I would like to put those earlier years in an electronic box and watch them unfold, edited like a good film. My Father’s soldier days, my Mother building her American life. But I’m left alone to write the script. Play or narrative? Soundscape or story? Public or therapeutic? Immersive or dismissive? Where do I start?

First I’ll assemble those little pieces I have. There’s no one left to ask about the connective tissue. How did I miss that window? How could I have been so careless with my Mother and Father, letting them slip away before polishing the narration of each significant scene? Sometimes the patch merely conceals the hole. And sometimes it transforms the treasured scrap into new cloth. Maybe I can call upon my training. Both actresses and lawyers piece together stories from evidence and omission. I need only suggest a possibility—not prove beyond a reasonable doubt. That will have to do.

I couldn’t ask her if she registered. I didn’t want to embarrass her. But what would they do to her—to us—if she hadn’t? To prepare myself, I pictured the situation. We’d be going up the escalator in Lytton’s department store in downtown Evanston—a usual haunt. We always used the ladies room at Lytton’s on our once or twice weekly visits to the allergist. After making our contribution in the long row of stalls, we’d look at the rounders of ladies wear. The ladies room was gray and white. The store was gray and white. We were gray and white. The PSA was gray and white. Maybe I just remember everything from the early 1960’s as a grayscale image. We were light years from the rainbow streaked 1960s that would arrive when we moved to California at the end of the decade.

The PSA voice would come over the store’s loudspeakers. We were trapped on the escalator—we’d have to go to the top to get off and come back towards the exit. That would be too obvious. We’d better run up the mechanized stairs and hide in the rounders. I pictured the uniformed men—much like the NAZI’s my Mother had fled less than 25 years before—pushing aside the clothes and finding me hidden in the center, knocked down by their guns. What had they done with my Mother? Where had they taken her? And where would I go?

I could probably get back home by myself on the bus. Or would they find Daddy? Daddy traveled for work; he was never in town when anything happened. I would just have to learn to get on the downward escalator faster and lessen the time for escape.

I’ve never told this to anyone else who remembered the PSA’s, including my Mother, years later.

Your story never had time for doubt: can I do it? will it be right? enough? You dove in and made things happen. That’s how it sounds all these years later, at least. Your hedge? Don’t expect too much. Don’t expose too much.

No I didn’t have to do battle with Hitler, with a crazed nation following a madman to the destruction of millions of innocents, including my family and my freedom. I have had it easy. But he took my family before I knew. He tore it from a long-feathered roost in a civilized nation, a nest that should have stood more generations well, providing steady improvement for those who followed. Only thing is, war marches backward over civilization.

Yet I must honor the storm and flight. I’m the child of two people who never would have met but for the uprooting and destruction–that crazy sequence of coincidences that bring people together.

My Mother was tempered in a brutal forge. She passes along the burnt-blue blade and the well turned sheath. She dies.

Here I was, socializing with those people I wasn’t supposed to socialize with—the female secretaries and administrators so excited about my huge belly and impending status-change. The lunch table was buried in wrapping paper, ribbons and excitement. One of those pastel packages held a small misshapen yellow bear.

My “lovies”—important friends, confidants and mentors—were stuffed dogs and cats. What did this presage for the little allergic-to-be child that was me? These were the only kitties and puppies I nuzzled and nuzzle them I did—to the extinction of their “fur” and through many replacement eyes and noses. I only learned latter that you were “supposed” to have a teddy bear. Ah, my child would be a normal kid—that elusive goal of mine. Here was her bear.

But this bear didn’t even look like a bear. The ladies explained—this is a bear for very little babies who are too small for scary-faced, limbed bears with choking-hazard eyes. Yellow Bear was soft, gently be-rattled, washable and gender neutral.

He carefully minded the empty crib for a couple of weeks and came with us to the hospital on labor day. He became the star of parties, a favorite of the paparazzi and gave rise to a song. And his disappearance became the cause célèbre of letter-writing between me and the Gund company.

Of course it’s the favorite stuffed animal that takes the most journeys and therefore increases the odds of disappearance. And face it, how long will a kid cry when she loses the toy she didn’t really care about? I don’t think my four year old lost the bear. And while I tend to misplace things, I always find them. The disappearance of Yellow Bear still mystifies me. Yes, I blame myself.

Finally, I wrote a long impassioned letter to the Gund Company, complete with a recording of the song I’d written a year or so earlier about Yellow (co-starring a few other choice bears.) I was pretty sure they must get lots of these letters and figured they probably had a procedure for handling them.

