Inward Bound: A Journey from Sense to Soul

By Katrine Geneau

“I remember sitting on a mountain slope one day admiring the beauty of the Alps.... Out of the blue, the thought popped into my mind, ‘I want to be one with the Universe!’ It startled me. ‘Where did that come from?’ I wondered. ‘What does it mean?’”

Inward Bound: A Journey from Sense to Soul is a true story that reads like a novel. This fast-moving narrative is about an adventurous young woman awakening to the spiritual significance and wonder of life on our planet.
In the early 1970s, at the age of 19, Katrine Geneau joins the multitude of young North Americans hitchhiking around Europe, North Africa and the Middle East during their summer holidays. Hooked on adventure, she tears up her return ticket and continues travelling for the next year and a half.

Back in Canada, the adventure continues when Katrine unexpectedly meets a mentor who takes her on a powerful inner journey that transforms her from being a diehard atheist to experiencing her inherent unity with the Source.

Join Katrine as she progresses through the three movements of this memoir: her naïve and youthful exploration of the outer world; the agonies and the ecstasies of her inner journey as she struggles to meet the challenges of being a spiritual student; and finally, the wondrous serendipity of events that unfold in her life as she integrates the spiritual principles she has been taught.

By telling her story in a warm and richly human way, Geneau invites you to travel the road with her, a road of doubts and meaning, adventure and discovery. We get to reflectively view the outer world along with her inner world and experience a larger overview of both. There are musings, smiles, and much soul food along the way. Each chapter propels you into the next. I literally could not put it down. – Sandra Knight, former Senior Editor for MIT's Technology Review Magazine

Especially informative, sensitive and inspiring is Katrine's generous sharing of the revelatory lessons she received under the tutelage of her mentor, Dr. Kenneth G. Mills, Canadian metaphysician, musician, and poet. Katrine gives us a rare glimpse into the unique and often misunderstood relationship between a Master and student. What shines most clearly from the pages is her commitment to Self-Discovery and her willingness to deeply inquire into her experiences. A joy to read! – Victoria Friedman, Co-Founder of Vistar Foundation dedicated to Collective Consciousness

A journey not only begins with the first step; it must end with value added to each choice made along the way; otherwise, we wonder why we are here and what we are supposed to do with our lives. “Inward Bound” is Katrine Geneau’s personal journey: the story of her inward quest to understand her outward being. Her writing is lyrical, evocative, and professional. It fulfills all the requirements of a splendid memoir and tribute to her mentor and teacher, Dr. Kenneth G. Mills. – Rolland G. Smith, Emmy Award winning broadcast journalist

• Language: English
• Publisher: Katrine Geneau
• Release date: Oct 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9780995030817

Katrine Geneau

Born in Paris, France, Katrine Geneau immigrated to Toronto, Canada as a child. At 19, her quest for meaning and purpose propelled her to travel solo throughout Europe, Morocco and Israel. She returned home stretched by her experiences, graduated from York University with a degree in Fine Arts (specializing in Dance and Dance Therapy), and began to study with Canadian metaphysician, musician, poet and artist, Dr. Kenneth G. Mills. The result was a radical shift from psychology to metaphysics that subsequently blended into the Transpersonal Psychology she now uses in her successful practice as an Executive Coach for major multi-national corporations.

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Praise For

Inward Bound: A Journey From Sense To Soul

A journey not only begins with the first step; it must end with value added to each choice made along the way; otherwise, we wonder why we are here and what we are supposed to do with our lives. Inward Bound is Katrine Geneau’s personal journey: the story of her inward quest to understand her outward being. Her writing is lyrical, evocative, and professional. It fulfills all the requirements of a splendid memoir and tribute to her mentor and teacher, Dr. Kenneth G. Mills.

– Rolland G. Smith, Emmy Award winning broadcast journalist - http://rollandgsmith.com

"Inward Bound: A Journey from Sense to Soul" is a fast moving narrative about an adventurous young woman awakening to the spiritual significance and wonder of Life on our planet. Especially informative, sensitive and inspiring is Katrine's generous sharing of the revelatory lessons she received under the tutelage of her mentor, Dr. Kenneth G. Mills, Canadian metaphysician, musician, and poet. Katrine gives us a rare glimpse into the unique and often misunderstood relationship between a Master and student. What shines most clearly from the pages is her commitment to Self-Discovery and her willingness to deeply inquire into her experiences. A joy to read!

