Welcome to the World, Baby Girl!

  Washington, D.C.

  1978

  A week later Dena was in a car, watching the rain hitting the windshield, listening to Gerry talk but not really hearing him. He was telling her to knock on the door and if the woman was at home, he would either wait for her in the car or go in with her, whatever she wanted. They were parked across the street, where according to Richard Look, who had checked it out, a Mrs. Gregory Bruce was still living. Massachusetts Avenue was a wide residential street in what looked to have been a nice upper-middle-class neighborhood at one time but was now beginning to decline. A few houses here and there were showing that forlorn, uncared-for look and had wrought-iron bars on the windows and doors. Number 4023 was set back a bit from the street with a long, deep yard that led up to a red-brick two-story house. Washington was cold and dark and everything looked depressed, including the trees, some nothing but bare black sticks against the gray sky. They had driven up and down the block once or twice before they parked but had not seen a living soul. Richard Look had advised Dena to show up unannounced. He had said that on the off chance Mrs. Bruce might know about her mother’s employer having been convicted of spying, she might not be so eager to discuss old times with Dena. She had agreed with Look at the time but now that the moment was actually here, Dena was anxious.

  Gerry looked up at the sky through the windshield. “I don’t think it’s going to let up any time soon. Maybe you should go on and get it over with. What do you think?”

  “Yes, guess you’re right.” She turned to him. “What’s the signal again? I forgot.”

  “If it is her, and you feel like you need me to come in with you, turn around and wave and I’ll come. Otherwise, I’ll be here waiting for you.”

  She opened the door, repeating, “Wave if I want you, don’t wave if I don’t. Wish me luck.”

  As she started up the four cement steps, she thought, a coward dies a thousand deaths, a hero dies but one. This is just another interview, that’s all.

  She reached the front door, took a deep breath, and pushed the bell. She stood there in the rain and waited. Nothing. She rang again and waited. Nothing. She could see the lamp on the table inside the hall was not lit. Maybe she was not home. Relieved and disappointed at the same time, she gave the bell one more short push and waited, then turned to leave, when she heard the sound of footsteps coming toward the door. A figure she could not make out switched on the lamp and opened the door halfway, leaving the barred outer door closed. In the dim light Dena could see it was a dignified-looking woman who wore her silver-gray hair pulled straight back from her face, and was wearing a coat.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you but I’m looking for Mrs. Gregory Bruce.”

  The woman said, somewhat leery, “Yes, I’m Mrs. Bruce. What can I do for you?”

  Dena was caught off guard for a moment. “Ah … I believe you used to know my mother, Marion Chapman?”

  The woman frowned slightly. “Who?”

  “Marion Chapman; you knew her around 1950 or 1951?”

  The woman did not respond. Dena continued, “She had a daughter and they came to see you at Radio City Music Hall.”

  The woman did not give any indication of remembering.

  “And one time we spent the night at your apartment in the Village on St. Luke’s Place? You had a cat named Milton?”

  Dena heard the sound of a loud iron lock clicking. The woman opened the door and stood staring at her in amazement.

  “Dena? Are you Dena?”

  “Yes.”

  Her entire demeanor changed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Well, come in, come in.”

  Dena stepped inside. “Do you remember me?”

  “Of course I do. I just can’t believe it. I thought you were somebody trying to sell something. How did you get here?”

  “A friend brought me.” Mrs. Bruce glanced out at the car across the street.

  “Don’t you want to have him come in?”

  “No, he’s just going to wait for me.”

  “Here, let me have your coat. Go on into the living room and have a seat. I’ll be right in. Can I offer you some coffee or tea?”

  “No, not a thing, thanks.”

  “Look at me, I’m still in my coat. I just got in from a church meeting and when I came in the back door I thought I heard the bell. Let me run back in the kitchen and lock up. I left my keys in the door. Be right back.”

