Klara's Truth: A Novel

CHAPTER 1

May 6, 2014, Bangor, Maine

It was the first springlike day Klara could remember in what felt like forever, a whopping sixty-two degrees. Feeling the warm sun on her arms and noticing that several purple-and-yellow crocuses had just sprouted by her front porch in the last twenty-four hours momentarily brightened her mood. She was walking home for some lunch after teaching two classes that morning when she grabbed her mail from the postbox next to the street curb. In quickly leafing through her letters, mostly junk mail, Klara spied a large red, white, and blue FedEx envelope with her mother’s name and return address.

She picked up her pace, quickly unlocking the antique oak front door to her small white Colonial and throwing down her jean jacket along with the rest of the mail. Tearing open the cardboard envelope, she found a letter from her mother and a more official one from the Polish government. She read her mother’s letter first.

Dear Klara,

I have surprising news to tell you, and what good news it is! We are inheriting money in your father’s name. The Polish government has finally gotten around to reimbursing Polish Holocaust survivors and their families—as well as non-Jewish property owners from Poland and their families—for property the German Nazis and their collaborators stole during the Holocaust and WWII that was subsequently nationalized by the Communist regime all those years ago.

I know it will be a shock, but I must tell you that your father is dead. When I first found out many years ago, you were so young, and I didn’t want to upset you. After that, it just seemed easier not to talk about it.

The truth is, we were fighting all the time, and he decided to leave after he lost his job due to his drinking. He refused to understand that your grandfather was as important to me as he was, and I couldn’t just move out, just the three of us, leaving your grandfather alone to fend for himself. What kind of daughter would that make me? He took a train to Philadelphia from New York City to look for work. There was a job a friend had told him about, and, well, the train was in an accident. He was among five passengers who were immediately killed. You were so young, only six years old.

His sister, Rachel, still lived in Warsaw at the time. When I told her about the accident, she somehow had your father’s body flown to Warsaw, where he was buried. I know I should have told you sooner. I’m forced to bring it up now as there’s a lot of money at hand, $250,000. We could handle it by mail, but I’m worried that your father’s sister, if she’s still alive, or her family might try to finagle all the money for themselves, so I think it’s best if you travel to Poland.

Call me right away!

—Mom

The letter from Poland’s government outlined the details of the restitution—and her mother must show proof that she and Klara’s father were married at the time of his death. Otherwise, the money would go to any living children her father might have.

After reading and rereading the letters, Klara paced around her living room, shaking her head.

Unbelievable. All these years, she’s denied she knew what had ultimately happened to him, only allowing that he walked out and left us, never turning back. Now that there’s money involved, she reveals the truth. That’s just so like her. And why didn’t she call me first to discuss this before sending the letters? Again, it’s just so like her.

After running around her home like someone who had lost her way, ignoring her mother’s multiple phone messages, Klara finally called Sheila, her closest friend at Holbrook College. In the seven years since Klara had first come to teach there, Sheila was the one person who knew her story, or at least much of it.

By then it was dinnertime, and although she knew Sheila was likely in the middle of her evening family routine, Klara had to speak to her.

Hi, Klara, Sheila said cheerfully from the other end of the phone line, but with an underlying frenzied tone. The kids are finishing their homework, Jack has the study door closed, and it’s my night to make dinner. She paused for a moment, and then yelled, Tommy, don’t take your brother’s pencil away from him! He’s using it. Klara heard muffled conversation, and then Sheila was back. Sorry about that. What’s up?

I don’t mean to bother you. Klara’s voice dropped. It’s about my mother. I mean, it’s about my father. He’s dead, she said, bursting into tears.

Following a moment’s silence, Sheila exclaimed, Oh, my god, your father’s dead . . . but I thought you never found out what happened to him? she said, trying to follow what Klara had just told her. How did you find out? Are you okay? You don’t sound okay . . . I’m so sorry.

"My mother told me in a letter, and now she wants me to call her. Can I come over to your house? Please?"

Sheila immediately replied, Yes, and a half hour later at dusk, Klara arrived at her friend’s picket-fenced home. Once inside, she followed Sheila around several piles of student papers and waved from the other room to Jack as he served their four- and six-year-old kids dinner, mouthing, Thank you to him. The women made their way into the over-furnished study for privacy, Sheila first grabbing a bottle of pinot grigio from the fridge. Klara told her more about the letters—her mother’s letter, and the one from the Polish government—as Sheila poured two glasses of wine.

Here, see for yourself, Klara said, passing them to her friend.

