I buried the past in a shallow, unmarked grave but it does not rest in peace In Hannah Zimmer's world, the past equals Germany. Defying her mother, she leaves her New Jersey home for Mainz in the autumn of 1972 to study. But a master's degree is just a smokescreen. In reality, she is on a mission to save her Jewish mother, and herself, from self-destruction. Hannah's first priority: contacting Great Uncle Ezra in Frankfurt. He is her secret weapon for battering down the wall of silence obscuring events that occurred before her family emigrated to the United States in the thirties. But will he talk? Will facing the past help her mother? Or worsen the situation? That's the gamble she takes. An unexpected distraction derails her efforts: two men vie for her favor. In record time Hannah experiences both first love and the pain of broken promises before falling headlong into a new relationship. Her happiness is short lived, however, for the consequences of falling in love with the "enemy" soon propel her family to the edge of tragedy. Even thirty years after the fall of the Third Reich, aftershocks reverberate. The ghosts that haunt Hannah's dreams shake the foundations of her world and endanger her hope of reconciliation with the immutable past"
The PEACE BRIDGE
By D C HubbardiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2012 D C Hubbard
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4759-4158-6Chapter One
Leaving on a Jet Plane
Halfway through my college senior year, I knew for certain the answer to the age-old question of what I wanted to do after graduation. Except, I think I'd always known. And it wasn't so much what I wanted to do, but what I had to do. No one had asked me to volunteer for this assignment, nor would I earn any congratulatory hugs and kisses for doing it. On the contrary, I was acutely aware of the consequences my decision would have: one member of my family would not be amused. Strangely, that was the person I was doing it for.
As the season to be jolly was upon us, I broke the news. From Dad's side we had a nominal connection to Christian traditions, and we always did presents and a big dinner on the day. With that in mind, it was particularly inconsiderate of me, almost cruel, to choose the occasion for my announcement. But we were rarely all together any more, so I seized the opportunity.
With one swift stroke, delivered in two simple sentences, I ruined the holiday season of 1971. Not to mention the long-term effects I unleashed.
"Mama, Papa, everyone, I've decided to do a master's degree." My heart clogged my throat, but my voice forced its way past. "And I'm going to do it in Mainz."
A conversation stopper. Dad, his folks Oma and Opa Zimmer and my brothers, David and Albert, first stared at me with bulging eyes and dropped chins. Then in unison their heads swiveled to Mom. She had laid down her fork and was slowly going purple. Without a word she rose from the table and disappeared upstairs.
You'd think her daughter had just proclaimed she intended to spend a year in hell. Of course for Mom, hell and Germany were pretty much synonymous.
The afore-mentioned master's degree? A pretense, of course.
No way could I tell them what I really had in mind, but it was simple. Like some mystical heroine, I would leave my home in Princeton on my quest and travel to Mainz, which from my mother's perspective was located smack dab in the middle of enemy territory, just west of Frankfurt. And in Frankfurt, the city where Mom had been born into a Jewish banking family, I believed I'd find the key to unlocking the door in the wall of silence. Hidden on the other side of the door, that healing elixir known as truth awaited me. I'd return home with it the following summer. Mom would drink of it, and like a modern wonder drug, it would cure her. What form this truth would take and how or why it could possibly help, I couldn't articulate. But I had a gut feeling that wouldn't let go of me and it was telling me I had to do this. Yes, I was perhaps pathetically naïve. But someone had to do something and I seemed to be the only one of my siblings interested in the job.
After my announcement Mom spent the rest of Christmas vacation upstairs, cocooned in her room, only venturing forth for emergency visits to her therapist. Come January when school resumed, however, she returned to her teaching post. She rarely let "spells" keep her from her classroom.
During my final semester at university, I braced myself for recurring outbursts of anger and reproach, like those that Mom had aimed at my brothers in the months before they moved to New York City a few years earlier. To my relief, she displayed surprising equanimity. Which is not to say the atmosphere was unencumbered. The tension between us was mute but palpable; it smoldered beneath the surface, behind her tight lips and staring eyes. We didn't converse but spoke only in polite monosyllables, sticking to neutral subjects like the weather, the laundry and the dinner menu.
