“Yes, I’ll grant that America is a young country settled by foreigners, as you say. But Germany is not. Austria is not. Hitler sees all the economic troubles facing us and he sees a solution. Germany is for Germans.”
“What about this campaign the Germans have brought into Austria to prevent people from having children who might pass on genetic flaws? What does that even mean, Johannes?” Martinesaid. “How is that making Germany for Germans or Austria for Austrians? And what does that mean for people like you and me? What does that mean for someone like Brigitta?”
Johannes crinkled his eyebrows in consternation. “The führer doesn’t see the merit of perpetuating weakness, that is all, Martine. Not in politics, not in economics, and not in people. A strong, healthy Germany needs strong, healthy citizens. Weak people make for a weak country. We want a strong country, don’t we? It’s that simple.”
“I don’t see anything simple about it,” Martine said. “There was talk at the sewing circle today that people who aren’t perfect are being sterilized. I didn’t believe it could be true, but now to hear you talk, I wonder if it is.”
“This is nothing that concerns us,” Johannes said, still frowning. His tone was unconvincing, though, even to me.
“Would the Germans sterilize people like you and me because we had a child who isn’t... perfect?” Tears had suddenly sprung to Martine’s eyes.
He paused before answering. I sensed that this had been weighing on him, too, and that he was still formulating an answer to satisfy himself but that he hadn’t arrived at one. “I don’t know. Probably not. But I suppose they might sterilize someone like Brigitta even though she is likely never to marry.”
“Johannes!”
“Why are we talking about this?” he said, raising his voice, his tone suddenly dismissive. “It’s people of childbearing age who might burden the society with defective offspring—like epileptics and alcoholics and those with intellectual disabilities—the feebleminded. These are the ones that have been targeted. Brigitta is just a child. We don’t have to worry about it.”
“I don’t like this, Johannes. It frightens me,” Martine said. “It’s as if they are saying only perfect babies should be born.”
“But... but perhaps we are looking at it selfishly,” he said slowly, as if thinking aloud. “We love Brigitta, but what kind of life will she ultimately have?”
“Ahappyone!” Martine exclaimed.
“Yes, of course, I know that. I know we can give her a happy life. We are able to. But what about people like her who have no one? What about the ones in institutions where day after day their lives are meaningless and no one loves them or truly cares for them? Maybe it would have been better for those people if they had never been born.”
Martine gasped and rose to her feet. “Who are we to say their lives are meaningless! Who are we to say a person has no value?”
Johannes stared at his wife and didn’t reply. He appeared to be struggling to construct an answer.
Tears spilling down her cheeks, Martine left the room.
I waited a moment to see if Johannes would try out his answer to Martine’s question on me, but he just gazed at his drink and said nothing. I excused myself and followed Martine upstairs to my bedroom, next to Brigitta’s.
I went to bed that night, my resolve to stay in Austria as strong as ever, but I lay awake, not knowing what to make of the conversation I’d just been a part of. I wasn’t able to stop thinking about what Johannes had said about weakness.Who defines what is weakness?I’d wondered.Isn’t it only the strong who get to decide that? Isn’t it only the strong who have the power to act on what they decide? How can that be right or fair or good?
Sleep had been long in coming.
24
DECEMBER 1947
The taxi drops me off at the one hotel in Santa Rosa that is still giving out rooms at nine thirty at night on Christmas Eve. There is a lively party going on in the hotel dining hall, open to all the guests, but I head upstairs to the room I’ve been given and collapse onto the bed fully clothed.
I found what I’d been hunting for in Celine’s office after an hour of searching. Buried in the back of a file cabinet in the closet were documents that detailed the signing over to Sonoma County of the Calverts’ responsibility for one Rosanne Maras. There was also a letter dated February 26, 1939, from a county social worker, Eunice Grissom, thanking the Calverts for their efforts and informing them that Rosanne Maras had been transferred from their home to the Sonoma State Home for the Infirm if they wished to visit. Visiting hours were Saturday afternoons from two to five.
Those documents are now in my handbag.
I will call Lila and George Petrakis in the morning to first wish them a Merry Christmas and to then ask if I can take them up on the offer to stay with them for a bit. And to see if they’d bewilling to perhaps loan me a vehicle in the coming days so that I can drive up to the institution where Rosanne Maras was taken. I don’t want to wait until I have my own place and my own car to start looking for what has become of my niece or nephew. I know after nearly nine years that whatever befell Rosanne Maras has long since happened—finding out exactly what that was, even if I can, will change nothing. But still. I need to know. And I won’t be at peace until I’ve made every attempt to find Truman’s child.
My heart and mind are weary from the day’s revelations. I kick off my shoes, burrow under the comforter, and am asleep in minutes.
I awaken Christmas morning to the sound of bells from a nearby church. I dress in fresh clothes and make my way to the place that pealed such a happy greeting to the day, to sit in a pew and pray for favor as I try to discover the whereabouts of this baby and its mother.
I wait until after lunch to call my friends, apologizing for disturbing them on Christmas. But Lila is just as I’ve always known her to be, cheerful, kind, and welcoming. She and George are insistent that I have Christmas dinner with their family and begin my stay with them this very day. She offers for one of their sons to travel the one-hundred-mile round trip to fetch me. It seems to me too great an imposition.
“I’m sure I can get on a train tomorrow to you,” I say.
“Nonsense. It’s Christmas. And Garland loves that drive. You’ll get to see the new bridge, Helen. It’s beautiful. Majestic even.”
