Growing I heard stories of my grandfather Nicholas Dozenberg, confabulous stories about China and the pottery pieces that adorned the fireplace hearth. Far, far away places that I could only imagine. And that man.
I knew he was my mother’s father and had been married to my grandmother. There where “cousins,” in Santa Barbara California that had visited us but that was as much as I knew about his family. He must have had a family.
He must have been an interesting man for all of the grown up people to be talking about him. I heard from my grandmother that he spoke, “seven languages,” and that intrigued me more than anything. How could anyone speak that many languages?
Why was my grandmother so intent on writing her story?
Why did my mother feel the deep loss of this man in her life?
Where was his family?
Where did he come from?
Who is a spy?
Who did he spy on?
Why was he a spy?
How could I know him better?
Would I ever know him?
Was he really a communist?
I grew up in a culture of hippies, free love and sunshine. A very different place then most of the rest of the world. My aunt listened to the Beattles and my favorite color was hot pink.
The information gap grew and turned into a lifetime pursuit of learning, understanding and appreciating the life of the mystery man