You, me and the Beast of Balzano

My last name, Seifert, is just unusual enough that folks often ask me if I’m related to other Seiferts.

A florist in Denver often comes up and a car dealer in Iowa. I have no idea who they are.

And then there’s George Seifert, the famed San Francisco Forty-Niners’ coach. He pronounces his name See-fert.

I’m Sigh-fert. No direct connection but he’s no doubt part of the clan. Some may see a resemblance between George, to the right, and me, below.

Of course, if my name were as common as Jones, Cohen or Martinez, none of these "name" questions would arise.

I mention this because in today’s New York Times we learn that one Michael Seifert died Saturday.

I read with some shock that Seifert had been an notorious SS guard in Italy during the Second World War and had committed horrific crimes.

Some friends probably wondered whether he’s a distant relative, though I doubt anyone will ask.

We all have our little family secrets of course. Fortunately, Michael isn’t one of ours ... at least that I know of.

And yet ... .

The Times ran two photos of Michael Seifert. One was of him as a young man and SS guard. His crimes, which included rape and murder, earned him the grim appellation “The Beast of Bolzano.”

The other photo showed him as the old man who was extradited from Vancouver, B.C. after being tracked down there. He died at age 86 after serving close to three years of a life sentence in an Italian military prison.

I suppose I could read into those photos some family resemblance. Something around the eyes perhaps. The droop of the lids. Who knows?

The story got me thinking about “family” in a different way. Just where does family begin, and where does it end? When do we let go?

And what about names? Half of me is actually Welsh/English. The Welsh part is Lewis. But I’m never asked about being a Lewis because it isn’t in my name, though it is in my blood. Besides, “Lewis” is a common enough not to attract inquiries about whether I'm related to C.S., Meriwether or John L..

I do know that coal miners were three generations back on the Lewis side. The Seifert side produced doctors and dentists — and no prison guards that I know of.

But all this seems rather short-sighted. Names shouldn’t define us. Nor should families (although they do, for better or worse).

Let’s face it, somewhere eons ago, I became related to you, and you became related to me — names, “families” and race not withstanding.

If Michael Seifert’s gene pool can be more directly traced to me by name, it is all relative ... and relatives — mine AND yours.

Are YOU related to Michael Seifert, the Beast of Balzano?

Aren't we all?

A Note between Pages

Before you donate books to a community book sale, you might want to check to see what is tucked away, unbound, between the pages.

Uncashed checks? Love letters? Poison pen notes?

I mention this because I purchased a dividend when I bought a copy of C.S. Lewis’s “The Abolition of Man” at Sunday’s Hillsdale Book Sale. It yielded a gift note that clearly wasn’t intended for my eyes — or yours. The contents provide a window into a domestic drama worthy of a novel.

Would that C.S. Lewis’s book were equally engaging. The bulk of “The Abolition of Man” is a slog.

But the little three-page, hand-written note that fell out of it had immediate allure. After considerable reflection, I've decided to share its essence. No last names are evident in this note from mother to son, and I won’t divulge first names. The note is dated, but I’ll withhold that as well. Fortunately, I have no idea who the mother and son are. I can safely assume you are equally ignorant of their identities.

To proceed ....

The content of the gift book turns out to be at least partially connected the note’s ultimate message — a mother’s convoluted, pained advice to her son about his romantic liaison and apparent infidelity.

After commenting on the plight of the Ten Commandments in this modern world, she writes, “There is no perfect person with whom to mate.” But she continues, the hope is that “as one struggles on the path of life,” an initially imperfect mate “may become the perfect mate.”

Then she reveals, “It has been hard for me to speak about this as you children grew up as it seemed so hypocritical. I never approved of what I did and hoped you would escape my ways. It has certainly caused more grief and destruction not only to us as a family but to those who held us up as something rather special.”

After that sweeping, intriguing confession of parental regret, the writer lurches off into one heat-seeking piece of advice. “Please do be careful and rethink your affair with XXXX — We must not throw away people, for we throw away ourselves.”

“I love you very much, more dearly than you can imagine. Mom.”

How did mom find out about the affair? Did she have her own family-destroying affair? Did it galvanize an imperfect mate into a perfect one? How did she finally bring herself to write this note? What was her son’s reaction?

Did C.S. Lewis, the Cambridge Christian sage, help?

If the son made it to page 109 of this dense little 121-page book, he would have faced religious fiat and warning. There Lewis, author of “The Chronicles of Narnia,” cites three laws of “Sexual Justice.”

From a Babylonian “List of Sins,” a moral question: “Has he approached his neighbor’s wife?”

From Exodus, “Thou shalt not commit adultery.”

From the Old Norse Volospå, “I saw in Nåsrond (hell) … beguilers of others’ wives.”

I'm left with this question: When I donate the book to the sale next year — as I most certainly will — should the note remain with it? Or should this be the end of the liaison?