Onkel

Onkel

He sat in the kitchen on the chromed steel chair with the blue vinyl seat. Had he looked up and to his right, he could have seen the sky and trees through the kitchen window, but he rarely looked that way. His focus was on the stained crystal ashtray that sat on the cool grey- blue surface of the formica table before him. It was in contrast with the colour and texture of the tan skin on his hairy left arm, which rested on it. The arm wore a short- sleeved cotton shirt, striped in faded green, grey, and yellow, covering his upper arms and shoulders. A collar, frayed at the edges, supported several double chins of prickly facial hair that transitioned into choppy tufts beyond the crescent of his ear. He only ever buttoned three buttons on his shirts, if he buttoned them at all, leaving the bottom buttons open over his portly belly. A stained T-shirt covered that belly and was tucked into his shorts. He wore the same cuffed belted and wrinkled Khaki shorts all summer long. Bare leathery feet protruded from stocky legs. When he did wear socks, they were woolen and looked itchy and smelled worse.

His shirt tightened across his back as he breathed in, then it relaxed in curving waves as he exhaled with a cough. He lifted a cigarette from the ashtray and took a deep pull into his lungs. He held his breath then exhaled and returned the cigarette to the ashtray.

Smoking was what he did when he came to visit us which he did every weekend from the time of my earliest memory until the time I left home. He sat and he smoked.

He was my mother’s bachelor brother, my Onkel.

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When we were young, my sister and I were excited to see him because it meant that it was Saturday, and we had the day off school. He arrived before we woke up, the scent of the freshly baked Brotchen he had brought from the Kitchener Market alerted us to his arrival. The aroma of those buns filled the house, shook the sleep from us and had us scurry to the kitchen for the best part of our week.

We didn’t know how he managed to drive for two hours while keeping the buns fresh and hot, because they were always fresh, crispy on the outside with the softest, tastiest insides. We rushed to the kitchen, tore those buns apart, scooped out the tender gooey insides, rolled them into dough balls and chewed them with a mouth-watering attitude. We left the crusty shells to the last, then we would slather them in butter and bite into them, their crumbs exploding all around us like confetti.

My uncle never talked much as I remember, but it could be that my sister and I were so wrapped up in our own importance that we were unaware of his. All was right with the world as long as he was there with warm buns, his cigarettes, and a loving smile. What mattered to us was that it was Saturday. The day so far was perfect. We’d had our buns and it was time to go outside to explore a new day which we did loudly and quickly, slamming the screen door behind us when we left. Even our mother’s shout at our carelessness was part of the Saturday routine. I remember loving everything about those mornings, the fresh buns, the feeling of free time, and mostly, the joy of having my uncle visit.

Thinking back to those days I fondly remember the feelings I’d had for that quiet, private man. The memory settles over my lower back like a warm blanket, always there to comfort.

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I didn’t realize it at the time, but later learned that he lived a solitary life, working in a felt factory where he cleaned and maintained machinery that kept the factory operating. It was a hot, dusty, boring, and lonely job. The machines were loud and smelled of machine oil and chemicals that churned and ground bits of fabric across belts and through die baths before squeezing pulp between massive rollers. My uncle did that work, day after day, week after week, year after year. During that time, he rested in my mind at our kitchen table, quietly smoking his cigarettes. At the end of the weekend after dinner with us, he would get into his Karmann Ghia and drive away.

His playful nature came out once he befriended our dog, Champ. We had adopted Champ, a Labrador Retriever, at six weeks old. A dog will choose his master, and it turned out our dog’s master was my uncle. The connection was instantly obvious. It was as if they shared one mind. This bond, if you are ever lucky enough to experience it, is magical. I tried to copy words, motions, and signals my uncle used to connect with Champ but the same connection was denied. Champ quickly learned the routine, counting the days as he anticipated my uncle’s arrival. They were inseparable all weekend.

My uncle took him duck hunting, allowing him to sit in the front seat of the Karmann Ghia like a lord. He said Champ was a natural and an asset to the hunt, yet for us he barely played fetch. He seemed bored and would occasionally humor us with a retrieved ball, but his heart was elsewhere.

