Honesty of Purpose

I am not as young as I used to be, but I do what I can. Even with a sharpened trowel, it's sometimes still difficult to dig the holes in the hardening ground of late Autumn. But the time and effort is always worth it, because into those holes will go the flower bulbs for daffodils and tulips. And then next year, on Spring days, I will get to enjoy looking at their beautiful colors gently swaying in the breeze.

I was kneeling on a small pad next to one of my flower gardens in the front yard one Saturday morning when I heard someone say my name.

“Ms. Eben?”

I looked up to see a pleasant-faced young man with short dark hair and gray eyes. “What can I do for you?”

“You're Ms. Sojourner Eben?” he asked.

I nodded.

“I'm Zachary Pollard,” he introduced himself. “I'm a reporter for the Oakwood Gazette.”

The local newspaper. Over the last sixty-odd years, I'd never merited its attention. What had changed?

“Pleased to meet you,” I said. “I'm afraid you've caught me at an inconvenient moment. I really need to finish planting the rest of these flower bulbs.”

“If I helped, would you be willing to let me ask you some questions in return?” he asked.

“What sort of questions?” I asked cautiously.

“Nothing too personal,” he said. “We're writing articles about our older residents. Where they came from, what they've done over the years. That sort of thing.”

“Seems harmless enough,” I said. “All right, Mr. Pollard. We have an agreement. As long as you don't mind getting your hands and knees dirty, you can help me. In return, I'll do what I can to answer your questions once we're done here.”

He nodded. “What would you like me to help with?”

I showed him.

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The planting was finished much more quickly than usual with his help. An hour later we were all cleaned up and relaxing in the living room.

I couldn't imagine what had caused a sudden interest in my past experiences. But I would do my best not to bore the nice, helpful young man. I watched as he took out a tablet computer. He explained that it would record what we said and convert it into text. When he returned to the newspaper's offices, he would proofread it and edit it.

“Where would you like to begin?” I asked.

“Where and when,” he said. “You were born overseas.”

I nodded. “In southern Germany in the town of Garmisch. My parents were also from Garmisch.”

“Was that before the Second World War?” he asked.

“I'm certainly not young enough to have been born after it,” I said. “I was born in the decade that was called the Roaring Twenties. Though it wasn't that glamorous for the poor in Germany.”

“Your family was poor?” he asked.

I nodded. “Quite. We managed to survive, but only barely. It only got worse as the money became increasingly worthless. My mother once put all our savings in a wheelbarrow and pushed it to the nearest cobbler to buy me a pair of new shoes. And that was even before the Great Depression began.”

“Did your parents survive the war?” he asked.

I shook my head. “My father served on the Eastern Front and died at Stalingrad in 1942. My mother and I went to live with relatives in Munich. I trust I don't need to describe in detail the aftermath of the Allied bombing raids? The destroyed buildings and homes? The bodies lying in the street? Or the day when my mother didn't return home from trying to find food for us. Her body was found in a crater several blocks away. I had to fend for myself from then on. It wasn't a pleasant experience. Those living in London during the Blitz will understand what I mean.”

“Except for the attack on Pearl Harbor, we never experienced bombing raids here in America,” he said.

“How lucky you were,” I said. “The movies and TV shows do their best, but they still haven't come close to the reality we went through in Europe during the war.”

“We've heard conflicting reports about the residents of Munich,” he said.

Ah. Now it made sense why he was here. To verify that I hadn't lied about my experiences in the war. I could've been yet another Nazi in hiding. After all, Dachau wasn't that far from Munich.

“If you're wondering, I never joined the Nazi Party,” I said. “Nor did my parents.”

“That wasn't a problem when your father joined the German Army?” he asked.

“Joined?” I repeated and almost laughed. “He didn't join it. He was drafted. And, of course, being a patriotic German he would never have refused to serve his country.” I wondered if he heard the mild sarcasm in my voice.

“Even with a wife and child at home?” he asked.

“Even so,” I said. “Had he been a child in the last year of the war, he would've still been drafted. They were taking them down to at least the age of 16. I'm amazed that they had army uniforms that were small enough for those children.”

He tried not to stare at me.

“Surely you must've known,” I said. “It shouldn't be that big of a shock. When your country is on the losing side, your cities are in ruins, and most of the adult soldiers are dead in battle, what did you expect the insane monster in Berlin to do? Give up? Of course not. Had all the children who were drafted been killed, they probably would've drafted the women next. But thankfully the monster killed himself and the war ended before the war reached that point.”

