Beacon of Hope



Chapter Thirteen

DISCLAIMER :: This fanfiction is based on Superman from DC Comics. All rights reserved. Art by CWBlaine on Deviant Art.
Author's note: Perhaps it is the start of a new collaborative universe or a standalone project for myself. I don't know, yet.

"Buddy" was definitely with me when I returned to fetch my clothes and Lauren from Dr. Voss' office. He was getting used to the idea of flying, but still wasn't happy about it. He was sweet with both of them while I got dressed in "civilian" clothes once more. Both of them wondered what happened even though they could smell the smoke on me and the dog. I debriefed them on the building fire and all the relevant information. We didn't talk about it very long, thankfully. I couldn't get Dontae's sorrow out of my head. Poor kid. I slipped the suit into the backpack I had brought with me and Dr. Voss informed me that it was machine washable so I could get the smell of smoke out of it.

Driving back to Lauren's apartment, she told me I should probably get some basic supplies for "Buddy" before I went home. I couldn't disagree. He would need a collar and a leash at the very least. A couple of bowls for food and water as well as the food itself wouldn't hurt, either. He paced in the back seat as I drove and we chatted. She promised to get me a burner phone so we could actually call one another at times. It was a pretty solid idea, given the state of the world. After dropping her off, I made my way toward Arlington Heights.

I got a good look at "Buddy" as I drove. He seemed to be a decent medium-sized dog that should probably weigh somewhere around forty or forty-five pounds. His breed appeared to be all over the place: shepherd, collie, Labrador retriever, some kind of terrier, and heaven only knows what else. His coat, though patchy at the current moment, was almost completely white with "doggy freckles" closer to his paws. His eyes were a lovely brown-ish gold kind of color. He seemed fairly energetic, though that could have been anxiety over the new experience of car travel. All-in-all, he seemed like a rather cute little guy.

After making the stop to get everything the dog might initially need, I returned to the car to find he had curled up and fallen asleep. Stashing all the stuff in the trunk, I couldn't bring myself to rationalize stopping at the house in Arlington Heights. With a resolved sigh, I began the two-and-a-half hour journey to Sheboygan. Amazingly, the dog slept the whole way back. Flying back probably would have stressed him out more than he already had been that evening. I had plenty of time to figure out what I would be telling my mother about this situation and reflecting on the irony of being afraid of my mother's wrath. That was a feeling I'd not felt in more than twenty-five years.

Mom wasn't at all happy about being surprised with a dog. There may have been more than a passing thought that care for the canine might be delegated to her responsibility despite my assurances to the contrary. The negotiations were rather intense. I think what won her over were my impassioned pleas to consider that a young boy had gone out of his way to help the dog after the family had seemingly abandoned him. "Buddy" needed to be looked over by a veterinarian, a good home, and just to feel loved. I also brought up the fact she liked Týr's idea of raising sheep and having a dog around to help shepherd them. All of that was practically for not because she melted the moment she saw his face and his tail wag. My mother has always been a huge softie for animals.

The next handful of days were filled with training sessions for both myself and "Buddy". It was touch and go for the most part. "Buddy" was still used to softer food, so he didn't know what to do with kibble. I had to grab some fresh dog food from the store so he'd eat, then slowly introduce the kibble. He was fine having a collar wrapped around his neck. He was terrible on a leash, though. Leash training and potty training became top priorities. Meanwhile, Týr and I focused on my landings. The goal was less bull in a china shop and more gymnast finisher. That toddler I saved could have gotten badly hurt because I landed like a sack of meat tossed out of an airplane. Slowly but surely, the concepts were sticking and I was having more landings and fewer disastrous crashes.

One day arrived that was incredibly important to more people than just me: the day of my eldest daughter's graduation. I had no idea what to wear. What I settled on was a loose white T-shirt, high-waisted jeans, tennis shoes, and a vest. With my mother's help, my hair was situated up in a half ponytail. With my glasses in place on my face, the only thing that really stopped the look from being a 1990s throwback was a pair of Doc Martens. I made a mental note to pick up a pair when I could afford it. Glancing at myself in a mirror, I couldn't help but see some of the girls I went to high school with. The concept of "that's you, moron" hadn't sunk in, yet.

