The Big Little Lie

The Big Little Lie 

Dear Reader: 

Here are a few facts you need before you read this story.  I had just turned four when WWII was declared.  My father was Gerard Burchard descendant from an old German family.  Meige (the I is long) Burchard was my mother.  Because of their commitments to the Navy, I have no memories of my parents until I am almost eight years old.  During the war years I lived in Bremeerton, Washington with Meige’s mother, Eva, a small, spirited Irish woman. My grandfather Ellis Berkstresser had been recalled to supervise the reconstruction of our Naval ships that continually arrived at the Puget Sound Naval Dry Docks. Because the Japanese submarines hunted a way into the bay, WWII was on the doorstep of Bremerton. Naturally the hatred for the Germans and the Japanese was immense.   

My first memory is of standing in a room filled with other children and a nursery school teacher asking my name.  “Germaine Waldren Burchard” I said as plainly as possible.  “What kind of a name is that?” she asked.  I didn’t have an answer.  All I knew was that I felt as if I had left a piece of my clothing at Eva’s house. That was the beginning of constant explanations about my names.  However, over time Germaine became the primary focus.  “What kind of a name is that? How do you spell it?  How do you pronounce it?  Germaine was not common in the 1940’s.   

When the war ended.  Three strangers, myself, Gerard and Meige, met in Los Angeles to take residence in a made-over garage.  There was one room, one small closet and bathroom, three small windows, an alcove with sliding curtains where I slept on a cot, and a Murphy Wall bed, hidden during the day, filled the room at night. Another side alcove was the kitchen. I finished 3A at the local grammar school and when the Christmas Holidays arrived Meige returned to Bremerton to care for her father, I was sent to live with Gerard’s mother, my Gram’Adele in San Diego. 

Arriving, I was awe struck.  Adele’s home was an older house with dark brown shingles at the top of Pringle Street Hill. It boasted a front porch with half walls and windows so the house had two front doors, a fireplace and a piano in the living room, dark wood moldings with white walls, huge wooden doors that disappeared into the walls separating the living room from the dining room.  Best of all, it had a sun porch with glass windows on three sides and a million-dollar view of the San Diego Bay.  It also contained seven dogs, two cats, and a caged bird all left with Adele by owners who were sent elsewhere because of the war. I knew that, somehow, I had gone to heaven.      

The first thing was to get me registered at school.  Fortunately, Adele didn’t drive, it was down the block, around the corner and next to an historically old Spanish Graveyard where the graves were rising from its sandy soil.  This would be the third time for me to fill in the blanks of a registration card.  They were blue in color, 5 X 7 in size with blanks for your name, your address, I believe your birth date, and finally another blank for your parent to verify that all the information was correct.   

It did not take me long to think of a name other than Germaine to put down as my own.  Rose!  Everyone knew what it was, how to spell it, and how to pronounce it.  So, I did.  I became Rose Burchard right then. I had not thought about Adele signing the card until I walked up the front steps.  It was best I decided not to say a thing.  Adele was a New York debutant at sixteen and Irish to the core.  She had been raised with maids, tutors, and piano teachers.  She was an avid reader, a strong woman who encouraged heated discussions at the dinner table as long as the participants remembered that when they quit arguing and left the table, they were family.  She also had a very casual commitment to schooling. I don’t think she missed the name Rose on the card.  I think she signed it trusting that I had a reason important to me. I’m not sure that conversation ever occurred.

I loved school.  I was Rose when I was there.  Simple and easy.  I made friends in class and on the school yard.  My favorites were kick ball and four-square.  Adele would get up and make my breakfast of hot chocolate and buttered toast with salted avocado smashed on it.  My afternoons were spent with dogs and cats; my weekends were often shared with cousins who lived in San Diego.  I never shared my name of Rose with anyone outside of school,   

Then the semester ended.  My parents, Gerard and Meige, were coming to get me.  It was a hard goodbye to say to Adele and I wasn’t prepared for the response to my name change.  They must have seen it on the report card that was always given out at the end of the semester. I don’t remember Gerard, like Adele, saying anything.  Meige was livid.  She lit into me; she lit into Adele.  When we got in the car to leave Meige sat herself in the back seat, anger dripping from her pores. I took the passenger seat with what I knew would be a full view of the beaches hugging highway 101, but not knowing that I would learn to love those beeches as I grew older. I thought about Rose. I was worried I would lose her. I liked who she was. I didn’t like that I had to lie. I also didn’t mention Rose to Gerard. Then as the miles flew by, I sat up straight in my seat telling Gerard stories about school, my friends and the too many dogs as was Gerard’s opinion. I t was then that I began to understood that Rose was still with me.  I didn’t have to lose the laughter, or the understanding of what new friends might mean, or that somehow I can be both Rose and Germaine.   

                                                            Germaine Burchard