My Grandfather Would Have Shot Me: A Black Woman Discovers Her Family's Nazi Past (12 page)

The first family Jennifer was introduced to already had a little girl and were considering a foster child of the same age. But when they saw Jennifer towering inches over the other three-year-olds, they decided against her: Jennifer was too tall for them.

At about the same time, a professional couple from Waltrudering, near Munich, applied to foster a child: Inge and Gerhard Sieber. Inge is from Vienna and has a PhD in education; Gerhard, an economist, is from Bochum. They had had two sons in quick succession who were now three and four years old. They had been difficult births; both boys were born early.

Since they had always wanted three children, Gerhard Sieber suggested to his wife that they take in a foster child. This was nothing out of the ordinary for him; his sisters and his mother, who eventually became Oma Bochum to Jennifer, had given many foster children a temporary home. Gerhard Sieber considered helping children in need a lovely family tradition.

Inge Sieber speaks with a trace of a Viennese accent as she recalls her feelings at the time: “I was less sure than my husband. I was afraid that we might find ourselves with an emotionally damaged child and that I might not be able to cope.”

In 1973, despite her concerns and with her two young sons in tow, Inge Sieber went to her local fostering authority and applied to foster a child. At the time, adoption was not on the table; all they wanted was to help a child for as long as it took. Inge Sieber explains: “To our minds, adoption was something for people who couldn’t have children themselves. We already had two sons and didn’t want to deprive a childless couple of the opportunity to adopt a child of their own.

“At the appointment, my two little boys were being so wild that I was convinced the agency would never allow us to foster a child. I was sure they were thinking, ‘This mother can’t even control her own children.’”

Yet the agency considered the Siebers suitable. A social worker visited the family in their home, and Inge Sieber had to undergo a health check. In those days, it was predominantly the future mothers who were checked, as it was assumed that the child would only be cared for by the woman. The Siebers’ case was no different: Inge Sieber was a housewife and looked after her children; in her spare time, she volunteered in the neighborhood, supported the elderly in her community, and gave private tutoring in Latin.

Three months later, the Siebers received a phone call: “There is a mixed-race girl in a children’s home in Putzbrunn who is in desperate need of a foster home.”

Today it would be unthinkable, but the Siebers were put in touch with Salberg House without counseling or support of any kind. At the time, the fostering and adoption process was often railroaded through. Commenting on the practices of the early seventies, the chronicles of Salberg House state: “Prospective adoptive and foster parents would often show up at the door unannounced, proffering a letter from CPS that authorized them to inspect a certain child and to take the child home there and then. It took time and effort for the realization to take hold that it was in everybody’s best interest for them to first spend some time getting to know each other.”

Inge and Gerhard Sieber talked about the idea of fostering a child with their young sons. Matthias, the older of the two, remembers that his parents told them: “There is this little girl, and we’re going to have a look at her.”

When the Sieber family went to visit Jennifer for the first time, the boys had a picture book for her and a blue teddy bear. Inge Sieber recounts: “We saw a happy little girl with wild, spiky hair—the hair close to her head was growing in natural curls, but her mother had straightened the rest of her hair, so it stood up on end in spikes. Jenny was effectively presented to us—like some merchandise.”

Another girl from the children’s home immediately climbed onto Inge Sieber’s lap, looked at her, and declared: “Mama, you are nice.” Inge Sieber remembers how sad it made her that, to this little girl, a “mama” was any female visitor.

The Siebers took Jennifer for a walk and visited her a few more times after that. Eventually, Jennifer went for a “trial day” at the Siebers’ home in Waldtrudering. For lunch, Inge Sieber served chicken. She says: “It appeared that Jenny was used to softer children’s fare. She was surprised at the bones, picked at her food, and chewed the same mouthful over and over. I asked her, ‘Don’t you like it?’ and Jenny replied: ‘No, I don’t eat cat!’”

For her afternoon nap, she slept in Matthias’ bed; he temporarily moved to the guest bed to make space for her. Jennifer was a friendly and straightforward little girl, and she seemed to feel comfortable with the Siebers. At the end of the day, before they took Jennifer back to Salberg House, they asked the three-year-old, “Do you want to come live with us?” Jennifer said yes.