Mom insisted on driving. I tasked Týr with looking after "Buddy" while we were gone, which he accepted gladly. He seemed to have an affinity for canines. The ride into Illinois was interesting, to say the least. My taste in music was a little harder than my mother's. A raging guitar riff and some heavy percussion got me energized while allowing me to process thoughts. Eighties rock to grunge to early '00s alternative usually did the trick. Mom preferred the lighter stuff like Billy Joel, Chicago, Journey, and her personal favorite, George Michael. I didn't have the heart to tell her he's gay. Neither of us were well versed in the technology of the day, so a Spotify playlist was out of the question. We simply battled over the radio dial every half hour or so.

Two hours later, Mom drove to the school, John Hersey High School, rather than stop at the house first. My mind was still not registering it as Laura's house, now. In a sea of relatives awaiting the students clad in chocolate brown and the same burnt orange of the Chicago Bears, we managed to locate Laura and the girls. Mom and Laura sat together while Madison and Olivia served as bookends to me. Laura debriefed my mom concerning Hannah's achievements through last year of high school. My daughter made Valedictorian and would be making a speech. Madison gushed about seeing me in my new costume all over the internet in hushed tones so eavesdroppers wouldn't hear a thing but I could hear her clear as day. To my surprise, Olivia actually leaned on me and whined that she was already bored. Long ceremonies like this are definitely not designed for younger kids. I simply slipped an arm around her in an effort to comfort her like I usually do. She seemed amiable to the gesture.

Olivia wasn't far off the mark. The high point of the ceremony was watching the graduating class walk in and take their seats–the boys in brown and the girls in the burnt orange that made my Wisconsin-native blood boil. First at the podium was the Salutatorian for a generic welcome speech. That was followed by no less than six speeches by faculty about what a great achievement the students had made and how they were going to change the world. Anyone that has been out of high school for at least a decade knows all that is nothing more than hogwash. There were a couple of musical numbers from graduating seniors that were part of the band and choir. The worst part was waiting for more than five hundred names to be announced as each student received their diploma. The whole family cheered when the principal called out "Hannah Jonelle Kent", my daughter's full name.

Finally, the ceremony was coming to a close when the principal introduced my daughter as the Valedictorian, using her full name once again. I watched my little girl stride up to the podium with all the poise and confidence Laura and I had always hoped we'd encourage our daughters to have. Her burnt orange cap and gown glistened in the sunlight. Her sleek, straight, dark brown hair was meticulously groomed. Given my ability to "zoom in" with my vision as it was now, I could see the fiery passion in her piercing blue eyes. Her makeup was simple and accentuated all the best parts of her face. She had to adjust the microphone a little higher because she stood at a statuesque five-foot-nine. She cleared her throat before she spoke.

"Friends, family, faculty, and graduates," she began. "We've come to a crossroad in our lives. Today, we say goodbye to the trappings of adolescence. We'll never set foot in the halls, classrooms, music halls, theaters, sports fields, or the principal's office ever again." A few in the crowd laughed. "We'll never again hear that bell that signals the end of one block of instruction nor the one that tells us we're late for the next one. We'll never again hear the roar of conversation, laughter, or taunting in the halls. We'll probably never see each other's faces again after today."

She choked up a little as she took a pause and looked out at her fellow graduates. "That hurts more than I ever thought it would. We grew up together. We remember the same schools, the same teachers, the same food fights, and the same active shooter drills. We've felt the same fear, pain, melancholy, and even the same joy. We've watched each other grow into the young men and young women we are today." She seemed to attempt to swallow a knot in her throat. "I thought I was ready to say good-bye. Some of you already know, but I lost my grandpa a couple weeks ago. I took my Pop-pop for granted, thinking he'd always be there. I wasn't ready to say 'good-bye', but I had to. After his funeral, I started thinking about all of you. Some of you I don't know. Many I do. I'm going to miss all of you. I'm not really ready to say good-bye, but I know I have to."