– Victoria Friedman, Co-Founder of The Vistar Foundation dedicated to Collective Consciousness – http://vistarfoundation.org

By telling her story in a warm and richly human way, Geneau invites you to travel the road with her, a road of doubts and meaning, adventure and discovery. We get to reflectively view the outer world along with her inner world and experience a larger overview of both. There are musings, smiles, and much soul food along the way. Each chapter propels you into the next. I literally could not put it down.

– Sandra Knight, former Senior Editor for MIT's Technology Review Magazine

INWARD BOUND

A Journey from Sense to Soul

Katrine Geneau

Still Current Press

Toronto, Ontario, Canada

Copyright

Copyright © 2016 by Katrine Geneau

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Katrine Geneau/Still Current Press

Toronto, Ontario, Canada

www.stillcurrentpress.com

Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data

(Prepared by The Donohue Group, Inc.)

Names: Geneau, Katrine.

Title: Inward bound : a journey from sense to soul / Katrine Geneau.

Description: 1st ed. | Toronto, Ontario, Canada : Still Current Press, [2016] | Includes bibliographical references.

Identifiers: ISBN 978-0-9950308-0-0 | ISBN 0-9950308-0-4 |

ISBN 978-0-9950308-1-7 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Geneau, Katrine. | Spiritual biography. | Spirituality. | Self-realization.

Classification: LCC BL73 .G46 2016 (print) | LCC BL73 (ebook) | DDC 204.092--dc23

Publisher’s Note: This is a memoir. All events are depicted as I remember them, although some chronologies and details have been compressed or altered to assist the narrative. Names of some, but not all, individuals have been changed if I felt they would not want to be identified. Certain characters in this memoir are now deceased; I have taken the liberty of using their names.

Edited by Erin Linn McMullan – http://erinlinnmcmullan.wix.com

Cover Design by Stone’s Throw Publications – http://stonesthrowps.ca

Book Layout © 2014 BookDesignTemplates.com

Cover Photograph – Glen Sawich

Grateful acknowledgement is made to the Kenneth G. Mills Foundation for permission to include photographs from its website: http://kgmfoundation.org

Inward Bound: A Journey From Sense to Soul/ Katrine Geneau. -- 1st ed.

ISBN 978-0-9950308-1-7

Dedication

To Kenneth G. Mills

who took me by the hand and never let me go

You are not a drop in the ocean; you are the entire ocean in a drop.

−RUMI

You are not a human being in search of a spiritual experience; you are a spiritual being immersed in a human experience.

−PIERRE TEILHARD DE CHARDIN

The purpose of this unfolding Path is to reawaken in man the glory of his own essence; thus the Divine Self cognizing its own Allness.

−KENNETH G. MILLS

CONTENTS

Praise For Inward Bound: A Journey From Sense To Soul

Inward Bound: A Journey From Sense To Soul

Copyright

Dedication

1. I’ll Know What To Do When I Get There

2. Cosmopolitan Roots

3. I’ll Know What To Do When I Get There

4. Motorcycles, Spaceships…

5. … And Donkeys

6. Twice Rescued

7. Not Ready Yet

8. Home Again

9. You’re One Of Us

10. No One Will Recognize You

11. God Means Good In 20 Different Languages

12. What You Love In Another

13. Pythagoras: Then And Now

14. Slapped By the Universe

15. Identity With A Capital I

16. Unsettled

17. Let The Pine Needle Write The Line

18. Straddling Two Horses

19. I Don’t Hear The Sound Of Your Name

20. Love’s Watchman

21. Transformation Through Sound

22. Fools Rush In Where Angels Fear To Tread

23. Filling The Orange Notebook

24. Mission Accomplished

25. De Coeur À Coeur

26. Word Of Glory

27. The Stew of My Own Making

28. On The Road Again

29. Uncanny Coincidences

30. The Realm Of Ideation

31. The Law Of Attraction

32. The Elegance of Being

33. More Synchronicities

34. The Lady With The Angel Eyes

35. Single In Purpose

36. The Seeds of Coaching

37. Stop Roaming

38. Following The Breadcrumbs

39. The Appearance of Death

40. The Ring Comes Off

41. Never-Ending

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Endnotes

{1}

I’ll Know What To Do When I Get There

The return portion of my airplane ticket lay on the unmade bed in the dingy room. I’d tossed my Canadian passport next to it along with some travellers’ cheques, writing paper, and a tattered copy of The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test.¹ My knapsack was packed and ready to go.

