The Choice

a letter. In another hour, maybe two, I would embrace my sister, my
brave sister, her jokes at the ready to transcend pain. As Marianne and
I counted the whitecaps between the ship and solid land, as I counted
my blessings, Béla came up from the tiny cabin where he was packing
the last of our things.
My heart swelled again with tenderness for my husband. In the
weeks of travel, in the little cot in the room that rocked and bobbed
across black water, through black air, I felt more passion for him than
ever before in our three years together, more than on the train on our
honeymoon when we conceived Marianne.
Back in May, in Vienna, he had been unable to decide, unable to
choose, up until the last minute. He stood behind a pillar at the train
station where he was to meet Bandi and Marta, suitcase in hand. He
saw our friends arrive, saw them searching the platform for us. He
continued to hide. He saw the train pull in, heard the announcement
that passengers should board. He saw people getting onto the train. He
saw Bandi and Marta at the door of a train car, waiting for him. en
he heard the clerk on the loudspeaker calling his name. He wanted to
join our friends, he wanted to board the train and meet the ship and
rescue the boxcar holding his fortune. But he was frozen there behind
the pillar. e rest of the passengers ĕled on board, Bandi and Marta
too. When the train doors closed, he ĕnally forced himself into action.
Against his better judgment, against all the bets he had made for what
he hoped would be a safe and ĕnancially secure future, he took the
biggest risk of his life. He walked away.
Now, minutes away from our new life in America, nothing seemed
deeper or more profound than that we had made the same choice, to
relinquish security in favor of opportunity for our daughter, to start
over together from scratch. To have his commitment to our daughter,
to this new venture, to me, touched me deeply.
And yet. (is “and yet” closing like a latch.) I had been ready to