My father came to this country in 1950. He was fifteen. He was the first German boy brought to America on a scholarship after World War II. An American vet had raised the funds. The vet had been touched by the suffering of the German civilian population, the children in particular.
In Boston, my father got off the airplane in a suit painstakingly re-stitched from one that had belonged to his father who had died during the war.
It was immediately decided by the school representatives that the suit and all my father's other clothes would not do--too shabby. Somebody went out and bought him two suits, five shirts, underwear, socks, two pajamas. They were all, to his amazement, new.
In his letters home to his widowed epileptic mother who lived in a one-bedroom with a narrow storage room that held my father's bed--an apartment poorly heated by coal, an apartment in Berlin that still stood among an endless sea of rubble and broken glass--my father wrote about the clothes, the food, the private homes with circular driveways and Ionic columns, his little trips along the East Coast, the skyline of New York, intact and splendid.
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