Picking up the ticket, I studied the details once again. My plane was scheduled to leave from London in two days. I was still in Paris. ‘Plenty of time to get to London to catch my flight home,’ I calculated, trying to ignore the voice within me. For days it had been niggling and now it all but screamed, ‘Don’t go!’

I took a deep breath while my mind did a final somersault, and then abruptly, I ripped the ticket in two. Crumpling the pieces in one hand, I tossed them like a basketball pro into the garbage can in the corner of the room.

"Voilà! Decision made!" With my triumphant voice bouncing off the walls, I stuffed my passport and the rest of the items into a tote bag, hoisted the knapsack over my shoulders and stepped outside into the brilliant sunlight. Even though the knapsack was heavy, I felt light and free.

Two months earlier, I’d arrived in Europe from Canada. To have a planned itinerary defied any definition of adventure in my lexicon, so I hadn’t even tried to make one. My travellers’ cheques amounted to $1,000 – my total savings from after-school and summer jobs. In 1970, there were no cell phones or computers and calling overseas with a landline was expensive.

I was nineteen years old and on my own.

For weeks before my departure, my mother had anxiously asked about my plans. All I could say was that I didn’t have any.

Where will you go? Where will you stay? How will you manage? she said again the day before my departure, hovering nervously over me while I packed a medium-sized suitcase.

I shrugged my shoulders. Don’t worry, I said. I’ll know what to do when I get there.

The world was not yet considered a global village. Sometimes I wonder if the seeds of this phenomenon didn’t arise from the psyche of the unprecedented number of young people who were thumbing their way all over Europe at that time.

Europe on $5 A Day"² was our bible. American Express or Canada House, located at the heart of every major European city, served as our gathering place. At any given moment, we could find a fellow traveler who would inspire us to go somewhere we’d never thought of before, and there was no one telling us we couldn’t. Naïve as only youth can be, we moved fearlessly from the known to the unknown; the energy that coursed through us made us feel invincible.

Today, when I think of the many narrow escapes I had, it was more likely that a legion of guardian angels was watching out for me.

What are you going to do when you arrive in London? I’d asked the young man seated next to me on the airplane. I grinned as I heard myself parroting my mother.

Like me, he was a student at Trent University in Peterborough, Ontario, and the flight we were on was a student charter. While the plane sat on the runway getting ready for take off, he’d introduced himself to me as Bill, a third-year sociology major. I hadn’t seen him on campus before.

I’m going to find a place to stay and then walk around London and get a feel for it, Bill answered. There are information booths at the airport where you can register for a Bed & Breakfast. Tomorrow, I’m planning to visit a friend in a campground just outside of London. How about you?

I don’t know. This is my first time over. I’m heading to Paris in a few days.

I’d never been in an airplane before and was glad to have the window seat. The plane had risen quickly through the clouds and it felt surreal to be looking down on them. ‘They remind me of how snow clumps on your mittens when it gets icy cold during the winter,’ I thought.

Turning back to Bill, I said, How long are you staying in Europe?

Until the end of August, he replied, looking at me through thick, black-rimmed glasses. I have to get back to finish school.

I studied him more closely. Long brown hair tied back in a ponytail, blue jeans, cotton T-shirt, black nylon windbreaker. His dark eyes were shining.

How long will you stay in England? I probed.

Just a few days.

And then where to?

Over to the Continent. Paris. Amsterdam. The Greek islands, I suppose. Bill shrugged his shoulders. It didn’t sound like he had a well-defined itinerary either.

It was a six-hour flight and for a while Bill kept me entertained. Then he dozed off leaving me for the first time since my departure to reflect on what I’d done. Leaning back into the airplane seat, I closed my eyes and smiled at the picture forming in my mind, that of an eagle pushing its young out of the nest. ‘Looks like I’ve thrown myself out of the nest,’ I thought. ‘I’m leaving it all behind – my home, my family, my friends, my routines – everything that’s familiar.’

If I’d been thrown out of the nest by someone else, I might have been anxious and afraid and resentful. But it had been my choice, and all I felt was a sense of exhilaration at the challenge.

