alias: Kraut
A
Braji Short Tail Tale
P.S. Wright
Published by Splot! Publishing at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 P.S. Wright
Braji by P.S. Wright Available at Smashwords.com
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He hated that line on the forms. It was a simple question. It was an insulting question. It glared at him and dared him to answer honestly. The first question on every form... Name: Kraut. Actually Spigoli. Technically, Waldheim. Maybe someday, Kraut Parsonoczo. But legally it was John Doe. And it galled him.
The sixteen year old scrubbed at his fresh crew cut and shifted his feet. He wanted to appear comfortable and confident in his new brown suit. Kraut saw it in the eyes of the social worker whose case was docketed just after his...he looked like a skin head. Him! He rubbed the small tattoo on his right hand and wiped sweat on his pants leg.
The Judge seemed bored. Maybe, Kraut thought, he remembered the last couple times they had appeared in family court. "You want to be called what?"
"Kraut."
The judge squinted and tugged at his lip. He glared at the blonde boy with the Goodwill suit. "Kraut Doe?"
"No. Just Kraut." A line of sweat tickled his back as it ran to join the spreading stain at his waist line.
The judge looked at Pappy. Pappy gazed back coolly. "Like just Madonna, just Cher?"
Kraut felt the heat spreading over his face. "Yes." But he meant no. He wanted to say he did not want to change who he was. He wanted others to recognize who he was. A scream built up in his chest and threatened to burst from his throat. He felt the muscles in his legs bunching in preparation to run. As long as Pappy stayed, Kraut could remain and not make jokes, or pretend drunkenness, or, or...scream.
The judge tapped his pencil.
His friend Davey was in the hall. They played in the hall, running Davey's Tonka trucks along the sick green wallpaper and four-wheeling down the squeaky stairs. It was cold in the hall without his jacket. But momma would beat him again if he came back in too early. He always ran and played loudly which David's grandfather disapproved of. When he ran, he felt warmer. When he yelled, he could not hear momma and her visitor. Anonymous doors ran the length of the hallway, one after another, like soldiers on parade. Nobody bothered to put numbers or names or cute little welcome signs on the doors on the Jewish side of town. Mostly people knew where everybody lived, and those that did not had no business there. The social workers, narcs, shakedown men, insurance peddlers who sold fear...the bare and paint peeling doors did not welcome them. The monster trucks crashed down the stairs and bumped a box belonging to the new tenant.
Davey was always hesitant; he held back. But his friend saw no reason not to enter. The door propped with a box was his invitation. He knew Davey would shadow him into the apartment so ignored his whining.
A row of green and red lights, flickering needles and shiny knobs and buttons called out to Davey from behind the glass door of the stereo stand. But next to it a glass topped table, covered with chocolate crumbs surrounding an open package of Oreos, drew his complete attention.
He pushed the whole cookies into his mouth, though he was already gagging on them. Unable to cram another in, he took a double handful and more in between so that he was forced to hold them to his chest to retain them. This left him no means to get the morsels to his mouth, even if he could chew those already there. He had just decided to attempt swallowing the cookies whole when a man's strong voice thundered in his ears.
He discovered the physiological fact that two, on and one-half inch diameter cookies will not simultaneously slide through the gullet of a young child. But they will fit neatly into the opening of his trachea and there form a vacuum plug. It was several "Who do you think you are?" and "Who told you...?" later that the man noticed an odd blue tint to the little boy's cheeks.
With his one strong arm Jack Parsonoczo bent the child over and whacked him soundly on the back. A brown lump of former Oreo cookie, gooey and slobber covered, dropped at their feet. Laughing, the neighbor slapped him again on the back, this time gentler. "If you're gonna break into my apartment, play my stereo, with too much bass by the way, and eat my cookies, you gotta at least tell me your names."
He wiped his mouth and shrugged.
"I'm David Gabriel Sharpe." Davey shouldered between them, stuck out his hand, and tried to look grown-up and not at all scared out of his wits and ready to pee his pants.
"And you are?"
A heart beat's hesitation. "David Gabriel."
"Uh-huh. You're David Gabriel. And you're David Gabriel. Okay, what do they call you hellions? Got a nick-name or something?"
"Davey."
"Davey."
"Uh-huh. Well tell you what. From now on, you're the Jew-boy. And you," He pointed to the blue-eyed, blonde boy who was busy licking crumbs from his fingers. "I'm gonna call Kraut."
The boys looked at each other and back to the man. Kraut grinned.
The judged drummed his fingers on the papers stacked in front of him. "There's a birth certificate here that says your name is Karl Ernst Waldheim."
Kraut's hand went automatically to the scars in his hairline, barely detectable to his calloused fingertips.
Pappy saved him from answering. "Mr. Waldheim is my foster son's biological father, your honor."
"So why not keep your real birth name?"
