by Cat Gardiner
Annette raised her hand to her cheek, shaking her head side to side with concern. “Oh, dear. Do you think she’ll publish her findings about Frederick’s actions?”
“I can’t be sure. I tried to explain to her without going into detail that pursuing it would have terrible results, but I don’t believe she truly understood what was at the heart of it. Can you just imagine the field day the press would have dredging up his role in the saboteurs, the final solution, the investigation into his treason, and the way he died—let alone Lizzy’s role in the matter? Add to the mix an alcoholic mother and a sister who touted her earnest belief in the benefit of eugenics. Well, that’ll just blacken and besmirch the museum, and especially the foundation, let alone the effect on our family.”
“Why is she looking for her? Did she say? Surely, there is no reason to seek Lizzy out. How did she even find us?”
“Apparently—and I’ve seen the photographs and read a letter to attest to it—this great-uncle was a wartime sweetheart of hers. Juliana just might be searching for a romantic hook for her story, intrigued by their youthful love story and most likely hoping to find them both alive followed by a happy ever after into the sunset. I gotta tell ya, it upset me a little to read that letter. Sappy stuff about chemistry, Tyrone Power, and kisses, but that was fifty years ago. Let it lie.”
Annette smiled. “Happily ever afters are what every girl dreams about, whether they are twenty-something and single, forty-nine year old aunts recovering from a bitter divorce, or seventy-year-old widows who listen to big band music while cooking dinner for one. We live and love, Jackie. It’s what we do—we cling to the romantic past and look to the future in hope that it finds us even once or if we’re really fortunate, again.”
Jack took her hand in his. “Yeah, but. Let the past lie.”
“No ‘yeah buts’. Look around you. Look at this museum. In every sense, it is looking to the future with hope by teaching the past. The reason you quit the board was because you never understood the purpose of education or looking at this particular history. Let’s face facts—you were great at finding benefactors and dealing with the press and all the other behind-the-scenes stuff, but when the museum door opened, you left.”
Annette swept her arm out in the direction of the pond and gardens. “This place exemplifies the foundation of your life and what your father survived. Should we not remember that?”
“You know I don’t believe in looking back. I’m a person who looks forward and, honestly, I can see no reason to readdress or invite others to revisit the horrors—or even the romances—of fifty years ago. Moving on, not living in the past is what will change people. I don’t understand why you think it pertains to this particular situation we find ourselves in.”
“Well, look at that elm tree. It’s the last of its kind from the estate’s construction in 1906. All the others died from Dutch elm disease, but this one survived, growing stronger because it had deep roots that were anchored on a firm foundation. Almost one hundred years later, it stands as a legacy and testimony to the Pratts’ love of nature. This lone elm is now a splendid symbolic focal point in the memorial garden at this museum. It represents a family tree.”
“But none of that has any bearing on this Juliana girl. She—”
Annette held her hand up, stopping his refute. “Hear me out; let me finish explaining why it is significant to her story.”
“Everything our Phoenix Foundation and others did to make this center a reality has been to preserve your roots and give testimony to the power of tolerance and acceptance. As the child of a survivor, your adamant refusal to remember the atrocities weakens your foundation. You fail to allow your roots to deepen, your tree to branch and, more importantly, you fail to honor the victims’ memory.”
She watched as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and grasped his hands thoughtfully. “And yet you’re still wondering how this relates,” she said.
He nodded, the sun catching his fair locks.
“What I’m saying is to let this unfold. As a family, we have run from the Renner legacy for too long. Perhaps the time is right to celebrate how from the ashes a phoenix of reparation and atonement was born. We are a single family who has raised our children within two different faiths. Allow the press their articles, showing how three Renner women changed lives—not out of guilt, but out of love. Their foundation, their roots inspired the personal legacies they will leave behind for the next generation. The next generation, Jack—your children.”
“Maybe you’re right, but I can’t help how I have always felt.”
“It’s part of your generation to think that way, not mine and my brothers’, and that’s why the museum is so important. It’s why stories such as Lillian Renner’s should be told, why Juliana and the world should be educated and reminded. Look, Jack. Don’t you think this girl would want to know that although her great-grandfather was a member of the Third Reich, her grandmother—one of his children—saved victim children, your father being one of them, hiding them in her clubmobile, bringing them to safety and then utilizing her wealth and connections to find them homes as displaced orphans? Those are Juliana’s roots, her foundation, which most likely make up the person she was raised to be. She has a right to know.”
“I suppose, but how do you tell someone that?”
“Honestly and with compassion, but these secrets must be told. I’d be pretty p.o’d if things were kept from me, that’s for sure. In hindsight, if Lillian could do it all over again, I think she would have told her granddaughter about her family history.”
Jack rose, pacing a few feet back and forth and running his hand through his hair. “What about “Lizzy?” Will she be all right with this?”
“Probably, but I’d bring her a new gardenia shrub just in case. G-d love her. For as long as I can remember, her green thumb just doesn’t extend to gardenias. The harder she tries, the quicker they die. I keep telling her she just needs to give up the effort, but her reply is always the same, ‘Shoot me for being an optimist’.”
“And, you’ll be all right with me talking to her about this William guy?”
