Free After the Train by Gloria Whelan Page B

Moses, who led the Jewish people out of Egypt to the promised land. I can’t take in Mother’s story, but one thing I understand. I say, “I’m Jewish.”
    “Peter,” Mother said, “you are our son. That is the important thing.”
    “Father?” I look straight at him.
    “Since your mother was surely Jewish, then you are Jewish, but the faith that you choose to follow will be up to you.”
    “What do you mean, Bernhard?” Mother asks. “Peter has been confirmed at St. Mary’s. Surely he is a Christian.”
    There is only one question I want answered. “Where is my mother?”
    Father shakes his head. “We have looked everywhere for her, Peter. Those trains went on to Dachau. We believe she was killed.”
    “But where did you get the picture?”
    Mother says, “The picture was tucked into your jacket. We showed the picture to as many survivors as we could reach. No one could identify her.”
    “How do I know you really tried to find her? You say you always wanted a baby. What if you were afraid she would take me away from you?”
    Mother begins to cry again. “Peter, how could you think such a thing? Do you believe we are so cold-hearted? It would kill me to give you up, but I would rather die than keep you from your mother.”
    Father says, “Peter, locked in my desk is a folder full of letters we sent. I will show them to you. Believe me, we tried. Did we hope she was alive? Of course. In our hearts she had become like a daughter to us. Did we want to keep you? Yes. But did we know you belonged with her? Yes, again. We only hoped that if we found her, she would allow us some part in your life.”
    Mother says, “All this is a shock for you, Peter. You must understand we did all we could. We have to put this behind us and get on with our lives.” She stands up and, straightening out her apron, tries a smile, which doesn’t work. She gives me a hug that nearly smothers me, and as she always does, she brushes back the hair that falls over my forehead. “Come—dinner is almost ready,” she says. “I have made your favorite—spareribs and sauerkraut.”
    “If I’m Jewish, maybe I shouldn’t eat pork.”
    Mother throws up her hands. “Peter, what are you saying? You are our son. That is all you need to know.” She throws her arms around me, but I squeeze out of them.
    It’s too much for me. I run out of the house, slammingthe door behind me. I feel pulled apart, as if someone has one arm and someone else the other and they are both tugging at me. After the shock of hearing who I am—or really, who I am not—it dawns on me that only a miracle has kept me alive. If my mother hadn’t given me up and my other mother hadn’t taken me, I would have been killed like millions of other Jews. What Herr Schmidt taught in his class not only happened, but it happened to me! When I sat in his class bored and wishing I were somewhere else, somewhere I wouldn’t have to listen to such terrible stories, how could I know I was listening to my own story?
    All the while I walk, I ask myself questions. What does it mean that I was saved and millions of other Jews died? Was it just chance that the soldiers had their attention turned for a minute so that my birth mother could hold me out and my mother stretch out her arms for me? I can’t get over the idea that maybe it is more than chance. Doesn’t the Bible say a sparrow can’t fall to the ground without God knowing it? So why did he save me and why did so many die? I have never thought about it like that. I had never asked questions; but now it is about me, and I have a lot of questions.

TEN
    I THINK ABOUT THE BOY who wrote the letter to the Stauffenbergs. For a moment I wonder about how much of a hero Stauffenberg really was. When my own mother and the rest of the Jews were being rounded up, Stauffenberg was fighting to help Hitler win. Probably he wanted Germany to win. But he was German, so why wouldn’t he? I don’t feel the same about him now.
    For the