Eugenie's Story

Chase got home about 4:30. We could tell he was exhausted, but Sophie was determined to show him what we'd uncovered. We looked at the old photo album first.

There were old pictures of my mom and dad when they were real young. I was stunned. I'd never seen them like that before; they both looked so happy. My dad was handsome, and my mom, she was stunning. I couldn't remember ever seeing them look like that.

There were pictures of the two of them holding a baby. I thought at first the baby was me, but Chase disabused me of that fast. I was sitting there looking at what I thought were these lost baby pictures of me when Chase spoke up.

He looked at us, "That's not you Eugenie."

I looked from the pictures to him and back to the pictures. They had to be of me. I was their only child, "No Chase they're pictures of me."

He held one up, "No they're not. Look at the date printed across the bottom."

I looked at it; it read November, 1962. I wasn't born until 1971, nine years later, "Chase," I said, "what does this mean?"

He pointed to the background, "Look this picture was taken in France," he pointed to what was an old street sign. I couldn't read the writing, but it was clearly in French.

I looked more closely, "Is that baby a boy or a girl?"

He looked too, "I can't tell, but it's clear to me it's their baby. Look at the way your father's holding it."

I started to feel funny, maybe a little lightheaded, "My mom and dad had emigrated to America in the 1960's. They never told me anything about their past," I felt this lump in my chest, "Gee Chase do you think I have a brother or a sister someplace?"

He put his arm around me, "Maybe...looks like it babe."

I was numb. We looked through the rest of the old album. There were three more pictures of them with the baby. It looked like the baby was probably a boy. We found another picture too.

In the back of the album kind of scrunched and wrinkled up there was one other old picture. It was of a boy, a young man actually, he was dressed in a black uniform. Chase looked it over carefully. He pulled out this inexpensive magnifying glass his mom kept in one of the kitchen drawers. His mom and dad had used it to read the smaller print on some of the recipe covers on some of the foods they bought.

Chase studied the picture, "This is a picture from World War Two. This young man is wearing an S.S. uniform. My guess he was in the old Waffen S.S. I can't tell exactly but it looks like a twelve on his shoulder insignia."

Chase found his laptop and looked up Waffen S.S. He found a whole listing of the different units. He looked at me, "I bet this boy was a soldier in the old Twelfth S.S. Panzer Division."

I was dumbfounded, "My dad met my mom when he was in West Germany sometime after the war."

Chase looked at me real funny, "Do you know anything about your family back in Europe?"

I shook my head sideways, "No."

"Gee honey when was your mom born? 1944 wasn't it?"

"I think so, that's what we put on her tombstone."

Chase looked real somber, "What if your grandmother met this boy and they had your mom? Then what if he got killed? Look at this," he pointed to more detail he'd pulled up on the Internet, "the Twelfth S.S. Panzer was in Normandy in 1944. It was made up almost totally of Hitler Youth. Look it says almost the whole division got annihilated fighting in Normandy, and then the survivors were trapped in the Falaise Gap. It says here the last of them were killed in the Battle of the Bulge. Eugenie this could have been your mom's dad, a man she never met, a boy who'd belonged to the Hitler Youth. Maybe your grandmother got killed in one of the bombing raids. What if your mom was raised in one of those post-war orphanages?"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing, "Chase I don't know about any of this. I think you're just making it up."

He backtracked, "OK, what if the boy in this picture was your grandfather. He most likely got killed. Still that left your grandmother somewhere in Germany. There was a lot of confusion in those days. So your dad showed up when your mom was say sixteen maybe seventeen. They fell in love, they got married, they had a baby, and the baby died. Maybe there was an accident; then stricken with grief, with no opportunities, your mom and dad moved to America to start over. When they got here they had you."

I answered, "Chase I don't know. This is all pretty far-fetched."

He held my hand, "Maybe so, but it would explain a lot about how your parents behaved."

I was getting pretty scared, "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

He smiled at me; it was one of his 'I understand' smiles, he said, "That's all right. Let's look at what's in these other boxes."

