The Yellow Hibiscus Chapter 6

We went to the 49th Precinct on Eastchester Road between Pelham Gardens and Morris Park in the Bronx, where his office was located.

A Peggy Bundy from ‘Married with Children’ look-alike met us at the entrance. She was waddling towards us in a tiger-striped spandex full-body jumpsuit and red hair to boot. She leaned into Willoby’s right ear, and I heard her say, “It’s in the desk drawer.”

He thanked her, and we headed to his office.

Inside his office was a catastrophe zone. Untidy with greasy brown paper bags all over his desk and on the floor, it smelled even worse than it looked. Empty soda cans spilling out of the white paper bags left sticky spots on his desk. He swooped them up and placed them in a heap in the left corner of the room, seemingly embarrassed.

“Sit down,” he beckoned.

I did, after ensuring that the chair was clean.

He sat facing me, his gaze on the folder he’d yanked from the right drawer of his desk, and proceeded to open it.

“Here,” he handed me a black and white photograph of two people. “Have you seen these people before?”

“No,” I responded, staring at two eccentrics decked out in clothes not even Whoppi Goldberg would be caught dead in.

“Okay, then what about these?”

“Oh yes.” It was a color photograph of my parents when they were younger, much younger than I could remember. “Wait a minute,” I said, scrutinizing both pictures. “Where did you get these?” They were both pictures of my parents!

“Try these,” he said, almost tauntingly, handing me another black and white photograph; it seems worn, obscure, and ravaged by time. I pulled it close to my eyes. It paradoxically appeared to have been taken recently because the paper on which it was printed smelled new. Four people were posing, three soldiers and my Mom. One of the soldiers had his hand around her waist, and it wasn’t my Dad. He was positioned on the other side, beside an older soldier.

“My Dad was in the army?” I quizzed, searching his intriguing eyes. “Mom never mentioned anything about dad being a soldier,” I thought aloud. “And my father never talks about his life in the army. My best friend Joni’s grandfather fought in WWII, and he had lots of military stories. My father never mentioned anything.”

“Oh yea,” he sneered, jeering me. “He was in the army alright, but it wasn’t ours.”

“What army was he in?” I asked, surprised, examining the pictures closer.

“Try Hitler’s!” he revealed with enough venom to make me quiver.

I rose in resentment, clutching my pocketbook, and throwing the photographs on his desk. I headed for the door. Halfway I turned angrily in defense. I demanded, “don’t you have a morsel of compassion? Don’t you think I have been through enough? My sanity means nothing to you?”

“I’ll tell you what means something to me. The safety of this country!” he thundered — his venom matching my own.

“What has the death of two innocent people done with national security?”

“I am not finished,” he alerted me. “The last time we spoke, you said your parents had no family here, and they both came here when they were young,” he recalled.

“I don’t remember saying anything like that,” I spewed in rage. The unfortunate experience had turned my memory into mash potatoes.

“Well, I do,” he fired back, getting up and taking another file from the cabinet behind him. He opened it, peered at me through half-opened lids, and said, “They came to America from Brazil in 1946, and their real names are Charles and Olga Stangl. Their father was….”

“Wa . . . wait a minute! What do you mean their father?”

“Let me finish,” he gesticulated.

I catapulted up and yelled, “I don’t know where you get your garbage from, but I hope the Sanitation Department can find space for it!”

Thank you for reading this piece. I hope you enjoy it.