Border of Truth

Border of Truth

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by Victoria Redel
     
 

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At 41, single professor Sara Leader decides to create a family by adopting a child. After the adoption agency asks for details about her background, Sara reluctantly begins to probe her father’s secret history — in particular, his flight as a 17-year-old Holocaust refugee aboard a ship denied entry into America. The more she learns about her father’

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Overview

At 41, single professor Sara Leader decides to create a family by adopting a child. After the adoption agency asks for details about her background, Sara reluctantly begins to probe her father’s secret history — in particular, his flight as a 17-year-old Holocaust refugee aboard a ship denied entry into America. The more she learns about her father’s past, the more Sara feels the need to question him about what happened — and the more she realizes how her father’s secrets have shaped her own life. Alternating between a teenage boy’s energetic letters to Eleanor Roosevelt and a daughter’s sifting through the fragments of her father’s traumatic wartime choices, Victoria Redel brilliantly imbues her characters with not only bravery and strength but with the humor to survive the pain of the past and the uncertainty of what lies ahead.

Editorial Reviews

Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers
The Quanza was a Portuguese steamship filled with Jewish refugees fleeing Nazi-occupied Europe. Due to improper visas, 86 of its passengers were denied entry to Vera Cruz, Mexico, and faced deportation back to their homelands and certain death. However, when the Quanza laid over in Hampton Roads, Virginia, to refuel, it was held in port, and the fate of its refugees became the subject of an intense political and legal battle.

With this historical incident as background, The Border of Truth imagines a young Belgian refugee, "the poet" Itzak Lejdel, among the ill-fated passengers of the Quanza. It is Itzak who, at the helm of his typewriter, begins a letter-writing campaign to Eleanor Roosevelt, importuning her intercession on their behalf. Years later in New York, a 41-year-old single woman prepares to adopt a war baby. When her adoption counselor urges her to share her family history, she realizes how little she knows of her own father's journey to the United States, and determines to find out.

As the two narratives entwine, Itzak's letters reveal his life and loves, his fears and his doubts, as he traces his passage to hope. An exquisitely crafted novel, The Border of Truth is the story of a son's journey to freedom and of a daughter's courage to question the past. (Summer 2007 Selection)

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781582433660
Publisher:
Counterpoint Press
Publication date:
04/02/2007
Pages:
336
Product dimensions:
5.80(w) x 8.30(h) x 1.30(d)

Read an Excerpt

Hampton Roads, Virginia, 1940

September 11
9:00 A.M.

Dear Eleanor Roosevelt,

Do you like stories?

So much of the story I need to tell happened in spring. A war story in spring seems wrong, I know. Yet so much of it is colorful, the tight buds of azaleas opening, wild rhododendron brushing hillsides white with flower, and the road out of Brussels bundled impossibly with carts and cars, trucks and bicycles, but scented with lilac and fields of freshly turned black dirt.

I wish I had many, many days to tell you this story, all the tender shades of green I saw -- the first, pale, fuzzy twists of ferns, ramps we picked at the edge of a woods, the yellow-green of rolled hay, a dark line of cedar twisting up a driveway outside Paris.

But I suspect there's hardly even this full day before Captain Alberto Harberts turns this steamship from this port. We have come only to bunker coal. Harberts has detained passengers and even his crew aboard. There is no time for all I want to say. Anyhow, I know that a woman in your position doesn't have all day. So I'll try to be quick -- though I have always been a little long-winded, something that Maman says will either make me a rabbi or a thief. Since when does a thief need many words? Perhaps Maman means a con man. Though having recently needed more just right words than I could conjure, I promise you, Mrs. Roosevelt, I am no one's con man.

I am instead Itzak Lejdel, born in Brussels, though lately I have had addresses in Paris, Toulouse, Perpignan, Lisbon, and almost in Vera Cruz.

I turned seventeen this spring.

Mrs. Roosevelt, before I go any further, permit me to double back and apologize for my English, which you will see is not perfect. I know it's not bad and according to my English teacher, Madame Dupais, I even have a flair for your language. Still, at this moment, I need to speak as perfectly as I can and while my French is better than my Flemish, which is maybe a fraction better than my German, I thought it was most polite and without the burden and time wasted on translators to address you in your own language. As for Yiddish, which was an option, I didn't think there's much chance that there are many Yiddish translators on the United States government payroll.

Truly I adore your English language. Madame Dupais taught us a mixture of high diction and the latest argot that would make us sound like the real deal in any bar in New York City. I was, let me brag for a moment, at the tip-top of her class. I was the bee's knees, the elephant's ear. “You're the living end,” Madame Dupais crooned when she overheard me practicing my Cary Grant with my copain, Henri. But this letter, finally, is too important to pick incorrect words or to wind up talking to the President's wife as if she were a cigarette girl on Tin Pan Alley.