I was relieved. With our girls help we started to unpack the other boxes. What we found was just as confusing. In box after box we found all these short stories. Based on my Russian studies I had some familiarity with other languages, which included German. I couldn't really read what we had, but I could pretty much tell what we had were either copies or interpretations of old European fairy tales. The closer I looked the more I realized we had two sets of stories; one was typed and one was in long hand. Of course these were quite old, and whoever did the typing had used what they had available at the time, an old manual typewriter. The stories written in longhand however were beautifully done. Having worked for lawyers I'd seen some of the old legal ledgers and documents from the Nineteenth Century when everything was written out. These stories had that meticulously perfect look. I mean they were works of art.

I looked at Chase, "Sweetie I think we should put these things away. I mean they might be valuable."

The girls and Chase, and me; it was like we'd stumbled on some buried treasure. Chase smiled at me again, "Eugenie I'm giving you an assignment."

I nodded. I knew what was coming.

"I want you to figure out what we have here. Do some research; see if you can't put some of your language skills to work. Try to interpret what's here. Then try to find out if there might be any interest out there."

I'm going to stop right now Diary. Chase's mom is wandering around, and the girls will be home soon. I'll write some more about what we found later. I still want to tell you about Chase and me too. We're having hamburger-pot-pie for dinner tonight. I also made a special dessert; it's something I looked up that's called 'rote Grütze', it's really just a really sweet berry and fruit pie.

Well it's time to put the old pen down for awhile. Talk to you later. I'm going to make some Belgian Toast tomorrow!

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Entry thirteen:

Hello Diary. I'm back! I know it's been quite a while, but have I got some news for you!

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Wow! I know it's been a while, but gee, have I ever found some things out. First let me tell you what we found out about my mom and my mom's family. My mom married my dad in 1961 when he was in West Germany working for some transportation company, he was even driving trucks way back then. Yes, they had a little boy, they'd named him Gustav, and yes, sadly Gustav died. The way the report we got read it sounded like 'Sudden Infant Death Syndrome'. Shortly after the baby died my parents moved to America, became citizens, had me, and then well I guess they lived and worked until they died.

I thought about Gustav a little bit. My mom had lost one child; maybe she spent the rest of her life trying not to become too attached to anyone after that? Maybe Gustav's sad death was the impetus that kept my mom from ever caring much about me? I'll never know. I do know about the fear of losing a child. I almost lost our Mai. I won't excuse my mom for the way she treated me or my dad, but maybe I can understand her a little better. I do know I'll never let my internal demons come between me and my family; they did once, I'll never let that happen again. I'm so glad I've still got Chase; he's been so understanding.

My mom's maiden name was Greta Meyer, and her mom's name was Helga Eberbach nee Dietrich. My grandmother was a distant relative of some Nazi. There's no record of my grandmother ever marrying. Of course the records could have been lost; what with all the bombing. Then again young Germans of pure ancestry were encouraged to have sex together. My grandmother might have done something like that, but she would have had to have been awful young to connect with a Hitler Youth. I guess we'll never know.

It was my grandmother, or maybe her mother, who wrote and typed all the things in the boxes. With help from a teacher at the local college we found out all the things she wrote were re-interpretations of most of Grimm's fairy tales and a few of the stories by Hans Christian Andersen.

Here's the interesting part. During the 1930's all across Germany there'd been a renewed interest in certain aspects of German culture, but the renewal had taken on a distinctive racist flavor. As if to emphasize the special character of what it meant to be German many simple tales had been rewritten in a way that reasserted the specialness of being Aryan.

The teacher at the college put me in touch with a university professor in Germany, and via email we found out even more. For instance, the Cinderella story wasn't just about a mean stepmother and two evil stepsisters; it was a depiction where the stepmother and stepsisters were actually foreigners, outsiders, and the prince, unbeknownst to him, unconsciously recognized the racial purity of Cinderella and chose her above all the other girls seeking his attentions. Well, as we would have expected coming out of 1930's Germany, the evil stepmother and stepsisters were Jewish. That story and it looks like all the stories my grandmother wrote had that same theme; the racially pure German and the inferior foreigner. I managed to figure the foreigner was just as likely to be Polish or Russian as to be Jewish. That's the interesting part.

