“It has to be whom?”
I looked up at him, so confused that he wasn’t in the throws of the same epiphany that I was, that he hadn’t read what I had read. But then I had never showed him the letter. Apart from my grandparents I might be the only other person in the world that had read it.
“Zoya. It has to be Zoya. His daughter.”
Rachael - July 2017
“DO YOU HAVE EVERYTHING you need?”
“Yes. I think so. I have the dictionary. I’ll study on the plane,” I said, as I threw my arms around Jared. “I wish I actually spoke French; what if we can’t understand each other?”
Our little trio stood before the never-ending line of security, our daughter clung ferociously to my hand.
“You’ll do great. Just take things slowly,” Jared said, and laid a hand on my shoulder. He picked up our daughter and dried her tears. “She’ll be fine. By the time you get through security she will be begging to go to the zoo.”
“It’s so hard to leave.”
“I’m going to miss you, Momma,” said my daughter as she prized her head from Jared’s shoulder.
“I’ll miss you too. I’ll be home before you know it. You and Daddy will have so much fun while I’m gone.”
“Let us know when you land.”
I smiled and turned toward security, but the smile faded as the crowd swallowed them. The passport and tickets shook in my hand.
“Aren’t you lucky? Paris!”
I looked up; finally through dangerously long line. A security officer peered at my ticket, verifying it.
“Not so lucky. My husband isn’t coming.”
“Now that’s too bad. Make sure you have some macaroons…” she said glancing at the ticket. “Rachael.”
“Thank you, I will.”
I turned one last time to look through the glass separating security. There, her face pressed up against the glass, was my daughter smiling and blowing kisses. Jared mouthed good luck. I grinned feebly, waved, and turned away.
The airport was packed. Travelers moved with a single-mindedness that was always quite shocking. I moved slowly, nervous about the flight, and my painfully poor French. Two men in poorly tailored black suits smacked into me, hurrying on without even a shouted sorry. Everyone was caught up in their own world. Nothing existed beyond their noses. Even families, sitting together on the grey faux leather chairs, were stuck nose deep into cell phones and portable gaming devices. One mother completely ignored her wailing infant in its carrier.
The departure gate felt like an entry into another world. I sat gingerly on the metal chair and pulled the envelope from my coat pocket. The paper was smooth and yellowed with age and two of the corners had deteriorated so much that the folded paper inside was visible. Holding it close to my heart, I thought about the words–the words I had memorized, even down to the lovely swoop of the cursive g’s.
The flight was long and terribly cramped. Was it possible that economy class seats had gotten even closer together? Uncomfortable and tired, I pulled my knees close to my chest, and leaned against the hull of the plane, staring unseeing down on the green fields, which after a few hours gave way to a rolling blue ocean. With a sigh, I pulled out a French-English dictionary, dropping it onto the white foldout tray with a muffled thump. It might prove to be an awkward trip if I didn’t remember any French. I read and murmured under my breath until the words blurred before me.
“Attention passengers, we are making our final descent into Paris. Passagers attention, nous faisons notre descente finale à Paris,” the captain’s smooth voice echoed across the intercom.
Across the plane, flurries of movement broke out as parents rushed to prepare their children and businessmen shoved proposals and laptops and tablets into their briefcases. It was a long half hour before the plane finally landed and I rose and walked off the plane into Paris.
With each step off the small piece of the United States, my breath came in progressively shallower gasps. I tipped against one of the seats, eliciting a disgruntled sigh from the pot-bellied businessman behind me. Passengers rushed off the plane and concourse as though both were contaminated. My chest constricted and my stomach knotted in on itself. What would I say? What would she say?
The throaty sounds of French speakers fell on my ears like a wave as soon as I stepped into the terminal. I took small, hesitating steps, and then ran to the bathroom. The cold water was calming on my hands, but I wished desperately for a shower, to be able to wash off the grime of the flight. The face that looked back at me in the mirror was pale, small bits of mascara clung to her cheeks.
“Now or never,” I mumbled and dug out the blue passport from my purse.
“Bienvenue en France,” the customs agent said as he opened the passport at random and stamped it.
“Merci.”
I walked through the swarm of disembarked passengers. Some looked hither and thither, whispering confusedly among their group, whilst others moved forward with a single-minded purpose. All too soon I was past the customs and its many doors, and was flung out beyond, into a great milling group. A feisty jazz number was playing on the sound system. A knot formed at the terminal exit. There were signs held high over the crowd and families jumping up and down with glee. I hung back, scanning the crowd. Perhaps they were late. Perhaps she’d decided not to come. Or the flight schedule had been misinterpreted.
Just then a large portion of the crowd cleared and there in front of me stood a tall, regal-looking woman. Four young boys were grouped around her. She was wearing the purple headscarf agreed upon, but I thought I would have known her anywhere. For in the shape of the nose and mouth and the smile that shone behind her eyes, she was familiar. The boys smiled too, the smallest one tugged on his mother’s shirt, pointing to me. The woman nodded.
“Madame Zoya?” I whispered as I drew close enough to see the whites of the woman’s eyes.
“Oui. Madame Golike?” she said.