She took a breath and cleared her throat again. "We enter the wider world starting today. My dad always taught me to seek the truth in everything, no matter how it might make you feel. In his example, I'm going to lay down some hard facts. We enter a world where, if we go to college after this, we will probably be plagued with crushing student loan debt for the rest of our lives. We enter a world where climate change will shape every part of our lives and make everything worse. We enter a world with armed conflicts everywhere we look. We enter a world where some of our compatriots won't be able to have a commencement like this because their school has been bombed out of existence or some whack job walked into their school with an AR-15 and unalived them. We enter a world where masked men in vests they bought off Amazon kidnap anybody with a brown complexion that speaks Spanish and puts them in concentration camps before sending them to lands unknown. We enter a world where a fat old man with the worst spray tan ever has delusions of grandeur and wants to rule with the iron fist of authoritarianism." She took a good pause before she said the final line. "We enter a world where a foreign government can take our tax money, fund a propaganda apparatus, bribe politicians, and then turn around to commit the most watched genocide in the history of the world."

Folding up her paper, she glared at her fellow graduates. "I ask only this: what are you going to do about it?"

Nobody said a word as she spun on her heel, strode over to her seat, and sat with force. The silence was deafening. In that moment, I don't think I've ever been more proud of her. After a few moments, the principal approached the podium one last time to officially announce the Class of 2025. More than five hundred caps flew into the air. My hope was that each graduate take up Hannah's call to arms and be the change they want to see in the world. Deep down, I committed myself to righting all of the wrongs I had the power to.

The next couple of hours were something of a whirlwind. The crowd began to disperse a little. We made our way toward Hannah who hovered near the stage taking selfies with her friends. We stood back and allowed her to have her social moment before the family descended upon her. She hugged her grandmother and mother with gusto. She addressed Madison and Olivia lovingly. When her eyes landed on me, there was a quiet moment before she pulled me into a hug. I teared up and sobbed telling her how utterly proud I was of her. She had grown into quite the fierce, driven young woman.

"Thanks, Dad." She whispered very lowly into my ear. "That speech was for you as much as my classmates."

"I'll do my best to live up to it, sweetheart. I suggest you do the same." I whispered.

"Count on it, Dad."

"That's my girl."

Our embrace tightened for a moment. It was equivalent to a firm handshake between us, coming to an accord with each other. After a few moments, we released that embrace. For a fleeting amount of time, the family chatted about seemingly random things. Toward the end, Hannah let us know about a party that was occurring and the whole graduating class was invited. Both Laura and I voiced our concern, but trusted her to make good decisions and get home safely. After Hannah bounded off after her friends, the family exchanged hugs and good-byes.

The trip back to Sheboygan began in earnest. Once again, Mom and I battled over the radio but allowed one another to enjoy our individual tastes. We actually sang along to a few of the songs, albeit poorly. Mom didn't know the lyrics to most of my songs and I didn't know the lyrics to most of hers, but there were occasional overlaps that we both enjoyed. It was an unintentional bonding exercise that I don't remember us ever doing before. However, about twenty minutes from the farm, Mom turned the volume down low and glanced at me with something indecipherable behind her eyes.

"Kristen," she began with a quick breath, "I'm going to give you that letter I found in your grandmother's hope chest." She shrugged and chuckled somewhat nervously. "Heck, you can take all the documents if you want. She never taught us–your aunts, uncles, and I–to speak or read whatever that language in the letter is, German, or Dutch. Maybe you can find someone that can tell us what it means?"

I turned toward my mother whose eyes remained on the road ahead like a dutiful driver. "O... kay. That was random. What brought you to that idea?"

She shrugged. "I've always been curious about them. Mom never told me what they were or what they meant. I figured one was her birth certificate because of the name, date, and where she was born. It's a little confusing with the date numbers flipped around, but I've seen enough birth certificates to figure it out. The two passports are easy to decipher if you've seen any passport at all." She took in a quick deep breath. "They're family history we know next to nothing about. With everything happening, right now, I want to know. Don't you?"

I shrugged. "There's always been a passing, vague curiosity about all of that. We know what the language in the letter is, Mom. Remember that Jewish family from back when I was in high school? They told us the letter had been written in Yiddish, but they couldn't read it."

"What is Yiddish, again?"

"The language of the Ashkenazi people, Mom. It's a merging of German from the Middle Ages, Hebrew, and I think a bit of Aramaic and Slavic, if my memory is serving me correctly. There used to be a lot of speakers before..." I let out a sigh. "...before the Holocaust."