  “Take your time.” Dena went into the living room and sat down. It was a dimly lit, rather formal room, furnished with furniture that looked as if it had been there for a long time. Christine came in, smoothing her hair. “I wish I had known you were coming. I don’t have a thing to offer you as far as food goes. Here, let me put some lights on in here. What a surprise. I thought you looked familiar but couldn’t place where I’d seen you before.”

  As Christine went around switching on the lamps, Dena was able to get a good look at her. She was not at all what Dena had pictured. She was conservatively dressed in a gray dress and pearls. Somehow Dena had expected her to still be blond and somewhat jazzier. This woman was reserved in speech and manner. Her features could have been Greek or Italian and she had aged well and was still quite attractive. Christine sat down across from her and asked the inevitable question: “Now, tell me, where is Marion? I was beginning to think you two had just dropped off the face of the earth. And how is she doing?”

  A good interviewer, Dena wanted to let her talk a little longer before she answered, and answered her question with another question.

  “How long has it been since you two have seen each other?”

  “Oh, too long. We just lost touch with—” She did not finish her sentence. This was the first moment it dawned on her. “Wait a minute … I know you. You’re Dena Nordstrom!”

  Dena smiled. “Yes.”

  Christine sat back on the sofa. She put her hand over her heart. “That’s you? You grew up to be Dena Nordstrom? You mean to tell me that it’s you I’ve been looking at all these years. Oh, I can’t believe it.” She laughed. “No wonder you looked familiar. Here I’ve been looking at you and didn’t even know it was you.” Christine kept shaking her head. “And you remembered me after all these years. Well, I’m flattered.”

  “Of course I did. How could I forget meeting you, a real Rockette? That was a big event for me. You may not remember but I do.”

  “Oh, I do and I remember when your mother brought you backstage. You were this high.” She held out her arm. “Your mother had you dressed up so, little bows in your hair, but all you wanted to do was look at the light board. The lighting man got the biggest kick out of you asking him all those questions.”

  “Do you remember that time when we came and spent the night with you?”

  Christine’s expression changed at the mention of that night and she gave Dena a sympathetic nod as if they shared the same memory. But she did not offer anything more. “How in the world did you find me after all these years?”

  The phone in the kitchen started to ring. Christine made no attempt to get up.

  “Believe it or not,” Dena said, “I called Radio City Music Hall and they told me to call a woman named Hazel, who told me to call a woman named Dolly Berger, who had your married name and address.”

  She smiled. “Dolly Berger, how is that crazy thing?”

  “She sounded fine, and she said to tell you to write her.”

  The phone continued to ring. Christine said, “Wouldn’t you know it, right when I have company. Excuse me. Let me get rid of whoever that is.”

  Dena glanced around the room. Christine had photos of foreign-looking people sitting on the mantel, but other than that the room was cold, almost austere.

  Christine came back. “That was my neighbor; her furnace is out so I told her she could come over here and watch TV in the basement. She has a key so she won’t bother us.” She sat down. “You still haven’t told me about your mother. Is she all right?”

  This was
going to be the tricky part. Dena needed to see what Christine knew.

  “Actually, the reason I’m here is about my mother. I was wondering if you could tell me when was the last time you saw or heard from her.”

  Christine thought. “Oh, I think it must have been, well, I know it was before I got married. I got married in 1953. I remember I wrote her at the last address she gave me—I think you and she had moved to Boston or Philadelphia by then—and I never heard back from her. Why? Is she all right? Did something happen to her?” Christine looked anxious. “She is not … dead, is she?”

  Dena could see by the genuine concern in her face that she was not hiding anything, or if she was, Christine was the best actress Dena had ever seen.

  “That’s just it. I don’t know. I don’t know where she is or if she is still alive.”

  At that moment a short, black woman in a windbreaker came in the front door and waved and said, “It’s just me.” As she headed for the stairs leading to the basement room, Christine’s eyes never left Dena, waiting for her to explain. After Dena told her the whole story about that Christmas in Chicago, Christine looked stricken. “Oh, no. And she didn’t leave a note or anything?”

