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I had never seen my grandmother Annette cry. “She’s just a little sad,” my grandfather explained. The three of us had just finished dinner and we were sitting at their big dark wooden table where weekly my grandfather would write poems for me on any topic I came up with. It was 1957, I was seven years old, and in a few days I would be leaving my birthplace of Uruguay for The United States. My grandparents had immigrated there from Prague and while they each spoke many languages, my grandmother had never mastered Spanish, my only language at the time. She was a warm, large woman with silver hair, bright blue eyes, and an almost shy smile, who always seemed to look at me with absolute delight. But my grandfather often had to translate for her.
“In a few days you and your mother and your father will be going on a fine adventure to a whole new life in America,” he said. Ever since my mother married Fred Kuhner when I was four, my grandfather referred to him as my father, even though his own son, the scoundrel who deserted his wife and tried to harm his infant daughter (me), and repeated stole from his parents , was my biological father. “Fred Kuhner is a wonderful man and he will always take care of you and protect you in your brand new world. I used to dream of living there when I was younger,” he said with a small sigh and then continued, “I even tried for Annette and me to go after we were married, but we could not get papers.” Then he continued, “But now you, you will get to do this.” “Is abuela sad because we will be so far away?” I asked. He translated for her. She had been clutching a delicately embroidered white hankie which she then used to dab her eyes. She smiled softly and said something, slowly got up, and left the room. My grandfather translated, “Yes, Sylvia, she is sad because she loves you very much and she will miss seeing you.” My seven-year-old mind could not possibly comprehend the vast distances between where my grandparents were and where my future would be. “This is very important for you to remember,” he said, suddenly more somber and serious, “life is a mighty adventure and you never know what will happen. And even the briefest encounter with someone connects you to them somehow. We are all connected in this giant world. We are never, truly alone. So remember to be kind, always.” I understood. Even after the Nazi invasion of his homeland and the ransacking of their house and the killing of many family members and their sudden escape to South America and their scoundrel son’s painful activities, he never allowed me to use the word “odio”—hate. “Hate only kills parts of you, not the other,” he would tell me. “Your father has a father in The United States. Did you know that? He comes from Germany. We never met him, but we have written a few letters. I think you will like him very much. And you know what? We have the same name, Max.” My father had told me stories of his own dad and that of his mother, Wilma who had died just a few years ago. My grandfather continued, “I’m sure he has interesting stories to tell you about his old country. He’s a good man.” Months later I met my new grandfather, Max Kuhner, at his home in the woods just outside Worcester, Massachussetts. I liked him right away. Although he seemed a rather aloof and exacting man—a very prominent engineer by profession—whenever we would visit, he seemed to delight in telling me stories about his life. I was a child full of questions and he was happy to answer. There were walking sticks throughout his house and I asked about them one day. “Ah, I like to hike in the mountains. So beautiful. You know, your grandmother Wilma and I took our honeymoon in a beautiful place, not far from where we lived in Germany. The place was called Neroberg and it was magical.” I had never heard him use that word before. “How was it magical?’ I asked. He replied, “I’m not sure. But when we wandered through the hills and then ate and slept in the town, we both felt almost like there was a special something surrounding us.” Now he shook his head. “The people we met were especially kind. It seemed that everyone smiled. Like we were all connected.” He sighed. “That was the first week of June in 1922. About a year later we were lucky to get papers to come to America. So many tried but could not.” I nodded remembering my Meindl grandparents. But the past had even more surprises. Here I am years later, writing this in a lilac-filled early spring. Life’s twists and turns have led me to many adventures. I took with me the stories from all of my grandparents and have woven them into my own life-blanket which I wrap myself in for comfort and warmth and security. After we left Uruguay, I never saw the Meindls again—they died just a few years later. My grandfather Kuhner died in 1982, at his home in the woods looking out at what he always called the “most beautiful painting of all—the daily changing panorama of nature.” And yesterday, in finally clearing long-forgotten parts of my attic I came across a box from a relative of the Meindls who had sent it to me years ago. In it I saw a familiar photograph of the Meindls, Annette