An Unsettling Discovery

“Mom, where do you think your passport is?” I shouted up to her, wondering why I did as my mother could not hear me talking even when I was sat next to her. I moved some more papers in the drawer that seemed to be breeding papers and items. Suddenly, I saw a photograph of a young man in a uniform. On the back was written “Ich liebe dich, Gerhard xx. 24.09.1943 xx”. I turned the photo over and noticed the German uniform. I remembered seeing this photo before when I was a teenager, snooping through the drawers. My mother had caught me and I hastily shoved the photo back in the drawer. Later, I saw my mother looking at the photo with a melancholy expression, eyes glistening with tears. Years later, my mother had told me about the handsome German solider she had fallen in love with one summer. He had been a prisoner of war at a camp in Lawrenceburg, Tennessee where she was then living. He had healed her heart after she had received the news that her husband (my father), had been shot down. My father, however, had survived but was captured and held in a German prisoner of war camp until 1945. My mother had the surprise of her life when she received the letter to say he was alive and I expect felt much guilt about her German soldier, who had healed her broken heart!

I looked at the stranger in the photo and was struck by the familiarity of it. Maybe it was because I had seen it before but it was more than that. There was something strangely conversant about his eyes and the sharp jawline. I looked at the inscription again. I spoke no German but knew that “ich” meant I. The kisses suggested it was of some romantic notion and I presumed it meant I love you. It was the date that caught my eye. 24^th September 1943.

I had never really asked when my Dad went to war. I had naturally assumed it was sometime (well nine months or less) before my birth in June 1944. I knew my father was at war when I was born so naturally assumed my mother must have been pregnant with me when he left. However, that now did not seem possible, if my mother was with Gerhard during the summer of 1943. I shook my head unable to think straight and was pulled to my senses by mother’s voice.

“Pamela, what did you say?” She called out.

I hastily put the photo back in the drawer, my heart racing and plodded upstairs. My mother was recovering from a hip replacement and I had come to help her. Well, keep her from doing anything, which was no mean feat. Now in her early seventies she was still active and spritely and I figured would be more so once she was recovered from this surgery.

My mother was sat in her recliner reading a book.

“Your passport? Where do you think it is?” I asked. She was planning a trip to Europe, once she was fully recovered but needed to renew her passport. It was another thing on her never-ending list of things to do, find or write.

“It should be in the desk drawer in the study.” She replied.

“I looked there.” I told her.

I wanted to ask her there and then about my father but I knew I needed to think and work it out. I was thrown into disarray.

“Well take another look it should be …” She paused “Pamela. are you ok, you look disheveled.”

“Yes Mom I am fine why shouldn’t I be?” I asked but secretly thinking I am great - just discovered that the man I thought was my Dad may not be my Dad.

“Do you need anything Mom? Otherwise, I will go and take another look.” I told her and left without waiting for her reply.

“Some coffee when you make some.” I heard her shout as I ran down the stairs.

I went back to the desk to look for the passport but I got distracted by that photograph. I took it out and looked at it again. Those eyes looked at me and it was as though I was looking in a mirror. Of course, the photo was in black and white but there was no mistaking it. Those eyes were my own and that jawline. The hairs on my arm stood up and I shivered. Gerhard was my father.

Why had no one told me. My sister Andrea had always looked like Dad, I favored my Mom’s side and now it seems my father.

I really did not know what to think, this photograph had changed everything. Never in a million years did I think my Dad was not my father. It made no sense. My birth certificate had him listed. I began to wonder my mind swarming. Maybe Dad did not go until the summer of 1943 and was shot down immediately and my Mom’s heart was broken and this German soldier was her comfort. It may have been a pure innocent affair of comfort and solace and Dad was my father. Maybe he was not my father but Dad assumed I was his and did not know. If he went to war before the summer of 1943 then he would obviously know I was not his daughter. I let that sink in; I was not his daughter. Yet I was very much his daughter and had never had any reason to think otherwise. 

I had never really paid attention to the details of Dad’s wartime duties and Dad never liked to talk much about the war. Now he was gone. I wondered if I should ask my mother but I was not sure how.

Yet there was no mistaking those eyes. There was no doubt now who my father was.

I shuffled through the drawers some more, not really sure what I was looking for, but clearly looking for something other than Mom’s passport. There were letters from my siblings and I when we had gone away to camps, old passports, (though I was yet to find my mother’s). Then more letters, they were old and I knew I had no right to look but look I did. They were from my father, well the man that raised me but now may not be my father. They were not mine to read and I knew that. so I thought I would just open them to see if there were any dates. The marks on the envelopes were too worn to work out, if they were ever there to begin with. The first one was dated October 1941, well that was not a good start. I continued looking, maybe Dad had come home and then been deployed again. The letters unsurprisingly were in chronological order, my mother was meticulous with such things so I went to the last letter in the pile which was dated March 1942.