  “No, nothing. Just my gifts—and she just vanished into thin air.”

  Christine’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, no, that poor girl.” She sat sadly shaking her head. “That poor girl.” Dena handed Christine a Kleenex. Christine wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s just so terrible, it just breaks my heart to hear it. But I’m not surprised. I always worried something like that would happen.”

  Dena spoke as calmly as possible. “You’re not surprised?”

  “No. From the very beginning, she was scared to death somebody might find out who she was. That you might be disgraced or thrown out of school.” Dena’s heart began to pound. Christine folded and refolded the Kleenex. “A lot of them just disappeared like that, just dropped out of sight, couldn’t stand the pressure. Always looking over their shoulders, never trusting anybody.” She looked at Dena. “But to leave your child …” She started to cry again. “Oh, that poor girl, what she must have been going through.”

  Dena’s face became chalk white and she felt as if she might faint. This was not what was supposed to be happening; it was a strange sensation. The worst things that people imagine almost never come true, but her worst nightmare was unfolding before her eyes. She was surprised to hear her own voice saying, “But she trusted you.”

  Christine blew her nose. “Oh, yes, she knew I would never have told anybody. Listen, how she wanted to live her life was her business but there were a lot of people who didn’t feel that way, couldn’t wait to hound you down and expose you.”

  Dena, who was now on automatic pilot, nodded as if she had a clue as to what Christine was talking about.

  “And after all that mess about Theo hit the papers, she almost went crazy, she was so scared. She was convinced she was next.” Christine looked away. “I think she may have even been afraid of me after that.”

  Dena was pulled back into reality. “Theo? Who is Theo?”

  “Her brother Theo,” Christine said, matter-of-factly, as if Dena should know.

  Dena stopped her. “Wait a minute. My mother had a brother who was also a Nazi?”

  Christine frowned at Dena. “A Nazi? Theo wasn’t a Nazi, he was a violinist. Where did you hear that?”

  “Well, isn’t that what you said?”

  “What?”

  “Didn’t you just say my mother was a Nazi spy?”

  Christine was completely taken aback. “A spy? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Your mother was not a Nazi spy; who told you such a thing?”

  “Didn’t my mother work for a woman named Lili Steiner, who had a dress shop in New York?”

  “I remember when your mother first got to New York, she worked for some woman named Lili something. But what does that have to do with anybody spying?”

  “Lili Steiner was convicted for spying and spent ten years in jail.”

  Christine said emphatically, “Well, I don’t care what that woman was convicted of, your mother was not a Nazi. My Lord, I’ve known your family almost all my life. Whoever told you that must have been pulling your leg. Your mother was no more of a Nazi than I am.”

  The phone in the kitchen rang again. Christine stood up. “No, she hated the Nazis. Your poor grandfather had to get out of Vienna, leave everything he owned just to get away from them.” The phone rang again. “Let me run and get this. She’s expecting a call from the furnace people.” She called back over her shoulder. “Not only that, if they hadn’t gotten out of Europe when they did, you might not be sitting here talking to me today.”

  Dena’s mind was reeling. She felt as if she had just been pulled by the hair through a knothole at a hundred miles an hour. So that was it—her mother was Jewish! That’s why she changed her name, why no such person as Marion Chapman existed. This was the last thing in the world she had expected to hear … but what was the big deal about that? Why had her mother not told her? Why was she so afraid? Something was still not right. It didn’t make any sense; there had to be something else. Her mind raced in a hundred different directions. If she had not been a German spy, who was she running from? Then, another thought … maybe her mother had something to do with the arrest of Lili Steiner. Maybe the reverse was true, maybe her mother was an American spy! Maybe the postwar Nazis were after her for revenge. Maybe that’s why she had to change her name; perhaps she had been in a government protection program.

