Caroline Brennan - A Mailbox Full of Secrets

 

 Growing up, my sisters and I would dare each other to run to the mailbox, and maybe even raise the flag if we had the nerve to show we were there. I know it doesn't sound that thrilling, but this was a no-go zone. Our mailbox was off limits to anyone but our dad, who was a career military officer. I think growing up we just thought that was the norm, that only soldiers got the mail, [audience laughter] because our lives were dictated by rule and order and fear. Our dad was a very intimidating, towering figure, which is why it really came out of nowhere when he was diagnosed with terminal cancer, and within three weeks, we were planning his funeral.

 

So, my four sisters and I were very fortunate to be able to go home to Austin, Texas, and be at his side and be able to say goodbye, which is a gift. Everything was just really new and unexpected, and so too was the revelation when our father told us from the hospice bed, all of his five girls around him and all of us well into our 30s, that we had a brother. He had a son in Germany. His son was German. He had his son two years before he met my mom. She knew about it before they got married, of course, we looked right at her. [audience chuckles] She knew, but she, like him, had always kept it a secret. And so, all I could think of we had always wanted a brother growing up. My dad would be made fun of by his Army buddies and they would say, "Oh, Pat, you can only shoot pink, look at all your girls.” [audience laughter] And so, all I could think of was, I just have to meet him, I have to meet this guy. 

 

So, after the funeral, I learned that I was going to Germany for work, and so I reached out to him, to Michael, and I wrote him and I said, "I think I'm going to be in a town that's about three hours away by train from you. Would you want to meet?" And he wrote back right away, and he said, “Yes, my wife and our son, who was an adult son, would love to meet you. Please stay the weekend with us.” So, I was dying. So, we exchanged photos so we could find each other in the train station. On the train ride, I was just looking at his photos, my eyes were just locked because he looked so familiar. It was just transfixing. 

 

When I got to this train station, it was huge, an industrial city, it wasn't a cute, quaint European station, it was massive. But I saw him right away. He was coming through the crowd, really I was seeing my dad coming through the crowd and towards me. He had this yellow rain parka, and we hugged, and he said in a really thick German accent, "Welcome home." He said, "It's raining outside, but there is sunshine in my heart." I just felt this instant connection. He grabbed my bags and he walked with the same heavy gait as my dad and the same sloped shoulders.

 

We went to his car and drove to his home. At some point, on the drive, he turned to me, we were both in the front seat, and he said, "I wrote you all those letters, all you girls." He said, "You never wrote back. Why?" All I could think about was that mailbox that we could never touch, [audience aww] and I just said, "I am so sorry." I said, "I didn't know. We didn't know. I am just so sorry." And that whole weekend, I found myself apologizing for things I had no idea were happening and things I couldn't answer for. And over dinner the last night, he was telling me about when he learned who his real dad was. 

 

He grew up thinking his grandparents were his parents, and he was 16. And he said, "You know, your dad, our dad and I started writing, at that time," when he was 16. And he said, "I've kept all of Dad's letters.” He said, “Do you want to read them?" And I said, "Yes, of course, I do." My dad was such a quiet man, a man of few words. He was only quiet or he was yelling, I mean, there was no in-between. So, the idea of my dad sitting down to hand-write letters to his secret son in Germany, it was like, I would love to see these letters. And so, at the end of the night, as we were going up to the guest room, he handed me these binders. He was a proper German. I mean, these things were so organized. [audience laughter] 

 

So, they were in chronological order starting in the late 1960s, early 1970s, each letter was in its own lamination or photos. It was like a This Is Your Life. It was like, "We're having twins," talking about me and my sister, "we're moving to Texas." There were all of these family photos I had never seen before. At some point in your life, you've seen every single childhood photo or family photo. I didn't even know these photos existed. At some point, it was like the middle of the night, 03:00 in the morning, I started to feel that something was just off. Because I was reading my dad's letters, and then I would read Michael's reply, and I'd flip it, read my dad's letter, Michael's reply, and at some point, I was thinking, well, how are Michael's letters here in this binder? They should be in our garage in Austin, Texas.

 

And so, the next morning, I asked Michael, I said, "How do you have your own letters? I mean, shouldn't they be in the US.?" And he said, "Well, every time I wrote Dad, he would always put my letter back in his envelope and send it back to me." And he said, "I just always figured he didn't want them to be found." I think he was right. Michael never met our dad. My dad went to Germany at some point, they set a time to meet, Michael was ready, my dad didn't show. I don't know why, I can't ask him. My father was a wonderful father to my sisters and me, but I think in my gut he was just afraid.

 

I've thought a lot about fear since meeting Michael and how it can just get in the way of connecting and of living your life. When I left Michael's home, I had a couple of days in Berlin to walk around, and my head was just spinning, and I just kept thinking, I never want fear to get in the way of living, especially in a city where people had torn down the walls to live. I just thought, I can't let anything get in between having connection and relationships and the opportunity to just raise my flag and say, "I am here." Thank you so much.