Sheila scanned the letters, looking up at her. What are you going to do?

I have to go, Klara insisted. I have to go, not because she wants me to, which she does, but because I have to try to find any family my father may still have. Maybe his sister’s still alive and living there. From her letter, my mother seems to believe she might still be, or might have children who are, Klara said, her words bursting out of her mouth, like fireworks. "Also, I need to visit my father’s grave. I want to pay my final respects and have closure. I have to go."

Sheila’s husband knocked on the door, popping his head in. Should I start their baths? he asked. Seeing the two women were in deep conversation, he knew the answer was yes before Sheila had a chance to respond. He nodded his head and smiled, closing the door behind him, before Sheila could finish saying, I’ll pay you back.

You know, Sheila said, crossing her legs and leaning forward, if you’re really serious about going, the timing couldn’t be better. The semester’s ending in two weeks, and from what you’ve told me, you don’t have any big summer plans that can’t wait.

You don’t think I’m crazy for wanting to jump on a plane? Just tell me I’m not crazy, Klara said, sighing and shaking her head.

"You’re not crazy, Sheila replied. You should go. You have one more week of classes, and then you just have to finish marking your papers and grading your exams. You can do this. I’ll drive you to Portland to catch the airline transport van to Boston. She grabbed Klara by the shoulders. I’m really happy for you. As hard as this is, you’re finally getting answers." Klara smiled, exhaling deeply.

Two weeks passed at tornado speed. The last thing Klara took from her dresser drawer was a small, white cardboard box previously hidden under some winter sweaters. Inside the box sat a gold oval locket with an engraved floral design, tucked underneath a cotton pad. The last time she’d laid eyes on the locket was when she first arrived at Holbrook College and was unpacking. She held it up to the sunlight while gingerly opening it. Two old, miniature black-and-white photos stared back at her, one of her father’s parents, the other of her father and his sister as young teenagers. Klara could feel them beckoning to her from the dim past.

Sheila kept her word, kindly driving Klara the two hours from Bangor to Portland in her family’s Ford SUV two weeks later. It was cluttered with reusable grocery bags, children’s school projects, and half-eaten granola bars, but Klara took in none of it, given her laser focus on her upcoming trip ahead.

Keep me posted, Sheila said. I want to hear all about it, and not just when you get back. Email me as soon as you get there. Good luck! she added as she reached out to hug her friend goodbye. Klara smiled and hugged her back.

Thank you for everything, Klara said before waving farewell.

And then she was in the Logan Airport–bound van with six other passengers for the next two-plus hours. Using her faded jean jacket as a makeshift pillow, Klara fell into a half-sleep state, in and out of consciousness, recollecting how she had ended up at Holbrook seven years earlier. A few years before arriving there, she had been working at Harvard University, where she first began as a college student, then moved on to graduate school for seven long years. She’d finally landed her dream job as an anthropology professor with a specialty in archaeology. However, after happily living in Cambridge’s busy college town for twenty-five years, something within her was starting to give out. She was forty-two years old, juggling a full schedule of classes and research, and barely able to get out of bed in the morning. Her engine was running on fumes. Although she had two close grad school friends, Barbara and Diane, who were now her colleagues, they had their own relationships and families. Klara still had no significant other to speak of, so her ties to the area didn’t feel very deep-rooted.

Then, one particularly gray morning, her mother called with sad news. She got right down to business, announcing that Klara’s grandfather had died and ordering Klara to return home immediately. We’re burying him tomorrow, she declared.

Of course, Klara knew she’d need to go right away, as Jewish tradition required the dead to be buried as soon as possible. And then her mother added, And don’t forget to bring a black dress, as though she were a child. Klara drove five hours in her vintage VW Beetle to Queens, New York, for the funeral the next day, sitting shiva with her mother for the remainder of the week. Seeing her mother, shut down and emotionally detached as usual, in that dark, staid, pre-war apartment she’d grown up in, drained every last bit of energy Klara had left. Klara’s mother and grandfather, Sigmund—or Siggy, as he was better known—had shared a claustrophobic, symbiotic relationship that her mother expected Klara to duplicate with her.

Luckily, a colleague had just mentioned an anthropology PhD position at a small northeastern liberal arts college in Southern Maine. The school was over seven hours from Queens, another two and a half hours farther from where her mother lived. Between Klara’s mental exhaustion and her need to slow down the pace of her life, she jumped at the opportunity—a chance to have more time to herself, with the added benefit of putting more distance between her and her mother. Holbrook College was interested in her archaeology background, and she was not deterred by the fact that the department was small, offering only a minor in anthropology, with a smattering of archaeology classes. And she wouldn’t have to regularly publish!