and Max, as a young couple. But this, I had never noticed (How could I haved missed it?) had been turned into a postcard—a common thing for tourists at the time—with my grandfather’s distinctive writing on the back. It was in German and I was desperate to know what it said. A translation group online quickly and generously helped me. It was a simple message of connection, “hope your children are well,” and “It’s hot here. We’ll be home soon.” But suddenly I saw it. Look where it was sent from—Neroberg, Germany. And when? June 5, 1922. They were on their honeymoon. In the same place, at the same time as my Kuhner grandparents. Right before I boarded the plane to America in 1957, my grandmother Annette gave me a doll she had as a child. My grandfather translated for her as she hugged me close, “I want you to have this because, dear child, we are always connected to the past in ways we can’t even begin to understand. And we must pass along not just the stories, but the love and the magic. Life is magic.” I was 12 years old when at lunch time I just raced out of the school building (PS 63 in New York City), ran across a highway, over a busy avenue, rounded the corner, and breathlessly entered the lobby of my apartment building. I knew it was foolish at the time, but my overwhelming fear and anxiety just took over. It was mid-October, 1962 and our country was engulfed in the Cuban Missile Crisis. Our teachers had been drilling us for days on various survival techniques, mainly “duck and cover” and “hide under the desks”, because it was widely assumed that nuclear bombs were aimed at New York City as the first line of attack. We all felt powerless. To add to the sadness, my father recently had serious surgery and was home languishing in pain, and my mother spent her days fretting over his slow recovery and also the panic of what most believed would be imminent bombings. On that particular day we had a drill in the hallway of our school where over a loud speaker the principal urged us to keep our backs to the wall as we all sat cross-legged on the cold, tile floor. Probably seeing the terror on our faces, our teacher, Mrs. Rothman, spoke to us in a quiet, but firm voice: “Shortly after we were married, my husband fought in World War II. After it was over and he came home he didn’t talk about it much, but I knew it had been horrible for him and others. He still had some shrapnel in his chest from a particularly dangerous mission which I knew caused him a great deal of pain. But still, I would see him really enjoying a simple slice of pie or a brightly colored bird on our window sill in ways I didn’t see before. Every day when he left for his job as a bus driver he would hug me and say what a beautiful day it was—even if it was raining. One day I asked him why he was so…well, so appreciative of everything. So many others were angry or distressed. And he told me: ‘After I was shot I figured out that things like this—like this terrible, terrible war—either make you better or worse when you come out of it. I set myself on trying to come out of this a better person. I decided that I was going to really enjoy life because this experience would teach me a valuable lesson. So I was going to be better for it.’ “ As we sat there scared and shivering I hung on her every word looking for some balm to fill my fearful heart. She finished, “So, when this ordeal is done and we all go back to our regular lives, think about whether this will make you a better person or a worse one. Decide that now inside of yourself because it will matter for your whole life.” And as she finished, the bell rang for lunch. Kids scampered to the cafeteria, but I bolted out the door and home to my parents. I found my mother crying in the kitchen and my father on the couch listless and very pale. “This will make us stronger,” I vowed out loud. “We will get through this—all of it—and it will teach us how much we love each other and how strong we can really be.” Of course they were shocked by this, but I had a very firm resolve. Even though I loved being at school, I stayed home to help and to be with the two people I so dearly loved. Several days later the missile crisis was over, my father’s health began to improve, and my mother’s panic began to abate. And, indeed, we really were never again the same as before the crisis. We were better.   “My great grandmamma gave me this little scrap right before she died. She come up from Georgia –escaped an old mean master—with her two bitty babies. Twins. My grandmamma was the girl. They was no more than a year and a half. The boy—he died one night in the corner of an old barn someone let ‘em sleep in along the way. Not enough food. My grandmamma grow up strong. She and her mama built a little house just off in the country. They sewed and cooked for the white people in town. They were so happy when my momma was born—named her Miracle. Years later when my momma died birthing me and then my great grandmamma died, my grandmamma raised me on her own. This scrap came off great grandmomma’s apron. She said it was all she had left of her time in Georgia and she pinned it on her clothes every day to remind herself of how far she travelled.”