“I'm surprised that you weren't arrested and questioned by the Gestapo during the war,” he said.

“Oh, I was,” I said. “More than once. And they used their usual genteel interrogation techniques on me. I couldn't even walk home after each session. They transported me back to my home and dumped me in front of it. They didn't even bother to see if I was still alive. They'd gotten what they wanted each time.”

“Did they rape you?” he asked, and I saw that his hands were trembling.

“What do you think?” I replied. “Do you think they would've treated a German girl with any kindness and respect?” I lost my temper. “Of course they raped me! And shaved my hair off! And tortured me until I couldn't stand up, much less walk! What did you think they would do? Kiss me on the cheek and wish me Auf wiedersehn?”

He was quiet for at least a minute or two.

I tried to calm down. “Most of my neighbors were convinced I must have done something terrible, something anti-Nazi. I was treated like a pariah by almost everyone in the neighborhood. Very few continued to care about me. The priest at the nearby church, when he learned what was happening to me, hid me in his church and nursed me back to health. The Nazis tried to force him to reveal where I was, but he refused. The church was neutral ground, sanctified ground, the place to worship and praise God. They gave him warnings, and he politely bid them Auf weidersehn each time and then slammed the door in their faces.”

“He took a big risk,” he said.

“And I wouldn't be alive today if he hadn't,” I said. “Every Sunday when I pray I say Gott sei dank for what the priest did for me. And I try, not always successfully, to forgive those who hurt me so much.”

He was quiet again.

“Have my neighbors been gossiping about me again?” I asked. “If they have, perhaps you can tell them that not all Germans loved the Nazis. Not all Germans worshiped the ground that Hitler walked on. Not all Germans saw him as the Messiah who would help Germany achieve greatness again. I was very lucky; I didn't get sent to a concentration camp. However, that didn't mean that my experiences at home were pleasant.”

“When did you immigrate from Germany to America?” he finally asked.

“That was after the war,” I said. “I had no desire to live amongst the ruins and memories of the dead. I wanted to try to make a new life for myself. There were people after the war who were willing to help those worst off to leave Germany if they wished to. Some suggested going to Israel instead of America, but I am Christian, not Jewish. I chose America, and it has been a mostly good choice.”

“When did you move to Oakwood?” he asked.

“That was in the late 1950s,” I said. “I had saved enough money to put a down-payment on this home. My English was better by then and I didn't stick out like a sore thumb like I had when I first came to America. For the most part, my neighbors have left me alone to do as I wished. But every so often, gossip rears its ugly head and I have to hear the negative words that people use to describe me. I doubt you could mention some of them in your report, so I won't repeat them here.”

“Did you ever marry?” he asked.

“Once,” I said. “A kind, caring man. He had served in the military in Europe. He had seen what Germany was like after the war. He knew that not all Germans were evil. And in return, he showed me that there were exceptional Americans. He certainly was one of them. After he died several years ago, I took my German surname back.”

“Why not keep his name?” he asked.

“What's wrong with the one I was born with?” I retorted. “It was good enough for my parents, so why wouldn't it be good enough for me?”

He was quiet again.

“Mr. Pollard, perhaps you could do me another favor,” I said. “Nothing terribly difficult.”

“What would that be?” he asked.

“Tell my neighbors and anyone willing to listen what I've told you,” I said. “Perhaps that will silence the critics, gossips, and slanderers. At least for a little while.”

“I'll do the best I can,” he said.

“Is there anything else you would like to ask me?” I asked.

He shook his head and stood up. “My parents saw the Holocaust miniseries in the 1970s. They told me about it. I wish that they could also hear what you've told me. There was much suffering in Europe during the Second World War.”

I stayed seated. “There was indeed. Some of it was far worse than what I went through. I lived to talk about it. Far too many did not.”

“I'll see what I can do to write an article about this interview,” he said. “I won't lie. I won't hide anything. If my editor asks me to tone it down, I won't. Either it gets printed as is, or it doesn't get printed.”

I smiled. “I'm glad to hear that. The truth isn't easy to swallow sometimes. But it makes me grateful for my first name. I was named for Sojourner Truth, an American abolitionist. I wish that she could've been alive in the Second World War. There is much that she would've fought for, and I would've stood at her side through it all.”

“Thank you for being so honest with me, Ms. Eben,” he said.