Zoya’s voice sounded like the chirping of a meadowlark.
“Bonjour. Je suis très heureux de faire votre connaissance.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you too,” Zoya said, haltingly.
We stared at each other for a moment before Zoya rushed forward and threw her arms around me. It could have been days or weeks that we embraced, in the middle of the teeming mass that is Charles de Gaulle airport. We clung to each other, and as if on cue, began to cry. I drew back first, pulled a hand across my eyes, dug in my black purse, and extracted the carefully guarded letter. I held it out, looked in Zoya’s bright brown eyes, and began to cry again.
“Mon grand-oncle, votre père, a écrit ce droit avant de mourir. Son de vous,” I said and held out the letter. I couldn’t believe that I was giving it away-telling someone that he’d written it just for her.
Zoya froze. It was a long while before, with small hesitant movements, she extended her hand. Her sons looked eagerly at the envelope; the youngest strained on his tiptoes.
“Vous êtes la première famille que je connaisse, ” Zoya said, and then adding in English for my benefit, “You are the first family I have ever met.”
Author’s Note
This novel is based on the life, and premature death of David Golike.
David died on November 2, 1988 in Dallas, Texas, and was transported back to Illinois for the funeral, and subsequent internment next to his parents.
David never contacted his daughter or Catherine after leaving Paris. The secret was kept from the family until 2012. Because David never married, and was rarely seen with a woman romantically, rumors circulated that he was homosexual. Homosexuality, in the mid twentieth century, was not the benign matter it is today, especially in a Christian family.
In 2012, David’s daughter, who still lives in France, contacted the church in Bunker Hill, Illinois in search of her father. Zoya told Rick Golike (one of David’s nephews), the story of her birth that her father knew of her, and decided that he could not handle a child and the resp
onsibility she would bring.
For the first time in almost fifty years, the truth about David’s life began to seep out. The family knew little about what he did in Paris apart from his work teaching English, and the fact that his business partner(s) had swindled him, necessitating his return to the United States. Upon his arrival it was clear that something had changed in his life, he was even more secluded and tight-lipped than before.
During his life, David was immensely proud of his brothers and sisters, and their commitment to missionary work throughout the world. Beginning with the amputation of his arm in 1939, David began to separate the course of his life from what his father had advocated during his youth. While he was in awe of his siblings’ faith, it was something that never came easily to him, although he did start going to church when he returned to the United States.
David Golike was a complicated person. He was a fiercely private individual, but he was also a keen and apt listener and as such was always ready to lend an ear. He possessed a cosmopolitan and intellectual air, which was deepened and matured by his decades living in France. The clearest memories of many family members are of his beautiful voice. He sang at multiple weddings, some of which were recorded for posterity. And although he never saw his daughter or Catherine after leaving Paris, it was clear to everyone he met that he had left something precious behind in France.
I have emailed back and forth with Zoya, but much of her parents’ relationship is a mystery to her as well. Writing about a real person, is never and easy task. My father adored David as did his many surviving nieces and nephews, and I have endeavored to do justice to those memories.
Many of the scenes used in the book are based on actual events.
I owe much of the bones of the book to Rick Golike who, though he will downplay his help, added not only his own memories of his uncle, but also emailed frequently with answers to my never-ending questions.
And finally, this story would not have come to fruition if it were not for the constant support of my husband, Jared, without whose support, undying optimism, and unceasing encouragement, I would be lost. Your long nights spent editing will not be forgotten.
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A free first chapter of her new novel, Mrs. Fitzroy, to be published in March 2018, begins below.
MRS. FITZROY
Chapter I
JULY 2016
Απ’ αγκάθι βγαίνει ρόδο κι από ρόδο βγαίνει αγκάθι.
From a thorn a rose emerges and from a rose a thorn.
John Fitzroy was an attractive man. A man trusted because of his good looks. It was always startling. Goodness lived in those eyes like a refuge with quiet lapping waves.
His face was smooth. Devoid of those pits and red spots, some adults carry as souvenirs of their youth. Broad shouldered with a thin waist and narrow hips. His hair was a dark, shimmering brown as though he’d taken a shower in gold flakes. It glistened as he walked. And his white teeth were straight, as if they’d been measured out with a ruler.
He moved across the world like it was his, as though he’d walked every inch as a child, holding onto his father’s hand, stepping on shaking legs, from country to country and jumping over the puddles of the sea. He cultivated this sense of ownership early on, and people responded to it without realizing. They didn’t ask questions. They liked a handsome, confident man. He got jobs, loans, gifts, and women. They owed him. You don’t have to ask for what is already yours.
He didn’t have dreams. He had plans. He didn’t have hopes. He had ideas. He was on top of the world, always ten steps ahead … always with another plan to set in action.
But John Fitzroy woke one summer morning and didn’t know where he was. He saw dark outlines of drapes and an oversized armchair and a glint of light peeked through the top of the window. What was it about this day? The way ahead blurred like a blizzard of night. Blackness curled around him and the road disappeared. Never had he felt this. Never had he been out of control. But … was he? He was competent. He could twist his mind around an issue and it would iron out under the force of his will.