Eleanor, the cook, told me this story on one of the evenings that I was invited to our philosophy professor’s house for dinner. These dinners, to which only a few were invited, took place weekly in 1971, my senior year at a small college on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. I did not have a grasp of philosophy and grew weary of the talk very quickly. My interests ran more to people and stories, but my friend was the top student and he always brought me as his guest. One night I met Eleanor in the kitchen while I was making a wrong turn in my search for the bathroom. She was taking a sweet potato pie out of the oven and her old, wrinkled hands almost failed to hold it. We both giggled at her close call and I told her my relief that my favorite thing of the night wasn’t ruined. “They talkin about great thinkers in there again tonight?” she asked. “Yup,” I replied, “tonight it’s all about Spinoza and how you’ve got to study the past if you want the present to be different.” “Well, Honey,” she drawled, “he ain’t wrong.” She showed me the scrap of cloth safety-pinned to her apron and told me that story of her great grandmother’s escape from slavery. From then on each week I looked forward to slipping away from the heady talk and hearing more about Eleanor’s life. About her work and the people she knew and her family—about her daughter who disdained everything about their meager and hard life and finally ran way to “Californa—imagine that? She said she was going to be a star. Haven’t heard from her since she left almost 16 years now right after her baby, Marilyn, was born. I been raising that sweet little girl all these years.” She reached in the pocket of her apron to show me a tattered photo. “One day she’s going to go to college and learn about these thinkers. I got a bank account and I put money in every week. She gonna go.” No husbands were ever mentioned and one time when I asked she made a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’ve been a fool, but I learned what matters. Ain’t no fool no more. Who they talkin’ about tonight?” “Nietzsche,” I told her, “he says that life is suffering but to really survive you have to find meaning in the suffering.” “Oh, lordy,” she exclaimed, “he ain’t wrong. No. He ain’t wrong at all.” At the end of the year, Eleanor baked me special little pies to take with me on my travels back to my New Jersey home. She wrapped them up and gave them to me on Schopenhauer night. Our professor quoted him: “Every parting gives a foretaste of death,” as we raised our glasses solemnly at our last dinner together. After graduation I moved to NJ for a year and when I moved back to our Eastern Shore college town to start my teaching job one of the first things I did was try to find Eleanor. The professor said she had gotten sick and was too old to work but he gave me her address and I quickly drove out to her tiny one-room shack off a dirt road on the edge of a barren field. I knocked on the door and Marilyn came to the door. “Granny is too tired for visitors,” she said tearfully. “I can’t even get her to talk much. She used to try to tell me stories but I was too stupid and angry to want to listen. Now I ask her but she’s in too much pain.” I left, telling Marilyn my new address in town, respecting her wishes, offering my help, and feeling sad beyond measure. A week later Marilyn came to my door. Sobbing she fell into my arms: “Granny died yesterday. And I never listened and I never cared and now I’ll never understand. But, when she heard you were back she asked for me to get this raggedy old piece of cloth from her apron. She told me to bring it to you. That you’d understand what she wanted,” and with a shaking hand she showed it to me. I held it, sat her down, took her hand, and started: “Your Granny’s, great grandmamma escaped from slavery in Georgia…” It was 1999. My father was dying of liver cancer. All possibilities had been exhausted and it was estimated he had just a few weeks to live. His care had been given over to me, my husband, our daughter, and hospice. My mother was still alive but her severe handicap precluded much in the way of help with his needs. One day in the midst of confusion and anxiety we realized that he was not at home. I became frantic and called on friends to help me find him in our little town. One of them brought him home within half an hour. “Daddy, why on earth did you go wandering off like that?” I scolded. “It was such a beautiful day just couldn’t resist,” he responded. And so it went for the next few weeks with me questioning his choices and decisions out of anxiety, concern, and ignorance. When he was almost completely bedridden, swollen from the steroids, and unable to eat or drink on his own, he insisted on going to the optometrist in town to get new glasses. I was exasperated. I threw up my hands in a desperate plea to him. “Why? Why?” I stammered ashamed, even as I said the words. He looked at me and took my hand in his and said, “It’s a privilege to be alive and while we’re here we need to remember that and simply live. That means doing all of the mundane necessary things as well as what we enjoy. It’s all—all of it—part of this life.” I took him to the optometrist. They rushed his new glasses. When they arrived he put them on, smiled, and told me, “Ah, everything is more clear now.” Yes, yes it is.  