The Length of a String

by Elissa Brent Weissman

  “There’s this,” I said, holding up a crumpled envelope. The return address was from Poland, and the envelope was dirty and worn, like it had been run over by a Jeep, if they had those back then. The letter inside was dated 18 August 1941, but the postmark on the envelope was from a smudged-out month in 1942. The diary ended in March; who knew how many more months Anna had to wait before she received this piece of mail. The letter wasn’t very long—just the front of one sheet of stationery and a few lines on the back—but I could sense its importance. The handwriting was a beautiful cursive, compact yet flowy, and it was written in French.

  Madeline flipped it over to look at the signature. Her face took on a cross between excitement and sadness when she saw. “It’s from her mother,” she whispered.

  I nodded and told her, “Anna wrote back.” I reached into the very bottom of the shoebox, where I’d put this last thing to keep it safe. It was an envelope, thick with what must have been a very long letter. The envelope was addressed in Anna’s careful hand, to be sent to the same address in Poland from which her mother’s letter had been mailed. But it was still sealed. No one had ever opened it. A stamp on the front declared in big, bold ink: RETURN TO SENDER. RECIPIENT UNKNOWN.

  CHAPTER 37

  Madeline wanted to type Anna’s mother’s letter into Google to get it translated on the spot, but I shot her down. I’d once used an online translation site to help me write a paragraph for Spanish class, and my teacher gave me a 62. This letter was way too important for a translation that was 62 percent of the way there. “Besides,” I said to Madeline, “this is the last letter Anna ever received from her mother. That’s a very personal thing.” The most personal thing in the world, I thought. If my birth mother had written me a letter like this, there’s no way I’d want its contents typed into Google, even seventy-five years from now. “Having it translated by a machine just feels . . . wrong.”

  “Okay,” she said. “But who do we know who knows French?”

  I tried not to smile as I answered. “Ethan.”

  “Imani. No offense, because I know you guys have a . . . thing going on. But, Ethan? You don’t trust Google, but you trust a seventh grader who started learning French in September?”

  “No, not Ethan himself,” I assured her. “I was thinking he could ask his teacher.”

  Madeline’s shoulders went down as she gave in. “I guess that could work. Text him.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Ethan came through for me once again. He suggested giving the letter to the student teacher in his French class, and once I met her, I knew she was the perfect person for this project. She was small and well-dressed, with her nails painted orange. Her English was fluent, but she had a thick French accent, which made sense because she grew up in France and only moved to America for college. Ethan took me to meet her during lunch, and she was eating a salad and a big, crusty piece of baguette. In other words, she was French through and through. I could just tell she would approach the contents of the letter with care and, well, humanness—the total opposite of a computer algorithm.

  And get this: Her name was Mme. Veronique. So similar to Mme. Veron, Anna’s French teacher in Brooklyn! That was a sign so clear, no one could deny it, even Madeline, who didn’t believe in signs.

  I brought the letter to school the next day, and Mme. Veronique allowed me to come with her into the teachers’ lounge while she photocopied it, so that I didn’t have to let it out of my sight. She carefully folded the original back into its envelope and gave it to me.

  “I will translate for you tonight, yes?”

  “That would be awesome,” I said. “I mean, if you have time.” I don’t know why I was so nervous. “Just as soon as you can, I guess.”

  “I can see it is special, this letter,” Mme. Veronique said with a smile.

  “Oh man,” I said with a sigh. “You have no idea.”

  CHAPTER 38

  I walked home slowly. Tennis was over, Grandpa had left, and my mom would be home from work soon. If only I could fast-forward to tomorrow, when I’d get the translated letter back. What did it say? What do you say to the daughter you sent away and would never see again? It must be that proper goodbye Anna craved. It was easier to do that sort of thing in a letter, where you could take your time and make sure you said things the right way, without getting interrupted or derailed by emotions.

  That’s how it hit me: the ideal way to ask for my bat mitzvah present. While I waited for the letter from Anna’s mom, I’d sit down and write one to my own.

  I went to my desk the minute I got home. I took out a sheet of loose leaf and pumped my mechanical pencil. From there, the words just came. I guess they’d been there all along, but stuck behind my lips. Now they jumped at the chance to escape through my hand.

  Dear Mom,

  I’m sorry for what I said when we were dress shopping. I know it hurt you, and that is the last thing I want to do. I’m so afraid of hurting you that I’ve been afraid to ask for my bat mitzvah present, even though I’ve wanted it for a long time. I want to find my biological family.

  PLEASE keep reading the rest of this letter so you can know why I’m asking for this. It’s not because I don’t love you and Dad and Jaime and everyone else in our family. It’s not because I want to live with someone else. It’s not because I don’t realize how lucky I am to have you and a great life.

  It’s only because there’s a big question mark inside me. Grandma Anna’s diary was like a window to our family history, and it only made me wonder more about mine. Where do my birth parents come from? Why did they place me for adoption? What race is my father? It’s hard to look different from your parents and everyone else in your town. It’s even harder if you don’t know why you look the way you do. I’ve been wondering in secret (and looking, but only just a little, I swear) because I know it upsets you. But I can’t help the wondering. The only thing that will stop me wondering is finding out.

