Mother's Albatross

Last night, I opened my personal emotional Pandora's Box.  My mother's trilogy  manuscript, which haunted both of us for so long that we nicknamed it "The Albatross."  The heroine, Annuschka Niemand ("Nobody"), was Katinka Kuhner (my mother) in disguise, living through the turbulence of World War II in Germany.  The Albatross began as a memoir, but Katinka decided to fictionalize it to avoid possible complications.

Sometime in midlife, on a farm in Southern Ontario which she called her personal Shangri-La, Katinka decided to discover the truth about her past.  Her father had a Jewish grandmother (although Katinka did not know this until late in life).  Her mother was a chronic rebel who wore bloomers for competitive rowing at teacher's college, rejected evangelical Christianity for progressive atheism, and was briefly a probationary member of the Communist party.  From the beginning, Katinka's parents saw Hitler for who he really was.

What to tell the children as the blight spread over Germany?  The best way to keep them safe from reprisals was to lie to them about the nature of the new Messiah who was going to recreate Eden in Germany.  The more dangerous way was to tell them the truth and then teach them how to lie about it in order to survive.

Katinka was not yet a teen-ager when she first became aware of the Nazism.  The labyrinth of lies that she had to navigate plunged her into permanent confusion.  After years of reflection and thousands of pages of writing, she concluded that the whole truth was not accessible, but her experiences were valid and she wanted to share them.

In 1980, we started working together on her manuscript.  It was just supposed to be a minor editing job for me, but I got involved.  I wanted this trilogy of hers to become a best seller.  At that time, I had published a couple of articles, and was more driven by my English teacher genes than any deep knowledge of the publishing business.  I wanted to write to the market as I understood it.  She wanted to be heard in her own voice, just as she was.  We sent a lot of lengthy letters back and forth, but we never solved the problem.  I managed to finish editing the first volume of her trilogy before I became overwhelmed with other activities.  The people who read her books commented on the superior quality of the writing of the first volume.  Nonetheless, she felt that I had mutilated her baby.

After a decade of numerous revisions and correspondence with writing groups and publishers, she stashed the whole thing -- alternate versions, commentaries, and miscellaneous information -- in the drawer of a filing cabinet.  A couple of years later, the drawer broke from the weight.  By that time, she had lost interest in the project and was going to shred it.  I volunteered to adopt it, provided I could do whatever I wanted with it.  I was harboring a fantasy of re-writing the work, publishing it, and proudly dropping a book with her name on it in her lap.  

The Albatross now lives in a blue Rubbermaid container in my spare closet.  I made a couple of efforts to work on it, but whenever I did, I became so depressed that I stopped.  It is not easy reading.  The guilt that she felt for living in the midst of evil without finding a way to fight against it haunted her for the rest of her life. 

I miss hearing those stories in her own voice.  Now they exist only on paper, and I have to decide what to do.  Shred them, and try to escape?  Resume my unfinished editorial business?  Or leave things as they are and let my descendants decide?

Katinka wrestled mightily with God.  Towards the end of her life, she said, "Why should I be the prisoner of someone else's fantasy?" and gave up on religion.  She did not expect to continue existing after physical death, except perhaps as a anonymous part of an all-pervading spiritual entity.  If she did finally encounter God face to face, they had a lot to talk about.

THOUGHTS IN THE NIGHT (by Annuschka Niemand, age 19, after returning to Hamburg to discover that all the Jewish people had disappeared.  Translated from German by Katinka.)                     
     
     I want to live!
     I live in shame!
     I am refreshed and still receive my daily bread.
     With heavy heart I cannot move --
     Why don't I help?

     Far away from shelter and love
     My brothers and sisters live in despair,
     Accompanied daily by death and fear --
     And hate, the bitter enemy.

    How much longer, O God,
    Will you let your children cry?
    Why is there no help?

    Why don't you help?
    No answer? 

    Only your silence from eternity.

ENCOUNTER IN A CHURCH BASEMENT

A recent Facebook post about "tone policing" summoned a powerful memory from my subconscious. The incident haunted me for hours.   If I had any delusions of grandeur, they were swept away by the realization of my utter helplessness when faced with the challenge of suffering.

I had just finished presenting a workshop called "Taking Care of Each Other."  I had confidently told people that nothing is beyond God's grace, and the way we live in community incarnates that message.  We are blessed to be a blessing.  A number of people told their stories.  We finished with a Eucharist.  I felt that a lot of healing had taken place.

As we were enjoying the traditional post-meeting coffee and dainties, I was approached by a man I had not seen before.  Even before he opened his mouth, it was clear to me that he was a firestorm of rage.  His eyes snapped with anger, he moved with the decisiveness of a man who would not be denied, and his body seemed to emanate a fiery energy field.

He made it clear that he was not part of our group, and did not wish to be.  He had come to pick up his mother, that's all.  But he was holding a sheet of paper with a page and a half of hand-written text, and he wanted me, a complete stranger, to read it.