Inge Sieber went shopping with her sons to prepare for Jennifer’s arrival. She bought a milk mug and asked Matthias and Manuel who it might be for. “For the little girl who is going to be our new sister soon,” the boys replied.

On October 22, 1973, Inge Sieber collected Jennifer from Salberg House for the last time—to take her home. She was given Jennifer’s health record with details of her vaccinations and which childhood diseases she’d had. Sister Magdalena gave her a collection of photographs. But one thing Jennifer did not have after three years in a children’s home was a favorite stuffed animal or security blanket of her own.

Inge Sieber remembers: “The first thing I did was to take Jenny for a little walk. We went to the butcher’s, and when he handed her a slice of pepperoni she beamed at him.”

Frau Sieber was amazed at how “happy and mature” Jennifer was. She had been expecting a shy, traumatized, institutionalized child, but “Jenny was more confident and more independent than my own sons. She knew her way around everyday life. The social workers at Salberg House had prepared her well; they had taken the children grocery shopping in the village, for example.”

One thing was unusual, however: At first, Jennifer would not leave Inge Sieber’s side. She followed her foster mother wherever she went, even to the bathroom.

According to Inge Sieber, Jennifer was an inquisitive child, hungry for knowledge. When she saw Matthias and Manuel’s toys, she asked: “Whose are those?” Inge Sieber replied: “They belong to all three of you.”

Jennifer’s older brother Matthias says that he and his brother were excited about their new playmate and that they liked her instantly. They never felt any jealousy toward their new sister, he adds.

Gerhard Sieber built triple bunk beds for the children. Jennifer slept in the bottom bunk; Manuel, who was about the same age as her, slept in the middle, and Matthias, who was one year older, slept on top. A photo from those early days shows all three of them laughing in their bunks: the two small, blond Sieber boys in red-and-blue striped pajamas, and thin, tall Jennifer in a nightdress made from the same material.

Every year on October 22, the anniversary of Jennifer’s arrival in Waldtrudering, the family would give her a little present. “October twenty-second was something like Jennifer’s name day for us,” Inge Sieber explains.

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I LOVE THAT PHOTO
of the three of us in matching nightclothes, on the bunk beds.

After Inge and Gerhard had put us to bed, we would have our stuffed animals and dollies talk to each other for a while: Manuel’s teddy—Grizzly—would growl, Matthias’s teddy Rascal would interrupt, and Jimmy, my dark-skinned doll, would also chime in. When we were tired, we would call out “Good–night–ev–ry–bo–dy!” We would take turns calling out the syllables one by one, and nobody was allowed to talk after that.

In another photo, we are standing proudly beneath the cross that stands at the summit of a mountain in the Austrian Alps, dressed in
lederhosen
and climbing boots.

My brothers and I became a unit very quickly. I felt very close to them immediately, and I still do today.

Having stayed at home with Inge for the first few weeks after my arrival in Waldtrudering, I soon wanted to join my new brothers at their preschool. I joined the same group as Manuel. In the mornings, the three of us trotted off together, collecting our friends on the way. Even though we were quite young, we usually went on our own. On the way home we always had to prove our courage: We would dare each other to walk closely along a fence, from behind which a big dog—we called him Buddy—would bark at us. My brothers would often send me ahead—I was the bravest of the three.

Waldtrudering is a quiet, middle-class suburb of Munich—a purely residential area where most of the dwellings are one-family homes surrounded by large gardens. The streets are named after German colonies and birds: Togo Street, Cameroon Street, Grouse Way, Birdsong Close. There are hardly any stores or businesses. It caused a stir when a McDonald’s opened on the arterial highway that links Waldtrudering to downtown Munich.

For the first few years we lived in a first-floor apartment; then we moved to a single-family home. The rooms were small and full of nooks and crannies. The hallway and stairs were unheated; when you opened a door, ice-cold air would gush in.

In the new house, my brothers and I had a playroom for messy games, but mostly we would play outside in the fresh air. In the summer months, the garden would burst into flower, and a hammock would be strung between two trees. There was a soccer field not far from the house, and a hill. In the winter, we would meet up with other children from the neighborhood and go tobogganing down the hill, tumbling and shrieking with joy. In the evening we would collapse into our beds, hoarse and exhausted.

