My Grandfather Would Have Shot Me: A Black Woman Discovers Her Family's Nazi Past (13 page)

No, they replied—would she please refrain from contacting Jennifer? The girl was too torn between her natural and her adoptive family. It should wait until she was older.

They never heard from Monika Goeth again.

Inge Sieber recalls that it didn’t occur to her or her husband to stay in touch with Jennifer’s biological mother after the adoption. “We thought that a clean break would be in Jenny’s best interest. It was a no-brainer for us: on the day of the adoption, she became
our
daughter.”

Jennifer Teege and her adoptive brother Matthias on a hiking trip in the mountains

■ ■ ■

ON PAPER, I WAS A SIEBER
NOW.
In second grade I wrote a different name on my schoolbooks than I had in first grade. But my mother still belonged to me.

My adoptive parents thought it was best to act as if I really was their own child, as if I had always been theirs.

Yet our story together didn’t begin until I was three. I came to them as a Goeth, and they were the Siebers. After the adoption, it was as if my mother had never existed. Suddenly, all contact with her stopped. She no longer called or came to pick me up for the weekend. What had happened? Had she forgotten about me?

My adoptive parents didn’t say anything, or encourage me to talk about it. Quite the opposite: Inge and Gerhard seemed glad that I wasn’t asking questions.

All they wanted was a normal family.

I didn’t dare ask. Was I even allowed to? Wouldn’t that mean that I was questioning my new parents? I wanted to belong to the Siebers. When they asked me, at age six, if I wanted to be adopted by them, I said yes.

All I wanted was a normal family, too.

Almost all the photos of my childhood show me laughing: buried in the sand on a beach in Italy, skiing with my brothers, eating ice cream, at the Oktoberfest.

Nevertheless, the smiling photographs don’t tell the whole truth.

Early on, I knew: I was different. Different from Inge and Gerhard, my brothers, and the other children. A quick look in the mirror was enough.

Inge and Gerhard talked about me as “our daughter.” I know they meant well, but often it was too much. At those words, others would stare at me, mouths agape, obviously asking themselves, “How can that be?” I pretended not to notice their surprised faces.

My childhood photos, the ones I like so much, all show two fair children and a dark one.

In the street, children sometimes called me names such as “Negerbub”—“black boy”—mistaking me for a boy due to my height and short, curly hair. I would quickly retort, “I am a mixed-race girl!” At birthday parties I always hoped nobody would look at me when they were handing out the Mallomars, which were called “Negro’s Kisses” in Germany at the time.

At my preschool, I was the only child with dark skin, but in elementary school I met two girls who looked like me: sisters, their father black, their mother white. Just like me. I dreaded the thought that others might lump us together, so I kept my distance on the playground.

Later, in high school, there were two more dark-skinned, adopted children. Maybe I could have discussed my experience with them, but we only talked about everyday things. I had already internalized the silence.

My husband once suggested that we could take in a foster child. I don’t know if I’d be able to cope with that. If we did, I would choose a child with darker skin, one who would look more like my own children, and be more likely to feel that they “fit in.”

My adoptive parents were idealists. They did not worry about appearances; they just wanted to give a child a second chance. The first family I was introduced to rejected me because of my height; that would have been inconceivable for Inge and Gerhard.

I called Inge and Gerhard “Mama” and “Papa,” just like my brothers did. At the time, those words rolled easily off my tongue. Once I became a mother myself, I started calling them “Oma Inge” and “Opa Gerhard.” It felt more suitable. They loved being grandparents and were totally taken up by their new role.

After finding the book about my mother, I stopped calling them Mama and Papa. I felt it was important to distinguish between them and my biological parents.

As a young child, I could never say “adoptive parents” without feelings of shame; I never described myself as an “adoptive daughter.” The word “adoptive” sounded like a flaw. I was uncertain of exactly what it meant, but I knew it was something awkward. I could look at the adoption certificate whenever I wanted—it was kept with other important documents in the desk—but we never talked about it in the family.

The adoption became a taboo subject.

I didn’t even discuss my mother with my brothers, although we had a very close relationship: They were simply my brothers. With them, I could just be myself.

It was easier for them. Unlike my adoptive parents, they did not have to replace my natural parents, to compete with my mother.

Much is expected of foster and adoptive parents—to be and do everything that natural parents would, to become a strange child’s mother and father as soon as the child arrives. Yet it takes time to grow into that role. In the beginning sympathy may prevail, as they feel sorry for the vulnerable little creature that has suddenly come to live under their roof. But getting to know the child’s personality, and growing together as a family, takes time.

I did not take my adoptive parents’ affection for granted. I was afraid I might lose it again.

Inge and Gerhard have always asserted that they love the three of us all the same. But I don’t think that’s possible. It
is
possible to love every child, but in different ways.

■ ■ ■

The younger of Jennifer Teege’s adoptive brothers, Manuel, claims that he never saw Jennifer as his “adoptive sister.” “She is my sister. Jenny has been with us for as long as I can remember.” According to Matthias, her older brother, her adoption was in fact discussed, “but always in retrospect: That’s how it was in the children’s home, and then she came to live with us. The question of how Jenny might be feeling about it, or what her mother might be going through, was never addressed.”

The subject was avoided, says Matthias, because it would have put a question mark over the siblings’ equality. “That was our dogma: Everyone is treated equally. I only realized later that that wasn’t the case.” In reality, his parents had more trouble with Jennifer than with the boys. “They would argue a lot, partly because Jennifer was a girl. Our mother applied two different yardsticks; she was less tolerant with Jennifer. On the other hand, Jennifer could be undiplomatic. She would provoke our parents or rub them the wrong way.”

