{"id":3798,"date":"2019-07-01T20:45:20","date_gmt":"2019-07-01T20:45:20","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/floridareview.cah.ucf.edu\/?post_type=article&p=3798"},"modified":"2019-07-01T20:45:20","modified_gmt":"2019-07-01T20:45:20","slug":"empty-suitcases","status":"publish","type":"article","link":"https:\/\/cah.ucf.edu\/floridareview\/article\/empty-suitcases\/","title":{"rendered":"Empty Suitcases"},"content":{"rendered":"

Inside Oma\u2019s farmhouse it was as if panicked thieves had found everyday objects instead of treasure: closets, cupboards, the antique sideboard emptied into piles and strewn across the floors. \u201cKinkerlitzchen just gets broken, or stolen to fill up suitcases,\u201d my grandmother always said about knick-knacks. But when questioned about the suitcases<\/em>, Oma had refused to elaborate. \u201cEnkelin, be glad that we are here and together,\u201d she\u2019d say to me, using her native tongue for granddaughter<\/em>.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cOma, what\u2019s going on?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She shook her head and urged me to the attic ladder, which she had managed to pull down, probably by standing on the stepladder she had used to clear off the top pantry shelves.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cYou will look for my mutter\u2019s trunk?\u201d Oma said.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I\u2019d never been in Oma\u2019s attic. The dark entrance conjured up images of spiders, bats, and rotten floorboards with rusty nails. \u201cWhat do you need so badly? Did you ask my dad if he could get it?\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cYour father is a good boy, but tender. You are different, like me but much smarter. We can take in these things and they do not destroy us.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cDestroy us?\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cPlease, M\u00e4uschen, Oma will not always be here, and it sits like a big stone on my chest.\u201d She crossed her hands over her heart.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I took a deep breath, climbed the ladder, flipped the light switch. In the attic: boxes, insulation, cobwebs, and a black steamer trunk. A plank served as a bridge to the trunk. When I lifted a yellowed wedding dress out of the trunk, tiny moths erupted in a flutter. A tin box contained old photographs, letters, and documents, written in German. I recognized Oma\u2019s face in the sepia photo of a curly-blonde girl with her parents and a small boy. Did Oma have a brother?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I carried the box to the entrance and yelled down to see if this was it<\/em>. Oma was sitting on the stepladder, talking to herself. \u201cOma!\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cChristina! You frightened me!\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cI found the box. With photos and papers. I\u2019m coming down.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cNo, not the box. I mean, you keep the box. What else?\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cAn old wedding dress.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cWe must find it. Go look harder,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cIt would help if you told me what to look for.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cJa. That\u2019s right.\u201d Oma scrunched her face in scorn, spit out the words. \u201cA fancy porcelain mantel clock.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u2014<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Oma hustled the clock into the kitchen like she held a blanket infected with smallpox.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I washed off my face in the sink, while my grandmother stared at the clock. I picked it up, checked for a maker\u2019s mark. \u201cA Limoges. It\u2019s exquisite.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Oma started crying, her shoulders rolling like turbulent ocean waves. \u201cYou know how my parents, a simple tailor and his wife, came by this clock?\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cNo?\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cSit, I will tell you.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cThe foolish Nazis thought things could be made right for the German people by compensating them for the losses they incurred during the war. One day, my papa and mutter went to an immense warehouse filled with furniture, dishes, candlesticks, rugs, Kinkerlitzchen. Papa wanted nothing\u2014 it would not bring little Frederick back\u2014but Mutter wanted compensation. They\u2019d lost everything<\/em>\u2014reduced to rubble. Why should they not take what the Jews left behind, Mutter said. The soldiers glared at Papa. He said, \u2018Go then, Hedy, take what will make this better for you.\u2019 The clock appeared on our mantel, without discussion, as if by elves. But, your Oma knew it was tainted. When my mutter passed, I packed it away.\u201d Oma placed her hands upon mine. \u201cThe Jews did not willingly leave those things behind, Christina.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cI know.\u201d Oma had always claimed that her family left Germany before the war. Now I was afraid to hear that we were Nazis. Something else troubled me. \u201cDid you<\/em> go to the warehouse?\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She shook her head without conviction and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cBut if your parents never talked about it, how do you know all those details?\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cIs this an interrogation?\u201d Oma abruptly rose. \u201cWhat is it you want from me?\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She rushed to the sink then slammed dirty dishes around, muttering in German. Finally, she inhaled, and her shoulders fell.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cYou were<\/em> there,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She nodded but stared out the window. \u201cMutter stayed in bed, always crying. We could not refuse them.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cThe Nazis?\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cThe soldiers were laughing, carrying on, undressing me with their eyes. Papa stood there, useless. He had slinked through the war while our neighbors disappeared. \u2018Go on,\u2019 he said to me. Past the bedroom sets, the pots and pans, the necklaces, the toys. I thought of little Frederick playing with his train and I became so \u2026 angry.\u201d She faced me. \u201cThen I saw it.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cThe clock?\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cJa. So beautiful. Pink roses. Gold trim. A couple on a picnic, in love. I took a suitcase, from a pile that reached the ceiling, and put the clock inside.\u201d Oma sighed. \u201cI am a bad person.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Yes. No, I thought. We weren\u2019t who I\u2019d thought we were.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She shuffled over, stroked my hair. \u201cThis is my big stone.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

It felt like my stone now, too. \u201cWe should sell it.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cThe clock does not belong to us.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The clock was probably worth one year\u2019s tuition.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Oma said, \u201cWe will return it to the family. This is your job, M\u00e4uschen.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The clock sat there, glinting in the warm light cast by the setting sun outside Oma\u2019s kitchen window. Oma\u2019s breaths were labored in a way I had not noticed before. A squirrel chattered upon the feeder my grandfather had built beneath an ancient maple tree. I wanted thunder and lightning to tear through the sky, a torrential rainfall to pound upon the steel roof, a tornado to whirl in the near-distance. Instead, a gentle wind simply rustled through the leaves of that tree as if the suitcases had never been emptied.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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