The Bright Unknown

by Elizabeth Byler Younts

  And what if he did but didn’t want Angel to stay? That idea was like a needle traveling through my brain.

  I didn’t stop thinking about those prospects as the driver passed us under a drooping clothesline attached between buildings and swaying power lines. People walking along near the road didn’t seem to notice our speed. Weren’t they afraid to walk so close to the fast-moving cars? The buildings grew drearier and shorter and became more run-down. They reminded me of a few of the older buildings that sat in the back of the hospital grounds that weren’t in use.

  Then we stopped. The driver turned.

  “J & L factory is just up ahead.” He put the flat of his hand out. “Two dollar.”

  Angel pulled out a bill. He looked at it closely; it had a five in the corner. The cabdriver grabbed the bill from Angel and told us to get out. We did as we were told, and a moment later we were standing on the edge of the road. I looked in the direction the driver pointed and heard the taxi speed off.

  There was an odor in the air, different from the hospital stench. It was acrid, metallic, and rotten. Angel’s face twitched, and I covered my nose.

  “Where are we?” I asked, as if Angel knew.

  I turned in a circle and took in my surroundings. The buildings in the distance were shadowed in the light gray sky. We were on a poorly paved road that was worn down and broken along the edges. There was a set of rickety-looking wooden stairs that went down the steep hill, reaching to the ground level of what the driver called a factory and all the surrounding buildings. How many worlds would we cross into? This one was dirty and muddy. At the bottom of the stairs were small, two-story buildings stacked next to each other. On their laundry lines dingy, gray clothing hung. People must live there. Smoke poured out of the long tubes that reached into the sky. What were they called? Images from newspapers, magazines, and books came back to me—smokestacks maybe? There was a J on one tall tube, a symbol for and, and a third with an L on it. A nearby sign said Jones and Laughlin Steel Company. Now I understood the J & L.

  “How do we know where he lives?” I asked Angel, as if he would know any more than I would.

  He took out the address and looked at it again.

  “We’re going to need to ask someone.” He stuffed the address back in his pocket, then I helped him down the stairs. They were tall and rugged, but we reached the bottom safely. There were people milling around on the sidewalks. Some carried bags or walked with children dirtier than those in the children’s ward. As soon as we reached the bottom, several scurried away with strange expressions on their faces.

  “Ignore them,” I told Angel, knowing they’d run because of him.

  We followed the flow of people walking toward the buildings with the laundry lines.

  “Let’s follow them. Maybe we’ll see street signs. Or something,” Angel said. “I wish we had a map. Remember the maps we made of the hospital as kids?”

  Of course I remembered. Suddenly everything good that had littered our childhood came to mind, making me miss Joann even more.

  “You’ll have to ask,” Angel said. “People are afraid of me. Ask that woman where this address is.”

  He handed me the paper with my father’s address on it. The woman he pointed at was sweeping her small porch. She looked tired, and her apron was a dreary gray, as was the color of her skin, though both had been white at one point. I didn’t know what to say. Out here everything felt so hard. Angel gestured for me to take a step toward the woman.

  I cleared my throat and she looked at me.

  “I said I can’t pay today,” the woman said. Her accent made her words move up and down like a kite. She started to go for the door.

  Angel jabbed me in the back.

  “I’m not looking for money. Just a question,” I said quickly. “We’re looking for this address.”

  I walked up and showed her the paper. She leaned her head back and eyed me from the bottoms of her lids. Slowly she set her broom against the tired wood siding of the house, leaned over the rail, and put her hand out. I stepped toward her and handed the paper to her. The lines of her calloused hands were black and inky, but her face was young; she was not much older than me. She looked at the paper, then looked toward the other two-story buildings.

  “It’s just there,” she said, pointing off to the left. “On the corner. The number will be above the door.”

  My eyes went above her head to her doorframe and to the number 278 in faded paint.

  “Thank you,” Angel said and gestured for me to come.

  “He hasn’t got any money either,” she called after us.

  I turned. “What?”

  “He hasn’t got money—Ez hasn’t—if that’s what you’re seeking.”

  Ez. My father. Ezra Raab. She knew him. My heart tipped and spilled all over my insides. I paused, and my gaze and the woman’s locked. I wanted to ask her so many questions. What was he like? Was he handsome? Did I look like him? Was he married? Did I have any brothers or sisters?

  I shook my head. “I don’t want his money either,” I said. That seemed to be what she was most concerned about. “He’s my father.”

  I shouldn’t have said that. The woman’s face told me more than I wanted to know. She began laughing.

  “Father?” she said, then with a smirk she continued. “Well then, I’ll wish you luck. He’s apartment B.”

  As Angel and I walked in the direction that the woman pointed, all I kept repeating was one word. Father. Father.

  1941

  I’m Not Dead

  There was so much to take in while I looked for my father’s house number. The world down here was strewed with broken windows and dingy porches and doors. There weren’t many people about. I assumed most were working. But there were children sitting on the porch next to Ezra’s.

