Immigration

There was a farewell luncheon with family, neighbors and friends at the Berg and Dal Hotel  restaurant Park Tivoli in Nijmegen. You and your family were immigrating to America. If it had not been for the Hungarian violin player encouraging nostalgic stories with his lamenting peasant songs, you would have vomited, a habit you had acquired since you were a child. You felt your own story shatter like broken strings and were about to burst into tears, when your father rushed into the room quieting everyone except for the whining violin. He was very late. He sat down, ate his cold meal and gulped his wine. You had been privy to your mother’s stories at an age when most girls would rather not hear about their father’s infidelities. The guests picked up their forks at a feverish pitch. Your stomach swallowed.

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