At the end of the road were fields and meadows, and beyond them lay the woods. We played hide-and-seek there, rode our bikes around, started a club, and built dens in the woods.

My adoptive parents took us children on mushroom-picking courses, where we were taught how to identify the various species of mushrooms found in the woods. For vacations we would go mountain-climbing in Austria or camping in Italy, usually with Inge’s parents: our Oma Vienna and her husband.

I saw my mother less and less. In the beginning, she would bring me back to her place every so often, or take me to my grandmother Irene’s. I only remember fragments of those meetings, but one occasion is still very fresh in my mind: My mother had collected me from my adoptive parents in Waldtrudering. We were in the car, driving toward Hasenbergl, the district in the north of Munich where my mother lived. We didn’t talk much, and I spent most of the journey looking out the window. Then the first apartment buildings came into sight, rows of gray, uniform structures interspersed with public lawns.

When we reached the edge of the neighborhood, my mother parked her car. We got out and walked to her apartment. She darted ahead; I followed, dragging my weekend bag behind me. My mother opened the door, and we were greeted by her barking dog.

Before I had even entered the hall, my mother tossed the dog’s leash to me and yelled: “Go take him for a walk!” Anxiously I set off. Outside, I hid from the children who were playing between the clotheslines. I hardly knew them, but they had teased me and called me “pickaninny” on previous occasions.

When I returned with her mutt, my mother dropped onto the sofa and lit a cigarette. She was still angry with me for taking the dog out only grudgingly. I sat down with her and asked: “Hey, Mama, what’s up?” “Nothing’s up,” my mother replied.

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Before they took Jennifer in, the Siebers had never spoken to Monika Goeth; they only knew about her from Jennifer’s CPS file.

After Jennifer came to live with the Siebers, Monika Goeth would call them every now and then and arrange dates to collect Jennifer for a visit, or a visit with her grandmother. The Siebers, in turn, would inform Monika Goeth when anything had happened, such as when Jennifer had her tonsils out. They would give her notice before long family holidays, too.

Now, Jennifer had two “mamas,” her foster mother, Inge Sieber, and her biological mother, Monika Goeth.

Inge and Gerhard Sieber had thought about what their foster daughter should call them. Their sons called them “Mama” and “Papa,” and soon Jennifer did the same. Inge Sieber would refer to Monika Goeth as “the other mama,” as in, “the other mama has got to go to work, that’s why you’re with us now.”

Ruth Irene Goeth visited her granddaughter’s foster family once, and the Siebers got on well with her. Monika Goeth, however, would come only to the front door when she picked Jennifer up. Inge Sieber never asked her inside. She found Monika Goeth to be reserved, and wasn’t able to warm to her.

Today, Inge Sieber cannot understand why she never talked to Monika Goeth about her daughter, especially because Jennifer was often restless and troubled after spending a weekend with her mother. “She never told us much about it,” Inge Sieber says, “she only ever mentioned her grandmother or her mother’s dog.”

She recalls that once Monika Goeth did not even come in person to return her four-year-old daughter to her foster family; instead she sent the little girl back in a taxicab on her own.

When Jennifer was six years old, Monika Goeth was expecting a child with her then-husband Hagen. She consented to give Jennifer up for adoption—but not by any family, only by the Siebers.

Since Inge Sieber was not a German national—she is Austrian—the adoption process dragged on for nearly a year. Inge Sieber had to provide a number of references; friends and acquaintances testified that they thought she would do a good job.

For Jennifer and other children of her age, adoption was a complicated and abstract concept. One of Jennifer’s little friends told her: “My mommy says that you’re bedopted now, no, I mean redopted.” And once, when Inge Sieber explained to Jennifer that it would have been physically impossible for her to give birth to Jennifer, because Manuel was only six months older, Jennifer reacted with a child’s logic: “Then it’s lucky that I was adopted, otherwise I wouldn’t even have been born!”

Over the following three years, Monika Goeth kept sending letters and presents to her daughter, but Jennifer’s adoptive parents only passed some of them on to her. When Monika Goeth heard nothing back from her daughter, she wrote a letter to the Siebers, asking if it was OK for her to get in touch every now and then, to keep sending letters and presents.