I cannot bear to look back. If I do, I know she would see the tears streaming down my face.
Years pass. It is 1957. I am living in New York City, a far cry from the awful scenery of Nazi Germany. And I have achieved a modest amount of prosperity, having gone into the business of aluminum fence installation and recycling. A friend, who is in the insurance business, convinces me to go on a blind date with a lady friend of his. Reluctantly, I agree. But she is nice, this woman named Roma. And like me, she is a foreigner.