It was a concise and direct account of his sexual abuse by church clergy.  As I read it, m heart sank.  I had no reason to doubt any of it.  I had nothing to say. I was not responsible for what happened to him, but I was involved by virtue of my affiliation with the church.

I didn't say much.  I told him that he was a courageous man to walk into a church after what happened to him, and that his anger was more than justified. He talked about what his life had been like.  As the waves of his rage flowed over me, I wondered what I could possibly do to help. I probably tried to make the point that God was just as upset about this as he was.

In time, the man wound down sufficiently to concede that not all people in the Christian church are terminally evil.  He admitted that he liked the nuns in elementary school because they were kind to him.

He began to walk away.  "Sit down," I said without thinking.  "Sit down and I will pray for you." 

To my surprise, he stopped and came back.  Perhaps I reminded him of one of those kind nuns.  I laid hands on him and prayed fervently that he would get to know the real Jesus, not the false image the priests had burdened him with.  That was all I had to give.

He seemed calmer when he left.  Hopefully, this was one small step in his healing process.  Instead of planting a bomb under the foundation of the church, he had walked in and told his story to one person.  Despite what had happened to him, he found the faith to sit down and let a complete stranger pray for him.  Somewhere under that avalanche of anger, there was hope.

The Gospel of John states that Light shines in the darkness, and darkness can never put it out.  The Christmas story which we love to re-tell is a story of a baby born to an obscure couple in a violent, corrupt society under military occupation.  The joyful song of the angels is quickly followed by a savage massacre of toddlers by Herod's soldiers.

The surviving baby grows up to become a man who refuses to be silenced, no matter what the cost.  He alienates his family and his religious community, and soon faces torture and death at the hands of the Powers that Be.  The story does not end there, because hatred and evil cannot overcome love any more than darkness can overcome light.

I have made a covenant with God to seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving my neighbour as myself.  I have no idea how to accomplish this mission, but I know Somebody who does.   Love is God's final answer to everything.  That's why we can't stop trying to usher in the Kingdom of God, even if we can see no reason to hope.

Oranges

Many of my more vivid memories are brief encounters. I don't keep my shields up very well, and people talk to me.

I was picking up fruit in the supermarket when an elderly lady asked me a question about the oranges. The conversation quickly moved to more personal matters, face to face across a bin of oranges.

Suddenly she burst out, "How come a complete stranger cares more for me than my own family?"

I don't know what I said in response. I hope I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut.

Deformed (a short story)

DEFORMED

My last night at the hospital, I cried and cried. They had assured me that the pain-killer and the sleeping pill would give me the rest I needed; but what did they know about what it was like to be maimed?

I cried until my leg swelled inside the cast, making the pain unbearable. At three o'clock in the morning, they got my doctor out of bed to order more sedation.

I woke up hung-over, tired and empty. All the tears had not eased the pain even the tiniest bit.

Wear the seat belt, people told me over and over when I was learning to drive. But I hardly ever did. I always fumble when I'm undoing my seat belt, and I wonder if what would happen if the car were on fire. Every time I snap the buckle shut, I see myself trapped in the car, burning. Right away, I practise undoing it. But when the time comes to undo it, I still fumble.

I wasn't wearing a seat belt when I ran into the truck.

*

My sister Claire helped me manoeuvre my plaster-encased leg onto the back seat of her car. Mom wanted me to go home with her, but I told her that the doctor wanted me to start living independently right away. That was a lie, of course -- all we'd discussed was physio for my leg and reconstructive surgery for my face.

I was clutching my referral slip from the plastic surgeon. I would look fine afterwards, they assured me jovially. Hardly scarred at all.

Claire offered to stay with me overnight. I said no. I wanted to be alone.


*

I hobbled around my kitchen, taking charge of my territory again. I made some tea and sat on the sofa with my leg up, playing with the remote control of the TV. Being alone was turning out to much more difficult than I had expected. But I would have to get used to it.

The phone rang. It was out of my reach, so I let the answering machine take care of it.

Afterwards, I tottered over to the phone to see who had called. I had no intention of calling back, but I was curious.

While I was standing there, the phone rang.

It was Daniel. He sounded as he always sounded. Friendly and non-committal.

"You've been away," he said.

"I had a car accident," I said. "I lost my right eye."

I paused. He said nothing. I listened carefully for some quick intake of breath, some indication of a reaction.

"I look terrible," I said.

Another pause.

"Can I come over?" he asked. Just the same way he always did, in a take-it-or-leave-it tone.

"No," I snapped petulantly. "I told you. I look terrible. I need plastic surgery."

In the early days of our relationship, when I was desperately in love with him, his casual attitude cut deep, made me feel cheap and used. But now it was a relief. I didn't have to worry about hurting his feelings.