My mother’s sarcastic words rang in my ears, You’re having an identity crisis, she’d said. You’re going to Europe to find yourself.

No, I’m not, I’d retorted. I’m going to Europe to create myself. Like a baby eagle, I needed to learn to use my wings. I’m going to find out what stuff I’m made of. I want to see how I will manage, how I will cope on my own.

Little did I know how accurate my mother’s remark actually was; during the next 18 months, seeds would be planted that would eventually blossom into a full-fledged exploration of my identity – not only my identity as a person, but also my identity as a spiritual being.

Before I knew it, we’d arrived at London’s Gatwick Airport. Come with me if you want, Bill said. We’ll collect our bags and then find the Visitor’s Information booth.

As he had predicted, we had no trouble getting a spot for the night. Maps, tourist information, and a selection of places to stay were in plentiful supply. Bill and I each paid for a room at the same B&B and waited while the agent, a cheerful young lady in a navy blue uniform, called to confirm our reservations.

You’re all set, she said, hanging up the phone and giving us a card on which she’d written the address of the B&B.

Thanks, said Bill. What’s the best way to get into London from here?

There’s a train leaving every 15 minutes from Platform A. You’ll find it up the stairs over there and to your left. It will take you directly into Victoria Station.

We gathered our bags and headed in the direction she’d pointed out. Enjoy your stay in England, she called out after us.

She’s lovely, isn’t she? I said to Bill, charmed by her British accent, her efficiency, and her warm smile.

On our way to the train, Bill pointed out a Currency Exchange counter.

Let’s exchange some money here, he said. But only a little. We’ll get a much better rate at a bank in the city.

My first taste of London was from below ground. The train took us into the heart of the city and deposited us at its famous Tube or Underground, the oldest subway in the world. Bill went straight to the large wall map and studied the eleven lines crisscrossing underneath the city. Before I even had a chance to digest what he was looking at, he said, I know where we need to go. Come on. He sauntered off and I followed, dragging my suitcase down the steepest and longest stairs I’d ever seen, trying to keep up with him. ‘He’s got a knapsack,’ I realized. ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’

The Tube was hot and crowded, but our B&B was only a few stops away. ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘in less than 24 hours, I’ve learned about Visitor Information booths, currency exchange, and the practicality of knapsacks. A good start.’

We dropped off our belongings at the B&B, and went out to explore London by foot. It was an easy walk along the Thames River to the Houses of Parliament. People of all ages filled the wide streets where we wandered. Many looked like tourists with cameras slung around their necks and maps clutched in their hands. At the north end of the government buildings, Big Ben chimed twelve times, startling me with the first peal of its bell. I recognized Westminster Abbey and Buckingham Palace. All icons. Red double decker buses lined the streets. On almost every corner was a bobby, a London policeman. London was proud of its bobbies; they were known throughout the world for carrying batons instead of guns. It feels like we’re stepping through the pages of a guidebook, I commented to my new friend.

Sure does, agreed Bill. How about if we get on a double decker bus and see where it will take us? That way we’ll get an overview of the city.

We boarded the double decker bus and climbed to the top. I grinned as I remembered a story my aunt had told me. She’d been born in Germany but escaped to London during the Second World War and her English wasn’t very good. One day, she got on a double decker bus with her husband. He wanted to smoke and went to the upper level while I stayed below, she told me. So, when the ticket clerk came by to collect my fare, I said to him, ‘I don’t have any money. The lord above will pay.’ I couldn’t understand why the clerk looked so shocked. Later, I found out what I’d actually said. Tears of laughter streamed down her cheeks as she explained, "You see, in German, the word Herr, means both husband and lord. I meant husband; he thought I was saying God."

After our improvised tour of London’s neighborhoods, we ate a traditional fish and chip lunch, and then went back to our B&B. Counting the trip from Canada and the time change, we had, in effect, been up all night and were ready to crash.

The following day, Bill asked if I wanted to accompany him to visit his friend in the campground. I was curious and saw no reason to decline. A commuter train took us out into the country a few miles northwest of London. The campground consisted of a large open field on which tents of every size were set up in close proximity. Unlike Canadian campgrounds situated in forested areas with individual campsites nestled between groups of trees, there was no privacy whatsoever. But no one seemed to mind.