Here's the really intriguing thing. The stories we have may have been copies of originals that were published throughout pre-war Germany. It seems my grandmother, herself probably a rabid Nazi, had been encouraged to write these innocent little stories with the added racist slant. When she did that she must have either handwritten or typed an extra copy for herself. Why she did it that way we'll never know. What we do know is that her stories did get some limited attention, some were published, and some were even read by important Nazi officials. We know that because we found among the stories a few brief letters from Nazi officials where they thanked and commented on my grandmother's stuff. None of the officials were particularly important; no letters from anybody like Hitler or Goering, but there were a few from lesser German officials, some of whom even spent time in prison for race crimes.

Here's another intriguing thing; some people, both in the United States and in Germany want to study my grandmother's writings. They want to buy them. There doesn't seem to be much money in it, but considering our current circumstances this could be just enough money to give us a chance at something, maybe a chance to start our own business if the business is small enough.

One last thing; my mother and father, I guess fearing a repeat with me of my long lost brother's death, had taken out a life insurance policy on me at my birth. It's not a lot, but it's fully paid up. If we want we can cash it in; it might add a little more money to anything we might try to do.

Diary I keep going from exhilaration to despair. What if my mother had unknowingly saved something that could now be just the thing that could help save the family I so foolishly and cruelly destroyed? With Chase's approval I've put one of the fairy tales out on E-Bay with an offer if anyone's interested. We know, of course, they'll probably be some government interest. We don't know if the American, the German, perhaps even the Israeli government might want to get a piece of what we might find. We hope not; we don't think there's going to be that much money even if we do find buyers. Anyway this has been quite a thing for me; I've made a few discoveries about my mom and maybe about me too.

Now I want to talk about my Chase. I think I can do that now. Next time we'll do that. I'll see you then. So long for now.

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Entry fourteen:

Dear Diary.

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Well here we are again. This is it! Our big day! I'm going to tell you all about Chase.

I met Chase at a wedding reception. I had no idea who the people were that got married that day. One of my girlfriends at work got two invitations. Since I was the one at work who went through the mail I found these two invitations; why they sent them to our work I'll never know. I only know I got in a huff that she had personal shit sent to our office so I kept the invites and never told her. I stuffed them in my desk. Over the next couple days I hinted around to my friend about the couple. She told me she'd never met them, and they'd never met her. In fact she didn't think she knew anybody in that part of her family. That gave me an idea; I thought, 'well why not'. I used one of the invitations to crash the wedding. I figured what the hell; a free meal and maybe I'd get lucky and score.

I guess in those days people might have considered me something of a 'Grade A' bitch. I suppose in a way I was. I'd just met Ken from Kenya. Muhammad El was a pretty new boyfriend and I'd only boffed him a few times. Shit, I didn't owe them anything. I'd just gone through treatments for a low level STD. I wasn't sure; I thought I was clean. I hadn't gone back to the doctor yet. Who gave a good shit anyway? Men never went out with me except for sex so they got what they deserved. I was on medication; I'd be OK. If I wasn't completely cured and I passed it on to some asshole so what!

I went to the wedding. I found a seat at a table that said 'Bride's family', sat down and surveyed the scenery. It didn't take me long; a little further away across the room I caught sight of another loner. I could tell right away he was into the same things I was. I made my plans.

First I slipped off to the bathroom. I found a stall and unbuttoned my blouse. I'd deliberately worn something that was a little bit see-through. I got out of my blouse and loosened my bra straps. I slipped my blouse back on but left the three top buttons undone. I took off my panties and hid them away in my purse. I left the stall, went to one of the sinks, fluffed my hair, it was short, redid my makeup, wiped my puss off and squirted a tad of perfume on the insides of my thighs. Armed and ready I went back out. He was still there.

I returned to my seat and after a few seconds I knew I'd caught his eye; it was time to close for the kill. I sort of sashayed across the room and took a seat right in front of him. I stretched, I twisted, I let my smallish tits slide across the top of the table. Even from my vantage point I could see the beginnings of a swell in his drawers. It was like taking candy from a baby. After a little bullshitting he proposed we go outside. I was already wet.