Of course this still confirmed nothing, it was still possible he had come home and went back to war. Then I saw another pile of envelopes with my mother’s handwriting. I thought of how romantic it was that they had kept the letters all this time and I had to exercise all self-control not to read them. Hers were dated Sept 1941 through to April 1942. Then I saw an official envelope and hurriedly opened it. It was dated 27th April 1942 with the news that my father’s plane had been shot down. It had probably been hand delivered and I thought of my young mother receiving that news. She had a young daughter at that time, my sister who was born in 1940. My brother was born later in 1947. And of course I was born in 1944. There was no denying the truth now, my suspicions and instincts had been correct.

I said nothing to my mother that day. I did not want to say something I may regret. I was having a hard time understanding the news I had uncovered. I thought of Dad with pity but also such love and admiration. He never treated me any differently from his “real” children and he always loved me, in fact, looking back he often favored me.

The following morning my mother now able to get up better, came to the breakfast table. It was a simple meal of eggs and bacon and steaming coffee. Some toast sat on the toast rack and I had found some little pots of jam like you find in hotels and had set them on the table.

“This looks lovely dear.” My mother said appreciatively.

“Just something simple.” I responded, but was touched my mother had acknowledged my efforts.

“Any sign of my passport?” She inquired.

“Yes I forgot to tell you last night, I finally found it in that drawer with all that junk!”

“It’s not junk.” She replied indignantly, “but thank you for finding it.’

I hesitated unsure of how to approach it.

“You can start planning your trip, where exactly do you want to go?” 

I asked.

“I want to see England again. And France.” She hesitated and said wistfully “And Germany.”

Here’s my chance I thought a lead in the conversation.

“Why Germany, I mean I know you wanted to go back to England and see France. But Germany?”

I saw that look again, the one I had seen on her face when gazing at the photo of my father all those years ago.

“It’s somewhere I have always wanted to go ever since..”

Before she could finish I said “Gerhard.”

My Mom’s eyes flashed back and forth as though a ghost had crossed her path.

She gave me a quizzical look.

“I found his photo when I was looking for your passport, I remember you telling me about him years ago.”

Our eyes met and locked. I did not need to say anything, my Mom could read my face and I knew that she had worked out what I had discovered about my past.

“I am sorry, I wanted to tell you but there was never the right time.” She said.

“Did Dad know about my father?” I asked wanting to break the lingering silence and not knowing what else to say.

“Well of course he knew you were not his.” She sighed.

“Mom I realize he knew I was not his daughter but did he know about my father and why did you and he never say anything?”

I knew she had rehearsed this scene in her mind multiple times over the years yet still the words were not forthcoming. Finally, she said,

“We never wanted you to feel different, of course your Dad was upset but it was war. The rules that define us in ordinary times are thrown in disarray. I genuinely believed your father was gone. I had mourned him and even had a funeral with an empty casket. Gerhard just stumbled across my path when I was lost. He helped me through a dark time in my life and one night.” She trailed off and I thought one night the stars aligned and I was the result. My mother’s favorite expression when I started dating was to say. “One time is all it takes.” Now I know why.

“He never knew about you, he was gone the day after that night, I guess that was one of the reasons that night happened. War does that, the unknowns make you impulsive. There is no promise of tomorrow so you live in the moment. Normally I would never had acted so rash and carefree.”

She looked at me tenderly, her cheeks flushed and said

“I never regretted it and never regretted having you, it was the best thing that could have happened to me. It gave me hope and yes it was hard but I would not have changed a thing.”

She looked all her years in that moment, her wisdom worn on her face and yet there was no sign of regret.

“Did you ever hear from Gerhard?” I asked her.

“No, he left that photo the morning he left, though I often wondered about him but when your Dad came back from war it was all forgotten and we just continued as a family. I had moved not long after I discovered I was pregnant. It was closer to my own mother and she was able to help me with you girls. It also meant we never had to explain anything. We were just a regular wartime family, like so many. Your Dad never said a word about it once he came back. I had written to him once I had word about his release for the camp and explained what had happened. I gave him the option of coming home to us or starting a new life without us. He came back of course and he loved you like his own.”

“I know he did.” So much so I had never thought otherwise and my tears welled as I thought of him.

The next few days I thought about the situation. I called my husband and told him what had happened. I discussed my proposed plans with him and he was all for it and understand the necessity. Once I placed the receiver in the cradle, I knew what I had to do. A few calls and several dollars lighter I gave my Mom the news over dinner.

“Two tickets to Germany in a few months, your passport should be here and your hip will have healed. I have done some research as well and am hopeful I will have tracked Gerhard or at least his family. I would like to meet him Mom and I think you would like to see him again?”

Her face said it all and the tears rolled down her cheeks. The photo had led to an unexpected journey, a journey to reclaim the past and one which may define our futures.