cases of particular interest now. My bread and butter was estate planning for fellow American expats. A little boring.” She smiled. “But I have a rarefied specialty: recovery of assets for families of Holocaust victims. My office is in Switzerland for that reason: As Willie Sutton said about robbing banks, that’s where the money is. Most of it. But from time to time, something turns up somewhere else.” From a slim briefcase, she handed us each a set of papers. “If you don’t mind, I’d like you to look at these.”
On top was a Xerox of an old photograph. A teenage girl, in the knee-length skirt and round-toed pumps of thirties movies, stood with a boy a few years younger. One hand held down a hat threatening to take off in a wind that slanted his tie and stirred her curly hair; the other seemed to hold down the boy himself, who radiated affable impatience. Their conspiratorial smiles as they indulged the photographer reminded me of my brothers and me.
The next page was another Xerox, of a handwritten letter. A typed notation at the top margin said, “Jewish Museum, Holocaust archives. Rosalie Gilder to her mother, Elke Gilder, April 14, 1938.”
“This looks like German,” I said. “I don’t—”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Alice Fairchild. “The last page is the translation.”
I flipped the pages. From neat typing, I read:
14 April 1938
Dearest Mama,
I write from the deck of the Conte Biancamano as we are putting out to sea. A salt wind is blowing and the sun shines with a power I’ve never seen. Oh, how I miss you, Mama! From this moment I shall write often and tell you everything, exactly as you requested. Paul teases me that my inability to keep silent and my love of setting pen to paper would assure that you’d be flooded with letters, whether you’d requested them or not! And he’s right, of course. Though this letter, and its fellows to come, could remain unwritten, could go to blazes for all I care, if only you were with us!
I couldn’t write from the train, Mama. No one aboard could think of anything but how each passing meter brought us closer to the border. What weak conversation there was stopped completely each time the train did. Everyone was terrified that the Gestapo—who came aboard twice—would find something wrong in our papers, and remove us. Such downcast eyes and timid voices! Even mine, Mama, even mine. Choking on my fury—yes, and my fear—I sat, the soul of meekness, showing Paul’s papers and mine as commanded, otherwise silent. But all the passengers were the same; even the youngest children sat frozen, clutching their parents’ hands.
Until the border! As the whistle blew and the train chugged from the Italian customs station, such cheers erupted! Strangers hugged and champagne bottles appeared by magic. One gentleman jumped from his seat and burst into Italian song. I allowed Paul champagne because I imagined you would have, and took a small glass myself. Briefly we celebrated; then the tumult died down, as all of us, exhausted by worry and weakened by relief, turned to quiet conversations or private thoughts.
Are you well, Mama? I must tell you, as the train pulled out of the Hauptbahnhof I very nearly leapt from it and refused to leave Salzburg without you! But I forced myself to remain. You’ve made me responsible for Paul’s safety and I intend to carry out my charge so you will be proud of me when you arrive. And I hope and pray that will be sooner than we expect. Three months is not fast enough! Please do whatever you must—sell everything, badger the steamship lines, cause a nuisance at travel offices—until you book an earlier passage! Please, Mama, I won’t rest until I hear that you and Uncle Horst have cleared the border.
Now, as to Paul and myself, you mustn’t worry. People show great kindness when they learn we’re traveling alone. The situation on this ship, in any case, is quite extraordinary. Everything is teak, glowing brass, and thick carpets. As we boarded this morning, streamers flew and in the Grand Saloon the ship’s orchestra played merry tunes—quite well, I’m sure, but unnervingly discordant in the circumstances. Our stateroom is small but well appointed. Our suitcases, though battered, are intact and holding up nicely. The passengers are looked after by stewards who treat us as guests traveling for business or pleasure, though fully two-thirds are fellow Jews in our situation—refugees, let us use the