But in any language I probably go about this sort of letter all wrong. My professors at the lycée -- excluding Madame Dupais -- would insist that the tone is already too informal (impudent encore, Monsieur Lejdel!), the substance vague, misleading (azaleas! thieves!) and bogged down with details that must be trimmed before the letter is sent. And while I'm apologizing, let me say I'm sorry for this terrible, thin letter paper that, rotten and thin as it is, is all that I have on board. I would have liked that my presentation was a little more presentable for the First Lady. Which leads directly to my third and grandest apology. What was I thinking, calling you Eleanor? It's one thing to write: Dear Hedy Lamarr or Dear Ginger. But you're the President's wife. The First Lady. Not that you need me to tell you this. Maybe it's just as well. They say our errors disclose us. Much to the dismay of Maman and my professors and even a few young women, it will not have been the first time I broke the rules. My name, my situation, and what I need from you. A simple, direct plea: save Maman and me. That would be, no doubt, the proper letter. But Mrs. Roosevelt, how well does a list of rules and facts move our hearts? I think it is in the details that we are saved. Here, you judge. Our steamship, the Quanza, sailed from Lisbon, arriving in New York City on August 19. One hundred and ninety-six passengers -- Americans and Europeans -- went ashore in New York. The rest of us were turned away, our visas and documentation refused. Then to Mexico, where in Vera Cruz we were again denied entrance, despite transit papers I had secured for Maman and myself in Lisbon, proving that we must go through Mexico to find passage on a ship to Shanghai for which we also have visas.

Lisbon to Mexico to Shanghai! I know -- cunning, yes, but still not a con man!

The has come to the port at Hampton Roads, Virginia, to load coal and bring the refugees back to Lisbon, though there is no certainty we will be granted entrance into Portugal.

Refugee. Suddenly this is one of my facts.

And that is practically the whole story when it comes to simple facts. Tell the truth, you weren't moved very much, were you?

Okay, there's another fact. On the ship, they call me the Poet.

But, really, I'm no poet. I think this must be obvious to you, even if sometimes I do go a little overboard with my descriptions. But let them think these pages that I curl over are poems, barely glancing up when they pass, knuckling my skull. “Itzak the Poet,” they say, “Still with the poems. You don't think the Legal Advisory Committee could make a better use of your typewriter?” I don't budge. Every one of the All-Important-capital-A-capital–I-capital- C-Committees has tried to commandeer my Royale. This typewriter's a beauty. From cabin bunk to the upper or second deck, I carry my Royale, setting up a portable office. Let them think these are poems. Let them think I'm Itzak the dreamer. All along it's been letters, not poems. Mrs. Roosevelt, I'll admit you're not the first I've written a letter to on this passage. I've written Rosalind Russell and Claudette Colbert. Now may we talk about who is truly the cat's meow! I'd like to also write Ginger, Hedy, and Lana Turner. And Judy Garland. I'm a fan. Of all of them. Of actresses. In those letters I tell them how gorgeous and talented they are and that one day, in America perhaps, I hope to meet them, but until then, I am their eternal fan. Not that I wouldn't consider slipping a bit of poetry (Baudelaire, Verlaine, maybe the wild Rimbaud) into a letter to show my savoir faire. I've considered writing film stars for help. But I've decided, as Madame Dupais says, to put all my eggs in one basket.

Now, here on the Quanza, more than facts, what's left are rumors. For example, that certain legal petitions filed on behalf of the wealthier families will hold us in port. That a lawyer in Virginia has been hired and is trying to arrest the ship and buy time for his client's release from the ship. Rumor: that the client is Monsieur Rand. Rumor: that the client is Madame Cartier. Not a rumor: that the client is the third-class passenger, Itzak Lejdel.

And the big, big, big, biggest rumor is that you, Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt, have been directly contacted.

That's why, bragging as this sounds, I think it important to write you directly and ask if you can help Maman and me off the ship?

There it is -- I've written who I am and what I want.

Simple, clear facts, the lesson accomplished. Yet the facts tell us nothing. Or they tell a dreary story of stations and inspectors, the endless waiting on endless lines. Visas, papers, valises tied with rough, frayed string. Tell me, who wouldn't want that story to hurry up and end? But this is also a story with the long, grand hallways of European libraries. There is a fox stole and bright caged birds in my story. Here there are trains and disguises, the loosening of a woman's coiled hair. There are film stars and hiding in movie houses (and isn't everything better when the movies are involved!). There are deceptions, maps, and betrayals. There are long, ample kisses. In other words, here's a story of everything a boy might dream of knowing during the spring and summer he turns seventeen. But I hope this is not only a boy's adventure story or a flimsy poet's dreaming.

Mrs. Roosevelt, here's a fact that matters. I'm counting on you liking stories. I believe my life depends on it.

Yours truly,

Itzak Lejdel

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4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 1 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
A compelling story that is extremely well-written with the plot revealed thru war-time 'correspondence' and real time relationships. An excellent story of family, secrets and survival during a time of tremednous fear, horror and confusion.