  Christine walked to the top of the basement stairs. “Lucille, he said he’d be here in half an hour.”

  Lucille called, “Thank you.” Christine said, “Are you sure I can’t get you some coffee or tea?”

  Dena was so distracted that she did not respond. “I don’t understand. Why did she change her name?”

  “A lot of people did. I did.”

  “But why? It just doesn’t make any sense to me. I mean, to change your name and your entire life over something like that …”

  “I know, but you have to remember, things were very different back then. It was not easy for any of us. I know.”

  Dena looked at Christine, now that she knew. She did look somewhat Jewish.

  “You couldn’t get a job, you couldn’t even get in most places. Your mother wasn’t the only one. There were thousands of people doing the same thing. I did it myself for a while. Whitenow was not my real name. If anybody looked at me funny I used to tell people my mother was Spanish. During the Depression, when people were desperate for jobs, you’d be surprised how many Spaniards and Cubans showed up looking for work.”

  “Do you think my father knew?”

  “No,” she said. “I know for a fact he didn’t.”

  “Would it have made a difference to him?”

  “You never knew if it would or not. No, I think your mother just wanted to get married, have a baby, and forget it. It just broke poor Dr. Le Guarde’s heart, first Theo, and then your mother—”

  “Who’s Dr. Le Guarde?”

  “Your grandfather.”

  Dena tried to recover. “Oh, I knew about my grandfather, but I didn’t know he had been a doctor.”

  “Yes,” Christine said, almost reverently, “your grandfather was one of the most respected doctors in Washington.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yes, he was chief of staff at Freeman Hospital right over here and head of the medical school at Howard College for years. He was very well known.”

  Another “Really” was all that Dena could manage.

  “That’s what made it so sad for him, to lose both children like that.”

  Dena was half listening; this was the first time she had ever heard her mother’s real name and she kept repeating it in her head.

  “Your grandfather was a good-looking man. Of course, so was Theo.”

  Dena looked at Christine. “Le Guarde. That doesn’t sound like a Jewish name to me. Wh
y would they have to change it?”

  Christine was puzzled. “Jewish?”

  “Yes, why would they change it? It sounds more French than anything.”

  “Jewish?” Christine said with an even more puzzled expression. “Dr. Le Guarde was not Jewish.”

  “He wasn’t? Was it my grandmother?”

  “No, neither one. Where did you get the idea that they were Jewish?”

  Dena felt herself getting ready to be pulled through that knothole again. Either she had completely lost her mind or Christine was purposely trying to confuse her. “Didn’t you just get through telling me that my grandfather had to leave Vienna to escape the Nazis or am I crazy?”

  “Yes, I said they had to leave but not because they were Jewish.”

  “What are you talking about, then?”

  Now it was Christine’s turn to be confused. “Didn’t you tell me you knew about your grandfather?”

  “I said, I knew I had a grandfather. But all my mother ever told me about her family was that they all burned to death in a fire.”

  “A fire? What fire?”

  “Was that not true?”

  All of a sudden Christine realized what had just happened and a look of near-horror came to her face. She put her hand over her mouth and gasped, “Oh, my God in heaven, I thought you knew.”

  “Knew what? I think we must be having two conversations at the same time. I thought you told me that you and my mother were Jewish. Isn’t that what you just told me?”

  Christine shook her head. “No.”

  “Then you’re not Jewish either.”

  “No.”

  “You’re not.” Dena scanned her face once more, looking for some answer. “Are you Italian? Is that why you changed your name?” Christine did not answer her but Dena reacted to the word Italian. “Is that it? Does it have something to do with the Mafia? Was my mother involved with the Mafia, is that why she was afraid? Were she and her brother criminals or something? Look, I’m completely lost here; you’ve got to help me. I’m not trying to pry but I need to know. It’s not just for me, there’s somebody out there that’s trying to blackmail me. I’m not trying to put you or my mother at risk, I just need to know for myself. What happened to her … why she left.”