Early in the morning the Dutch ocean liner Maasdam landed in Hoboken NJ.

On it was a little family, a mom, a dad, an 8-year-old girl, a 6 year-old by and a tiny 3 year-old toddler. Each child carried a little suitcase with some extra clothes, a handkerchief embroidered by the mom, and a couple of favorite toys. They disembarked among the hustle and bustle of many others, boarded a bus, or maybe it was a ferry, and shortly thereafter arrived in New York City. It was a dull, dreary, dark and misty day with heavy low clouds.

The family, probably with a guide of some kind, went to the German consulate and filled out many forms. The day was spent in the city until it was time to go to the huge bus station and board another bus. The family settled in and made themselves comfortable for the long trip to their new American home, the children quickly falling asleep after their exhausting day.

At 10 PM, the bus stopped in a little Massachusetts town, the family stepped off the bus, glad to stretch their legs. They were met by the dad’s old college friend, the Professor, who piled their suitcases into the trunk of his car and the family into the seats. It seemed like another long ride, but eventually the car stopped in front of their new 200-year-old house with a sagging roof and crooked floors. It was fully furnished with weird-looking furniture (what Americans called “colonial”) and the fridge was fully stocked.

Mom helped the kids wash their faces, brush their teeth, get into their PJ’s and hustle off to bed. It was 10:30 PM — SOOOOOOOO late for the little ones. But they slept well that night and began their new adventurous lives bright and early the next morning December 13, 1961.

Did you guess? That little 8-year-old girl was me! and this is how I remember it.