Kraut opened bleary eyes and realized he had fallen asleep between hearings. His state appointed lawyer pursed his lips in disapproval and indicated the judge with a nod. Kraut squared his shoulders, stood, and stumbled over his own feet. The judge did not look pleased. "If you're through with your acrobatics, can we get on with the hearing?"
Kraut concentrated on keeping the courtroom vertical in his vision. It was sliding disconcertingly into the diagonal with every movement of his head. His stomach threatened to empty itself on the yellow tile.
"You have been charged with disturbing the peace, Drinking Under The Age, Burglary..."
"I was tired. I wasn't stealin' nothin'."
"Not to mention scaring that old man nearly to death. You have also been charged with Carrying a Concealed Weapon..."
"It was a pry bar. I used it to open the window."
"If you interrupt these proceedings one more time, you will be held in Contempt of Court, young man."
"Eat me."
The judge remained remarkably calm. In retrospect Kraut thought the judge had probably dealt with annoying and disrespectful drunks hundreds of times. In a small town the judge heard juvenile cases, small claims, traffic... it all came across his desk sooner or later.
***
I see you are more in command of your faculties today Mr. Townsend, or is it Ryan? Maybe today it's Smith? As the case may be, you have a number of federal charges pending. There are warrants out for your arrest in six states in the US and one in Guatemala, and one in Mexico, no two in Mexico, and one with a whole lot of charges attached from Columbia. You must have been tired quite frequently."
"Yes, well."
"As a sixteen year-old you may be tried as an adult in the state of Texas."
Kraut smirked. "I'm ten."
"According to arrest information provided by the Federal Bureau of Investigations you were ten six years ago when you were arrested for uh..." He shuffled papers and adjusted his glasses. "Grand Theft, Auto." He regarded the sweating teen without compassion.
"I, uh, lied. Then I mean."
"Uh-huh." The judge looked over his glasses and expected a reply.
The judge expected a reply.
"My biological father obtained that birth certificate when ICE got hold of him."
The judge sighed with the air of a man who is just realizing he is in for a long day. "I may be a bit slow, but how did Immigration get involved in this?"
"Kevin Riley? Kevin Riley? Last call, Kevin Riley!"
Kraut pushed to the front of the mob. "Right here, man. Right here."
The straw haired girl clinging to her little brother laughed one of her breathy, silent laughs. The boy nudged her and tried to wink at Kraut.
"You're Kevin Riley?"
Kraut tried to remember what Kevin Riley had looked like. About the same build, same color hair and eyes. He was freckled, no, just tended to burn a lot. Kevin walked with a shuffling gait and his hands in his pockets. The soldier would not know that. He was looking for a face to match a name. Kraut was officially listed as dead. "Yep."
"Where the hell have you been? Didn't you hear your name being called? Next time answer up. The bus is leaving. You're in Alpha group. Move out. Next!"
Kraut tried to bring the saliva to his mouth. "I spent a lot of time overseas. So, when I decided to turn myself in...I couldn't prove it."
"Prove what?"
"That I was born here."
The judge snapped, "Why not?"
All day long in the processing center, the names were called. Kids were reunited with families that had almost forgotten them, or had kept their rooms exactly as the left them, or had forbidden kin to mention their names. Kraut hoped his name would not be called. Maybe Kevin's family had written him off. Maybe they could not be located. He would be placed with a foster home. Or maybe they could not be located. He would be placed with a foster home. Or maybe be put back in jail, a nice quiet, safe, state-side cell. He watched with growing dread as the mob dwindled down to a pathetic group of straggly kids with desperate faces, kids that did not have families, kids who barely had names.
Kevin Riley had been fresh faced and clean-cut. He had a family that cared about him, a little sister named Emily. Kraut was pretty sure he had gotten in trouble with drugs and his parents had decided to teach him a lesson, tough love. Kevin should not have been in this place. He should not have died so young. But it was convenient.
No one would miss Kraut.
He jumped when they called his new name. "Yo!" He trotted over to the soldier with the clipboard.
"Your parents are in the dayroom. Don't leave until you been cleared. We're still processing your paperwork." The soldier walked away looking bored.
The dayroom was down a long hall and on the right. Kraut's feet turned left. The big glass doors were not even guarded. No one would be expecting him to run away at this point.
The parking lot was too bright. A few families milled around looking lost or angry. A little girl stood by a car crying as her family broke the news. The air was hot and heavy, smelling like rain and the tar that melted in the summer heat. Kraut drew a deep breath.
The judge drew a deep breath. "Okay, explain to me how this Kraut came into the picture."
"I always been Kraut. I've had lots of aliases. But I always told my friends to call me Kraut. It's the first name I remember. The only name I've always thought of myself as being."
"Your mother must have called you something."
