Chapter 24
ETHEL
Ethel spent the remaining days of summer cloaking her four children in a mother’s love.
She taught them English, took them to the park, fed them well, and gathered them each night to pray before tucking them into their cozy beds.
While they slept at night, she perfected the Brown Baby Plan and wrote how-to-adopt articles for the Afro-American newspaper.
Most evenings after Bert had gone to sleep, her kitchen light burned into the wee hours as she worked on the plans for her one-woman adoption agency.
The single mission of the agency was to facilitate speedy placement for colored children with American families in Germany and the United States.
Even though she worked hard, at every turn she found bureaucracy placing a wedge in her plans.
For the past three weeks, Ethel had spent her days at city hall, petitioning the courts on behalf of the fourteen military families she had identified as prospective adoptive parents.
The language barrier had proved a hindrance until two days ago, when a young law student offered to serve as her translator.
After much back-and-forth, Ethel received her first win, and she couldn’t wait to get to the Negro Wives of Mannheim meeting to share her good news.
On the next Friday, Ethel made her way to the basement of the yellow Protestant church at the front of the Benjamin Franklin Village, dressed in a floral A-line skirt and sheer blouse.
When she entered the open room with Anke on her hip, she found the two women in charge of hospitality putting the finishing touches on the food table.
Glass bowls of potato salad and macaroni salad sprinkled with paprika, crispy fried chicken legs, juicy sliced honeyed ham, and green beans smoked with pork made Ethel’s mouth salivate. There was also a pitcher of fresh-squeezed lemonade and a pineapple upside-down cake for dessert.
“Looks fantastic.” Ethel waved to the two women as she placed Anke down with the other two children on a mat with plush toys.
Julia pulled Ethel into a tight hug. “Oh, you smell good. What’s that you’re wearing?”
“Just a little Jean Naté.”
“Smells better on you than it does on me,” Julia huffed. “Were you able to run off copies of the agenda for me?”
“Yes, Madam President,” Ethel teased, then reached inside her purse and handed Julia a stack of papers.
“How did it go in court?”
Ethel perked up. “I finally made a little headway, but I’m going to need all hands on deck. Can I hijack a few minutes with the ladies to put out a cry for help?”
“Of course, just add it to your vice president’s report,” Julia said, reviewing the schedule. “I do hope the social committee has secured a location for our dinner/dance fundraiser. I already have a handful of people who are ready to purchase tickets.”
The room filled with laughter and chatter as more women arrived, dressed in their Sunday best. Metal chairs tied with pink bows were set around rectangular tables covered in starched white linen tablecloths.
After hugs and small talk, the women held hands, said grace, and piled their plates high before drifting to their seats.
Julia passed out the agenda and called the meeting to order. After she went through their social and membership outreach points of engagement, she turned the meeting over to Ethel.
Ethel stood, and as she walked, she could feel that the waistband of her skirt had tightened against her belly. She had treated herself to seconds of everything.
“Good afternoon, ladies. Protocol having been established, I am Ethel Gathers, vice president and community service chair. First, I want to thank all the women who prepared the food today. You really put your foot in it.” She smiled, and many of the women chuckled.
A few fanned their hands in the air as one lady shouted, “Say it again,” and another called out, “Got me licking my fingers to the bone.”
Ethel went on, “As many of you know, I have been working feverishly to place the half-Negro orphans living here in Germany in American homes. I am bringing this before our group to secure your help in locating families willing to adopt. Any way you can help, really.”
A tall woman dressed in a flowy peach dress raised her hand. “Are you looking for families in America too? I have a cousin in Charleston who can’t have children,” she said.
“Yes. I’ve just penned an article that ran in the Baltimore Afro-American newspaper, letting folks know that these children need homes.
I’ve asked the potential parents to send their inquires to the newspaper, providing a good description of what they are looking for, girl or boy, infant, toddler, school-age child.
To be frank, that’s the easy part,” Ethel said, thinking about all the affidavits of support from the immigration authorities, financial records, and the long list of legal documents needed for the consulate in Germany to start the process.
“Are all the kids locked away in orphanages?”
“Many of them, but not all. Some are at home with their mothers until we can move them. Regardless of where the children live, we need the written consent of the mother to get the paperwork rolling. Once that happens, the child is separated from the mother and then placed in a Wisenheim, which is the German way of saying an institution.”
“That sounds like the hardest thing to do for a mother,” one woman said, wincing.
“How hard could it be? They’re giving up their children anyway. The sooner the better,” another snapped.
“And who pays for all of this?”
Ethel cleared her throat. “Once we identify a match, the family adopting the child is charged twenty dollars a month for the child’s food, clothing, and medical care until his or her name reaches the German quota list.” Ethel purposely left out the additional forty dollars it would cost to translate the documents into German, not to mention the cost of the long-distance calls to and from the States requesting documents.
She didn’t want the fees to scare away any potential parents.
“So what’s the holdup? Seems like if the mothers don’t want them, you should be able to move the kids in droves.”
Ethel cringed. She had spent enough time with local German mothers to know that they didn’t always want to give up their babies. Most times they had no source of income, no family support, and no other choice.
“The toughest part in all of this is proving the baby’s nationality,” Ethel said, repeating what her translator had just related to her in court.
“Aren’t they all just German?” Julia asked.
Ethel shook her head and explained, “When a German woman marries, she automatically becomes the nationality of her husband. If she’s not married, her nationality must be proved through her grandfather. She must produce proof before the passport of the child will be issued.”
“Good grief. There are so many hoops to jump through while those poor children just have to sit and wait,” Julia said, reaching for her daughter, who had started to fuss.
Ethel clutched the podium with both hands. “It could take six weeks to six months for the proof to be obtained and processed.”
“What can we do?”
“Pray,” someone shouted.
“Prayer always helps.” Ethel chuckled. “But I need boots on the ground. I need you all to start chatting with Negro women in your networks, at home, here, and anywhere in Germany. Help me get the word out that these babies are available for adoption. As many of you know, I have adopted four, and they have been the joy of my life.”
Words of congratulations rang around the room. Once the women settled back down, Ethel added, “My goal is to get as many of these children to America as I can, and for that we need resources.”
“I can organize a bake sale,” said the woman in the flowy dress. “I make a mean sweet-potato pie.”
“That’s a start,” said Ethel as woman after woman called out ideas. Then, as if on cue, Anke stood in all her sweet stickiness, reaching her arms out to Ethel with the white bow slipping from her hair, shouting, “Mummy. Up.” And the ladies oohed and ahhed as Ethel nuzzled Anke in her arms.