We went to his car and climbed in the back seat. I had his pants and boxers down in a trice. I sat right down on him. I noticed two things right away; first he was bigger than normal, and second he knew what to do with his hands. Now size does matter, but not as much as most men think. I mean it's great to have something inside you that you can really feel, but once it's inside the dip-shit better know what to do with it. Honestly, if it's just the old 'in and out' for a few strokes and then Ka-blam, well then what's the use? I could get the same thing with a cucumber.

I used a cucumber once when I was still at my parents' house. It got stuck inside me so I had to go down to the kitchen and get a fork to pull it out. Then I wiped it off and put it back in the fridge. I saw my mom cutting it up for a salad a couple days later.

No, the quick ka-pow didn't happen; not with this boy, I should say man, he knew what he wanted and how he wanted it. I'll say he got up in me and stayed in me, then he started lifting and lowering me nice and slow and easy. I tried to take over, but he was strong, he wouldn't let me. I was riding him, but he was the one in the saddle.

He had his hands on my waist, then on my upper body just under my armpits. As he realized I knew the rhythm he started massaging my tits. He cupped my tits in his hands and used his thumbs to rub over my nipples. Oh gosh he was good!

Then he had his hands around my neck. It felt like he was going to choke me. For some women the idea that the man had the power to choke them to death is a turn on. Until that afternoon it hadn't been one of my things, but the way he held my neck and ever so softly squeezed and then let go, doing it in this pulsating rhythm wasn't threatening at all. I started to like it.

As I got hotter he pulled me in close and started kissing me on my neck and my face. I felt chills all over. I got the shivers! I kept wondering where he'd been all these years and why hadn't some girl already rounded him up. He had me. Oh I say he...had...me! I got so nervous and so excited. I'd completely forgotten about protection, and shit, I had rubbers right there in my purse. They were good ones too, ribbed and all.

I've had these feelings of momentary exhilaration with men before, and once he ejaculated I knew this would pass. But he really ejaculated! His semen was hot and it shot up inside so powerfully, and there was so much of it. It felt like he'd turned on the hot water hose. I had one super huge honest to God powerful orgasm!

Once he finished I knew I had to pay him back. I got down on the floor of the back seat and cleaned him off with my tongue. Over my short life span I'd come to realize even the most virile of men needed at least twenty to thirty minutes to recover. Not this guy! Wow! He was back full tilt in five minutes! I climbed back on. We did it again. It was better than before!

By the time we finished our second heat I was exhausted. This man had done something few men had done; he'd wiped me out. We talked a while. The whole time we talked he kept softly rubbing and caressing me in places I liked to be touched. He kept looking at me. I mean he really looked at me! I think he liked what he saw too. We exchanged phone numbers and emails.

What's the old adage; the guys at the bar, he gets drunk and the two becomes a ten only to become a two again when he's through. Well I knew I was more than a two, but not a lot more. I certainly wasn't anybody's ten, but after we were through and he should have been thinking about football or something he was still looking at me treating me like I was special. It was very unnerving.

He scared me. I'd been around my share of men. They always acted like I was beautiful before they fucked me, but afterward they always, I mean always, treated me like the ugly skank I knew I was. But this man; he was acting like he really wanted to get to know me. I knew I had to get away; he was doing things with my mind I didn't feel comfortable with. I was sore too, damn sore.

We went back inside. I limped back to my table and sat back down. OK, I admit I might have overplayed the sore walk and limp a bit, but I knew guys liked to see that, it made them think they'd really done something. Funny thing was this guy really had done something! The wedding reception ended. I went home and completely forgot about the wedding reception and all the fun I had. I forgot for a while anyway.

Actually I didn't completely forget. I got out the guy's email and phone number and wrote it in my computer. I slid the paper under the glass top of my desk at work. Every now and then the first couple days after the reception I'd sit at my computer at work and stealthily rub between my legs and think about his dick inside me.