How could you go from an urban, high-caliber research university to a small liberal arts college three hours away, even a strong one? her good friend and colleague Barbara asked. You’ve always been so ambitious in the past.

It’s going to be so lonely for you, their other friend and coworker Diane chimed in. We’re going to miss you. You’d better keep in touch. I know you, Klara; you have to promise to come down to Boston for the weekend once a month or so.

I’m going to call and check on you. I’ll come up there myself to get you if I need to, Barbara said in her typical maternal manner.

It was true. Klara had always been so ambitious—first spending hours studying the archaeology and history of Mesoamerica, then participating in Central American digs, even leading some expeditions, and of course, there was the constant pressure to publish her research. She was ready to slow down and have less pressure, having already done the publishing thing. And yes, although she had a great academic position, she had barely anything else to show for herself and was far too tired and worn out for someone in her early forties.

When she first arrived at Holbrook, she did make regular monthly trips to Boston for long weekends to see her friends, but then they became less frequent. These days, her friends had gotten busy with kids and other family members. Although Barbara and Diane would periodically call and email, Klara wasn’t very good about being in touch. She was lucky enough to have met her Holbrook colleague Sheila in her department. Sheila’s life was quite hectic between work and family, but the two had lunch a few days a week. They mostly talked shop, discussing their course syllabi and areas of expertise. Sheila occasionally invited her over for family dinners.

Come on, Klara, you can’t spend another Friday and Saturday night by yourself, Sheila would say.

How do you know I’m spending it by myself? Klara would tease.

Really? Sheila would reply. Really?

Klara wouldn’t say anything at first. Usually she was by herself, but she did have some company here and there, although it was more often than not quite short-lived. Despite knowing Sheila would love to hear any juicy details, she kept those to herself.

No, Klara would typically say, it’s just me. And sometimes she’d take Sheila up on the invitation and enjoy a lovely, albeit noisy, family dinner with her good friend and her friend’s family. Other weekends when she didn’t have something of her own going on, which was usually the case, she’d self-isolate for the weekend with her archaeological and historical Mayan texts.

As Klara pondered her mother’s letter, she thought about how this wasn’t the first time in recent history her mother had contacted her with consequential news that had resulted in Klara heading off to another country. This had happened just a year earlier when her mother announced she was getting remarried to a relative of an old family friend, at which time Klara responded by barreling off to co-lead a dig with a former colleague/boyfriend in the Yucatán Peninsula. So, truth be told, she wasn’t completely unprepared for more shocking news. But learning that her father was dead and buried in Warsaw, Poland, was beyond anything she could have anticipated.

When Klara finally opened her heavy eyelids, the airport van was somewhere along I-93 south. Knowing it wouldn’t be too much longer before they arrived at Logan, she was trying to reorient herself. She was now paying the price of exhaustion from sleep deprivation, as she had packed too much into too little time. Klara felt jolted when she suddenly remembered where she was going and why, and a wave of anger flashed over her as her fists tightened. She was ready to finally get some honest answers.

CHAPTER 2

Klara’s early life was a blur. She was sure she would have remembered it better had her mother and grandfather allowed her to ask questions about her missing father and regaled her with stories about him when she was little. Instead, there seemed to be an unspoken rule forbidding such discussion. Why are you always asking about when you were little and before your father left? her mother would whine. You’re a big girl now, and you, me, and Grandpa are a family. Even at the still-tender age of eight, Klara knew it was a non-answer, but after many such pressing questions eliciting limited and dead-end responses, she finally learned to no longer ask.

As Klara stopped questioning where her father was and why they never heard from him, she also began to forget the wonderful times the two had spent together, such as how her father played with her every day after he first came home from work, taking her to the playground at the park down the street. After he walked in the door, he’d greet her and her mother, taking off his hat, tie, and work jacket. When he rolled up his shirtsleeves, she knew it was time for them to go out. They’d walk together to the corner park, hand in hand, met by green grass, trees, birds, bees, and butterflies, each talking about their day. She’d run around while he sat on the grass, supported by a big old oak tree. When she was ready to go on the swing, he pushed her as she yelled, Higher, higher! As she got a little older, around five or so, she learned to raise her legs at the top of each swing, increasing her overall height, and then folding them under her thighs. She loved how it felt to pump her legs as she tried to reach the sun with the tips of her toes, pointing them up to the sky. Her father would cheer her on, yelling, That’s my girl! while they giggled together.