Bill found his colleague, a Dutch student, named Hans. He’d pitched his tent next to a group of young travellers from Denmark and Norway. Everyone spoke English. We all hung out together for the day, sharing stories and experiences, and cooking together on a gas burner. Someone offered me a joint. No, thanks, I said. As much as I wanted to appear cool, I knew I needed to keep my wits about me.

As the sun was setting, Hans said, as if we’d known each other for years, Stay overnight with us; we can make room in one of our tents. I looked at Bill and he nodded.

It was my very first experience camping, and I loved it. In the morning, I awoke to the sounds of a multitude of birds chirping. On the tent walls, I could see the silhouette of daisies dancing in the breeze. They seemed to greet me just as warmly as the young people from Northern Europe had done the day before. Stepping through the tent flap into the cool summer morning, I was drenched in sunshine.

Back in London later that day, the first thing on my agenda was to find a store that sold camping equipment. I bought a light, green-coloured nylon tent and a blue canvas knapsack. Without a moment’s hesitation, I threw away my cumbersome suitcase.

{2}

Cosmopolitan Roots

The one and only place I knew for sure that I wanted to visit was Paris. That’s where I’d been born, arriving in January 1951, three weeks pre-mature, in a medical clinic in the working-class district of Joinville-le-Pont.

My mother’s doctor was Pierre Velley, the close assistant of the now-famous Dr. Fernand Lamaze, but I was born a year too early for my mother to benefit from his revolutionary birthing techniques. In the background of the photographs of my first year and a half, you can still see the rubble and remnants of the destruction that occurred during the Second World War. France had not yet recovered and neither had my parents, both of whom were refugees from Germany.

I was eager to see my birthplace and made some inquiries about how to get to Paris. With my new tent and knapsack slung over my shoulders, I took an early train to Dover where I boarded the Hovercraft, a vessel resembling an air cushion that skimmed across the English Channel in less than thirty-five minutes. It had just recently replaced the old ferry. Once on board, I walked straight to the front so that I could watch as we made our way toward France. It was a sunny day, and the wind blew through my short hair.

A young woman, leaning over the railing next to where I positioned myself, stared at my lapel pin, a Canadian flag. You’re Canadian, she remarked. Where are you off to? She addressed me in English although she had a distinctly French accent.

Paris, I answered. And you?

My husband and I live on the outskirts of Paris. We’ve been visiting friends in England. My name’s Nicole.

We struck up a friendly conversation. As we approached the shores of France, she looked at me and said, How are you intending to get to Paris?

Once again, I had to admit that I hadn’t thought it through. Noticing my hesitation, she said, We’re driving and have plenty of room. You’re welcome to come with us.

Like me, Nicole was petite and looked typically French with dark hair and big brown eyes. I guessed she was only a few years older than me. Her husband, Pierre seemed more Germanic, tall and blonde with blue eyes that sparkled in the sun. His English wasn’t as good as Nicole’s so we switched to French.

On our way to Paris in their old brown Renault, which they’d been able to drive on and off the Hovercraft, Nicole and Pierre plied me with questions.

Are you French-Canadian? asked Pierre.

No.

How is it that you speak such good French?

I was born in Paris, but emigrated to Canada when I was a baby. We’ve always spoken French at home.

Oh, so your parents are French, concluded Pierre.

Well, not really. They were German.

Pierre and Nicole looked puzzled.

In 1939, when my mother was fourteen, her parents sent her to France to escape Hitler.

Oh, they both said at the same time.

And your father?

Yes, he came from Germany around that time also.

What happened to them?

"An organization called l’OSɳ arranged for them to live in children’s homes. Have you ever heard of l’OSÉ?"

Both Pierre and Nicole shook their heads.

I explained how this social services agency had been started by Jewish doctors in Russia in the early nineteen hundreds to take care of people in need but had been forced to move their headquarters to Berlin as a result of the Russian Revolution.

Albert Einstein was even its president for a while, I continued. Then the Nazis took power in Germany and they had to move again. This time they settled in Paris. The organization is still active today.

Really! said Nicole.

So where exactly did your parents live? asked Pierre.

My mother was sent to Château de la Guette, the hunting lodge of the Baroness of Rothschild. It was big enough to house 130 boys and girls. They all came from Germany and Austria just before the war began. Without their parents.

That must have been hard on them, Nicole said.

Well, my mother was told she was going to live in a château so she saw it as an adventure. But I don’t think she was typical.

What happened to her parents?

