“Yes, I know. Do you pray, Max?” Sophia asked, remembering Mrs. Gathers praying before they opened the files at her house.
“My mother made me go to St. Ambrose Catholic Church every Sunday. I was an altar boy from fifth through eighth grade. I know more than my share of prayers.” He grinned.
“Will you pray for me?” Sophia’s lips trembled.
Max reached for her hands. “How about the Lord’s Prayer? That always brings me peace,” he said, and Sophia closed her eyes while Max prayed the prayer.
When he was finished, she reached for the tin, pushing her thumb against the lid until it gave way and popped open.
At the top of a pile was a photograph of a younger woman who Sophia presumed was Jelka because of the resemblance to Jutta. She sat next to a Negro man in uniform. A baby of about four or five months was in Jelka’s arms. Sophia held the picture close to her face. “I’m assuming this is me and my parents.” A knot welled up in her throat as she showed the photo to Max, who studied it.
“I can see you in both of them.” He handed it back.
Sophia peered at her parents. The people who made her, both in one place. She could feel love radiating in their smiles, in their closeness. She was one of them. They had belonged to each other, if only for a short time.
Next there was an index card, with “Katja Durchdenwald, September 5, 1949” scribbled in black ink.
“I’m technically six months older than I thought,” she told Max.
“That’s wild.” Max scooted his chair closer until their elbows met.
Sophia didn’t know who she felt like most. Was she Katja or Sophia? Which name would she keep? Which identity? After all this time, was it possible to be both?
Inside a handful of yellowing tissue paper, she found a gold heart locket. She opened the heart and found a miniature snapshot of her. She was older than in the family photo, maybe two, with big curls anda bright smile. From the looks of the photo, she had been happy with her mother. Then there was a small plastic bag with a lock of her hair.
“That’s probably from your first haircut.”
Sophia stuck her fingers in the bag and felt the texture. It was soft, and she closed her eyes, trying to transport herself back in time. But all she could see was the farm.
“I really wish I could remember,” Sophia confessed.
“Memories sometimes take time. They’ll come back. Just be patient.”
Sophia put the baby hair aside. Next there was a rock, and underneath was a standard-size white envelope, stretched by its contents so that it would not close. The envelope was addressed to Jelka Durchdenwald, c/o the Federal Eagle Club. Sophia’s heart quickened, and she pushed back the triangular flap and pulled out a stack of handwritten letters. In the center fold was a heap of two-dollar bills.
Sophia scanned the first letter, and then the next, and the next, until she turned to Max.
“These letters are from my father.”
Her fingers trembled as she flipped the envelope over again. Then she saw it. The return address was printed in a neat scrawl. Osbourne Philips, Ringgold Street, Philadelphia, PA.
“Oh my God,” she croaked as a prickly sensation traveled up her arms.
“Your father is in Philadelphia,” Max said. “I think you’ve found him.”
“Please, God, please, let him not be dead too.”
CHAPTER 55Philadelphia, PA, January 1955
OZZIE
At quitting time, Slim stood by Ozzie’s locker. Ozzie had already punched out and was planning to head to the hospital to spend time with Rita and Maceo before visiting hours were over.
“I hear congratulations are in order.”
Ozzie flashed his teeth. “She had a boy.”
Slim clapped him on the back. “Let’s head over to Wally’s for a drink and a cigar. We gotta celebrate you, man,” he said, loudly enough for a few of their drinking buddies to hear.
