Franz about the time Michael was born
I met Franz on the fairgrounds of a small town, where his
Ferris wheel and other attractions were delighting the population. After
visiting for a while, the subject of our little brother came up. I asked Franz what
he knew about Michael’s whereabouts.
“I think he’s still on drugs,” Franz said. “I saw him about
ten years ago in Giessen.
He was alive then. Maybe he still is.”
“I wish I knew where he is,” I said.
“He told me where he lives, when I saw him last,” Franz
said. “At that time, he lived in Giessen, in some place that takes care of the
homeless.”
“How can I find that place?”
“It’s in Giessen.
On Falkenstrasse. I think it’s number eight.”
My mouth fell open. Here I was, having asked about Michael
for over a year now, and Franz knew all the time where he lived. I thought of
Carmen, who really wanted to see our baby brother again, and wondered why
nobody ever thought about asking Franz about Michael.
“Thanks,” I managed to say. What I really wanted to say was,
“Why didn’t you tell anybody before this? Why don’t you care?” But then I
thought about Franz’s inability to keep a wife (he’s now divorced from number
four), his difficulty to have compassion on others, about his rocky relationship with his
own children, and I decided to drop the subject. Franz had trouble enough.
Franz today, with our sister Carmen
As soon as I was home, I turned on the computer and started
my search for the homeless shelter in Giessen. There was no homeless shelter on
Falkenstrasse, and no hint as to where to find it.
I accessed the city
government pages, and finally ended up at the Worker’s Social Services section.
I called the phone number there, telling about my lost brother and asking for
information on the homeless shelter. I was transferred a few times and finally
found someone who knew something.
“You probably mean the men’s community shelters,” a bored
woman told me. “It’s on Falkstrasse eight. Here is the number to call there.”
So Franz really did have some information. He just remembered
it wrong. I thanked the woman, and dialed the number.
A man answered the phone and I told him I was looking for my
lost brother. When I mentioned his name, the man said, “Yes, I know him. He
lives with us. Let me connect you to his caseworker.”
I told the caseworker that I wanted to see my brother or to
talk to him, and the man said that Michael had some problems. He would
forward my request. If Michael wanted to see me, he would contact me in the
next few days.
That made sense to me. After all, the shelter didn’t know
who I really was. They were probably trying to protect him from opportunists,
drug dealers, and who knows what else.
I patiently waited, day after day, and nothing happened. I
never heard back. Maybe Michael had forgotten who I was. But, I thought, even
if he’d forgotten my married name, he would surely remember my first name.
Maybe he simply had no desire to pick up contact again with any of his family,
and that thought hurt the most.
