“Many of them, but not all. Some are at home with their mothers until we can move them. Regardless of where the children live, we need the written consent of the mother to get the paperwork rolling. Once that happens, the child is separated from the mother and then placed in aWisenheim,which is the German way of saying an institution.”
“That sounds like the hardest thing to do for a mother,” one woman said, wincing.
“How hard could it be? They’re giving up their children anyway. The sooner the better,” another snapped.
“And who pays for all of this?”
Ethel cleared her throat. “Once we identify a match, the family adopting the child is charged twenty dollars a month for the child’s food, clothing, and medical care until his or her name reaches the German quota list.” Ethel purposely left out the additional forty dollars it would cost to translate the documents into German, not to mention the cost of the long-distance calls to and from the States requesting documents. She didn’t want the fees to scare away any potential parents.
“So what’s the holdup? Seems like if the mothers don’t want them, you should be able to move the kids in droves.”
Ethel cringed. She had spent enough time with local German mothers to know that they didn’t always want to give up their babies. Most times they had no source of income, no family support, and no other choice.
“The toughest part in all of this is proving the baby’s nationality,” Ethel said, repeating what her translator had just related to her in court.
“Aren’t they all just German?” Julia asked.
Ethel shook her head and explained, “When a German woman marries, she automatically becomes the nationality of her husband. If she’s not married, her nationality must be proved through her grandfather. She must produce proof before the passport of the child will be issued.”
“Good grief. There are so many hoops to jump through while those poor children just have to sit and wait,” Julia said, reaching for her daughter, who had started to fuss.
Ethel clutched the podium with both hands. “It could take six weeks to six months for the proof to be obtained and processed.”
“What can we do?”
“Pray,” someone shouted.
“Prayer always helps.” Ethel chuckled. “But I need boots on the ground. I need you all to start chatting with Negro women in your networks, at home, here, and anywhere in Germany. Help me get the word out that these babies are available for adoption. As many of you know, I have adopted four, and they have been the joy of my life.”
Words of congratulations rang around the room. Once the women settled back down, Ethel added, “My goal is to get as many of these children to America as I can, and for that we need resources.”
“I can organize a bake sale,” said the woman in the flowy dress. “I make a mean sweet-potato pie.”
“That’s a start,” said Ethel as woman after woman called out ideas. Then, as if on cue, Anke stood in all her sweet stickiness, reaching her arms out to Ethel with the white bow slipping from her hair, shouting, “Mummy. Up.” And the ladies oohed and ahhed as Ethel nuzzled Anke in her arms.
CHAPTER 25Mannheim, Germany, March 1950
OZZIE
Two weeks after Katja was born, Ozzie won a Land camera off a white boy from Boston in a heated game of poker. The camera produced a glossy Polaroid photo in sixty seconds. Each weekend he wasn’t on active duty, Ozzie visited Katja and would snap a photograph of her. Ozzie had to restrain himself to one picture each week because the Polaroid film was expensive. Only ten film sheets came in a pack, and he had to make them stretch. Ozzie liked the ritual of capturing her forever in a picture, and he wanted to hold on to her infancy as long as he could.
Jelka wanted her to look perfect in every photograph, but Ozzie’s favorite shots were the ones when he caught her lying on the floor after a diaper change in a white tee, or on her stomach, eyes droopy from her nap or mouth wet with milk.
During the week, Ozzie carried the latest snapshot in his breast pocket above his heart. In the evenings, before he went to bed, Ozzie pulled out the pictures of Katja and lined them sequentially across his bed, marveling at her growth in just five short months.
“You got it bad,” Morgan would tease him during this ritual.
“Ain’t that something, got me wrapped around her pinkie and she ain’t even walking,” Ozzie snorted.
The rooming house where he had taken Jelka for most of their relationship was for lust, not for families. Now, on the weekends when Ozzie wasn’t on active duty, he stayed overnight at Jelka’s house, sleeping on the coral woven carpet on the floor, with Katja on his chest.
For every month’s milestone, Jelka insisted on a small celebration for Katja. On the Saturday in March when Katja turned six months, Ozzie walked into Jelka’s living room to the smell of soup boiling on the stove. Alpine folk music played from the gramophone, and a fire curled and crackled around wood in the tinplate belly stove. Katja was on the rug, rolling around on her back.
“She can crawl.” Jelka pawed the air, mimicking the movement. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face, and her skin looked freshly scrubbed and oiled.
Ozzie removed his olive drab coat, scarf, and leather gloves and rested them on the back of the recliner. “When did this start?”
Katja heard his voice and turned her face toward him. Then she started to cry and kick her legs. Drool ran down her chin and dripped onto her white tee as Ozzie scooped her up in his arms.