  I know it might be hard to find information about my birth parents, and I know what I find might be something bad or sad. But I still want to know. I am mature enough to handle it.

  Since I’m under 18, I can’t do a real search without permission from you or Dad. But even if I could, I’d want to do this with you and Dad anyway because you’re my parents. No matter what I said when I was angry, you ARE my real mom. Learning about my biological past isn’t going to change that. I love you.

  Love,

  Imani

  I read the letter five times. My plan was to rewrite it in pen, on nice stationery, but now that seemed inappropriate, like putting a frilly cushion on an execution chair. So I folded the piece of loose leaf in thirds, stuck it in an envelope, and wrote MOM on the front. I went into her room and placed it on her pillow.

  Then I left for Madeline’s house before I could change my mind.

  CHAPTER 39

  Mom didn’t reply that night. She didn’t mention the letter the whole morning either. She didn’t even give any indication that she’d read it—no tearing up when she looked at me, no adoption files on my desk. By the time I got to school, I worried that she didn’t actually get it. Had it fallen under the bed or behind the headboard? Did Jaime steal it as a joke? Did Dad get to it first and decide to spare her the pain?

  Madeline did her best to distract me, but I was starting to freak out. Another day or two, and I’d have to ask her about it with words, which defeated the whole purpose of writing it in the first place. Why did I think it was a good idea to do this now, when I was also waiting in agony for the letter from Anna’s mom? It made me seriously question my sanity.

  Finally, between sixth and seventh period, Ethan bumped into me on the stairs.

  “Watch it,” I said jokingly.

  “Sorry,” he said with a smile. “Here.”

  My pulse sped up as I felt his hand press against mine. But then he was
gone, and a folded piece of paper was in my palm, like Grandpa Fred’s magic quarter. I ducked out of the crowd at the top of the stairwell, leaned against the wall, and opened it up.

  Mme. Veronique has your letter. Meet at French room after school?

  For a second I was disappointed that the note didn’t say anything more personal, like a request to meet him somewhere else, just us. But then I was over it. Mme. Veronique had the letter!

  I slipped Madeline a similar note during math, and the two of us met Ethan at his French room right after the last bell. Mme. Veronique was there, leaning on the teacher’s desk and talking with Ethan’s regular teacher.

  “Bonjour,” Mme. Veronique chirped. She said something in French to the teacher, who glanced at us and smiled. “I have your letter.” She walked to the back of the room and began looking in her bag.

  My fingers played with the bottom of my sweater while I waited. They were quivering. This must’ve been how Anna felt before she read this letter herself. Months and months—maybe even years—with no news from her family, and then, at last, a letter from her mother. I could picture her holding it in her trembling hands, her heart thumping in her chest. Keep your expectations in check, I told myself. I imagined her doing the same.

  “Voila,” Mme. Veronique said. She handed me a piece of paper. It was folded in thirds. I stared at it for a moment and then looked up. Mme. Veronique’s eyes were moist. “This is a very special letter,” she said.

  Perhaps my expectations were in line after all.

  I thanked her and carried the letter, still folded, into the hallway. Ethan and Madeline followed.

  “Do you want to read it alone?” Madeline asked.

  Anna would’ve read it alone, I knew.

  But I’m not Anna. On one side of me was my best friend, and on the other was my . . . whatever Ethan is.

  “No,” I said. “Let’s read it together.”

  18 August 1941

  My most dearest Anna,

  It has been twenty-four heartbreaking hours since I sent you with the smuggler. How can it be, with five other children still here, one of whom looks so much like you, that my heart can feel so empty? When I gave birth to you twelve years ago, I never could have supposed that I would not be there to see you grow into adulthood. It is my most sincere hope that I will, that we will be reunited shortly, and that I will never need to post this letter because I will be able to convey all of these sentiments with my kisses. But I have many sincere hopes, and I fear my heart will rupture if I do not put them on paper.

  First, I hope you can forgive your father and me for letting you go on your own. It is a terrible thing to do, to send your child away. My second hope is that one day you will be a mother yourself, and you will understand exactly how painful yet necessary this decision was.

  If someone had to go alone, Anna, I’m so very glad it was you. Kurt is strong, yes, but you are stronger. You have such kindness, such intelligence, such intuition. You are my thoughtful child, and my resilient one. You feel as deeply as your sister, but you don’t let it waver you. I know that whatever comes your way, you will endure. No, you will shine.

  Oh, Max and Hannah are so lucky to have you, Anna! I don’t need to tell you to be good, but I do hope you will feel free to be bad sometimes. You and your twin complement each other so nicely, like little pieces in those jigsaws you love. Instead of feeling lost without her, my darling, find the missing pieces within yourself, for they are there. You are just as beautiful as Belle (you are identical, remember!) and just as bold and lighthearted and loving. You two are better together, yes. Know that you can also be whole apart.

