Mom with baby sister and I . . . be racing down the long flights of stairs to the basement of the tenement. . . we'd be sitting on the damp floor, leaning against a cold wall, looking at that window. . . The bursts of orange flashes, accompanied by earth trembling sounds, were a gauge in every one's mind as to how close every bomb was. . . the worst became reality. A tremendous burst of white light, an earth shattering shock from a hit, the little window exploded amid an enormous orange flash and was no more. . . that would put to rest the hell of a three-year old."
". . . Mom would have to beg for milk for the twins. Our landlord would not offer any. Just before the Americans arrived, the Lord called the first of my baby sisters. Delores was four months old. That morning she was still, ashen gray, with her sister Friedoline beside her just staring a frightened stare. Part of my life had passed away. Five months later, Friedoline became ill and was delivered from a sparse and scary world."
" . . . We always craned our necks to see if a generous pile of horse apples had been left behind. To spot such a pile, still steaming with warmth, was a treat just for the taking. We would run and lovingly step into that warmthâ€" sort of kneading the fluffy droppings with our toes. The juice oozed between our feet and toes as we worked to find the last pockets of warm spots. No wonder we had such growth spurts in the spring."
" . . . Do not think we ate nothing but odd foods. We had lots of other dishes on occasion and when in season. Some things we never had nor heard of were peanut butter, corn, broccoli, steak, hot dogs, chicken, grapefruit, watermelon, and popcorn. Of course I would not trade any of the above for Limburger cheese and onions on rye bread, or hot liver loaf with spinach and homefries, or bratwurst with sweet mustard on a fresh hard roll, or boiled blood sausage with sauerkraut and potatoes fried with onions and lots of caraway seeds."
"... I felt like God was smiling at me. He certainly talked to me in whispering kindness as His breezes would loosen a few more of the fruit. I could hear it hit the ground. I would judge how far it had rolled; and always to my sheer delight, my toes would find it. On mornings like these it was easy to fill my pockets to the brim. With pockets packed full and some more in my fists, I hurriedly walked home, giddy with happiness. Oh, there were times when my pockets were not full, but my heart was always full."
". . . After tapping it with his knuckles, knocking off any snuff that may have stuck to the lid, he'd flip it open. With the precision of an orchestra conductor, he took out a pinch, between his thumb and two fingers, then flipped the lid closed again with his pinkie finger. Carefully, he'd return his treasured little box back into his breast pocket. All this was done before the pinch was ever placed on the backside of his left hand. With great expectation the hand was slowly raised to his nostrils. One good snort up one nostril took about half the dip, the other nostril likewise getting the rest of it."
". . . He returned shortly with a split piece of firewood. . . told me to kneel on it. . . He made sure that the sharp edge of the log was up and that my bare knees were squarely on it . . . There was no way to ease the pain that was now unrelenting . . . Seconds felt like minutes and minutes like hours . . . he came to the door checking up on me with a smirk on his lips. I must have been a pleasing sight to him, kneeling there, looking up with quiet tears streaming down my cheeks as the pain was unbearable . . . My heart was destroyed . . . How much time had elapsed since this horror began? . . . Will he remember me out here . . . Does anybody love me? "will this ever end?"
". . . Across the street were many piles of rubble with lots of short walls still standing, left over from the bombing . . . The rubble piles laying around were mostly worn smooth from people walking over them. Over the years, the inhabitants had looked for copper wire, gutters, or flashing to sell or wood with which to build shelves or simply to burn in the cookstove . . . Not a brick was unturned. Foot paths were meandering around and over the piles that led to people's still habitable dwelling places."
". . . Each chunk of rubber burned hot and long. Thick black smoke came from that chimney on the wash house. Long flecks of soot floated everywhere. People who had their clothes hanging to dry may have grumbled some, but no one ever openly complained. Smoke and soot was part of life. If you could stay out of it, you did, if not, you smelled it, so what. At least there were no bureaucrats getting paid to tell you there is smoke in the air."
". . . The toy wonders were still laying where I had left them, meaningless and totally useless as they really were. It was a sooty place, a place of rotten timbers and dust. Who had stolen the glee, the power, and magic? It was time. Time itself was the thief. All the good had gone...along with the boy in me."
". . . Dad spent the good part of two months in the hospital. The doctors removed shrapnel from one eye, the other eye had suffered shock from the explosion and flying earth. During the stay in the hospital, a violinist came to soothe and cheer up the wounded. He was lying there in darkness. He recalled a tune played by the violinist that haunted him the rest of his life. The melody was 'La Paloma'. His encrusted heart must have softened that day...."
". . . The American consulate was far enough away that we had to take a trolley there. All of us were present to apply for a visa to emigrate. There was a period of time the idea of my staying behind to finish my trade was considered. I was not ready to have my balloon punctured. My new job was the greatest personal achievement in my life. The idea that I may be leaving with my family to an unknown world was like being stripped of your warm blankets in an icy cold room while blissfully asleep."
". . . The anticipation of seeing the Statue of Liberty had been bottled up in me. At last, it would be for real . . . I looked to where they were pointing; and lo, way over to our left was the tiniest little statue, sticking out of the water, with her arm raised to the sky. I knew that was her but was saddened that we did not get to see her close up. Oh, how the immigrants of years passed must have been overwhelmed by her awesomeness as they passed ever so close when they approached Ellis Island. We came the year after Ellis Island was closed."
". . . The exclamation point of America was not the toast nor the watermelon. It was neither the chuck steaks, roasted chicken, or the popcorn. It was the heavenly gift, the gentle touch to mankind. It was the toilet paper; the white, unprinted roll of small soft squares of paper, which hung there, just beckoning to comfort. They hung next to the throne of contemplation. Just think, never again would I have to tear little squares of newsprint and stick them on a wire hanger. Now, that is what I call living!
