PROLOGUEMannheim, Germany, 1946
A hand pounded against the front door. Startled from her morning prayers, Sister Proba clutched the cross hanging around her neck, hoping it was just the wind. But then she heard it again.
Rap, rap, rap.
Wearing only her thin nightgown, she quickly got to her feet and grabbed her robe.
The knocking got louder and more aggressive as she moved down the winding back stairs, draping her veil over her wispy hair and pinning it in place. At the bottom of the steps, Junior Sister was dressed just as haphazardly, brow furrowed with concern. With only a look between them, the two nuns moved down the long hall, passing the dining room, and then through the foyer.
After flipping on the light in the small vestibule, Sister Proba looked through the peephole. She touched her forehead and then made the sign of the cross before unlatching the door.
Under the portico stood a woman with pasty skin and slightly wrinkled clothes. Streaks of dried tears stained her hollow cheeks.A child’s legs wrapped around the woman’s waist, and tiny arms were tightly fastened against her neck.
“Help me,” the woman croaked.
The nun stepped aside and ushered the pair into the parlor, where Junior Sister was already at work starting a fire.
“I cannot keep him.” The woman’s eyes were filled with shame.
The child stayed fitted around her so tightly, it was hard to see where one began and the other ended. Sister Proba gestured for the woman to take a seat.
“My father banished me from our village.” The young woman repositioned the boy in her lap, and when he faced forward, his sweater was a size too small and his thick hair unruly. It was just as the nun had suspected.
Mischlingskinder.
The two nuns exchanged a look but said nothing.
“He threatened to sell him to the traveling human zoo as an exotic for twenty-five deutsche marks. My son would be kept in a cage and put on display.” She wrapped her arms more tightly around the brown-skinned boy. “We ran away to a shelter, but the conditions…” The woman dropped her eyes. “Deplorable.”
The billows made a whooshing sound as Junior Sister stoked the fire.
“I have found work as a live-in housekeeper, but I cannot bring a child. You are my last hope. Please, take him.”
Sister Proba stood and reached for the boy, who was so sleepy he didn’t put up a fuss. “Write down the usual information before she goes,” she directed Junior Sister, then squeezed the frail woman’s shoulders. “May God be with you.”
The boy grew heavier in Sister Proba’s arms as she ascended the steps to the second floor. This child would be number twenty-two at the orphanage. All occupation children, all of mixed-race parentage and a result of war.
The large dormitory room smelled of babies’ breath and pillow drool. She lay the sleeping boy down on an empty cot and tucked the gray wool cover around him. Just as she turned to go, the boy lifted his head and clutched the hem of her robe.
“Mummy?”
“Shh, go back to sleep. You are safe,” she cooed.
But the boy wouldn’t be mollified. “Mummy. Mummy,” he said, louder this time. The child next to him stirred, then the one in front of him. Harmonious cries of “Mummy. Where’s Mummy?” echoed throughout the room.
“Go back to bed, children, it is okay.” The nun moved from one child to the next, tucking them back under the covers, rubbing backs, and whispering sweet words of affection.
Still the boy would not be pacified. He pushed off the bed and started running across the floor. “Mummy. Don’t go. Please, no!”
Part1
When I discover who I am, I’ll be free.
—RALPH ELLISON
CHAPTER 1Prince Frederick, MD, September 1965
SOPHIA