Her mother managed to secure a passage for herself to Shanghai, China, several months earlier and was already gone. Her father was a successful businessman, but he was blind and stayed behind in Berlin. When the Nazis invaded, he took his own life.

There was a long silence as they digested this information.

What about your father? asked Pierre.

L’OSÉ sent him to Château de Quincy-sur-Sénard. He was only thirteen.

And his parents?

His father had been ill and passed away a few years earlier. His mother and sister escaped to London, and his older brother got away on the last boat to China. Just like my grandmother on my mother’s side. That was the only country left where a visa wasn’t required.

Nicole and Pierre were silent again for a while. The road whizzed by underneath us and I turned my attention to the landscape. It was dotted with cows and horses, not unlike Ontario where I’d come from. It was still early in the season and the wheat fields looked newly ploughed and seeded.

Then Nicole asked, So, what happened to them all?

For six months, my parents lived in these children’s homes. They were well taken care of and continued their schooling. The educators made sure to include life skills in the curriculum because they suspected many of the children would never see their parents again. When the Germans marched into the northern part of France in 1940, the homes closed down, and the children were sent south to the non-occupied zone. Two years later, they were forced into hiding as the Germans invaded the entire country. Some were placed with families in the countryside, some found refuge in convents, and sadly, some were caught and deported to concentration camps. L’OSÉ tried to smuggle my parents out of France into Switzerland. That’s when they first met.

Did they make it? asked Pierre.

No, the Swiss border police caught them and turned them back. There were six boys and girls. It was winter and they hid out in the woods for a while. There was nothing to eat and they nearly froze to death. So they hitchhiked south. When they arrived somewhere near Lyon, they enlisted in the French Resistance.

They must have been only about 16 years old! exclaimed Pierre.

Yes, they were very young.

Did they actually fight? asked Nicole, her eyes wide.

"Well, I think my mother was more like a courier. She was eventually awarded the Croix de Guerre for her service. My father fought in Le Vercors."

Really, said Pierre. That’s a well-known battle. Most French people know about it. Not many survived. Was your father wounded?

"No, he wasn’t. I don’t know how he managed. He never talks about it. He was also cited to receive the Croix de Guerre, but his nominating officer was killed before the official papers were signed."

That’s unfortunate, said Pierre. It’s quite a prestigious honor.

It’s hard for me to imagine that by the time the war was over, my parents weren’t even twenty years old. In fact, they were the same age I am now!

I’m assuming your family was reunited after the war, said Nicole.

Yes, thanks to the Red Cross they eventually all found each other and came to North America.

Why didn’t you settle in Montreal? asked Pierre.

By then, the family had been separated for over ten years and they naturally wanted to be as close to each other as possible, I explained. My uncle had already established himself in Rochester, New York on the other side of Lake Ontario. My grandmother and my parents weren’t able to get visas for the United States, so when Canada accepted them, they chose Toronto, just a four-hour drive around the lake.

Pierre and Nicole seemed truly interested in my story. They’d been born in France at the very end of the war and as they grew up were only vaguely aware of what had happened. At that point, Europe was still too raw. No one wanted to admit that terrible atrocities had taken place for which they were somehow complicit; they couldn’t face the fact they’d involuntarily been part of the madness that had swept over Europe.

So, this is the first time you’ve been back to Europe? asked Pierre.

"Yes, I’ve always wanted to see where I was born. As I was growing up, I always had a feeling that the world was bigger than my backyard. I knew I’d come from somewhere else and that my family was different. German, French, and English were interwoven in our conversations. When the whole family gathered, the adults spoke German. But we spoke French at home. Eventually, of course, everyone learned English."

It sounds like your experience was quite cosmopolitan.

That’s for sure, I laughed, and launched into a story about how one day my Uncle Uri had taken us to visit the Rochester component of the family. By then it was about 1956 and he’d recently become the proud owner of a Chevy – a large car that seated as many people as you could cram into it. The seats were long benches unlike the individual seats we know today and seatbelts were nonexistent.

As we came to the border between Canada and the United States, the American customs officer peered into the car and asked for our country of birth – not for proof of citizenship as they do now.

Uncle Uri began, Vienna, Austria.

Next to him was his wife, Sonja, my father’s sister. I was born in Munich, Germany, she politely told the official.

Then her mother, my grandmother, timidly replied, Chernov, Poland.

Her second husband was next. "I was born