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The couple flying into Logan International Airport from Buenos Aires was good looking and seemed more intellectual than monied. They spoke English unless they were talking with their child, who spoke Argentinean Spanish. The child, who looked five or six years old, was absorbed in playing video games on his iPad. He looked nothing like the grownups traveling with him. The stewardess wondered whether they had adopted the boy.
The child had dark brown hair, combed from left to right, and piercing brown eyes without a hint of blue. He was sturdily built and strong, probably reared on Argentinean beef grown on the pampas. Occasionally, he would burst into a stream of Spanish in a stentorian voice that hurt the ears of those in adjacent seats. Occasionally the child lapsed into what sounded like German. The couple did not seem alarmed by the boy’s behavior.
“Adolf, we’re almost there. Keep calm and play your games.” The man’s Spanish was good, but not quite Argentinean though their family passport labeled them Argentineans.
“Max, tell me again. When we get to America, with whom will I live?” His enormous eyes were wide, imploring for some small bit of reassurance.
“You’ll be living with your Great Aunt Trudy, Adolf. She was a favorite friend of your great grandfather in the old country.”
“Is she the one who won all the athletic prizes? Es ist nicht so?”
“Ja, kleine Adolf. Sie hat blondes Haar und blaue Augen.”