My mother and I talk on the phone at least twice a week. Usually, we cover a lot of the same territory. However, the last phone call opened my eyes to something new.

We were discussing early memories. I said my first memory was riding in the back of a truck with other refugees. She said I had told her of an earlier one of hiding under the stairs with someone lying on top of me. Wow! I had forgotten that, or repressed it.

Passau, the German town where I was born was all but demolished in an air raid. My grandmother was not allowed into the air raid shelter, so she took me to the most solid part of the house and sheltered me with her own body. Meanwhile, my mother and uncle were in a mountain tunnel near a dam. If a bomb had hit the dam, the tunnel would have been flooded.

As luck would have it, neither the house nor the dam were demolished. My entire remaining nuclear family could have been killed that day, but we weren't. Despite the fact that I often have negative thoughts about my life, I'm glad to be here to be writing this. I understand why I have always felt insecure, like the roof might fall in at any moment. I am awed that someone loved me enough to put her own body between me and disaster.

After the war, it was possible to sleep without being disturbed by air raid sirens, but it was hard to find a bed to sleep in. My mother was homeless with me in Hamburg for a time. There was a pay-out of three month's military pay for soldier's families, so she was well-heeled for a street person. Every day, she wheeled the baby carriage to the pony man at the zoo. Then she walked a couple of miles to a farm house where the lady of the house let her wash her diapers. She would hang them up to dry and come back later to pick them up. At the end of the day, she would wheel me to a sleeper train which served as a rental flophouse, and spend the night in a compartment. The tracks had been bombed, so the train couldn't go anywhere. She said she had to bribe the porter to allow her to take the baby carriage inside. Early in the morning, everyone had to leave, and the daily cycle began again.

This part of our story was completely new to me. I can see her so clearly in my mind's eye, a 22-year-old pushing that big old baby carriage which contained everything she owned. She didn't know what was coming next, but she had to keep going, because the next generation was depending on her.

She has often told me that every morning, when I grinned at her, she was filled with new hope and courage. I was the center of her life, and she gave me the best she had. When I was in my early twenties, I told her that I didn't want to be the purpose of her life - she needed a life of her own. She has reached out and learned and explored and tried to become the person she wanted me to be. But, inevitably, everything revolves around me. She's the one person who has always been on my side. She's the who has always been glad to see me, no matter what.

She's the reason I couldn't give up on myself. Maybe she's also the reason why I am so invested in giving a warm, safe corner of love to people who have never known what it feels like to be truly cherished.

Our time on earth together is coming to an end. I must learn to listen now, catch every last crumb of the treasure she is passing on to me. I often get bored and impatient now, because she is not the person I remember. But when she's gone, I know I will long for just a few minutes of the conversation I now take for granted.

Learn more about this author, Christine G..
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