"From what you say, you're going to look that way for a while," he pointed out with maddening logic. "I might as well come over now."

"I told you -- NO!"

I slammed down the receiver and started to cry.

After I wiped the tears away, I went through my mental list of friends, hoping to think of someone who could cheer me up. Everyone I knew had loaded me with sympathy and made things worse. Everyone except Daniel. And I had just finished chewing his head off.

Daniel consistently declined to be my Prince Charming, but he was calm and reliable and accepting. He had tried love once, he said, and he hadn't enjoyed it, so he wasn't going to do it again. We talked about our mutual interests, went riding on his motorcycle, and slept together. Uncomplicated. For him.

I tried to bring guilt into it, but he just said, "If you weren't getting something out of it, you wouldn't be doing it."

No pressure. No passion.

"I'm a Taurus," he'd say when I wanted to talk about our relationship. "Enthusiastic and friendly."

I had been gone for three weeks and he didn't even care.

I sat alone on the sofa and wondered what to do. I never wanted to leave my apartment again. But there would be physio and doctor's appointments and grocery shopping. How in the hell was I ever going to cope with the stares and the pity?

They told me my artificial eye would perfectly match the real one. But it would just stare lifelessly, as obvious as the patch over my empty socket. Everyone would know. No matter how hard everyone tried to ignore it, I would never be normal again.

Beyond my balcony, the sky turned purple and pink and red, and the room slowly darkened. I didn't bother putting on the light.

*

The knocking on the door startled me. I must have dozed off. For a moment, I didn't remember the accident and the hospital. When I tried to jump to my feet and crash-landed half-on, half-off the couch, it all came back. "Just a minute!" I yelled, wrestling with the cast.

It was Daniel. With a bottle of wine.

I let him in.

"You look terrible," he said, with a small grin.

"I told you not to come!"

We drank the wine, and I started to feel better.

We talked about music, and literature, and role-playing games. I didn't tell him about the accident. He didn't ask. He kissed me and nibbled my ear, the way he always did when he was feeling friendly and enthusiastic, and he helped me haul my cast to the bedroom.

"I don't know if we can do this," I said. "I'm still pretty sore."

He hunted for unbruised parts of me to kiss. He was extraordinarily successful, and soon I was breathing hard and momentarily forgot all about my deformities.

He did not put his full weight on me, but supported himself on his elbows. It looked uncomfortable, but he came right on schedule.

I came too. I couldn't believe it.

We lay together for a while, relaxing. Then he got dressed and left. He had to work in the morning.

I went to sleep without any sleeping pills.

After the surgery, the scars were not bad at all. We drifted apart, and married other people. He never told me he loved me.

He didn't have to.

Lavender

I've never had the classic nightmare of finding myself in a public place with no clothes on, but recently I had a real-life experience that came close.

Last June, I was visiting my mother at Ross Place (an independent living seniors' residence) in Victoria. I went to the monthly birthday party with my mother, since she is a June baby.

During the festivities, one of the activity workers, Chelsea, came over to chat. "So you're the one!" she said. "We were all crying, you know."

My favourite ministry is inner healing -- helping people re-visit their past with Jesus, who can transform our hurts into gifts. I've done a lot of work on myself as well, and found it fruitful.

About a month before my visit, I realized that I had never re-lived my birth. I had gone through my life in utero and my childhood, but never the actual birth, even though I had often heard about it and thought about it. The doctor had predicted a caesarean section because my mother's pelvis was so small, but the midwife was determined to prove him wrong. After a long labour, the actual delivery lasted for two hours. I was born blue and not breathing.

Re-living the experience gave me a new understanding of the term "fetal distress". However, when I passed out, something unexpected happened. I found myself in heaven with Jesus and my father. Jesus was holding me in his arms, and handed me to my delighted father to hold. The father-vacuum in my life was finally filled, and I no longer felt abandoned.

This experience makes no temporal sense. My father was still alive at the time -- as a matter of fact, he was stuck in a troop train in the same town, unaware that his wife was giving birth on his birthday. However, it made perfect sense emotionally. When I was little and knew nothing of the complications of ethical dilemmas and divine wrath, I proclaimed confidently, "I have two fathers in heaven." We always assumed that was the fruit of my grandmother's efforts to teach me the Lord's Prayer, but perhaps it went deeper than that.

The next time I phoned my mother on a Saturday morning, I told her what had happened. In the afternoon, she went on a bus outing with other residents, and told the story on the way. "I thought it was just a nice story," she said, "but all of a sudden I became really emotional." The emotion was contagious.

It had never occurred to me that my mother would mention this to anyone. I tried to shrug it off, and distracted Chelsea with an account of the healing properties of oil of lavender, with graphic descriptions of my fungal infections.

Later, I took a deep breath, went up to her, and said, "I guess we have to be friends now. You've seen into my crevices."

We hugged.