I was curious about my uncle’s past, so I asked my mother about her brother. I must have been about twelve years old and wanted to know what he’d been like as a child, why he was unmarried and about what he’d done in the war. THE WAR was a subject that was

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inferred but rarely addressed in our house. I knew that the family had been displaced and had left their homes to “make a fresh start”, but apart from that, the details were sparse. My mother’s answer to my question began with a sigh and a faraway look. She pursed her lips and squinted her eyes, but that could have been due to the onions she’d been chopping for our dinner. We’d often eaten fried onions with potatoes and bacon. Mom drew her shoulders up and held them for a moment before she dropped them and shrugged.

“The war,” she said, “the war changed him...it changed us all.”

I thought it odd that she started the conversation with the war and not with memories of her early family life, but that was not unusual because she’d kept that earlier life to herself like a secret she’d been sworn to keep. She stopped what she’d been saying, took another deep sigh and continued. I was ready for a revelation, a new and important bit of information that would help me tie the family together and place another piece in the incomplete puzzle I carried with me.

“He was smart, you know...good at math. He was a gunner in an airplane. Then he was sent to a prisoner of war camp.”

I was completely enthralled with this bit of information and couldn’t wait for more.

My mother turned away and continued chopping the onions. “After that, he just wasn’t the same... but that’s all over now. Now, set the table for dinner.”

“That’s it?!” I was dumbfounded. I pressed for more. “What happened to him? Was he hurt?”

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Mom ignored my questions. “Better just forget all of that. Talking about it just makes it... it brings it...just never mind! Now get the dishes and set the table, please.”

I was bursting with questions and curiosity, but something about the way she’d said ‘please’ made me drop the subject. I felt frustrated that the life of my close relatives in Poland was kept from me. I felt an ache inside my heart that longed for a soothing, truthful, massage that would ease the discomfort of the frightening unknown. Their past life was locked away in a vault for which there was no obvious key.

I vowed I would ask my uncle about his past the next time I saw him. I would ask this uncle who I’d known all my life, and he would tell me what I needed to know. This uncle who had sat at our table for years. This uncle who I knew by his smelly feet, his calloused hands, his frayed shirt and Khaki shorts, his Karmann Ghia and his cigarettes. This uncle who connected with our dog at a soulful level. This uncle who I loved.

He would tell me everything I needed to know because the curiosity went beyond wanting to know, it went beyond needing to know. It went as far as ‘needing to know’ so badly that I felt the need to do something about it. After all, my twelve-year-old brain demanded fairness, just as I’d learned about fairness on the playground at school. My mother’s words had led me to believe my uncle had been hurt so badly it changed him. Someone who could do something so mean to someone I loved, had to be dealt with. I raged with righteous indignation. I had to find out what happened so I could fix it.

One Friday before my uncle’s visit, I made a plan. I would linger over breakfast until my mother left the kitchen and then I would ask my uncle about his past. It would be that easy.

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The morning arrived. I waited patiently until my mother left the kitchen and we were alone. I blurted, “Onkel...what happened to you in the war?”

In retrospect, I realize I could have started with questions about his home life, easing us into the important conversation, but the art of discretion was not one I had yet learned.

His mouth opened and his eyes flew in my direction with a look of cornered prey. His lips moved, but no words came out. I stared at those moving lips for what seemed like forever. It felt as if time had stopped but for the moving lips and the ticking of the clock on the wall. He turned away letting his shoulders drop, then reached for a cigarette that lay smoldering in the crystal ashtray on the kitchen table. His hand trembled slightly. Champ sensed the tension in the room, raised his head and looked at my uncle. Once he’d picked up his cigarette, my uncle stood up, noisily scraping the chair along the floor. Champ jumped up and my uncle looked at him then turned to look at me. His lips were still moving, but he never spoke. He slowly made his way to the screen door. Champ sat down and whimpered, his eyes roaming from me to the receding figure of my uncle who walked out of the house and quietly closed the screen door behind him.

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