Kraut stared at the little old man in the Yarmulke. He had not changed in more than ten years. Davey's grandfather sipped his tea while Kraut tried his best to explain to the old man. But the best he could do was, Liz, or maybe Liza or Lisa. Of course, it was probably actually Elisha. She'd changed it, you know? Kraut anxiously ran his hand through his long hair. The old man had known his mother. He might be able to provide the testimonial he needed to get the immigration guys off his neck.
Kraut rubbed his scratchy scalp. "Can't remember if she did sir."
The judge’s eyebrows went up in an expression of disbelief. "No birth certificate? No school registration?"
"I never went to school, except for a day or two here or there."
"I see."
"I mean, I got registered a few times under different names...You know, the state or somebody would get me into a group home or something, like in Texas. But I mean, not really under my own name or for very long or anything. And like, when I went to jail or juvey or when the social workers picked me up, they always gave me some kind of name, on paper. But everyone knew I was Kraut."
"Yes but..."
The house was huge. New York is beautiful upstate. Kraut checked the address for the twentieth time at least. His reading had progressed enormously under Pappy's house rules; but he still doubted himself. He wondered what she would look like after all this time, the treatment, the recovery. Did she still wear too much makeup? Was her nose really as long and sharp as I remembered? Was her hair naturally red, or had she dyed it? It was hard to tell if the doorbell worked. He could not hear it through the thick door. He decided to knock and was caught off guard as the door swung back.
She was regal. He had not remembered how tall she was. She even smelled good. Her face was ivory. Her hair was clearly a natural shad of red, or a good imitation, though now streaked with gray. And her mouth was set in those tight lines he remembered too well. "Can I help you?"
"Momma?"
"The Bernalillo County Court designated you, John Doe, Texas, 16. If you called yourself Kraut even then, why."
She stood half in and half out of the doorway. "My son is dead. Do you understand? I don't know what kind of sick joke you're trying to pull. But I don't find it very funny. Please leave."
"Just listen to me. You have to remember Uncle Jack, Jack Parsonoczo, lived downstairs, used to sell crack? He's going to adopt me but I need you to sign a release."
"My son was given to the state and he died in prison after running away from his foster home."
"No, I only pretended to be dead. I needed an alias."
"My son is dead. I have the death notice."
Kraut struggled. This person was the woman he remembered as momma. Yet she could not be. His mother did not speak in that tone, a tone of dignity and authority. His mother did not live in an upscale house with a four car garage. His mother could not have afforded to dress in the clothes this woman wore. "Look, I don't want anything from you. I don't want your money. I don't want to live here."
She laughed. "Well, that's a relief."
"All I want is a piece of paper with a name on it. I got to have a birth certificate. If I don't have one by midnight Tuesday, they're gonna deport me. You know I was born in America. You know that."
"So that's it. That's all you want, my name on your birth certificate."
"Yes."
"What country will they be sending you to?"
"Austria."
She raised a hand to her mouth. "Oh my! Not Austria! They don't even have good beer there."
"I'm American. You know that. You told the doctors as the clinic my name was David Gabriel. Me and Davey did have the same name. We didn't make it up. It was my name once. Wasn't it?" His shirt stuck to his back and chest. Sweat beaded across his forehead.
The judge rubbed his forehead, wiped the sweat from the bridge of his nose, and replaced his glasses. "There is another birth certificate here." He waved the paper accusingly. "Filed in New York, no signatures, David Gabriel Spigoli, address is unlisted. Is this you or isn't it?"
The cop was decent really. His mother had obtained an Order of Protection and he was not to go within fifty feet of her or her family, or their home, or their place of worship. They never actually said he could not pick up his half-brother from school, take him for a ride across a couple of state borders, watch a game, and take him home again. No one ever said. She of course had reported the boy kidnapped. But little Davey was not harmed. In fact, he had the time of his life. No harm done.
Pappy had felt otherwise. He could not understand Kraut's obsession with family. It was not just the kidnapping incident, or even the repeated probation violations, or the violations of the Order of Protection. Pappy just could not understand his need to be with someone who provided no child support, who did not love him, who had refused him even a name. But Pappy was always on his side.
"Last year, you filed adoption papers, Mr. Parsonoczo. Do you still intend to adopt your foster son?"
Pappy took a deep breath, glancing at the boy at his side. "Yes sir. But I've been told we have to wait until the biological father's parental rights have been terminated before we can move ahead. And then we have to prove we have made every effort to locate the biological mother."
"I'm surprised you haven't done that before coming into my court."
"Sir, we thought we had. But it turns out we were following a false lead."
Kraut's patience stretched to a fine, tight band across his chest. Now was not the time to lose control.
"Well, I don't see how you can expect me to authorize something like this when we don't even know if it's necessary or appropriate." He waved the stack of papers like a fan. "You don't even know what your name is. Do you?"
Kraut. Actually Spigoli. Technically, Kraut Waldheim. Maybe one day Kraut Parsonoczo. But legally it was John Doe. And it galled him.
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