Page 8 of All We Thought We Knew
A guard standing near Gunther shouted back. “Ellis Island. If any of you try to escape, you’ll drown in the bay.”
The vessel lurched forward and pulled away from the dock. Any shred of hope Gunther had held on to since his arrest melted away as he looked across the dark water to the small patch of land where he’d taken his first steps onto American soil. Ellis Island was the very place where his dreams of becoming a doctor and living life in peace, far away from the Nazi regime, had taken root. Assoon as he’d saved up enough money, he’d planned to bring his mother here, too. Now he was a prisoner of the country he’d called home for over three years. An enemy to the people he’d hoped to provide medical care for someday.
Lady Liberty, with her arm raised in victory, stood in the distance as they crossed the bay. She was a symbol of freedom to every immigrant who arrived in New York from faraway lands, and Gunther remembered seeing her for the first time when he arrived from Germany. Her beauty and everything she represented brought tears of gratitude to his eyes that day. He often visited Battery Park and sat on a bench looking out to her, a reminder that one day soon he would be one of her sons.
But the Lady no longer welcomed Gunther and the men aboard this ship. She’d turned her back and declared them adversaries in an evil war Gunther wanted no part of. A war he’d tried to escape by coming to the land of the free.
The ship pulled up alongside the dock, and a gangplank was lowered. The stately brick buildings on the island loomed above them, appearing more like a prison than a place where he’d heard the Declaration of Independence read in multiple languages when he last stood there.
Something died inside Gunther when he stepped off the boat.
Whether it was his hopes and dreams of a happy life in America, or something that reached far deeper inside him, he knew, beyond any doubt, whatever it was could never be brought back to life again.
THREE:MATTIE
DELANEY HORSE FARM
NOVEMBER 1969
I woke with a start.
Was that Mama’s voice I heard?
It took a moment to remember I’d slept in my old bedroom in Tullahoma and wasn’t experiencing a drug-induced dream in some dingy California hovel. While that knowledge brought a wave of relief, it quickly faded when the reason I was here crashed over me.
Mama was dying.
With great effort, I pushed myself into a sitting position, feeling as exhausted this morning as when I fell into bed. I’d stayed on the floor in Mark’s room for hours before dragging myself upstairs. A new day beckoned beyond the window curtains. Somewhere on the farm, a rooster crowed. The world continued to spin, and life went on, even if I wasn’t ready to face it.
Low conversation came from my parents’ room across the hallway, and I sat there, listening. Dad’s deep murmur, followed by Mama’s soft chuckle. The clinking of dishes. So many emotions rushed through my mind.
Grief. Regret. Anger.
Always anger.
I wrapped my arms around my bent knees and recalled Dad’s greeting—or lack thereof—from last night. He’d never been much of a conversationalist. Mama always joked that she did enough talking for the both of them. He preferred being with the horses rather than people. Yet despite my father’s tendency toward reclusiveness, he and Mama always got along. They weren’t one of those married couples who hugged and kissed in front of others, but I’d never worried about them divorcing like so many of the parents of my school friends. As I got older and started to dream about the boy I’d marry someday, I knew I wanted him to be as different from my dad as an apple is from a banana.
My thoughts turned to Mark.
He was the opposite of our father. As the saying goes, Mark never met a stranger. Everyone loved him, and he genuinely loved them back. I’d often wished I could be more like my brother, but I wasn’t. I was impatient, headstrong, and opinionated. Those traits served me well in debate class, but in real life... not so much. Especially when it came to communicating with our father.
The smell of fried bacon wafted into my room from the kitchen below. I could still hear my parents’ muted conversation, making me wonder who was downstairs cooking. Maybe Dad had hired help after Mama’s diagnosis.
I hauled myself from bed and shivered when my feet met the cold wood floor. Inching the door open, I found the hallway empty. Careful to avoid the squeaky floorboard, I crept to the bathroom and stared into the mirror. Dark circles. Dirty hair. The same wrinkled clothes I’d worn since leaving California.
What would Mama think when she laid eyes on me?
After I brushed my teeth, I tiptoed out and came face to face with Dad.
“Morning. Your mama’s anxious to see you.”
His expression gave nothing away.
Was Mama having a good day? Would she tell me how much I’d disappointed her? Was she recognizable or had cancer ravaged her the way life had ravaged my father the past year?
I took a deep breath and walked past him into the room.
Mama lay in bed, propped up by pillows, wearing a powder-blue flannel nightgown with lace around the collar and long sleeves. Where my father looked almost skeletal, Mama’s face and hands were unnaturally puffy. For some reason I thought most people with cancer lost their hair, but Mama’s simple coif looked as it always had, if slightly rumpled.
