know what I mean?”
Lucas nodded, looking over toward the house next door for a moment, trying to figure out how to answer.
“Yeah, I didn’t expect to be coming by either, but I was on my way home from the hospital. One of the aunts is having surgery.”
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know. But you didn’t have to come by to tell me.”
“No, well, that’s not why I came. I was wondering if I could get contact information for our German relatives. Aunt Anna and Aunt Elsa told me they gave you a list.”
“What the heck do you want that for? You aren’t going to fly to Germany, are you?”
“Well, no, I . . . I hadn’t really thought . . . .” He shrugged. “I might try calling or writing.” Good grief, was he actually thinking he might go to Germany Was he really going to get in touch with strangers and try to make new family ties? His brother’s question hit the nail on the head. What was he thinking? What was he feeling? Had he done so well with the new relatives he’d seen today?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Christa Nagel, July 18, 1944, Altstadt, Sudetenland—
CHRISTA WAS COLLECTING eggs in the chicken pen when Ernst opened the gate and strode inside. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “Are you going to help me clean the pen? Please say yes, or leave.”
“Well, you are in a sour mood. What did I do to deserve your ire?”
She pushed loose strands of hair from her face with the back of a hand. “Sorry. You have done nothing wrong. It’s just . . . nothing. I am just sad. Today is my birthday.”
“Why are you sad? Eleven is a fine age.” Ernst looked thoughtful. “You know, you should go put on your best dress and get Mutti to fix your hair. It is a mess, you know.”
“Ha, and what best dress should I wear? I have so many to choose from.”
“Wow. You really are in a sour mood. I know at least you have one good dress. Not everyone does. Mutti said that the Meiers down the road lost everything in the fire at their house last week. You see, it could be much worse.”
Ernst was too easy-going. Nothing ever rattled him. Well, almost nothing. That parachute incident had, but nothing since then. If only she could see the bright side of their lives, she scolded herself. But tonight there would be no birthday cake, no party, and no celebration. In the past few months the Nazis had taken half their chickens, which of course meant half their eggs were also gone. That meant they had fewer items to barter with at the shops. Their ration cards gave them barely enough food to feed a family of four—and there were still seven of them, now that Vati was away. Even with the few vegetables they were able to grow in their small garden, those left to them after the soldiers came, they were starving. The food supplies in their root cellar were almost exhausted, and Mutti couldn’t spare any flour to bake a cake. Their flour was needed for real food, like bread.
“We could make mud pies,” Ernst said. “Cannot eat them, but we could have fun throwing them at each other.”
“Don’t you dare!” But she laughed. Ernst could make her laugh when no one else could. He ran out of the pen, slamming the door behind him, and glanced over his shoulder to see if she was coming.
She took off aft
er him.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?”
Christa turned toward the deep male voice, stunned and unable to speak at first. “Vati? Oh Vati, you are home!” He was standing near the door to the main house. She ran to him and swung her arms tightly around his waist. “I am so happy to see you.”
“I would not miss my oldest child’s birthday, now would I?”
“But how? How could you get away? Are you not supposed to be fighting?”
“Not fighting. No. I am a medic and I should be helping people. But . . . I have an injury of my own. They sent me home, and if I am lucky I will not have to go back.”
“That is wonderful, Vati. I mean that you can stay home, not that you are injured.” As she looked at him, she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d deliberately gotten hurt. How else could he be here right on her birthday?
“It is all right. I knew what you meant,” he said, chuckling.
By now, Ernst was waiting to hug Vati. Within moments, Mutti and the other children had gathered outside and were eager to hug and kiss Vati, too.
“How badly are you hurt?” Mutti asked, looking up at him from their embrace.
“Just my leg. Shrapnel from an explosion pierced my thigh, but I was lucky and it did no permanent damage.”
“Oh my poor Franz. They brought you back home on a truck, then?”
“Part of the way. I had to walk from my drop-off spot. The regiment was heading to another battleground.”
Mutti made a tsk, tsk sound.
“Vati,” Fritz said, “you really may not have to go back?”
“I do not know.” Vati and Mutti exchanged glances. “It depends. Germany is losing the war. It could be over in weeks or months.”
Christa stayed silent. Mutti had begun letting her and Ernst, as the oldest, listen to the BBC radio with her after the younger kids were in bed. She knew that the Russians were in Poland and pushing back the Wehrmacht ground soldiers. Altstadt was near the Polish border. What would happen when they reached the border with the Sudetenland? The Russians were said to be winning, and they were supposedly killing German civilians and raping the women and young girls. Would Vati be able to protect their family?