The concerned-and-corporate-toned response asked for a photograph of the bear. I sent the picture complete with the adorable infant who had grown to love it so much. Their next letter apologized; this bear had been discontinued quite some time ago and while they searched arduously, they could not locate the model in yellow. However they found one in pink. There would be no charge for this bear as it was damaged by a permanent smudge on its nose. Did I want the slightly-defective non-replacement bear?

Of course. I washed the little nose a few times and hung onto the bear, wondering how to best introduce it. It lacked Yellow Bear’s charm completely and was no substitute. Still, it wasn’t a bad bear. One afternoon during nap time, I tried to slip it in her bed, excited by the prospect of her reaction when she woke to see it. But the tiny infant-appropriate-rattle woke my hard-sleeping child to the query “Yellow Bear?” The nap was lost and the loss refreshed. But this closed the replacement quest.

Many months later Gund sent another lengthy corporate missive. During a semi-annual inventory, they located a replacement yellow bear. If I would enclose a check for the retail price with my answer they would send it. “Yes! Yes!” pulsed through my temples as I raced to my checkbook.

Another couple of weeks and the bear arrived: brand new; absolutely perfect; charming and never to leave the house again—at least not without all the other household possessions in tow. He got along well with the other animals and was accepted as a substitute. He’s right downstairs—in a house my daughter has never lived in. And to this day, if I should happen to start a sentence with the phrase “What do you think I found?” in conversation with my adult daughter, she’ll answer “Yellow Bear.”

That secret life that came before, that vital, dangerous, struggling life you set out upon when you left your home in Germany, I’ve run across that too, in your snap judgments, reminders not to care too deeply or expect too much, and pushes out the door–past my “comfort zone” as we would call it today. You were so quick to move on to plan B, never mind even beginning to understand whatever happened to plan A, and never, never daring to cry over it. All those events in New York, in Hartford, with your family, with your work and the people you found made you the woman who stroked and pushed and shushed and worried me.

Early on I judged you, when your rules didn’t make sense to me. I was angry, resentful, and rebellious and I knew you were unreasonable. Most likely I was also unreasonable, but I liked the feel of bitchy and callous, selfish and superior. That behavior is only “supposed” to last from age 12 to 21. But I performed that tedious repertoire from about 10 to 45. I didn’t know about Mother-as-friend. You steadfastly opposed that recent American notion. Anyway, I was devoted to my habit of annoyance.

Now that you’re failing, flailing, I want to protect you from the horrible traps of gravity, memory and speed, the uncomfortable visitations made by curbs, glass and silence. I want to offer you places for an eye, an ear, a nod or a notion to land safely, comfortably. And I want to know, Mom.

I want to understand that young woman who became my mother, Mom. I want to know the situations that formed you. I need to know, how did it go for you? How did you do it? How did you negotiate all the unknowns? How did you discover and tame your feelings? How did you learn to live with sadness and fear? How did you take care of yourself? I want to know with all the intimacy we’ve never had, that I never knew was possible, that you never allowed maybe anyone. Make it fresh in this moment and take me inside back to the time each armor plate was forged, pounded, cooled, and hung along the perimeter. What soft moment did it defend? What strong barb of laughter did it unleash?

You are slipping away from life and I’m just finally appreciating what you have—your legacy of story and experience. Our legacy. Tell me. Tell me about your fears, your worries. I will carry this story to my daughter. They are our stories and we must have them.

So what does it feel like, last one? Are you a weathered post supporting more weight than any trespasser has a right to expect? What is the last feeling of the bygone era, the last first-person blessing or curse to be landed against a too well-known opponent? Mom, does the emptiness of loss cast a sidelong knowing-sort-of glance, a nod of recognition even, before he pulls away yet another rug? Is it like an agreement to disagree? Another speech from the loyal opposition?

The catalogue of loss: You lost your country first—a loss I will not know and cannot imagine. You lost any sense of controlling events, long before you got that grown-up notion that you could be in control. I suppose it wasn’t such a shock then to find out in middle-age that control was an illusion and not really that important anyway. You almost always knew that, didn’t you?

You knew that things don’t happen for a reason, life isn’t fair, it might not be OK and the best man doesn’t win–tough lessons to master before the age of twenty. You learned that the human animal can dream up horrors beyond comprehension and there’s nothing you can do about it. You learned to act now—tomorrow may be too late.

And then you learned that your Mother and little sister were strong, smart and lucky beyond measure—each element was required for their survival. And you knew you’d always have to wonder if you could have made it through—and that you were so lucky not to have learned that.

At first I didn’t really notice it creeping up on me. Then I started to run across it more often as I edged towards 50. That’s when I finally had to admit that I really didn’t know where I was going, anymore. I had to wonder if I ever did? But I seem to remember “knowing” so clearly at one time, long ago.