  I hope you will not just carry Belle with you, but all of us. I wish for you to see the best in people and situations, like your father. To be as selfless as Kurt, who sent you in his place. To view life as an adventure, like Belle. To be as determined and persistent as Greta. To connect with others like Oliver—and to remember how dearly he loves you. To be as innocent and happy as Mina, despite the cruelty of our current world. And to love others as deeply as I love you.

  May we all meet again, but, Anna, if we do not: You are strong. You are smart. You are beautiful. You will be fine.

  With all my love,

  Mama

  CHAPTER 40

  What could any of us say after reading that? With an indescribable mix of happiness and sadness, I folded it up and put it in my backpack. I said goodbye to my friends and walked home. Somehow, I made it through the blur of sidewalks and passing cars. And somehow, with that same mix of happiness and sadness, Anna lived another seventy-three years.

  At home, I paper-clipped the translation to the envelope with the original and placed it back into Anna’s memory box. I left the open box on my desk and walked over to my bed. Another letter was there, sitting on my pillow. It was addressed in Mom’s swoopy handwriting: IMANI.

  I closed my eyes, questioning—again—why I decided to torture myself so much in one week. It was too late to undo it now.

  Dear Imani,

  I’m the one who should apologize. I’ve been very emotional lately, but not for the reason you think. Let me explain.

  I knew this day would come, when you’d say you hate me or you wish I weren’t your mother. All kids say something like that to their parents at some point. I suppose adopted kids are the only ones who have extra fuel, because they can say something so hurtful that is also true. I was dreading the day you’d hurt me that way, but not because I don’t want you thinking about your biological family. I was dreading it because it means you’re growing up, and as you probably realized, smart girl, I am in denial about that. (I’m sorry for making you shop in the children’s department. We should have gone to juniors.)

  It sounds sappy, Imani, but you are becoming a young woman. You’re preparing for your bat mitzvah, you’re spending more time with boys (yes, I’ve noticed!), and you’re starting to ask meaningful questions about yourself and the world. When you were little, you adored me and Dad. It didn’t matter that you don’t look like us, or that our complexion is lighter than yours. We could solve your problems and answer all your questions. That’s not the case anymore. It makes me worried and I get upset, because you have a lot of big, important questions. I don’t want you to get hurt, but my power to protect you is shrinking.

  If you are determined to search for your birth family, Dad and I will help you. But I don’t think it’s a good idea, and please let me explain why. It’s not because we want you to have a big question mark inside. It’s not because we’re worried you’ll like that family better or renounce your upbringing. (That is a fear of mine, but it’s not the reason.) It is because I don’t want you to get hurt. In order to prevent you from getting hurt, I’m going to tell you something that might cause you pain. (Thank you for the idea of writing a letter. This would be even harder to say out loud.)

  Imani, your father and I received very little information about your birth mother because that was her choice. We were willing to consider an open adoption. She was not. I don’t know why, but my guess is that it was a very, very difficult decision to place you for adoption. She made that decision for a reason. I don’t know her reason, but it had to be very compelling, since it would affect many people’s lives. Dad and I have always felt we must respect that decision. In some ways this has made things easier for us (it would be tricky to navigate having her in our family’s life). I can only imagine that it makes things easier for her too, and that that is why she wanted it this way. (It would be very difficult to watch your daughter grow up with other parents, even if it is for her own good.) Maybe there are things about her or your biological father that would be hard for you to deal with, so she wanted to protect you too—she is your mother, after all. I’m including the letter we received from the social worker about your birth parents. You’ll see that it reveals very little. (I’m sorry it took me so long to writ
e back to you. I had to go get this from the safe-deposit box.)

  I’m sorry if this makes you feel more incomplete. Weren’t things easier when you were a little kid?! But you’re not anymore, that’s for sure. So how about this: I’ll stop pretending that you are a child. Instead of being sad about you growing up, I’ll be proud. Imani, Dad and I are very proud. You are turning into such a delightful, smart, talented, and thoughtful young adult. I’ll make an honest effort to treat you as such. In return, all I ask is that you please think some more about your request. It’s possible that your birth mother has changed her mind in the past twelve years. The adoption agency might know more, and if you are sure that you want to know, we will contact them. But first, Imani: Please weigh the pros and cons. Ask yourself what exactly you’re hoping to find, and if it’s possible for you to find it later, or in another way. You said you’ve been wanting this for a long time, but now that you know a little bit more, all I ask is that you please think on it a little bit longer.

  Whatever you decide, we will support you. We’ll also give you another, more fun present, like a guitar or a trip or a lifetime supply of tortellini. You deserve it!

  Love,

  Mom

  Wow. Boy was I wrong about Mom all this time. She wasn’t mad at me, which was a huge relief. She was going to stop treating me like a baby (or try to, at least), which was big. And she decided to share everything she knew about my birth mother. That was the biggest thing of all.