town in Germany. I forget the name. It doesn’t matter.”
Immediately, my mother changed the subject. I knew the routine. Further questions would get me nowhere. Perhaps in a few weeks I could try again.
Finally, one day my mother said,
“Tini called again. We talked for a long time, until I said ‘Tini, this is costing you a fortune.’”
This time, I asked no questions and simply listened, my thoughts darting about amongst the tangled details that my mother chose to recount. As she wound down, I heard my mother say,
“She gave me her address so I could write to her. And her phone number.”
At that instant, the idea was born. I would visit Tini. I would ask her all the questions that had welled up inside me for so long. She would know. Perhaps she would tell me.
————
TIME PASSED , but in the spring of 1998, I was able to plan my visit. I wrote to Tini and gave her the date of my arrival but no specific time. Indeed, I had no sense of distance from the airport or of how long it would take me to get to the little town of Ehningen that I had located in my old school atlas.
Frankfurt airport was large, bustling, and international. Rollaway suitcase in tow, I headed for the information desk where I was directed to the elevator, which emptied directly onto a platform where a train whisked me to the central station to make my next connection. One hour later, I sat back contentedly to watch the countryside fly past. Gardens and neatly cultivated fields alternated with picturesque red-roofed towns. Heavily wooded areas yielded to industrial buildings old and new. Town and country, past and present, all seamlessly interwoven.
Soon it was time to gather my belongings. Across the aisle, I noted a woman also preparing to dismount. I nodded and asked whether she knew Ehningen and could recommend a small hotel. She laughed at my request, and replied that above the butcher shop was the only public accommodation in town. Glancing at my lightweight summer jacket and then at the heavy rain that awaited beyond the open platform, she kindly offered me a ride. Gratefully I followed as she headed for a Mercedes parked in the nearby lot.
“
I work at the Mercedes plant,”
she explained as I hesitated to place my well-travelled bag on the leather seat.
“We get to purchase a car at a reduced price.
”
Moments later, the luxurious sedan pulled up under a sign that read
Fleischer-Metzger-Bierstube-Gäste.
As I struggled to lift out the suitcase, my nameless companion disappeared and returned with a heavy key. Up the stairs and down the hall she marched. Key in hand, she opened the door to a large room dominated by a huge bed buried under a white feather quilt.
“You will be very comfortable here, ”
she assured me as she opened a window overlooking the garden.
Though I scarcely knew where to begin, I felt compelled to respond toher kindness. Haltingly I explained how I had come to be so far from the standard tourist haunts.
“
I am from Canada and I am looking for a woman whom I do not know but who knows me. Or rather, a woman who knew me. It was long time ago, when I was small. Sixty years ago. Before the war.”
Clearly intrigued, my new acquaintance looked at the address I had pulled out.
“Königsbergerstrasse. Not far at all. Please, let me drive you there. I must be sure that you find this woman
.”
She remained in the car as I walked up the few steps of the small apartment block. Her name was listed by the intercom. Frau Christine Fuchs. I pushed the buzzer, listened to the electric crackle and then a cautious
“Ja?”
“Tini, es ist die Helen. Ich bin hier.”
“Moment bitte.”
Moments later, the door opened and strong arms flung themselves about me. German words burned into my memory.
“Helly! What have I done to deserve this day? Dear God in Heaven! I thank You, dear Father, for allowing me to live so long! I thank You for allowing me to see my Helly-girl again.”
Now we wept, both of us, as
Immediately, my mother changed the subject. I knew the routine. Further questions would get me nowhere. Perhaps in a few weeks I could try again.
Finally, one day my mother said,
“Tini called again. We talked for a long time, until I said ‘Tini, this is costing you a fortune.’”
This time, I asked no questions and simply listened, my thoughts darting about amongst the tangled details that my mother chose to recount. As she wound down, I heard my mother say,
“She gave me her address so I could write to her. And her phone number.”
At that instant, the idea was born. I would visit Tini. I would ask her all the questions that had welled up inside me for so long. She would know. Perhaps she would tell me.
————
TIME PASSED , but in the spring of 1998, I was able to plan my visit. I wrote to Tini and gave her the date of my arrival but no specific time. Indeed, I had no sense of distance from the airport or of how long it would take me to get to the little town of Ehningen that I had located in my old school atlas.
Frankfurt airport was large, bustling, and international. Rollaway suitcase in tow, I headed for the information desk where I was directed to the elevator, which emptied directly onto a platform where a train whisked me to the central station to make my next connection. One hour later, I sat back contentedly to watch the countryside fly past. Gardens and neatly cultivated fields alternated with picturesque red-roofed towns. Heavily wooded areas yielded to industrial buildings old and new. Town and country, past and present, all seamlessly interwoven.
Soon it was time to gather my belongings. Across the aisle, I noted a woman also preparing to dismount. I nodded and asked whether she knew Ehningen and could recommend a small hotel. She laughed at my request, and replied that above the butcher shop was the only public accommodation in town. Glancing at my lightweight summer jacket and then at the heavy rain that awaited beyond the open platform, she kindly offered me a ride. Gratefully I followed as she headed for a Mercedes parked in the nearby lot.
“
I work at the Mercedes plant,”
she explained as I hesitated to place my well-travelled bag on the leather seat.
“We get to purchase a car at a reduced price.
”
Moments later, the luxurious sedan pulled up under a sign that read
Fleischer-Metzger-Bierstube-Gäste.
As I struggled to lift out the suitcase, my nameless companion disappeared and returned with a heavy key. Up the stairs and down the hall she marched. Key in hand, she opened the door to a large room dominated by a huge bed buried under a white feather quilt.
“You will be very comfortable here, ”
she assured me as she opened a window overlooking the garden.
Though I scarcely knew where to begin, I felt compelled to respond toher kindness. Haltingly I explained how I had come to be so far from the standard tourist haunts.
“
I am from Canada and I am looking for a woman whom I do not know but who knows me. Or rather, a woman who knew me. It was long time ago, when I was small. Sixty years ago. Before the war.”
Clearly intrigued, my new acquaintance looked at the address I had pulled out.
“Königsbergerstrasse. Not far at all. Please, let me drive you there. I must be sure that you find this woman
.”
She remained in the car as I walked up the few steps of the small apartment block. Her name was listed by the intercom. Frau Christine Fuchs. I pushed the buzzer, listened to the electric crackle and then a cautious
“Ja?”
“Tini, es ist die Helen. Ich bin hier.”
“Moment bitte.”
Moments later, the door opened and strong arms flung themselves about me. German words burned into my memory.
“Helly! What have I done to deserve this day? Dear God in Heaven! I thank You, dear Father, for allowing me to live so long! I thank You for allowing me to see my Helly-girl again.”
Now we wept, both of us, as
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