“Sure, she’s a single woman. Who knows what might happen. Is he alive? Married? Single?”
“Who knows? I made a few calls.” Jack reached into his back pocket, withdrawing the photograph Juliana gave him. “I was thinking of showing her this.”
Annette took the snapshot from him and had the same reaction as he. She blurted out a very unladylike laugh. “Oh my! Look at them—look at that plane! Jeez, my father was right, she was insane. Pistol Packin’ Lizzy? Is she sitting astride a bomb?”
“Looks that way.”
“And you thought skydiving was the craziest thing she’s ever done. She was WWII nose art, wearing a bikini! And this guy, oh my G-d, he was gorgeous.”
Together they howled in laughter, making joke after joke at Lizzy’s expense until finally Jack grew serious. “Will you come with me into the museum? I think it’s time I take another look at the exhibit in honor of the American Red Cross and Lillian’s bravery.”
“Of course. You know I never tire of watching that video of your father.” They rose and once again she tucked her hand tightly around her nephew’s arm as they continued to chuckle over the photograph.
“So you really like her—this Juliana?”
“I do, and I want to help her find her uncle.”
She looked at the snapshot again. Her eyes narrowing as she examined it closely, tilting her head curiously. “He certainly was a hunk. You never know, darling, we might get two happily ever afters out of this. This girl could just be what everyone in our Robertsen family needs right now.”
~~*~~
Jack and Annette entered the back of the museum from the garden terrace door. Walking past a conference room, they could hear the meeting’s facilitator leading one of the museum’s many teacher training seminars. Throughout each hall and gallery they were greeted by volunteers, some survivors other
s second generation like himself. Many stopped to shake Jack’s hand, genuinely pleased to see him after so many months. He felt the power of his aunt’s words about the roots and the tree.
That last surviving elm did truly represent a family tree. Everyone who came to this place of sanctuary, remembrance, and education were part of the same family—whether they were Jewish or not. Each branch represented their narrative and each leaf and offshoot represented their descendants. His aunt and uncle were examples of that—Christians whose brother, as though their own flesh and blood, was a miraculous survivor. His grandparents had accomplished that by raising them all with the richness of both faiths, and his cousins were the continuation of tolerance and acceptance in a world still mired with antisemitism and racism.
They walked through the main exhibit hall where disturbing images lined the freestanding walls. The testimonial videos on continuous loop and the accompanying sound effects were delineated and framed by boldly quoted written words that jumped out at him, almost crushing him with the weight of what they conveyed. Powerful reflections inscribed in both Hebrew and English added to the account, although words were superfluous. There could never be words. For Jack, photographs were enough.
Upon reaching the hallway beyond the multimedia exhibits, he held his aunt back when he noticed Juliana standing at the entrance to one of the gallery rooms set aside for special exhibits. He watched as the blonde beauty stood rooted in place, holding onto the doorframe as though bracing herself. She spoke to someone within the gallery.
Jack resisted the urge to point his finger. “That’s her!”
“That’s who?”
“Juliana, and she’s standing at Lillian’s Story of Courage.”
“Oh, she’s a beauty, Jackie. Tiny little thing, but absolutely gorgeous. Look how she’s holding back. I think she’s afraid to go in. Should we say something and get this perfect storm blowing?”
“Very funny. Who do you think brought her here?”
“How about we go find out?” Annette suggested just as Juliana entered the gallery.
Remaining rigidly in place, Jack admitted, “No, I’d rather wait. She’ll know everything soon enough and I don’t want to have a confrontation about my deception here.”
Amazingly akin to her experience standing on Bradford Road in front of Primrose Cottage for the first time, shock and awe hardly seemed expressive enough for Juliana. Words failed as eyes grew wide, fixed upon the large photograph of her grandmother dressed for a formal American Red Cross portrait. Smiling for the camera, the woman known as Lillian Renner left her granddaughter spellbound.
Kitty took her niece’s hand in hers, holding it tightly, shifting her weight onto the one hand crutch. “This is the grandmother you never knew. She was more than an American Red Cross volunteer, Juliana.”
Utilizing their grasped hands, in a broad arch she indicated to Juliana to turn from one side of the exhibit room to the other, explaining with a quiet pride, “They were all more than ‘just volunteers’. Where the boys were concerned they were probably the greatest of morale boosters, representing that connection to home they missed so much. These brave women gave hope and solace to the weary soldiers.”
Kitty chuckled wryly. “Sometimes all it took were cigarettes, doughnuts, and a cup of coffee. Other times, it was a full-fledged sob on a shoulder, but a simple, warm smile from the clubmobile hostess was always most needed.”
“This is incredible. Why did Mimi never say anything? I would have loved to hear her stories about this.” She ran her free hand over the smaller images surrounding the portrait, immortalized snapshots of the volunteers at the doughnut truck, dancing with the soldiers, and making coffee on the front lines in Europe and North Africa. Some images showed the volunteers beside worn down fliers at airfields in England. “She did this?”
“She did more than this.”
“But, why did she never tell me?” For the second time that day, Juliana’s eyes filled with tears. “I never knew. My grandparents never said.”
