The Six-Week Tradition

Chapter 1: 70 Anniversary

Before my grandparents had a home, an anniversary, or even a country they could confidently call their own, they had a ship crossing the Atlantic.

They had both grown up in refugee camps after the Second World War. By 1950, much of the world was trying to rebuild, but rebuilding meant something different to families like theirs. It meant waiting for paperwork. It meant standing in lines without knowing whether the answer at the end would be yes or no. It meant keeping the few belongings that remained packed closely enough that they could be carried at short notice.

Then, one day, both of their families were offered places aboard a ship.

They were told that it would take them away from Europe, but they did not know exactly where they were going. Canada was a possibility. Venezuela was another. Until the decision was made, their future existed somewhere between two distant names on a map.

My grandmother—my Oma—boarded with her sister and their parents. My grandfather, whom we called Opa, boarded with the members of his family who remained.

None of them knew what waited beyond the ocean.

The ship was crowded with people carrying the same mixture of hope and uncertainty. Every passenger had already lost something: a home, a relative, a neighborhood, or an entire way of life. They were moving toward a future they could not yet picture.

Somewhere during that journey, Oma and Opa met.

There was no dramatic declaration and no instant certainty that they had found the person they would one day marry. They simply became friends.

Perhaps that was enough.