Faded Memories
I wasn’t looking for it, but there it was. Deep in the corner of my mother’s closet. We were clearing out her house after she passed away; gathering all the old clothes from her closet. There were mostly dusty old clothes, dresses, coats, jackets, some of which clearly dated back to her earlier life in the 40s, well before I was born. I separated out the attire into piles, those that I would give away; those that I would throw away.
There was this one fancy jacket in a protected plastic garment bag. It wasn’t a woman’s jacket but a man’s dress jacket. Now my father had died years earlier and my mother had already thrown away all of his old clothes. But this jacket, clearly from another age, was almost new. Remembering all of the pictures that I had of my parents, I had never seen one with this jacket in it.
Of course, as I was doing this sorting I would check the pockets for items left behind. On checking one of the pockets in this particular jacket I found an old photograph. It was of my mother when she was much younger and a handsome young man, one did not recognize. As I turned the picture over I discovered writing on the back. “auf meine schöne Greta, mit all meiner Liebe.” I knew enough German to know it read, “To my beautiful Greta, with all my love”
This picture must have been taken before my mother met my father.
On checking another pocket of the jacket, I also discovered a yellowed, tattered piece of newsprint with an obituary and a faded letter. They had been enclosed in an envelope, which was postmarked in 1940, Germany. As I carefully pulled out the contents of the envelope I read the obituary and the letter. They described the death of a soldier, Hans Sarkermann, on the battlefront of Poland. The letter had been sent by a friend of his in Germany.
I never knew of the person in the picture. And knowing the tumultuous life my mother had had with my father, while I was growing up I wish I had. I knew that there were secrets that my mom kept from me, but this was a shock. I remember the faraway look in her eyes at times of strife with my dad, but she never explained what she was thinking. I guess I have an idea now.
I wish I had known.
*Writer’s note: This is a work of fiction.
