This is a compact, but essential history of my parents:

My mother was born in Holland in 1904
My father was born in Germany in 1906
Both were born into Jewish families, but that’s another story.

My father’s sister Hilda, worked for my mother’s family,
and, “I’ve got a brother I’d like you to meet
and the rest is history.

They, being soulmates, hit it off right away.

They get married in Belgium in 1939:

And my mother leaves for North America,
where her brother has lured their parents
with stories of “the streets are paved with gold”.

And the rest is harrowing: you can guess what must happen:
It’s 1939, and the Not-sees have taken over Germany;
“Breathing while Jewish” is now a crime.

My father is desperate: he hides out with friends,
who are also afraid of a knock on the door
in the middle of the night.

He knows my mother will move heaven and earth
to get him to safety,
but this will take time.

He has heard of a point on the Dutch-German border
where someone can cross (at night)
without being arrested.

So, with $50 (in German money?) in his pocket,
he crosses into Holland
and finds safety with Dutch friends.

Meanwhile, my mother is desperately trying
to get my father a visa to Canada or the US.
but this, too, takes time.
– – – – – – –

Time passes.
My father has not been arrested.
My mother is waiting, waiting.

– – – – – – –

And then, casually, it happens:
a letter in the mail.
My mother opens it—and cries with relief.

It is late 1939, maybe December,
and my mother books a ticket for my father
to sail to North America.

He does that,
and they meet again in a train station
in Detroit.

And you can read my mother’s touching account of that meeting:

Reunion

I didn’t pinch myself when, on that cold afternoon in December, I was waiting for the train to arrive. A few men were working along the tracks. Vaguely I imagined myself joining them, playing hopscotch–endless hopscotch. The tracks were my lines, and no matter how far I looked, I couldn’t find the end of the lines. The way my anticipation had been for months, seemingly continuing forever. No! There WAS a difference: today the train should soon be arriving, using these tracks as a way to come towards me. The thought of the train brought me back to reality: here I am, waiting for my husband! A uniformed employee came to the platform, and I asked him what time the train from New York was expected to arrive. I was struck by the softness of his voice when he said, “You’d better go inside, lady; it’s another half-hour yet. There’s not much heat there, but you’d be better off.” He glanced at my European winter coat, inadequate for the Detroit weather. Only then did I realize that I was shivering, and I entered the waiting room. I expected to find a comfortable place, but because the war had made economizing on heat and electricity necessary, the room was hardly heated, dimly lit. Yet I felt somewhat more protected, less alone between those walls, and, pulling my coat a little closer to my body, I looked around for a chair. There was no chair–no furniture at all: all there was was the door leading to the platform. Four or five people stood around, obviously waiting too.

Was this the realization of my dream? Many times, in my dreams, I was going to meet my husband at the railroad station, and, just before arrival time an announcement came over the loudspeaker, saying that the train had been bombed by the Nazis, and I’d wake up crying; then, realizing that it had been nothing but a dream, I felt relieved.

Now our reunion was going to be a reality. I did not have to pinch myself: I had his postcard in my coat pocket. It said, “My train will arrive Friday night at 4:30. I am longing to see you.” Now it was Friday, and the time was 4:15. I thought, should I compare what is happening now with what has happened in my dreams? Now there will not be that terrifying ending; I am sure of that. Yet now that my waiting will soon be over, there is not the joy I had anticipated.

The railroad employee came in again. Was it his friendly face, the way he walked, the warmth in his voice?—-something reminded me of my father. With a benign smile he pointed at the clock. “Just ten more minutes. You were here so early. You must be expecting somebody who’s close to you.” “Yes, my husband,” I said, surprised that he had remembered me.

I never knew how long ten minutes could be. And how my life would change in those ten minutes. Half a year is a long time for newlyweds to be separated. Half a year has 180 days—and 180 nights.

Now he’ll soon come through this door. We’ll embrace, and we’ll talk about how much we have missed each other. About our experiences during that half year, and how good a feeling it is to be together again. And we’ll hold each other’s hand, and we’ll discuss our future.

I looked around. There were no people waiting any more; they must have left without my noticing it. I looked at the clock. In five minutes I’ll see his face again. How often have I tried to visualize his features, having no exact memory of what he looked like.

Now he’ll smile at me, he’ll kiss me, and I’ll feel good all over again. I won’t feel the cold. He’ll ask me whether I have felt as lonely as he has, all those months. He’ll ask how much I have adjusted to this new country and the new language. Then I’ll tell him about some funny mis-understandings I have experienced—-Who will talk first? What will we talk about first? I’ll tell him how much I have missed him; about my longing for familiar faces in this new city, for familiar ways of living, the familiar sound of words in my native language; that both of us will have to adjust to this different way of living. But I am sure that together we’ll succeed. He is practical, sensible, and his good sense of humor will help us through our expected difficulties. All of this has helped him during the horrors of the Hitler time—–Should I tell him about my frightening nightmares?—-What will he talk about?

Looking around, I found myself all alone in the room. Will I now hear that frightful message over the loudspeaker? Don’t let it come! Let me wake up! Now!!

I saw a few people come in from the platform; vaguely I realized then that there had been the sound of an incoming train, and I stared at the door. Just stared—-without sensation—-without expectation—-without comprehension. I didn’t ask myself now whether this was another dream; I just let it happen—-I saw him come in, together with some more people. I noticed how pale his face was, and I stared at him. I took a few steps and stopped; he looked at me, smiled and came towards me. We kissed; we must have embraced each other, but I don’t remember that. All I remember is that he was there. I didn’t feel joy; neither did I feel unhappiness. I just was.

It took a long time before either of us spoke; then his first words were, “Let’s sit down.” He looked around, but there were no chairs. On one of the heating pipes he found a place where we sat down together—-very closely. Where were the expressions of our happiness, our questions? We had no words—-no smiles—-no tears.

Esther Gottlieb 1975