And you, Mom? You knew that loneliness at such an early age. But you’ve never complained about it, not when Grandma was sick, not when you were nursing Dad, or after he died, or when your friends started to move away to go live with their children. Even now you won’t let the word take hold in the room. You smash it away like a tennis pro. “I don’t have to be lonely.” For you, that’s a testament to your mind, your will, your control over your world. It’s an article of faith. And why should you let it in? There’s nothing to be gained by it now.

Mom, I thought you’d always be here for me. That’s silly I know. Grandma died, Dad died, I knew you’d have your time. I was afraid you’d take me over if I let you in. You were so much fiercer than I. I had to be different, modern, I wanted justice, reason, but I learned from you the hard way—through sarcasm and anger. When I wanted to be free of harsh judgment I became a judge, a critic. I had to stay away from you and the rest of my family who knew too much, too old, too scary about another world—a world without choices.

But now I hear you, I want to hear you. You have left your marks on me, good and bad. I’m already caught.

Family is so important. It’s where you come from. It’s who will care about you, no matter what. We all need that. We are lucky when we have that and now, my own daughter to be torn away from me by these terrible times. Why should she suffer and be called names and have stones thrown at her. But why should she have to leave to have a decent life.

It was hard to ask for things—it was better to wait. I was shy, scared. I tried not to presume or predict or take things for granted. She was flashing, passionate. She would walk long distances, attaching us to various bus schedules even though there was a perfectly good Chrysler Imperial parked in front of the apartment building. She didn’t drive. She had a license, but she was afraid to drive, afraid that she’d hurt the car and inconvenience my father. She never did anything that she wasn’t going to be good at.

I was kept by her side until I went to nursery school and there I encountered the world of other children—I world where I wasn’t at all sure of getting the rules right and relegated myself to a subordinate tier in some popularity system that I sensed and continued to apply to all situations in my life. As uncomfortable as I might have been at school, I treasured my time away from home. Mom wasn’t surprised by my non-popularity nor did she sympathize. I liked boys and wanted attention from them. I always had a crush on a boy—even in nursery school.

At age 4 I realized that her edicts were senseless and rigid and that I simply had to swallow myself and make do until I could leave home at 18. The subject of the conflict was a tangerine. But I abstracted easily. After that it was largely a waiting game with some recipes for allowable escape. She seemed extremely protective so I didn’t try much.

Once I broke away there were no issues of control—just visits—always punctuated by that teen aged nasty bitchy self-defended sort of attitude. Infrequent visits where I wanted so much to get a story, a connection and failed over and over.

Until my Dad was dying

Then there were moments of breakthrough. Real life happening in front of us was too sad and scary. This gave us—me—an entrée into the past. I got some good stories, some good times, I saw that even though Mom’s talk always sounded like a pessimistic give-up, she believed the most positive and acted on that. When it came to my Dad’s illness she would not admit death into her consciousness. We never talked about these things but that’s what I see looking back. We lost him. Me: a-blaze, a-busy, with my life not well reconciled or integrated away from here and her: a dream-scape of freedom and suddenly, he was gone leaving here alone. I didn’t get it nor did I respond to it particularly well, except to invite her to think about a move to my city. Just as she was getting to think about that her sister was diagnosed with cancer.

Here was the time to play out all that tension between them, the bossy older sister, the sister who was cheated by life yet again–this time on the other end of life. Her sister—the smarter, harder, softer and more hidden one–resented this.

She cranked along down and depressed by the endless 9 years of death and destruction. I stayed isolated in my little world.

But I never did the interview, the taping. I was busy—too busy to get to Mother, who had always just been there and who would always be there, right? I should have learned from my father’s death that that wasn’t true. But his death also made it seem maybe too late. 1990? Too late? Not really. But too preoccupied with a baby and the demise of my legal career and a marriage and life that seemed to impose an awful lot of rules. Rules that I made up–yes. Only now can I see how I might have said NO to the lot of that.

There were many stages of deterioration, but the mother across from me in the restaurant can still tell me stories that are more alive for her than a report of the day. They can move her, me, strangers. They have remarkable detail and remarkable holes. Every cut is jagged.

I feel a commitment to those stories, to that younger woman, to that sense of legacy, to all she went through to craft herself a life that paved the way for me. I am grateful that she made herself a life, a family, rebuilt her family and that I received the benefit of that. It becomes mine to hold, mine to comprehend, mine to share and mine to perpetuate. I feel almost a panic, as if I may already have waited too long, too nice, too respectfully, too remotely. She did her life in real time with no directions and without the luxury of planning or self-help. Hopefully my sons and I will never know the extremities that buffeted her and her generation. The strength and resilience that forged her life as an American—I want to get it down because it is my legacy and my strength.