He gave me the name of a street, a neighborhood. It was more than I had learned in 29 years. I thanked him. He looked away, unable to meet my gaze. The following month, I left for Salzburg. I was 18. My hair was almost entirely gray. My hands trembled constantly from arthritis. My knees ached with every step. But I went.
The train journey lasted for hours. I watched the scenery go by: mountains, forests, villages. I thought about all those lost years, all that time my son had spent growing up without me, somewhere, perhaps hundreds of kilometers away. Did he look like me? Had he inherited my eyes, my lips? Did he know he was adopted? Had anyone told him about me? I found an eagle in the Salzburg phone book.
Hans Adler. I jotted down the address in my old notebook, where I’d written hundreds of names over the years. Then I walked toward the house as if I were about to fall into a ravine, knowing full well that I would. It was a well-kept bourgeois house, with a flower garden. Roses climbed the facade. A child’s swing hung from a thick chain.
Everything seemed normal. A peaceful life, quiet happiness. I rang the bell. The next few seconds felt endless. Then the door opened. A man in his thirties stood there. Brown hair, dark eyes, deep wrinkles. My heart skipped a beat. It was him. I knew it. My whole being knew it. I recognized something in his face.
A resemblance to my mother, to Séverine, perhaps even to myself. “Yes,” he said in German, with a hint of impatience. The words caught in my throat. I stared at him, unable to look away. I searched for traces of myself, of my sisters, of my vanished family. “Are you all right?” he asked [music], and his voice changed, betraying his worry.
“I… I’m looking for someone,” I finally managed to say hesitantly in German to the man born in June 1943 and adopted by the Adler family. His expression changed immediately. He turned pale. A veil of darkness fell over his eyes. He took a step back. Why? I took a deep breath. I mustered all my courage, because I was his mother.
The silence that followed was unbearable. He looked at me as if I were a ghost from his past, haunting him. He gripped the doorframe tighter. His breathing came in gasps. Then, slowly and without a word, he stepped back and closed the door. I stood frozen on the threshold, my legs trembling, my heart broken.
I heard voices coming from inside. A woman asked what was happening, and he answered something I didn’t understand. I waited maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour. Time had lost all meaning, but the door didn’t open. Finally, I slipped the letter into the mailbox. A letter that explained everything: who I was, [the music], what had happened, why I had come.
I gave him my hotel address. Then I went home and cried for three days. He didn’t want me. He wanted nothing to do with me. For almost thirty years, I had traveled, crossed borders, saved every penny, followed every lead, and now, when I had finally found him, he was rejecting me. But I couldn’t give up. Not now, not after all this.
I returned the next day. I rang the bell, but no one answered. I came back the following day. Same result. I left more letters, photos from my youth, a photo of Séverine and Aurore, documents from the camp, everything I had collected over the years. On the fifth attempt, he opened the door. [Music] He looked exhausted, with deep dark circles under his eyes.
His face was impassive. “What do you want from me?” he asked. His voice was broken, almost pleading. “Nothing,” I replied softly. “I don’t want anything from you.” I just wanted to tell you that I wanted you, that I never left you, that we were separated, that I never stopped thinking about you for a single day of my life.
He closed his eyes. A tear rolled down his cheek. They told me my mother died in the war, that I was an orphan, that my biological parents died in a bombing. “I know,” I whispered. “I know what they told you.” They lied to me. His voice trembled with anger and pain. “Yes,” he said, opening his eyes and looking at me, really looking at me for the first time.
“What’s your name, Maéis?” She nodded slowly, as if memorizing each syllable. My name is Mathias, and for the first time in 29 years, I heard my son’s name. Mathias and I had never been close. How could we have been? I was a stranger to him. He was a man whose life was built on a lie, a lie I had destroyed. We met a few times after that first encounter.
Polite coffee breaks, timid conversations. He would ask me questions about Aurore and Séverine, about von Steiner, right then and there. I answered honestly, even though it hurt. One day, he asked me, “Did you love me?” “A little.” I looked at this thirty-year-old man, this stranger who was my son, and I told him the truth. I loved you from the first moment I felt you inside me, and when they took you away, a part of me died.
I’ve searched for you all my life. Yes, Mathias, I loved you. I still love you. He cried. So did I. But love alone isn’t always enough to heal wounds. Mathias had his own family, a wife, two children, a life very different from mine. I couldn’t demand a place in his life. And I didn’t want to. I just wanted him to know.
We corresponded for several years. Then the letters became less frequent, and the music stopped. In 2005, I learned from his obituary that he had died of cancer. He was sixty years old. Yet, I wasn’t invited to the funeral. I stayed at the back of the church, discreet, without drawing attention to myself. I saw his children cry, his wife collapse, and then I understood.
My son had lived a life, a real life despite everything, despite Funsteiner, despite the camp, despite me. And perhaps that was enough. When I gave that interview for the “Historical Memory” project in 2010, I was six years old. I was physically exhausted, my voice hoarse, but my mind was still clear. I was asked if I had any regrets. I answered no.
Not because I was looking for Mathias, not because I knocked on his door, not because I told the truth, but because silence also kills, and some stories cannot be buried. Von Steiner was never brought to justice. The children born in that camp were never officially registered. Women like me have never received recognition, apologies, or compensation.
We were simply erased. But as long as there is someone to tell our story, we will continue to live. I died five years after that interview, in 2015. I was 91 years old. I was alone, as I had been for most of my life. But my words remain. And today, decades later, thousands of people are hearing my story.
Continued on the next page
