Opa had built a hiding place under the floor, and we scrambled down into it. Oma held her hand firmly around Purzel’s snout. From where we were hiding we could see the boots of the Russians marching toward our house. The soldiers opened the door and looked inside. Opa understood them to say, “Oh, we must have already been here. There is nothing here. It’s been dealt with.”
No matter how frightening things were, I always felt safe because I lived in my grandparents’ love. Had we lost everything or had nowhere to live, it wouldn’t have mattered, as long as we were together as family. My life was built on a foundation of love and security that strengthened me to endure the coming years. Regardless of how horrendous things became, my grandparents had given me a plumb line for what was right and healthy and what was wrong and abnormal. Soon that knowledge tested my very life, but God had a plan.
Pause and Reflect
Although Belma had not prayed a specific prayer to ask Jesus to come into her life, she accepted Him at this very young age by indicating a desire to include Jesus in her life. Her desire to choose Jesus over the Easter bunny was a statement of faith in Christ. For her to remember expressing that desire so clearly out of so many conversations she had as a child indicates that it had a profound effect on her that lodged in her mind and spirit.
Have you made a life decision to get to know God?
Have you been introduced to Jesus?
Belma’s Oma experienced deep trauma from the war, evidenced by the fact that her hair turned white when she was only 30 years old. Yet we will see that she remained gentle and kind-hearted.
Have you suffered the effects of a traumatic event or time period in your life?
If so, in what ways have those difficult experiences changed you?
Are there areas of your life that you would like Jesus to transform and redeem?
Chapter 4
In the Clutches of a Monster
Even though I walk through the darkest valley,
I will fear no evil, for you are with me;
your rod and your staff ,
they comfort me.
PSALM 23:4, NIV
When I was seven and a half, a letter came from my mother. I remember Oma’s countenance changing as she read it. Fear filled her eyes; she panted, caught her breath and covered her mouth with her hand. Something terrible had happened! “What’s wrong, Oma? What’s wrong?” I cried in alarm.
We were standing in the kitchen at the back of the store. Still grasping the letter with trembling fingers, she spoke in measured words, her eyes brimming with tears and lips set to keep them from quivering: “Your mother has just written to say she wants you to go live in Canada.” The impact of Oma’s words now registered on me, and we looked into each other’s eyes in desperation. Our world was about to fall apart.
Oma was heartbroken. Her pain washed over me. I ran to her, buried my face in her apron and burst into tears. How could I leave my beloved Oma? This was my home.
Ingeborg had remarried. She was under pressure from her new husband, Helmut, to retrieve me from my grandparents and have me live with them in Canada. In his opinion, if my mother had a daughter, she should be with her.
In addition to the pressure from Helmut, I now think my mother may not have wanted me to remain bonded with my grandparents and have a wonderful life. She had been jealous of my relationship with my father, and judging from the way she eventually treated me, she was likely jealous of my relationship with Oma and Opa.
A BAD YEAR
It was 1963—a bad year. President Kennedy was shot, the Profumo scandal rocked European politics, a tsunami killed 22,000 people in Pakistan, the Great Train Robbery shocked England, and my grandparents took me across the ocean to live with my mother in Toronto.
I had to leave everything. When the last day of my life with my family in Germany ended, I said goodbye to my friends, teachers, great-grandparents—everyone in the community. Ingeborg told my grandmother I would have all new things when I got to Canada. At my mother’s demand, I was to leave all my belongings. The only things I took were my dolls.
As hard as it was for me, it was devastating for Oma and Opa. Oma had missed my mother’s youth during the war, and she was deeply grateful to God for giving her a second chance to enjoy childhood with me, another “daughter.”
But those sweet days came to an abrupt end. Oma, Opa and I travelled from Germany to Canada on an ocean liner—a terrible 21-day journey. The worst trip of my life! I was so nervous I could hardly talk. I knew I was going to live with strangers who didn’t even want me, let alone love me. The thought of having to leave the love and safety of my grandparents made me physically ill.
We landed in New York harbour on October 26, 1963.
AMERICA! LAND OF THE FREE
Everything was strange and unfamiliar. I couldn’t understand the language. For a little country girl from Germany the strange voices, smells of the city and huge buildings were overpowering. I clutched my container of dolls. The customs officer, who looked like a Russian soldier to me, yanked it out of my hand and flung my dolls mercilessly onto the dock, where they landed with sickening thuds and lay as though dead. I reacted in horror and panic, like any mother would. My dolls! My precious “children”! I screamed in hysteria that my beloved ones were being so mindlessly brutalized. The officer laughed at me. With neither sympathy nor remorse, he took my response as proof we must be hiding things, and he badgered my grandparents with question after question. He thought we might have hidden something we shouldn’t be bringing into the country in the dolls.
BULLIED
In those days the stench of Hitler’s regime still clung to every German citizen, and this officer made it clear we weren’t welcome. He treated us as if he believed we deserved punishment for Hitler’s brutality and wanted us to know he disdained us.
As the interrogation intensified, my grandparents became increasingly flustered, confused and disoriented because they didn’t understand English. I saw it as an attack by authority figures that represented danger, and I was terrified.
When things finally calmed down, I was allowed to retrieve my dolls. We gathered our possessions and boarded a train from New York to Toronto.
Exhausted from the ordeal, we settled into our overnight berths relieved to rest, but it wasn’t over.
In the middle of the night another set of customs officers strode through the train car, banged on our door and barged into our room. Again they demanded our passports, interrogated my grandparents and searched our belongings. Their authoritarian presence and threatening demeanour filled the room. Despite my tiredness, they demanded I get up and take off my clothes so they could check for contraband.
Again my poor Oma and Opa were at the mercy of bullies because they couldn’t understand English. Despite the language barrier, Oma caught enough to realize they were discussing taking me away from them. That was beyond terrifying for all of us.
Oma became a mad woman! She screamed in a way I had never heard before and with an authority no one dared question. After some minutes they backed down, turned and walked away, leaving us trembling. None of us slept after that.
As light dawned the metal wheels screamed to a halt at Union Station in Toronto.
That same day, October 30, unbeknownst to us, my dad flew from Toronto to Turkey to visit his family. There he met Ayla, his current wife, and remarried. At the same time, he changed his last name, Ejubowic, back to the Yugoslavian Basar. After their six-month honeymoon he and Ayla settled in Toronto. How ironic that I arrived under his shadow! We