And so it continued, at least until the massacre of the Israeli wrestling squad at the Munich Olympics occurred. The tragedy delivered ample evidence to validate all her fears and prejudices. That was in early September, only three weeks prior to my departure, and it unleashed our very own hurricane season.
Mom raged like a tropical storm. With eyes bloodshot and hair in disarray, she confronted me. "How can you go to a country where such horrifying things happened – and are still happening? You're betraying the whole family. You're betraying me." Her nostrils flared, her breathing was labored. "But if this is what you think you have to do, get out, don't bother coming back."
Trembling, she collapsed onto a kitchen chair and buried her face in her hands. Her thin voice filtered between her fingers. "You can't go, it'll be the death of me."
I sank into the chair opposite her. "Mama, why is it always only about you?"
She lifted her head slowly; fury sparked in her eyes. Suddenly she reached over and slapped my face. Shaken into a bitter cocktail, hurt and humiliation swelled and swirled inside me. I retreated in tears.
As my day of departure neared though, Mom seemed grudgingly resigned to my plans. A miracle in itself. In a last-ditch attempt at a truce, she even decided to cook an early Thanksgiving dinner for my final evening. David and Albert drove down from the City and Oma and Opa Zimmer, who lived in town, came over for my big sendoff. Oma, Mom and I worked all day on the feast. The smells of roasting turkey, herb stuffing and pumpkin pie permeated every corner of the house. It wasn't until Dad had placed the platter of carved bird on the table and we'd sat down to eat that I realized one major item was missing: Mom.
I gaped at her empty chair until Dad's too-cheerful voice distracted me. "Hannah, your mother and I expect long, newsy letters about your courses."
"Hell with that," David said. "After seeing the carnage she left in her wake at college, I can't wait to hear about all the poor slobs she seduces."
I growled at him. "Shut up, David. That's a load of ..." Out of the corner of my eye I glanced at Oma and Opa and refrained from finishing the sentence.
Opa chuckled knowingly at the exchange. Amusement played around Oma's mouth. "Well, I'm sure you'll have a great time, Hannah. Your German sets you in good stead. You won't have any trouble communicating."
David howled with laughter. "Oma, I'm thinking she'll do even better using her nonverbal communication skills."
Albert gave me a sympathetic look then elbowed his brother. "She's leaving town tomorrow. Give her a break for a change."
I narrowed my eyes and stabbed David with my index finger. "As if he cared. He's going to miss not having me around to harass."
Conversation lapsed as we dug into our feast. No one seemed to notice me pushing mashed potatoes and stuffing around my plate and into a mound of unappetizing mush. Knowing what I was doing to my mother had murdered my appetite. My stomach was already filled with a hot brick, the one that always materialized when I got upset, especially when Mom was slipping away from us. And this time it was my turn to be the bad guy.
While I struggled to chew and swallow, it hit me again just how risky my mission was, how it had already misfired and made things worse than they'd been. But it was too late to back out.
The next morning anticipation woke me early. I showered and pulled on loose jeans for the long flight. After getting the brush through my dark, knotted curls, I stared at myself in the mirror. Who would I be when I returned?
The aroma of fresh coffee wafted towards me as I walked down the stairs. I followed its trail to the kitchen where a familiar clanking sound greeted me. Mom, still dressed in her pink bathrobe, was emptying the dishwasher. Her wavy hair, even darker than mine but streaked with silver, was gathered into a bun. Her face was pallid; I'd never seen her look so old. I smiled at her cautiously.
She sighed and gave me a somber look. "Guten Morgen, mein Schatz."
She set down a stack of plates and reached out to hug me. After the distance that had been between us since the beginning of the year, her embrace was a gift. She had a way of hugging that always made me want to stay there, safely wrapped in her arms. So I did for a few moments longer than usual. Her heartbeat calmed me; the closeness loosened our tongues.