"I still don't like that you showed the letter to that girl."

My eyes rolled almost automatically. "I saw the dreidel she was playing with that had symbols like the letter. That's when I learned about Hanukkah and the Hebrew language, remember?"

"I do, but I was telling you that your grandmother was very protective of those things and rather paranoid about them."

"They call that Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, now, Mom. Even after the war, Nana never felt like she could turn off the paranoia."

"Now we have people openly doing the salute and flying all the flags. The Nazis never went anywhere, Kristen. They just stayed hidden. That's what your grandmother always feared and why she kept her secret."

"Maybe now is the best time to discover the truth. Is that why you're wanting me to see if I can get the letter deciphered?"

My mother let out a long breath. "Sweetie, I promised your grandmother that I'd keep the secret while she was alive. We kept it in the family, as I promised. She's been gone for a while now. Yes, maybe now is the time for the truth to be revealed."

"I never told anyone where the letter came from. I'll look into finding out what it says, Mom."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It took very little time to research how one might go about translating handwritten text written in Yiddish: navigate to Google and type in "translating Yiddish near me". There were several resources for Jewish people in the area of Sheboygan. There was even an exhibit in the Mead Library about holocaust survivors from the area that started in 2001, a couple of years after I left for college. There was a Jewish Museum in Milwaukee, too. After some phone calls, nobody at the library knew how to translate Yiddish and the museum didn't offer that as a service. However, the Illinois Holocaust Museum & Education Center was excited about the prospect of looking over my grandmother's documents and translating for me. They had a few people on staff that could do it for me on the spot, if I asked. Thus, back down to Chicago for me. Well, technically Skokie, but who's counting?

Instead of using up all the fuel, I opted to fly down. I wore the suit Mom had graciously washed for me with "civilian clothes" in a backpack, making sure I didn't forget the glasses Lauren had made for me. Once I found a safe spot to change, I could just walk over to the museum. Harms Flatwoods was the perfect spot. A slight super speed run from the woods toward the entrance got me in fairly quickly. Once inside, all I had to do was talk to someone at the information desk and wait for one of their curators to come out and speak to me.

A woman about the age I am... was... came out to greet me with a smile. Her brown hair was showing signs of graying, her face had a few wrinkles, and her clothing was roughly the same style Laura might wear. Atop her head, though, at the crown was a blue and white disc-shaped object held in place by bobby pins. She offered her hand for a shake.

"Hello, there," She greeted me with that gentle smile. "I'm Rabbi Dr. Naomi Weiss. What might your name be?"

I accepted the offered hand. "I'm Kris Kent."

"Is that short for something or am I reading too much into it?"

My mind screamed a little rebellion just before I spoke. "Kristen."

"Are you the same young woman that called us yesterday hoping to translate something written in Yiddish?"

"Yes, I am. You wouldn't happen to speak German and Dutch as well, would you?"

She turned and motioned for me to follow. "I think I know what you're getting at." Answering her request, she ushered me into a room off to the side away from other guests and museum exhibits. It very much appeared to be the office of a curator. "Why don't you show me what you have and we'll go from there?"

Taking my backpack off my back, I made sure to open the pocket that did not contain my suit. The bag had two main pockets and the documents were in the second, carefully set in a binder to keep them safe. I displayed all I had on the surface of the lighted table we were standing on opposite sides of. The letter, the German passport, the Dutch passport, and the birth certificate were carefully laid out on the table. Dr. Weiss glanced at them carefully and her eyes widened when the puzzle pieces fell into place. She put protective gloves on her hands and handled each document with the practiced precision of someone whom had examined thousands of similar documents in the past.

"These are the documents of a survivor," She noted. "Everything to identify this person is here." She glanced at the first piece of paper. "This is a birth certificate." She pointed to each piece of information as she informed me of what it said. "It says here that a girl, Miriam Krista, was born at 7:18 am in Cologne on October 16, 1934. It also says her parents were Hermann and Rebekah Katzenberg, a cobbler and a washer woman, lived at 16 Lochnerstrasse, and that they were Jewish. There's just official stamps and other things besides that."