“Let our interview be the proof of my honesty of purpose,” I said. “There may be many who will disagree with what you and I discussed. Let them disagree. They weren't there. Those who were will no doubt quietly agree that war is hell for all who are involved in it, whether as one of the winners, or, as in my case, as one of the losers.”

“I'll send you a copy of the article once I'm done writing it,” he said.

“Take care of yourself, Mr. Pollard,” I said. “There are few like you and I am glad to have made your acquaintance.”

“Likewise,” he said. “Good day, Ms. Eben.”

“Or as we used to say back in Germany: Auf wiedersehn,” I said.

He nodded.

I stood up and walked him back to the front door. Outside, he turned around once and waved. I waved back.

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The uncensored article was printed in the Oakwood Gazette, with the warning above it that there was much in it that wouldn't be appropriate for underage readers. A week later, amongst the Letters to the Editor, was not only a message from the Editor herself, but also from some of my fellow readers.

History As Seen From The Losing Side

History isn't irrelevant. It is always worth learning from. But one must remember that events in history aren't one-sided. Despite this, it is not often that the losing side gets the chance to have their say, to tell what it was like from their point of view. The winners usually write the histories. There is no account, for instance, of what the Trojan War was like for those who lived in Troy. We have only the Greek viewpoint as passed down by poets such as Homer. But when we are granted a view into the losing side, we gain knowledge that we might not have gained otherwise. It might not be what we wish to learn, but what we need to learn. It gives us a full view, warts and all. We should be grateful for that full view each time we are able to receive it. The same is true for the viewpoint given us by those who were forced against their will out of their homes and businesses after the attack on Pearl Harbor and forced to live in interment camps in the desert. When they returned home after the war, their homes and businesses were already taken over by others. They had to start over from scratch. Just like Ms. Soujourner Eben did, when she emigrated to America. She had little at first, but now she has something even more important than the jobs she held over the years, the money she earned from them, and the home she lives in. She has the respect and trust of her fellow Americans.

The Editor

Interesting, I thought. If only everyone in this town thought like you.

Truth is rarely easy to see and learn from. It tells us things we sometimes do not wish to know. But if we turn our backs on it, we risk increasing ignorance rather than increasing knowledge. Better to face the truth and accept it for what it is, than to deny it. Thank you for all that you said in your interview, Ms. Eben. Hopefully our children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren will continue to learn from it. – J. Walters

I stared. She lived across the street from me, rarely saying “how are you?” or even “hello”. Apparently I wasn't so invisible to her after all.

Ms. Eben, your bravery, courage, and inner strength are to be marveled at by those of us who never had to experience what you experienced. I apologize for those who have sometimes not treated you with the respect and trust you deserved. When the next neighborhood get-together is planned, I will invite you myself to join us. Whether it is July the 4^th, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, or Memorial Day. You are part of our community. You deserve to share in it. Thank you for all you said in your interview. – C. Henderson

I had to stare again. He was my next-door neighbor. The man whose dog who barked at me every time I walked past his human's yard. Apparently I wasn't that invisible to him either.

I read all the other messages, wondering if I'd imagined being so alone in my house or even when I was outside working in my flower gardens or even when I went to the weekly farmers market.

Maybe getting interviewed had been more beneficial for me than I'd expected it to be. It had shown my community what I was like and what I had gone through. It hadn't turned them away. Instead, it had turned them toward me.

I called the newspaper and asked if Mr. Pollard was available. He was. They brought him to the phone.

“I wanted to thank you,” I said. “I'm sorry if I was a little hesitant at first when we first met. I should've had more faith in you than I did.”

“You didn't know me yet, Ms. Eben,” he said. “Naturally you were cautious. That's only understandable. I could've been a gossip columnist, after all.”

“But now I feel like we're old friends,” I said.

“So do I,” he said.

“Please call me Sojourner,” I said.

“I will, if you'll call me Zachary,” he said.

“Anytime you wish to visit me again, Zachary, you are more than welcome,” I said. “I may have even more to share with you. Old photographs and more memories.”

“I'm looking forward to it already, Sojourner,” he said. “Would tomorrow afternoon at 3 be a good time to visit?”

“Yes,” I said. “Thank you for your honesty of purpose.”

“And thank you for yours, Sojourner,” he said. “Until tomorrow, take care.”

“Likewise, Zachary,” I said.

It made me feel so good, that I almost wanted to dance with joy, despite my 95-year-old joints.

“There is a silver lining to every cloud,” my late husband once said.

“How right you are, my love,” I said.