Hermine was a 62-year-old lady with gray hair, a flabby body, but an adventurous spirit. Unsophisticated and untraveled, she was a longtime widow who spoke only Polish, German and Yiddish.
A cablegram arrived from her son, Siegfried, in San Francisco: “Visa obtained. Passage booked from Brindisi, Italy, Jan. 28, 1939. Love.” That started her lonely voyage to foreign lands.
Settled in the train, her destination the Hungarian border — she could not travel through Austria — Hermine tried to hide the terror reflected in her eyes, while dripping tears of farewell for her assembled family.
She huddled in her window seat, clasping her voluminous pocketbook, alternately looking at her stored suitcase and suspiciously measuring her fellow travelers. She did not dare fall asleep, nor did she enjoy the sandwiches Lilly had thrust at her.
After hours of eastward toiling, the train stopped at the Slovak border. Hermine heard with horror: “All passengers must cross on foot. The connecting train is waiting two kilometers down the line.”
Clutching her “J”-imprinted passport and pocketbook, Hermine dragged her suitcase across the border, step by tedious step. Having conquered the first hurdle, she mustered the courage to continue her journey to safety.