“We’ll see you next time,” a valet said as he opened the door of a taxi for him.
The boy had a kind, dark face with thick, black eyebrows and expressionless eyes. John gave him a respectful nod, and swallowed hard, past the dry sandpaper in his throat. The valet frowned as he stumbled into the back seat, his hands shaking.
The cab crawled out from the hotel entrance and made for Heathrow Airport. The cabbie was a delightful man but short on conversation. He stared at the road with a baleful basset hound look: content at the slow crawl of traffic. John leaned back into the seat, which smelled of an exquisite perfume and mint bubble gum. The scent so foreign, so unexpected, he closed his eyes savoring the surprise of it.
The fight through Heathrow’s security looked like a scene from a film where a schmuck stands in the center and the world moves in madness around him. The VIP lounge was much the same. Everyone going nowhere fast. John sat in a plush leather armchair and stared out the window as a waiter dropped a cup of tea in front of him. He curled his fingers around the thin arm of china, blew over the steaming liquid, and wished for silence. He closed his eyes and let his head rest against the top of the chair, and pictured lying on his back, floating on an endless river, water lapping at his ears, never to wake.
But in the midst of his daydream a waiter touched his arm to tell him his flight would board in five minutes. John said nothing but grunted and threw back the last gulp of tea. He reached down, his back cracking, to pick up his pristine leather briefcase and headed to the frosted doors. The waiter who’d served him mumbled “rude” under his breath as John walked away, but he didn’t turn. There wasn’t time to care what a scrappy waiter thought of his manners.
On the plane, with more legroom in business class than those poor sods in economy, John once more leaned back and set himself on the river with the warm sun; a weightless body, effortless in the calm water. An older woman with short-cropped white hair sat next to him, and in moments, she clicked her seatbelt together and produced a circle of muslin. She attached it to a wooden embroidery hoop, pulled out ten different shades of blue floss and set to work. John stared at her flying fingers. Every five minutes he looked back at her handiwork, eager to see the next installment.
In her lap she created the ocean, a bright setting (or rising) sun, a high brown cliff with greenery spilling over it, and the sea, a thousand little French knots: white, cream, blue, turquoise, cerulean, sapphire, lapis, navy, teal, Aegean, peacock, and cobalt. How did she do it, because it looked as though the sea undulated under her fingertips, as if the white knots were salt sprays flung out by the crashing waves and the Aegean knots, the point at which the ocean floor drops away from you and falls into an abyss.
John took a surreptitious look at her, as he squeezed by on his way to the loo, to see her inspiration: to judge its accuracy for himself. But there was nothing. She didn’t have a picture or a photograph. It was in her mind, John said, as he looked into the minuscule bathroom mirror, which had a crack like a butterfly in the upper left-hand corner. Was she Greek? Had she stared at that cliff her entire life? Was it burned in her memory as fields of flowers and marble monuments were burned in the minds of others?
He walked down the small aisle and shuffled by her, murmuring apologies, and she looked up with an artist’s smile: of the polite ‘leave me alone’ variety. A smile, which left no question as to its underlying meaning. She tolerated the interruption but did not welcome it. As the plane began its decent over Athens, she moved the hoop, and embroidered a few words at the top, in Greek. An offer to buy the piece flew to his lips, but he choked it back.
The flight
attendants let off first class and everyone stood to retrieve their bags; jostling and posturing with much grunting. The woman tucked her embroidery in her leather purse, flipped the white top over it, and rose, her hands clasped demurely in front of her. John craned his head to keep her in sight as the other passengers headed toward customs, but she was lost in the ocean of a crowd.
Two hours later, John arrived in Mitilini, and swayed in the heat. Outside the minuscule white airport stood a black sedan from the hotel. Across the street the Aegean stretched across the horizon like a blue carpet. A little boy ran over and rang a bell at a small white chapel with a red-shingled roof. It pealed across the quiet parking lot as three plastic grocery bags tumbled in the wind in front of him. Four strikes, a long pause, and then the little boy, his white shirt riding up over his bronzed stomach, tugged the rope three more times before his harassed mother clawed at his arm and tugged him back to their white Toyota sedan.
John stood, clutching the door handle awkwardly, unsure why he’d paused, when the chauffeur cleared his throat. He slid into the back seat, staring at the white chapel as a strange weight settled on his chest. The tick-tick-tick of the turn signal reverberated through the car and he swiveled around to stare back at the shivering bell. The scene disappeared into the distance, and all he saw were the crumbling buildings on the right and the endless sea on the left.
The car pulled into the driveway of his pink monolithic home. John sighed and ran his hand through his hair; stiff from the tepid air of planes. She stood there. Where she always stood, a sentinel to his comings and goings, forever watching, waiting. He brushed past her in a fury, grabbed a long drink from the kitchen, snatched an envelope from his desk, flew back out the door, and caught his keys from their hook. She was silent as he tore across the gravel to the garage, slipped into the black and red leather seat of the Morgan, and gingerly backed out the car. He watched her in the rear-view mirror as he eased out of the driveway and onto the road. She hadn’t moved. It made him perversely happy to discombobulate her.
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