Our first temporary home in the U.S. was in Larchmont, NY—right outside New York City. It was early March 1957, I had just turned 7 and didn’t yet speak any English. My American father registered me in the local public school about three blocks away. Each morning I would walk down the block, around the corner, and across the street. My mother—who didn’t yet speak much English—worried about me. “Do the other kids make fun of your language? Are they mean?” she would ask me in Spanish. I would tell her what my teachers and the helpers at school taught me: “No, mama, if they laugh at me it’s only because they don’t understand. Some people are afraid of what they don’t understand. One day I will make them see how much fun I am. The teachers told me this.” I made friends with a crossing guard who slowly and with a lot of hand signals taught me about rules of crossing streets and about buses (I had never seen a school bus before.). At school I was part of a new program for recent immigrants. It provided reading and language special help, guidance programs for adjusting to this new country, and a program to teach the fundamentals of government to prepare for citizenship. I loved all of these classes and teachers and learned their lessons quickly. I didn’t get to play with other kids very much, but gradually during recess I started to be included in some of the games and loved running and jumping rope and giggling . At the end of the school year that June, my teachers gave me a small American flag in a little ceremony and told me to "grow tall and strong like our fine oak trees." Spontaneously all the kids cheered. That August when we moved to Passaic, NJ, I was enrolled in public school there and was given a number of tests to see where I would be placed. Third grade. I was placed in third grade. I had advanced so much in a few months that I skipped second grade entirely! I owe a great deal to the Larchmont public school system and have been grateful my entire life for their help, concern, and care. Much later when I was awarded my PhD in English, I thanked them, along with so many others, who helped me become someone I hoped would make them proud: A very grateful American. I had my small flag with me. I still do.   “I guess it wasn’t too unusual for an only child, but still it bordered on obsession.” From the time I could talk I would ask my mother for a baby brother. In the early 1950s in Montevideo, Uruguay one of the ways to deflect discussions about where babies come from was to tell young kids that mail-order like, babies come “from Paris.” So, I would ask if my baby brother had come from Paris yet. I was really insistent about this point. “What about a baby sister?” people would ask. “No, a brother,” I would demand. A few years after my mother was divorced from my biological father who had deserted us when I was an infant, she married Fred Kuhner who I immediately called my real father. We moved to a house in an area called Carrasco, Uruguay, and at age 4 I started school. Senora Gonzales was a particularly beloved teacher. While the other kids took naps on floor mats I helped her sort materials. If anyone awoke upset or fearful I would run to their side to talk to them and make them feel better. Nap time was my favorite part of the day. Sometimes during that time I would be allowed to wander down the hall to the school library. That’s where I saw it—evidence that my parents were totally ignorant about conception and birth.
“Senora Gonzales! Look, look what I found!” I called to her in as controlled a whisper-yell as my young mouth could produce. “You need to tell me the absolute truth. Do babies really come from Paris?” Well, dear readers, she felt she had no choice. The book detailed a lot and she knew I was desperate for facts. So she explained, in what I imagine must have been rather ambiguous terms, how pregnancy happens. Apparently I was not shocked about the process—but I was shocked at my parents’ lack of information. “She called us from the school before you came home. She warned us about what had happened,” my mother told me years later. “You came in the house, threw down your sweater and demanded that your father and I sit down in the living room the instant he came home. Then you went to your room and slammed the door shut. Slammed it. I couldn’t imagine what was next. I called your father to warn him and we decided what our approach would be with this situation. But I underestimated you.” She sighed. She always sighed when she told this story and always emphasized how she underestimated me. I’d heard it many, many times throughout my life, but the last time she told it was in 2001, three years before she died. Then it became different. But now she continued the often-told story, “When your father came home and we settled ourselves on the sofa I called to you that we were ready. You came out of the bedroom with a book, some paper, and some pencils. There was barely controlled anger and disappointment in your face. You were always such a sunny child that this took us by surprise. And then, putting the writing materials in front of us, you began your lesson. ‘Babies do not come from Paris. You have been doing things all wrong. You have wasted letter after letter sending for a baby. Let me show you what needs to happen.’ And then you began drawing and explaining.” At this point she always stopped because embarrassed laughter would overtake her and anyone else listening. She then continued, “You asked us if we had any questions. When we shook our heads with a ‘no’, you said you expected that this knowledge would lead to a baby brother, and you pivoted and marched resolutely back to your room.” When my own daughter was 3 years old, in 1981, my mother was visiting us during a particularly cold day in February, and she once again over tea and cake told the story. I then asked a question that had not occurred to me before. “Mom, when did I give up this quest for a brother? I must have given up at some point.” “Well,” she began, “it was really very strange. For most birthdays or holidays when asked what you wished for you’d say a baby brother. But several days before you turned 6, you asked for something else. It was odd. ‘You don’t want a baby brother anymore?’ I asked you. And you answered in the strangest, most eerie way, ‘No, I don’t need to ask anymore because he’s already born.’ So strange, Sylvia. So strange. But then, children say such strange things.” My mother and I laughed about this as we sipped some tea and watched my daughter, her granddaughter, play with dolls. Twenty years later, to the day, (pre-internet, pre-social media, pre-easy international communications) my half-brother who—completely unbeknownst to me—searched for me most of his life, contacted me. He was currently living with his wife and three young children in Montevideo, Uruguay, where he was born on January 21st in 1956—one week before my 6th birthday. |
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