Kal Wagenheim “Kalman, I’ve
been meaning to tell you this for a long time…you have a sister.” I was 24 in
1959, when my grandmother gave me the stunning news. From early childhood on, I
was told that my Mom--her name was Rozlon-- had died of an illness, when she
was 22, and I was just two years old. My
Dad, Harold, who suffered from severe depression, had separated from my Mom and
lived with his parents; I was raised by my grandmother (I called her Nanny) and
great-grandmother (I called her Grandma).
When I asked
Nanny where my sister was, all she could tell me was that a childless Jewish
couple in Not long after
their deaths, I moved to When Olga and
our children moved to Finally in August 1973, after delivering a
book to my publisher, I had some spare time. I asked Aunt Lucille, my late
Mom's only sibling, where her older sister Rozlon had died. “In the city
hospital in I entered the building, was directed to
Room 213, and told the lady I was trying to find a sister, born in 1937.
She said that normally a court order was required to obtain this information,
but since so many years had passed, she pulled out a large ledger, written in
ink, turned the pages, pointed, and said that a "Dolores Wagenheim"
had been adopted, and her name changed to June Lydia Goldman. Her adopted father, Louis Goldman, age 37 at
the time, was a schoolteacher at Central High in Newark, and the mother,
Frances, age 28 ,was a housewife. They
resided at The written
record made note of an “ I was so
excited to obtain this information that from a payphone in the lobby I called
nearby Central High (733-6897). It was summer vacation, but a Mrs. Celiano
answered. I asked about Louis Goldman.
Miraculously, she told me she remembered “Lou” fondly, that he had
retired some years ago, and had a cute little adopted daughter. “I think she
lives up in In just one
week, I was surprised to get a reply saying “Please be advised that Mr. Goldman
died in February 1961, and our files are closed for him. G. Severino.” The next day I
went to the Newark Public Library, and searched for February 1961 obituaries in
old editions of the Newark Evening News.
One brief death notice said: “Goldman,
Louis, of A
longer obituary said he had been an English teacher at Although
it was 12 years after Mr. Goldman’s death, I decided to try my luck, contacting
one of his relatives in When I
explained the reason for my call, she surprised me when she said she knew who I
was. I told her I was anxious to contact my sister, who, according to the
obituary of 1961, was residing up in On Monday,
Sept. 10, 1973, after some hesitation, I picked up the phone and called her.
Twenty-three years later, while vacationing together with my sister and her
family in Kal: “You said
‘hello.’” June: “I had
just come from school. You said ‘hi, this is Kal Wagenheim.’ You sounded very
nice. You asked ‘does the name Wagenheim
mean anything to you?’ And it did! I had heard the name like in whispered
conversations over the years, not to my face.
So I said ‘go on.’ I thought you were going to tell me you were a
long-lost relative.” Kal: “Then what
did I say?” June: “You
started very gradually, to tell me, well…the whole story. I remember I started
out in the kitchen and ended up, with the phone, in the dining room. When you
said ‘I’m your brother,’ I was really shocked. Complete shock.” Kal: “I had the
advantage over you. I had known for years that…” June: “Then you
asked ‘when can I see you?’ It was a Monday, and I said Thursday. I had to digest it. I had to call my mother. I went through the next few days in a
daze. I went to work. I called and said ‘Mom, I got this phone call
from a Kal Wagenheim.’ ‘Oh yes,’ she
said. ‘We always knew, and we meant to…’” Kal: “Did they
say when they were planning to someday tell you?” June: “Before
they died. (Laughter) When you first called, I felt a little distance. I
thought, ‘he lives in Kal: “I was a
little worried, too…” June: “A Jewish
princess from the Weequahic section…” Kal: “I said to
Olga, ‘Some brothers and sisters don’t get along…” June: “But the
minute I saw…it all dissolved.” Four days
later, on the afternoon of Thurs., Sept. 13, I drove to June’s apartment at Kal: “The night
I came over, I brought a family photo album, which included a photo of our
maternal grandmother, Lillian (Nanny), as a young woman. I recall how your eyes widened with
astonishment as you stared at that photo.” June: “There was an amazing resemblance between
us... We sat for a long, long time. And
when I said to Becky and Lowell ‘this is Uncle Kal’ they acted like nothing had
happened!” Kal: (laughs).