The next thing she picked up was the German passport. The eagle, wreath, and swastika were prominently featured on the haunting brown cover. Opening it, the large "J" in stamped red ink was hard to ignore. Her heart seemed to sink. "These never get easier to look at." She pointed to the name on the first page. "See here where it says 'Katzenberg, Miriam Sara'? Jews in Germany were forced to alter their names to make them stand out as Jewish to authorities. Boys or men had to add 'Israel' and girls or women had to add 'Sara'. It was one more way to 'other' the Jewish population and identify them quickly." On the next page, she found vital information and a picture of my grandmother when she was very young. Probably about five years old, I think. "Is she still alive?"

I wasn't thinking when I shook my head before speaking. "She passed when I was in middle school at her home in Wisconsin."

Rabbi Dr. Weiss raised her eyebrow. "Recent development, then? She lived a good, long life. That's wonderful to hear."

I decided to keep the knowledge that she died in her late sixties about twenty or so years ago to myself. I'd already let enough slip. Secrets are hard to keep. "No, yeah..."

She then picked up the Dutch passport with its distinctive black cover. "Ah, the 'zwarte vod', otherwise known as the 'black rag'. These were first issued in 1950, after all the government details were ironed out from the war. All this on the cover means 'The Kingdom of the Netherlands'." She opened the cover and scanned over the details. Upon coming to the picture, she compared the photograph with the German passport. "Oh, my..."

"What? Something wrong?"

She shook her head. "Not particularly. I conjecture that your grandmother was one of the Hidden Children. In 1942, an underground network of people began hiding children to keep them safe from the Nazis. They forged all kinds of documents that gave the children an entirely different past, fabricating family records as well as names. It was pretty extensive. In this German passport, we have Miriam Katzenberg. In this Dutch one, we have Mieke Keller from... oh, my, she's from a hero village: Nieuwlande. She was probably moved all over the countryside for years and was finally settled with a family from that village."

I nodded along as she explained. "Yeah, no, we knew a lot of that, but Nana wouldn't really talk about much. All we know is she met my grandpa after the war. He was in the Army."

She set down the passports. "She probably went southward to try reuniting with her family after the liberation. Some troops remained in the South Limburg region for a while. With her birthplace being Cologne and the likelihood of her only speaking Dutch to protect herself, she probably stayed on the Dutch side of the border. She may have tried getting in contact with the resistance people that may have known the fate of her family." She let out a heavy sigh. "Seeing that she remained in the Netherlands before marrying your grandfather bodes ill for her family. I can look into what might have happened to them, if you wish."

I nodded slowly. "It might be nice to know."

She nodded quickly. "Now, let's see this letter." She picked up the sheets of paper written in Yiddish. There were two pages, yellowed with the passage of time. "It's dated April 19th of 1940. That's a month before Germany invaded the Netherlands and two years before there was an organization capable of facilitating the Hidden Children. Interesting." She kept reading, whispering the words aloud as she did so. It was the first time I'd ever heard them vocalized before. She took in a strained breath. "This is from her mother." She quickly turned to me. "Would you permit me to record this? We have so few of these sorts of letters. They have incredible significance."

I nodded quickly. "Absolutely."

She spun to her computer and quickly loaded up a program. Within moments it was loaded and she returned to the table armed with a small microphone with some extra buttons. My initial thought was that it was some sort of dictation she was about to do. Picking up the letter once again, she began reading.

First, she spoke in Yiddish, then translated into English. "To my beloved Miriam," she began. Again, she spoke Yiddish then occasionally glanced at me for the English translation. "I am writing with trembling hands, not knowing if my words will ever find you again. I am Rebekah, your mother, and your father is Hermann, a shoemaker of little means. We live as we can with bread and work and with laughter among your brothers and sisters when the day's toil is done. There are eight of you: my children, my heart. We are not a rich family, only a washerwoman and a cobbler's house; but love has never been in short supply here."

She paused only briefly to gauge my reaction, but my eyes were fixed on the letter. She continued, reciting the Yiddish before translating into English. "The world grows darker each day, now. You are too young to understand the hatred that spreads like a sickness, but your father and I see it. We know what is coming. And so, with tears, we send you away to safety like the mother of Moishe who placed her child in the reeds of the river Nile, praying someone kind would draw him out. I do not know if I will see you again, my child; but I must believe that by letting you go you may live."