After her father had gone, she’d ask her mother to take her to the playground. At first, she did when Klara pushed hard enough, but there was never any joy in it. Instead, her mother seemed to do it out of obligation.

Please, I haven’t been to the park in over a week, she’d beg.

With pursed lips, after finishing a host of chores, her mother would finally acquiesce, but her face always looked bitter, as if she had just bitten into a lemon. After another year or two passed, once Klara was no longer little, her mother would reply, You’re too grown-up for that now, Klara. Anyway, I need your help in the kitchen. Then she returned to chopping the vegetables or cleaning the kitchen counters.

What about Grandpa? Can he take me? she’d ask.

Your grandfather has much more important things to do than to take you to the park, Klara, her mother would reply.

Klara knew her mother was responsible for keeping the house clean and the family fed, but wasn’t Klara important too? Important enough for either her mother or grandfather to spend time with? Instead, she turned to her books, art supplies, and Steiff stuffed animals imported from Germany. She’d gotten one as a birthday present and one as a Hanukkah present every year until she was ten. Although her mother and grandfather were German Jewish, and Hitler had tried to exterminate all the Jews only twenty years earlier, they still felt great German pride. Klara’s few gifts consisted of a Steiff stuffed animal, usually a small teddy bear or dog, or occasionally an untouchable Madame Alexander doll to view as it collected dust on her shelf, but not to play with. Klara preferred her Steiffs to the dolls.

Although she had some school friends, her mother insisted she come home every day immediately after school, so there were no playdates, and weekends were for family time.

By age ten, Klara was a small adult. Her fourth-grade teacher commented to her more than once, Klara, you look so serious. There must be a smile in there somewhere.

Klara hated having attention called to her—being noticed was the worst. She and her best friend, Charlotte, played hopscotch together at recess every day, but by the time middle school rolled around, Charlotte had moved away, and the other girls regularly had sleepovers with one another on the weekends.

Sleepovers? her mother would repeat, when she’d bring up the subject. No, that’s not something I approve of. You can’t sleep over at someone else’s house, and they can’t sleep here. I don’t know who these girls or their families are. I’m not going to let you have a sleepover with them.

Klara would try to explain, Well if you let me invite them over after school, then you could get to know them, but that fell on deaf ears. It was strange because her mother was second-generation American—born and raised here. One would think she’d be more acculturated and understand things like sleepovers, but she was standoffish and possessive of her daughter.

Their one regular visitor was Jacob Herschler, Klara’s grandfather’s boss and longtime good friend, whom Klara rather disliked. He came over for dinner most Sunday evenings, and as she got bigger and older, he’d ask to stay over.

I’m just so tired, he’d announce while stretching his arms. I’m not sure I can make it back to Manhattan tonight. Klara’s mother practically tripped over herself making up the extra bed in the guest room for him. Anything for you, Jacob. She’d smile so hard it seemed her face might crack.

Saturdays were reserved for mother and daughter to visit the Metropolitan Art Museum, where her mother focused on the European painters and sculptors from Classical to Renaissance to Neoclassical to Impressionist—her mother’s interest stopped there. While Klara appreciated the artwork, she was more drawn to archaeological finds from earlier cultures, loving when she got to walk through the Egyptian, Greek, and Roman exhibits. Later, as an older teenager, when she took the bus there by herself, she’d spend hours exploring Ancient Near Eastern art, along with the art of Africa, the Americas, and Oceania.

She was so interested in drawing and knowledgeable about art history that her eighth-grade art teacher encouraged her to apply to Music and Art High School, offering to help her put together her portfolio. She recalled telling her mother, Mr. Rand thinks I should apply to Music and Art. He thinks I have enough talent to get in.

Her mother had replied, Art is a hobby, Klara. It’s important to be well-versed in, but it’s not something that will prepare you for a real career, like math, science, or English. And that was the end of that.

Although it was no longer the fashion to skip a grade or two if you excelled in school, Klara knew she needed to separate her life from her mother and grandfather as soon as possible. From the time she started high school, she planned to finish in three years, and she did. While her mother only wanted—no, only allowed—her to apply to New York City–based schools, Klara knew she needed to go elsewhere if she were ever to be free and independent.

Why look elsewhere when there are so many good colleges and universities right here in the city? her mother asked.

In private conversations with her guidance counselor, Mrs. Carter, Klara expressed her desire to go to another city, maybe Boston. Mrs. Carter encouraged Klara to look at