  They were dirty from head to toe. The oldest of the three couldn’t have been more than six. There was darkness under their eyes and in the windows behind them and maybe in their whole world. Had they been left alone? They were sharing a slice of bread—the soft white showing grimy smudges from their fingers. In their faces I saw my own—being left in a world unfairly—but the pain of hunger in that season of life was not part of my history. These children didn’t appear to have a Nursey in their lives as I had. My throat went tight.

  I looked over at Angel. His forehead was creased and leaden. Could he see that the little one had tears streaked through the dirt on his face? They looked sickly and were covered in a red rash and bug bites. The oldest had one entirely white eye. They blended in with the gray and dismal so much it was almost as if they’d grown out of the cracks in the concrete. What world had we walked into?

  “Is this it?” Angel squinted at the door.

  I pulled my gaze away and matched the written address with the painted numbers. 743. The lady with the broom said apartment B.

  There were three steps up to the front door. There were two windows on either side of the door and two windows above those on the second floor. A few curtains raggedly hung across a few windows. Several others had broken panes.

  “Should we go in?” Angel asked, but I think he really meant we should go in.

  I took the first step that would usher in the next part of my life.

  Inside there was an A door and a B door and steps to the second floor. I knocked on the B door, but no one answered. We slouched down all the way to sitting against the wall next to the door. And we waited.

  At some point during our waiting we fell asleep, and when I opened my eyes again the sky through the window was dusky. The next thing I saw was a lanky, dirty man looking at me. He was wearing a newsy cap—that’s what the fashion magazines called them. It was filthy and creased. His face was bony and smudged. He smelled like the factory smoke. He looked at me with a furrow cut so deeply into his brow it was like he’d never be able to undo it.

  I elbowed Angel. He was startled but stood with me. I knew I must be wrinkled and dirty after having slept for hours on t
he floor. My neck was kinked and every joint hurt.

  “Homeless aren’t allowed in here,” the man said with an accent I couldn’t place. He pushed his hand into his pocket and pulled out a few keys on a ring. He moved toward the door. His hand shook as he tried to find the right one. His other hand was bandaged in what used to be a white cloth. It was covered with traces of blood and grime. Small sweat trails traveled down his temples. The factory must have been hot. He wore overalls, and his shirt underneath looked so thin, I could almost see through it. “I said run off, beggars.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” The man gestured at Angel, as if suddenly noticing him. “Some kind of disease? Get him out of here. You too.”

  “Ezra? Ezra Raab?” I asked. My voice barely sounded familiar.

  “I don’t have any money,” he said and cursed when the keys dropped from his hand. He picked them up and tried again. If he got inside and closed the door, I’d never get the chance to speak to him. I needed to hurry.

  “I’m not here for money. My name is Brighton Friedrich.” Then I shook my head. “I mean, my mother was Helen Friedrich.”

  The jingling keys paused, then he found the right key and the door popped open. He was about to go inside.

  “I’m your daughter,” I said.

  “That’s not possible.” He didn’t look at me. “My daughter’s dead.”

  So this really was Ezra Raab. This was my father. It had to be.

  “I know that’s what you were told, but it wasn’t true. It’s not true. I’m not dead.”

  Ezra continued to stare straight ahead, like a statue.

  “Can we come inside?” I asked.

  Ezra sighed. “I don’t have much food.”

  “We don’t need much. And we brought some.” I gestured toward Angel’s pack.

  He opened the door farther and walked in, leaving it open for us. I wasn’t sure what I expected to see inside, but what I did see was far worse than any possible expectations. This dismal place was painted in various shades of gray. If there had once been color, it had not survived. If I stayed here, would I turn into some shade of gray and grime too?

  “You can have a seat,” Ezra said and gestured to the couch. It was worse than the one that had been in the dayroom at the hospital. The one I’d sat on so many times with Grace. The one I would never sit on again. My heart went flat with that memory yet inflated with hope in the shape of Ezra Raab.

  Ezra left Angel and me in what seemed to be a living room. He went into a small bathroom. In the same area there was a few feet of counter space in the corner that had a sink and two burners. There was a miniature, smudged refrigerator against the wall. The window had droopy curtains, and there was a bed in one corner and a small table and two chairs in another. Angel sat on the couch and I followed.

  “I can’t live here. We can’t live here. It’s worse than the hospital. Well, it’s dirtier anyway,” I said, knowing my quick judgment was unfair.

  “Let’s talk to him first.” He patted my knee.

  Ten minutes later an unrecognizable man returned. His hair was nearly blond, like mine—only shaded with gray. His skin was bland and his whiskers freshly removed. His blue shirt and denim pants were a few sizes too big and reminded me of oversize hospital gowns.

  “I can make coffee.” He paused. “Do you drink coffee?”

  Angel and I nodded. He did everything in silence before he handed us both mugs. He brought over a chair from the small table. He sat and looked at his hands for a while before he spoke. I sipped the hot drink, finding that it tasted nothing like the hospital’s coffee. After a few more tastes I decided I preferred the darker and earthier taste of my father’s coffee.

  “Your mother, she is—” he asked.