"Did you sleep well on your last night in your own bed?"
I shrugged. "I was restless. Guess I'm a bit excited. I'm glad to see you up, Mama. Everybody loved your turkey dinner. Albert and David gorged themselves – as usual. But ... I missed you. Feeling any better this morning?"
Her cheerless eyes fixed on mine. "This ache in my heart won't go away."
"Before you know it, I'll be back." I snapped my fingers.
"It might go that quickly for you, mein Schatz, but it won't for me. And after what happened three weeks ago, I don't know how I'm going to have a peaceful night's sleep."
At least this time her voice echoed resignation. Her voice, I would miss hearing it. When she spoke German, it was with a hint of an American accent, while her English, even after some thirty-five years in the States, still had a German cadence.
"Mama, I've already promised to stay far away from Munich and all international sporting events. And I certainly don't intend to join the Israeli wrestling squad ... or any other sports teams."
My joke fell flat. She just stared at me with pain in her eyes. I wanted to cry. No, I wanted to shake her and tell her that her fears were totally irrational, that everything would be fine. I didn't do either. I returned her look with my arms crossed and my mouth locked shut.
"You don't understand, do you? You're my baby." Mom's voice faltered. "If anything happened to you, I'd never ... forgive myself ..."
"Nothing is going to happen to me, Mama. And even if it did, why would it be your fault? I'm twenty-two, it's time I left home, made my own decisions ... and my own mistakes if necessary. Besides, I'm going on my own money."
"Hannah, you know it's not about money."
"Look, you work so hard. You won't have time to miss me and there's just no reason to worry." I sighed hard and changed the subject. "Is the coffee ready?"
Her voice was barely audible. "Yes ... help yourself." With sagging shoulders and bent back she turned to the dishwasher to finish the task.
In my defense, she wasn't the first mother to have her children grow up and leave home. The syndrome even had a name. I poured myself a cup of coffee, dropped two slices of bread into the toaster and sat down at the kitchen table. How could I be so excited about my departure when it was causing my mother such anguish?
After several minutes Mom broke the silence. "It was a good idea to have your brothers stay over and take you to the airport on their way home." She sighed. "But of course, that means we'll have to say our good-byes here."
I nodded as if it really was a shame, but I knew she would never have gone to the airport even if Dad had driven me.
Mom carried a stack of clean plates to the dining-room and returned humming a melancholy tune under her breath.
"I remember that. I haven't heard you sing it in a long time. What is it anyway?"
She shook her head dismissively. "Nothing, just an old song ... very, very old."
At three o'clock Dad and I stood in the driveway and watched David and Albert load my suitcases into the trunk of their car. Dad swallowed hard. He put his arms around me and drew me to him tightly for a long, last hug.
"Gee, saying good-bye to my little girl is ... harder than I imagined." He pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and noisily blew his nose. "... Okay, listen, write us as soon as you arrive. Let us know if you need anything. And stay out of trouble." He punctuated his final imperative with a wagging finger and a mischievous grin.
I kissed him on the cheek. "Papi, I'm all grown-up. Stop worrying."
Confident words. But at that final moment of departure the brick in my stomach was telling me I shouldn't be going anywhere. I squeezed Dad one last time, and as I climbed into the car, I looked towards the upstairs bedroom window from where Mom was waving her good-bye.
Carried by the crush of passengers and weighed down by my book-laden carry-on bag, I struggled up the metal stairway leading to the door of the plane. As I crossed its threshold, I joined the adult camp where I long since should have been. I was shedding my New Jersey childhood like an outgrown dress. Whether my mother liked it or not, her youngest was from that moment on beyond her reach. September 28, 1972 was my independence day.
A stewardess closed and locked the door, sealing us passengers into a forced community of souls; we were at the mercy of a pilot flying an enormous tin can. With the back of my hand I wiped perspiration from my forehead. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through my mouth. I was on my way, at last, acutely aware that for a person with my family background, my destination was worse than problematic. I was heading for the scene of unfathomable past crimes. And one in particular preoccupied my thoughts, the one relating to my family. But here was the rub: in all honesty, the nature of that crime was a complete mystery to me. In reality, I didn't know if one had been committed at all.
