We were having an early dinner at a local diner as the group was seated at a nearby table. Two elderly women, a younger couple and a women who was clearly an aid to one of the older women.
At times, snippets of their conversation drifted our way teasing our curiosity and a glance or two. And then I noticed the “KL” on her wrist. “Kozentrationslager”. The tattoo inked on her some eighty-five years ago as she entered a concentration camp.
“One moment, one chance” and I would certainly take it.
As we were leaving, we stopped at their table. All I said was that I noticed the KL and that it was the same KL as was on my father-in-law’s wrist. It was all that needed to be said.
She is ninety-eight. Her friend, a few years younger. She was from a village in Poland not far from where my mother was born. Her friend was from Hungary where Flo’s mother was born. She was in Auschwitz the same time as my mother.
Her grandson took them out to dinner every Wednesday.
As they talked and told their stories, her granddaughter commented on how her memory had returned - if only to share her story.
One moment one chance. So happy to have taken the chance.