To receive an exit permit after Hitler’s invasion of Czechoslovakia, my father, Walter Stross, was forced to sell his textile factory — founded by his grandfather — for not much more than our fare to England, where our Czech passports secured us entry without visas. Confronting his fate with dignity and determination, he applied his oft-repeated credo, “I am a warrior, I shall persevere.” The family felt reassured.
In England, my father spent months facing rejection. Afraid of postwar competition, prospective employers shunned him. Our funds dwindled, our accommodations became more cramped. Even in his worn suit and turned shirt collar, he remained elegant. Finding the world of professional employment closed, he shifted to munitions and the war effort.
Standing in the middle of a concrete floor, ignoring the deafening noise and scurrying men around him, my father, the only metal worker wearing a bow tie under his spotless coveralls, with clean, meticulously cared for hands, held up a finely milled cube with an exact triangular wedge cut out.
“Well done. This concludes your apprenticeship,” remarked the foreman.
Delight in his achievement spread over Walter’s 60-year-old face, his eyes sparkling behind dark frames. The physical and mental exhaustion that had plagued him during the months of refugee life fell like a plumb line from his shoulders.
My father returned home with a bounce in his step announcing, “The world does need me after all. I shall be useful again”.