She stopped for a moment to let things hang in the air a moment. That air was heavy with tension, but one question crossed my mind. "Who or what is Moishe?"

"It's the Yiddish form of Moses. Your great-grandmother framing the story in this manner carries a lot of weight in Jewish tradition. She was engaging in an act of faith that God would watch over her child as he did Moses when she, the child's mother, could not. It also carries some local geographical significance as the Rhine River bisects Cologne, flows northward, then cuts westerly through the Netherlands. She was sending her child down the river to lands unknown, having faith that she would be protected. It's a powerful passage." Rabbi Dr. Weiss explained.

Clearing her throat, she returned to the letter. Again, first in Yiddish then in English. "I cannot give you riches or titles. I can only give you words. You must carry the light of our family with you. Be strong where I cannot be. Be brave when the world tells you to bow your head. You are my little seraph–my burning one–who must guard the flame even when the night is long. Shine, my child. Shine even when we cannot."

My ears perked up. "Seraph, like Seraphim? The angels?"

She lowered the letter and looked at me like a teacher would a student that just got the wrong answer. "By technicality, yes. What religion have you been raised under?"

"My family is Catholic."

She nodded. "Yes, well... these are not the angels you might have seen in iconography that originated from the Renaissance. The seraphim are not blonde white men dressed in armor with wings and swords. Correspondingly, the cherubim are not simply 'baby angels'. Jews know them to be terrifying creatures you don't simply invoke out of nowhere. Cherubim are creatures with the face of a human, body of a lion, wings of an eagle, as well as the strength and tail of an ox or those winged wheels-within-wheels things with thousands of eyes. Effigies of them sit atop the Ark of the Covenant. Seraphim, on the other hand, are six-winged creatures of fire that encircle the throne of God. They protect it and sing His praises." She took a quick breath. "What your great-grandmother was invoking is a blessing: that her daughter be the light of righteousness in the darkness of evil and strife. It's also a prayer that her daughter be the light for others. Had Judaism allowed female rabbis at the time, your great-grandmother would have made a phenomenal one."

I blinked rapidly. "Wow."

"Indeed." She carried on reading, though her voice caught midway through reading the Yiddish. She struggled through the passage, tears forming in her eyes. Then, she repeated in English. "Know this above all: you are loved. From the first cry of your birth until my last breath, you are loved. If God grants you children, tell them their grandmother's heart was full even in sorrow. Live, Miriam. Live for all of us. Your mother, Rebekah Goldstein Katzenberg."

Neither of us spoke for a long moment. Tears reflecting the powerful message finally revealed through time affected us both. Words have failed me only a select few times in my life. This was one of those times. Rabbi Dr. Weiss collected herself much faster than I.

"Would you like us to keep these for you? They will be preserved and added to the museum. Stories like these are so vital." She softly requested.

Somewhat numb, I shrugged. "I don't know. She lived her life in Sheboygan. She lived a good life there with my grandfather, my mother, my aunts, and uncles. There's an exhibit in the Mead Library there."

She nodded. "Of course, local representation is a good thing. I'm merely suggesting we store the originals here and preserve them. We can send replicas to the Mead Library, at your request." She paused a moment, glancing at the letter one last time. "Was she as her mother hoped she'd be: a light in the darkness?"

I nodded, memories of my grandmother's smile playing in my mind's eye. The memory caused me to tear up again. "Yes. Nana was one of the most loving people I've ever known. She cared deeply for her family and her community. She raised my mother to be an incredibly loving woman who then raised me."

Rabbi Dr. Weiss smiled. "Jewish heritage is matrilineal. It flows from mother to daughter. It's gone from your great-grandmother, to your grandmother, to your mother, and now to you. Did you know?"

"Vaguely."

"Maybe find some wisdom from your great-grandmother's prayer." She let out a sigh. "I can send you copies of the documents, if you'd like?" I simply nodded. "And Kristen?" My eyes met hers. "Thank you for bringing this to us. Every story deserves to be told."

My head slowly nodded as I slung the backpack over my shoulders and walked out the door. My mind was still racing with all the facts I'd just learned. The world beyond seemed to almost not exist. I soon found myself outside and walking back to Harms Flatwoods. A single word escaped my lips carried by a whisper.

"Seraphim."