  “Gone.” The reluctant words clung to my tongue before I let them out. “She died—recently.”

  The days had blurred together. Had it only been less than a week ago?

  He bounced his head up and down and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. There was silence again for a few minutes.

  “How was she?”

  “Do you mean, the psychosis?” I hovered strangely between neutralizing everything with a more medical view or falling into my father’s arms in a fit of tears.

  “Is that what it was called?” His th sounded like a z and every w like a v. “I have always worried about Helene.”

  “She wasn’t well. She never was.”

  His eyes grew glassy and, like a mirror, mine did the same.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. She was a good woman. A very good woman.”

  “Did you know her well?” Had he loved her or only used her? Why hadn’t they married?

  “We are from the same village in Germany. We were children together. She was a happy girl, and we fell in love when we were younger than both of you.” He stopped and looked out the window. “Her mother—she had a hard time and she was very unwell. She—”

  “How did she die?” The unplanned words fumbled out.

  He looked at his hands. “She didn’t always know what she was doing. Didn’t understand it would kill her.”

  She’d killed herself. I didn’t know if I wanted to know more so I moved on.

  “How did my mother come to America?”

  “After Nell’s death, Otto, your grandfather, brought Helene and Margareta to America.” He spoke in a halting and disruptive way, requiring patience on my part. “To start again.”

  He stood and walked to a cabinet and after a few moments returned and handed me a photograph. I looked at Angel and then back at the photo. It was the same photo Joann had given me, only mine had been cut. The hand belonged to a sister, I knew now. My grandmother sat stiffly in a larger chair with her hands gripping its arms. A stout man with a strong jaw stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders. And my aunt looked so much like my mother, only quite younger. Really, she was only a girl. The girl would now be an adult.

  “This is your mother when she was a little younger than you. That is her mother and father, your grandparents, and her sister.”

  “I have seen this photograph,” I told him but still took in the photo like the first time. “You came with them to America?”

  “Otto didn’t want Helene and me to get married—he said she was going to be like her mother and that he was sure she could get help in America. But Helene and I loved one another very much, so I followed her here.” His voice broke, and I could see the loss was still fresh.

  He shook his head. “You must know that she was a very kind and loving woman and I would never hurt her—I loved her. I still believe I could’ve kept her from that depth of madness that you say she succumbed to—my poor Helene. Otto did not believe this, though.”

  I looked again at the photo, at my grandmother’s eyes that were like my mother’s. Blank and lost. Her wrists were tied to the chair arms with black strips to blend in with her dress. Restraints. Why hadn’t I noticed that before now?

  On the back was written Otto and Nell Friedrich and beneath was Helene and Margareta.

  “There’s so much I don’t understand.” I stood and walked to the window and stared out into the dirty dusk. “When she found herself pregnant, why didn’t you marry her?”

  There was a long pause.

  “I am not proud to tell you, but I was in jail when she was taken to the hospital.” He cleared his throat. “We, her father and I, didn’t know she was expecting. Helene may not have known herself. By the time I got out, Otto had died. After questioning neighbors, the police, and the local hospital, I found where she was taken. By then she’d been in there for nearly five months and was not herself. She did not know me. She was near her time, but I had no right to her. I was not her husband.”

  He straightened his back in his chair, and I could see he was uncomfortable with all of this. The lines on his forehead wrote the story of those years, but it was muddled up and I couldn’t read it.

  “I visited to ask after you. A nurse told me you had died.�
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  “But I’m not dead.”

  “I see that now.” His voice was quiet, like a dandelion puff in the wind.

  “But you would have taken me if you had been able to?” I asked.

  He nodded. “It would’ve been difficult. But it could’ve worked.”

  No one spoke for several minutes. My worlds were colliding. My father had wanted me.

  “She used to hum a song,” I said.

  “A song?”

  “Just a little tune.” I hummed a short part of the melody and was met with his tenor voice joining in, but he was using real words—German words.

  “Shlaf, Kindlein, shlaf.” He sang several lines, then eventually faded into humming as if he’d forgotten the rest.

  “What does it mean?” I asked.

  “Sleep, baby, sleep. Your father tends the sheep. Your mother shakes the little trees, there falls down one little dream. Sleep, baby, sleep,” he recited softly and looked right at me when he spoke.

  He stopped and cleared his throat.

  “Where have you been all these years? How did you find me?” My ears heard his questions, but I was sure my face responded in confusion.

  “Where have I been?” My breath choked in my throat. Angel took my hand. “Where else? I’ve been there. At Riverside until yesterday. My nurse—Joann—the nurse who raised me—us—helped us escape and gave me your address.” Every word fumbled out of my mouth.

  “You were there? At that hospital all of these years?” His voice broke, along with his face.

  I nodded.

  “You were raised with those people?”

  I nodded. “Those people were my friends—my family. I saw the good in them the way you did in my mother.”

  “Of course. I understand.”

  I believed him because he loved Mother when she wasn’t perfect.

  “Can you tell me anything about my aunt?” I asked.

  “Margareta?”

  “Is she alive?”