Inge Sieber noticed it in her own mother: True, Oma Vienna fully accepted Jennifer, but she was always a little more reserved toward her than toward her biological grandchildren, Matthias and Manuel.

Inge Sieber attributes her difficulties with Jennifer to the fact that her new daughter came with a very different personality: “I am more of an anxious type—Jenny is vivacious and confident. I wanted her to come home on time, she insisted on her freedom. We fought so many battles.”

■ ■ ■

ONCE, IN A CANDY STORE,
when I was nine or ten years old, I slipped two little marzipan piglets into my pocket. I was caught red-handed by the sales clerk, who told me off in front of all the customers. She made me put the sweets back; my adoptive parents never found out.

A few months later, I pocketed a bag of chocolates in a supermarket. I got through the checkout without being stopped and ran toward the exit—straight into the arms of a large man, the store security guard. He steered me into a side room and made me empty my pockets, whereupon the chocolates came to the surface. He called my parents first, and then the police. I could already see myself sitting in a cell in handcuffs. After a while, Inge arrived. Looking sad and embarrassed, she talked with the police officers and apologized to the guard. Inge and I drove home in silence. When Gerhard came home from the office, they summoned me to the living room and both gave me a severe dressing-down. I had to promise, hand over heart, that I would never shoplift again.

I went to bed worried sick that they would send me back to Salberg House. Like all abandoned children, I was traumatized by feelings of worthlessness. After all, my original parents hadn’t found me loveable enough to keep.

My adoptive parents tried their hardest to be perfect parents, but they could not dispel my fear of being abandoned again. I thought that I had to earn their love over and over. I was missing a basic sense of trust.

One night, I dreamed that my brothers and I were sharing a peach: one half for each of them, which left me with just the stone.

It highlighted my underlying feeling: Whatever my brothers had was beyond my reach.

My adoptive parents set high store by performance and achievement. They taught us the importance of diligence and good grades from an early age. When Matthias was in fourth grade, he took an intelligence test. His results were outstanding; Inge and Gerhard were very proud.

Manuel was in my class. He was also one of the best students and achieved top grades in every subject. My own grades were so-so, and for many years I doubted my intelligence.

I must have been ten or eleven when one day I went hunting through the closets in my parents’ bedroom. They weren’t home, and I was hoping to discover some hidden Christmas presents.

What I found was a card with a gold chain and pendant. The card was signed, “Lots of love from Monika and little Charlotte.” Little Charlotte—that must be my younger half-sister, I thought, the girl my mother was about to have when she gave me up for adoption.

I did not confront my adoptive parents. I was too embarrassed for having rummaged through their closets.

At least now I knew that my mother was still thinking of me.

At age twelve or thirteen, during an argument with my parents, I demanded to be put in touch with my mother. Furiously, I declared that I wanted to see her again. My adoptive parents explained that I should wait until I was sixteen. Then I would be legally entitled to know my mother’s address and to contact her if I so wished.

■ ■ ■

In the 1970s, it was common practice for adoptive parents to break all contact between their adopted child and the biological parents.

The realization that it is in the best interest of the child’s development to deal openly with their past took hold only gradually. But every child has a right to know their origins; it even says so in the 1990 UN Convention on the Rights of the Child.

Today, adoptive parents are advised to explain the reasons for the adoption to their child from an early age, and to keep an album with photos of the child’s natural parents, for example. It is also recommended that they find out as much as they can about the child’s history. They have to be proactive, since many children don’t dare to raise any questions themselves.

Nowadays, adoption clinics are more likely to discuss potential problems a child may encounter as a consequence of adoption. Studies have shown that adopted children are more likely than birth children to feel unloved, have self-doubt, crave recognition, and fear abandonment. They are often afraid to commit and are more likely to suffer from severe depression and to seek psychiatric treatment.

Often, they will test their adoptive parents sorely: Will they still love me even if I behave really badly? Puberty, in particular, is liable to turn into an endurance test for the adoptive child and parents.

■ ■ ■

GERHARD AND INGE NEVER HEARD ME
use the phrase that adopted children typically seem to shout at their parents: “You’re not my real parents anyway, you can’t tell me what to do!” It wouldn’t even have occurred to me, since I was grateful to them. They had taken me in, given me a new life and a future.

But by the time I reached puberty, I was no longer content with just gratitude.

My rebellion against Inge and Gerhard was always partly driven by the question about my mother, by the question of who I really was.

At my adoptive family’s dinner table, everybody had their place. Mine was on the left, in front of the windowsill with the flowerpots. But it wasn’t only the seats that were set, our roles were as well: Manuel, blond and slim, was always best at everything, the highly intelligent one, while still being friendly and uncomplicated. He was closely followed by Matthias, equally strong at school, calm and bright, but less predictable than his ever-diplomatic brother.

My role was that of the fun-loving goose. When the dinner table conversation revolved around politics or culture, I turned away or yawned pointedly.

Chernobyl, the Cold War—those were the topics of the eighties. Inge and Gerhard were very interested in politics. Inge was a member of Women for Peace, and the whole family joined anti-rearmament demonstrations. Gerhard, who had always been a loyal follower of the Social Democrats, voted for the Green Party for the first time. They went about saving energy and separating their trash for recycling with ardent zeal (I was the only one who refused to rinse my yogurt cups).