Kitty continued to hold tightly to her great niece’s hand. “Listen, darling, she and I talked often about why she never told you or even Gordon for that matter. She was adamant on closing the door to her Renner past when she left for England in 1942, and she saw her war effort as a part of that past in a way. Our father did horrible, unspeakable things, and apart from keeping in touch with Lizzy and me, Lillian chose to never look back, never acknowledge, or admit that she was an offspring of a man who allied his beliefs with the Nazis. What she gave, what she did, was from her patriotic, loving heart. She never wanted to brag or bandy about this as though it were some heroic sacrifice. That is why the exhibit’s coordinator, out of respect for your grandmother’s wishes, waited to give honor to her until after her passing.”
“The coordinator knew when Mimi died?”
“Yes, she read the obituary. She was overcome with grief. Thankfully, we have personal testimony of a life she changed—a survivor and he tells his story in this video.”
“I wish Grandpa could see this. Maybe that would get him to talk. He’d be so proud.”
“Yes, he would. Perhaps we can bring him out here, although I’m sure he knows every detail of her experience in Europe. When Pearl Harbor was attacked, your grandmother joined the local chapter of ARC as part of the Motor Corps, driving an ambulance, learning to fix trucks and cars, but then toward the end of 1942 she wanted to do more. She always wanted to do more for the boys. It was her nature and coupled with life at home becoming more combative, she transferred to England when the ARC created the clubmobile, servicing the airfields. I’ll never forget how she promised Lizzy that she would look for Ducky wherever she went. Like me, she was very fond of him and, of course, he was Louie’s baby brother. After the invasion on D-Day, Lillian volunteered to go to the continent, attached to the 36th Infantry Division.”
“D-Day? Mimi went to France, too?”
“Yes. Back then, the boys called the volunteers Doughgirls and Rover girls, later during the Korean and Vietnam Wars they called them Donut Dollies. I don’t know about the other wars, but back then, your grandmother slept in her truck and worked in the mud. The girls wore helmets, boots, and coveralls and when they were attached to artillery units, they didn’t have earplugs. She would write to Lizzy and me how whenever their truck made its way to a camp, they would be greeted with ‘Hey, an American woman!’ by throngs of cold and hungry men. Oftentimes, she would write how she hoped the ARC was in the Pacific, helping your grandfather.
“Something miraculous happened, in the winter of 1944. Your grandmother volunteered to become, what they called, a ‘Donut Dugout Ranger’. She traveled the backwoods to find a suitable location to set up shop so to speak, a service club in a village or town, because wherever the troops went, the Red Cross followed, no matter how small the unit. In the northern Alsace her mission changed.”
Kitty pressed the button on the video monitor below the portrait of Lillian. “This man’s name is Henri Robertsen. He’s Jack’s father, and I imagine, one of the reasons behind his stonewalling you in regard to the Renner family. Jack is very protective of those he loves.” The frozen image of a handsome, well-dressed man in his late forties came alive to tell his tale.
“I was three years old when she found me and four others. Later, I was told we had been alone for about four months in that farmhouse outside of Brumath, near Hauenau, France a Nazi stronghold until March of ’45. All I can remember really is the cold and the hunger. The couple who hid us disappeared one day, leaving us to fend for ourselves. I still wonder their fate. The oldest in hiding, maybe ten years of age was a girl named Giselle. She took on the role of our mother, telling us stories and finding food for us in the forest, all the while evading capture. Truly, it was a gift from G-d that the Nazis never came upon the shack where we hid below the floorboards in the root cellar.
It was December and snowing when miraculously, Lillian Renner, an American Red Cross Clubmobile voluntee
r drove down a snowy path and saw Giselle in the forest attempting to catch a rabbit or something. Years later, after I came to America, my adoptive mother explained to me that the yellow, Jewish star on Giselle’s sweater caused Lillian to react quickly. How we never were caught before was truly a miracle. I remember the five of us, huddling together in the back of the Red Cross truck under blankets and boxes during a long, bumpy ride. We could hear gunfire until it finally grew more distant. We arrived at the main camp where the clubmobile and the other volunteers were gathered. They fawned and fussed over us.” He laughed. “I remember the doughnuts, and even though I wanted to stuff them into my mouth whole, Lillian helped me to eat slowly. All I wanted to do was eat and hold her. It felt like forever since someone loved me. Funny, the things you remember—all but three years old, filthy, hungry, and cold and I remember how she smelled like strawberries in the dead of winter.”
The speaker on the screen, Henri, paused his recitation, obviously becoming emotional. “She remained with the five of us as we were shuttled and handed off from American zone to American zone, and eventually put on a Red Cross hospital ship, crossing the Channel to England where we remained for a time with a British foster family as displaced refugees. Lillian stayed in Europe, but from afar, utilizing her affluence, connections, and society, she wired B’nai B’rith, the Women’s Committee of the American Jewish Congress, and friends in the Social Register. She cut through red tape, arranged for identity papers, visas and found each of us foster homes until permanent families were located. Our new American families—two in Philadelphia and three on Long Island, eventually adopted us. I was adopted by the Robertsen family, Gold Coast residents who also had an infant daughter of their own.