He lived in a nursing home in Strasbourg, plagued by illness and guilt. When I entered his room, I saw an emaciated old man with dark circles under his eyes and trembling hands. He stared at me for a long time before speaking. “Are you Maéise, the one on the rock?” “Yes.” “Sit down.” I sat down. My heart was pounding so hard I was afraid she could hear it.
“I remember the Adler family,” she said slowly. “They were privileged and close to the regime. During the war, they took in several children, children from special aid programs.” I clenched my fists to steady my tremors. Where are they now? After the war, they left for Austria, probably Salzburg, but I don’t know for sure.
CONTINUED ON NEXT PAGEHe gave me the name of a street, a neighborhood. It was more than I’d learned in 29 years. I thanked him. He looked away, unable to meet my gaze. The next month, I left for Salzburg. I was 18. My hair was almost completely gray. My hands trembled constantly from arthritis. My knees ached with every step. But I went.
The train ride took hours. I watched the landscapes pass by: mountains, forests, villages. I thought about all those lost years, all the time my son had spent growing up without me, somewhere, perhaps hundreds of kilometers away. Did he look like me? Did he inherit my eyes, my lips? Did he know he was adopted? Had someone told him about me? I found an eagle in the Salzburg phone book.
Hans Adler. I jotted down the address in my old notebook, where I’d written hundreds of names over the years. Then I headed home as if I were about to fall into a ravine, knowing full well I would. It was a well-kept, middle-class house with a flower garden. Roses clung to the facade. A child’s swing hung on a thick chain.
Everything seemed normal. A quiet life, a quiet happiness. I rang the bell. The next few seconds seemed endless. Then the door opened. A man in his thirties stood there. Brown hair, dark eyes, deep wrinkles. My heart skipped a beat. It was him. I knew it. My whole being knew it. I recognized something in his face.
A resemblance to my mother, to Séverine, and maybe even to myself. “Yes,” he said in German with a hint of impatience. The words caught in my throat. I stared at him, unable to tear my eyes away. I searched for traces of myself, my sisters, my lost family. “Are you all right?” he asked [music], and his voice changed, betraying concern.
“I… I’m looking for someone,” I finally managed to say in broken German to the man born in June 1943 and adopted by the Adler family. His expression immediately changed. He paled. Darkness fell in his eyes. He took a step back. Why? I took a deep breath. I summoned all my courage, for I was his mother.
The silence that fell was unbearable. He looked at me as if I were a ghost from his past, haunting him. He gripped the doorframe tighter. His breathing was ragged. Then, slowly and wordlessly, he stepped back and closed the door. I stood frozen on the threshold, my legs trembling, my heart breaking.
I heard voices from inside. A woman asked what was happening, and he replied something I didn’t understand. I waited perhaps ten minutes, maybe an hour. Time lost all meaning, but the door didn’t open. Finally, I dropped the letter in the mailbox. A letter that explained everything: who I was, [music], what had happened, why I’d come.
I gave him the address of my hotel. Then I went home and cried for three days. He didn’t want me. He wanted nothing to do with me. For almost thirty years I’d traveled, crossed borders, saved every penny, followed every lead, and now, when I finally found him, he rejected me. But I couldn’t give up. Not now, not after all this.
I returned the next day. I rang the doorbell, but no one answered. I returned the next day. The same result. I left more letters, photos from my youth, a photo of Séverine and Aurore, documents from the camp—everything I’d collected over the years. On the fifth try, he opened the door. [Music] He looked exhausted, with deep shadows under his eyes.
His face was impassive. “What do you want from me?” he asked. His voice was broken, almost pleading. “Nothing,” I replied quietly. “I don’t want anything from you.” I just wanted to tell you that I wanted you, that I never left you, that we were separated, that I haven’t stopped thinking about you for a single day in my life.