“The same with my kids!” I had grown up
on It seems I
arrived at an opportune time. June's husband Larry, a college philosophy
professor, six months earlier had separated from the family. June was now on
her own, beginning a teaching career, and raising two young children. “Why was my
sister’s birth name Dolores?” I asked my Aunt Lucille. She explained that in
the late 1930s, when my Mom gave birth to June, the movie actress Dolores Del
Rio was at the height of her stardom. Lucille also recalled that my Mom had won
a tango dancing contest. As a tiny
child, I must have heard her playing, and dancing to, tango music, which
perhaps explains why, in later years, I developed such a love for tango. For months
after we first met, June and I talked constantly on the phone, and almost every
Sunday we visited at each other’s home, connecting with relatives and friends. June: “My God,
the first time I walked in to your home, people said ‘she looks just like
Lillian.’ It was so amazing that a granddaughter could resemble the grandmother.” Another
memorable moment was a Sunday when June came to our house in Kal: “She walks
into the living room, pulls out a photo from her purse, and shows me a picture
of this handsome young man with dark hair, and asks me ‘do you know who this
is?’ I didn’t have a clue. ‘It’s your
father, Harold. I used to go out with your father.’” June: “I heard
that she was very much in love with Harold. But his mother paid a visit to Kal: “So a few
years later And then, there
was the memorable trip to the Spiritualist church in Kal: “Do you
remember the time we went to see the Spiritualists on June: “Yes. We
went up the stairs of a brownstone building and sat in the living room. With
all the chairs around. Everyone was
Hispanic. There was the older man, the Reverend. And the younger one, he came right over to me
and said ‘I see two mothers around you, in your aura.’ Can you believe that?” Kal: “Then I
recall they invited you to return, because they were going to bring in an
English-speaking medium…a guy from the June: “I
remember now….” Kal: “And he
said not to worry, or feel frightened, ‘it’s just your mother’s spirit; she
feels regret that she was never able to hold you in her arms.’ I recall we were in the car driving away from
June: “Yes…they
were wonderful, caring people. It was a
very searching time in a person’s life…that age…35!” In the ensuing
years June and I were amazed at the power of genes. For example, during one of
our first visits to a seaside restaurant in Six years after we reconnected, on Dec.
22, 1979, June married a wonderful guy, Ed Logue, a music teacher in Thinking back to my early childhood, I
recall how at least once a year --it could have been some anniversary—Nanny and
Grandma would take me on the bus to visit my mother's grave in the Jewish cemetery
off South Orange Ave., in
*** Shortly after we met, June wrote this poem, which
she gave to me, hand-written: Upon Discovery of a Brother
The game is up, the time has come Now we know where I am from and my real name. I liked not knowing who I was, I could be from anyplace. I could be anyone.Who needs the “Identity Crisis” now, full-blown long past the time of leaving home. The story, of course was pure tragedy; orphaned you, foundling me; death, betrayal; an agony I, the foundling, found a father, and a husband; had a son, even an analyst. Learned to name, one by one, my own dark
sides. Now comes a brother, sprung, full-grown, tall, heroic, You were there all along. What to make of this? My Platonic missing half, At last, a mirrored self? I never was a sister I do not know myself in this role. If I could throw away like a ball, the childhood I spent alone, I would; and begin again, whole, not rent; innocent. And
I, without knowing that June was writing a poem, also wrote one… Dolores…
Sister,
(a thrilling sound for
unpracticed lips to savor): would
it be so sweet now, would
you be sister-mother-child to
me had not our sun been quenched so
long ago, leaving us in darkness? No.
But nevertheless, I
miss the
time of rough-and-tumble
frolic that
veils young sibling love. Sharing
the sun as
we skip and run beneath Rozlon’s
radiant eyes. The
milestones, yours and mine:
flickering birthday lights, beribboned
parchments, wedding
bands, solemn vows to
write or call. I
miss not
having missed you then. I
miss not
being when and
Rebecca came to be. Three
wars, famines, storms, a
billion people dead and born. One-third
a century’s laughter, tears,
murmurs, tranquil shared
silences. Thirty-six
voyages around this
earth, solitary voyagers we, two
specks on a vast uncaring globe, shared
blood coursing on separate
uncrossed paths. Now I
look, throat
aching, into
those gentle eyes—so
familiar—and glance
away for fear I’ll
cry aloud just how much I
miss. I miss.
The End
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