Since conceiving my mission roughly nine months had passed. The length of a pregnancy. Strangely, from starting out as the progenitor of my undertaking, I'd somehow metamorphosed into its offspring, and it was becoming a difficult birth. For there I was, trapped in that flying tin can, as if wedged in a birth canal. Of course, I was not alone. Some two hundred other human beings were incarcerated with me as we awaited our passage into a new world. But without ever having been there, I knew that world would not be new for me. It would be old. It would be the place I'd come from when I was nothing more than genetic matter. In an act of conscious reincarnation, I would soon confront my German identity, bequeathed me by both parents, yet immeasurably complicated by my mother's Jewish heritage. Like Goethe's Faust, I would confront those two souls warring within my breast.
However, as we buckled our seatbelts for takeoff, my momentary physical discomfort suppressed thoughts of any deeper metaphysical dilemmas. With jeans-clad knees jammed against the seat in front of me, I squirmed in an airline seating arrangement designed for dwarfs, or at best, my new friend Diane Martin.
"God, what are people supposed to do with their legs?"
Diane chuckled. "You should've checked them with your baggage, Hannah. Anyway, it's your punishment for having legs up to your armpits."
I groaned. "I can't help it."
For her, measuring five feet two on tiptoe, leg-room was not an issue.
As our plane rolled down the runway into position for take-off, I reached under the seat in front of me and took books out of my bag for the long night ahead.
"Ugh, I see you have a little light reading with you. Weimar History, Rossmann's Weimar Requiem and a stack of Time magazines?" She shook her head in feigned dismay. "Don't you ever just read for pleasure?"
The corner of my mouth twitched into a sardonic half-grin. "Why would I do that?"
She laid her hand on the Time issue that topped the pile. "Oh dear, the Munich Olympics. What a tragedy!"
"Uhm, my mom wanted me to cancel my trip." I shouldn't have brought that up.
"Why? Did she really think you'd be in danger? I mean ... it's not as though you're ... Jewish or anything ... Or are you?"
I avoided looking at her. "Oh ... no ... no."
I clenched my jaw closed. That little fact was no one's business but my own.
And I certainly had no intention of telling Diane what I'd so far confided to no one. Even my family seemed content to believe I was going to Germany to perfect my language skills and bring home a master's degree. My parents had no inkling of my real motive. It was my little secret, just as the truth I sought was the secret they were keeping from me.
How did I know they were hiding something? Easy. Since I was a child I'd sensed its presence in our house, like bats sleeping by day in the rafters of the attic or a phantom lurking in the bowels of the cellar. No one spoke of it, but it was there all the same.
When we were finally cleared for take-off, the ageing plane, like some prehistoric bird, gradually set itself into motion and lumbered down the JFK Airport runway in an attempt to catapult us into the night. As it accelerated, all its parts began shaking, heaving and hawing. Diane held tight to the armrests and looked at me wide-eyed.
"Hannah, does this always happen?"
"Don't know. This is my first flight. I'm a virgin."
Diane blushed and giggled like a young teenager at the v-word. "Same here. Let's just hope this old thing makes it off the ground ... and back down safely. Maybe a cheap charter was a mistake."
We looked at each other and dissolved into nervous laughter.
As the behemoth picked up speed, it lost contact with the earth and suddenly became weightless. The shaking stopped, leaving behind the steady roar of jet engines, and the plane climbed steeply and smoothly. From my window seat I watched the lights of New York City dim. The fading coastline dropped away in the deepening dusk.
Diane leaned over me to see the spectacle and moaned quietly. "Looks like it's really happening. Good-bye Jerry. I ... I can't believe I won't see him for almost a year."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The PEACE BRIDGEby D C Hubbard Copyright © 2012 by D C Hubbard. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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