myself to speak of him.’ I asked if I could help in any way, and she thought about it for a long time. Finally, she said, ‘Tell them if they ever come looking.’ And here you are.”
“Why didn’t she just write us a letter or something?” I asked. “Something we could open after she died, if she wanted us to know?”
“Because she wasn’t sure that telling you was the right thing,” he replied. “Do you understand? You had to seek the truth out on your own. I imagine she had a bit of a sense that you’d do just that one day. She was always telling me that you were a girl full of questions and that you always searched for the answers.”
I was silent for a moment as I imagined my grandmother in her final weeks, filled with regret but not knowing how to make things right. I swallowed hard. “How come I’ve never met you before?” I asked. “If you were so close to my grandmother?” I regretted immediately how rude the words sounded, but the journalist in me needed to know.
He looked surprised for a split second, but then he nodded, as if he’d expected the question. “We lost track of each other for a long time. When she left Belle Creek, I went with her, but only for a few years. Your father had just been born. I was only fourteen, and she was nineteen, almost twenty. She was scared and alone. We traveled separately until we got to the North—to Philadelphia—where I got a job at the Italian market on Ninth Street and she worked as a seamstress. I used to watch your daddy sometimes when she worked. I owed her everything. But then, just after your daddy turned four years old, I received a telegram saying that my father had lost his arm in a farming accident. I had to move home to care for him; there was no one else. I lost touch with Margaret after that because she didn’t want to be found, and she certainly wanted no connection to Belle Creek. She changed her name, totally reinvented herself.”
“She changed her name? Why?”
“I think she just wanted to be someone else,” he said. “Someone who didn’t come from a family that had turned their back on her, someone who hadn’t been rejected by the man she had believed so strongly in. She used to be Margaret Mae Evans, you know. But she was running from the past, and running is easier when no one can find you. It wasn’t until 1963 that I heard from her again. She was living in Atlanta then, and her son, your daddy, had just turned seventeen. She had just gotten back from the March on Washington, and like I said, she was sure she’d seen Peter there. She called me here in Belle Creek to ask if he’d come back looking for her. Of course he hadn’t. I hated to tell her that, because I knew how much it would hurt. But it was the truth. He never returned.”
“And after that? You stayed in touch?”
He shrugged. “Here and there, Christmas cards, the occasional call. I had children of my own by then, you understand, and my life was very busy. I owned my own farm, and we were struggling to stay afloat. And Margaret made me promise not to tell anyone that I knew where she was. She didn’t want to have anything to do with her sister.”
“She had a sister?”
“Yes. Louise. Her parents were dead by then, but I think that they’d been dead to Margaret long before that. After your father was born, they said they wouldn’t have the son of a Nazi living in their house, never mind a Nazi lover. Her sister was in complete agreement; she had totally turned on Margaret too. It hurt Margaret deeply, and she never forgot it.”
“What happened to all of them?”
“Her parents died in the late forties, and Louise inherited the family farm. I saw her many times over the years, but she never mentioned Margaret again. It was like she had never existed.” He paused. “Until last month. Louise died last month, and I got the strangest visit from her about a week before she passed. She said she was sorry for everything she’d done to her sister,
“Why didn’t she just write us a letter or something?” I asked. “Something we could open after she died, if she wanted us to know?”
“Because she wasn’t sure that telling you was the right thing,” he replied. “Do you understand? You had to seek the truth out on your own. I imagine she had a bit of a sense that you’d do just that one day. She was always telling me that you were a girl full of questions and that you always searched for the answers.”
I was silent for a moment as I imagined my grandmother in her final weeks, filled with regret but not knowing how to make things right. I swallowed hard. “How come I’ve never met you before?” I asked. “If you were so close to my grandmother?” I regretted immediately how rude the words sounded, but the journalist in me needed to know.
He looked surprised for a split second, but then he nodded, as if he’d expected the question. “We lost track of each other for a long time. When she left Belle Creek, I went with her, but only for a few years. Your father had just been born. I was only fourteen, and she was nineteen, almost twenty. She was scared and alone. We traveled separately until we got to the North—to Philadelphia—where I got a job at the Italian market on Ninth Street and she worked as a seamstress. I used to watch your daddy sometimes when she worked. I owed her everything. But then, just after your daddy turned four years old, I received a telegram saying that my father had lost his arm in a farming accident. I had to move home to care for him; there was no one else. I lost touch with Margaret after that because she didn’t want to be found, and she certainly wanted no connection to Belle Creek. She changed her name, totally reinvented herself.”
“She changed her name? Why?”
“I think she just wanted to be someone else,” he said. “Someone who didn’t come from a family that had turned their back on her, someone who hadn’t been rejected by the man she had believed so strongly in. She used to be Margaret Mae Evans, you know. But she was running from the past, and running is easier when no one can find you. It wasn’t until 1963 that I heard from her again. She was living in Atlanta then, and her son, your daddy, had just turned seventeen. She had just gotten back from the March on Washington, and like I said, she was sure she’d seen Peter there. She called me here in Belle Creek to ask if he’d come back looking for her. Of course he hadn’t. I hated to tell her that, because I knew how much it would hurt. But it was the truth. He never returned.”
“And after that? You stayed in touch?”
He shrugged. “Here and there, Christmas cards, the occasional call. I had children of my own by then, you understand, and my life was very busy. I owned my own farm, and we were struggling to stay afloat. And Margaret made me promise not to tell anyone that I knew where she was. She didn’t want to have anything to do with her sister.”
“She had a sister?”
“Yes. Louise. Her parents were dead by then, but I think that they’d been dead to Margaret long before that. After your father was born, they said they wouldn’t have the son of a Nazi living in their house, never mind a Nazi lover. Her sister was in complete agreement; she had totally turned on Margaret too. It hurt Margaret deeply, and she never forgot it.”
“What happened to all of them?”
“Her parents died in the late forties, and Louise inherited the family farm. I saw her many times over the years, but she never mentioned Margaret again. It was like she had never existed.” He paused. “Until last month. Louise died last month, and I got the strangest visit from her about a week before she passed. She said she was sorry for everything she’d done to her sister,
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