Let's Have Coffee

By Marta Kluft

,p>At twenty-six, single and living in her native Brazil, Marta Kluft was on a mission. Her assignment was to entertain a lonesome, well-educated, male leper. She was filling in for her mother and grandmother, who had held that post for many years. Their letters to Mr. Jacob were filled with Bible Scriptures, and he took it all in. To show his appreciation, Mr. Jacob called them every three months. Since Marta did not know the Bible, she was going to need to use another approach, in order to befriend him. A brief suggestion from her Creator pointed Marta in the right direction: she was going to share her personal experiences. She had accumulated plenty of those.

Marta Kluft grew up in two continents: North and South America. She was also very fortunate to have travelled extensively in both. With such a background, it was only natural that unusual situations would emerge along the way. Armed with a typewriter, Marta began to introduce her past to Mr. Jacob. Her stories became an instant success and were circulated throughout the entire leper colony where Mr. Jacob lived. Marta also received numerous, happy phone calls from her newfound friend.

Now in her senior years, Marta Kluft has made those same stories available to the public, via her first publication, Lets Have Coffee.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Dec 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781449779498

Marta Kluft

Marta Kluft was born in Brazil and raised in the Protestant faith. Her parents were teachers who loved to travel, which may explain why her brother was born in the United States, and Marta was born in Brazil, a few years later. World War II played a role in relocating Marta and her family to America. She attended school on both continents. After a year of college in the US, Marta returned to South America. At the age of twenty, Marta joined the workforce in Brazil, embracing a bilingual career that spanned seven years. ,p>At twenty-seven, Marta returned to the United States, where she soon met and married Dutch-born John Kluft, who was in the travel business. Together, they have toured the globe, including a 24,000-mile car trip through Europe. The Klufts have two sons and one grandson. Now in her retirement years, Marta Kluft has decided to take up the pen.

Book preview

First Airplane Trip

It’s a long, complicated story, but I’ll try to condense it for you. My beloved parents were Brazilians. They were teachers, they spoke English and Portuguese, and they loved to travel—which may explain why my brother was born in the United States and a few years later, I was born in Brazil. During World War II, my folks worked for the Allied forces in Brazil. After two years, the US government brought them to America to be a part of the war effort. However, because fighting continued, my brother and I remained in South America.

The war ended eight long months later. It was assumed that, after this global conflict was over, my parents would return to Brazil. But that was not the case. Mom and Dad were invited to teach at a private college in the United States. They accepted the offer with the understanding that, once they were settled, they would send for my brother and me. The thought of seeing them again was wonderful. The separation was hard on all of us, but I strongly believe that my parents made the right choices.

On the day of our departure from Brazil, I was so excited that, as I ran down the stairs for breakfast, I fell and broke my tailbone. Grandmother quickly made a pillow for me to use on the trip. With loving help from various relatives, my brother Henry and I boarded a chartered DC-3, bound for America. That was my first time inside an airplane. The rest of the passengers were family members of the Allied forces, returning to America. They were all US citizens, and much to my delight, there were other children on board. It did not matter that we did not speak the same language.

The aircraft flew two hours and then it had to land for refueling. Since the plane did not fly after dusk, the airline transferred the passengers to luxurious hotels for the evenings. For two consecutive nights, Henry and I shared a suite, and I loved it. However, at that pace, it took two and a half days to reach the United States.

My first day aboard the plane was not a good one—my stomach was not happy. However, my second day was great. During a refueling stop, one of the mothers purchased a silver-painted ball made from coconut husks. That insignificant acquisition revolutionized the flight. When the plane was airborne again, we kids had a ball—literally and figuratively. We ran back and forth in the aisle, throwing, catching, and dodging the ball. Flying was so much fun! The merriment of the children continued high above the Atlantic Ocean. Inside the cockpit, however, the mood was very different.

The pilot, copilot, and steward were very concerned. They could not account for the unusual turbulence the airplane was experiencing. Baffled, the pilot decided to check it out. The pieces of the puzzle came together when he opened the cabin’s door and saw the joyous commotion being generated by his younger passengers.

I happened to be standing closest to him. The enraged pilot picked me up, sat me on a vacant seat, and fastened the belt tightly—all in one motion. He did not rest until all my buddies were strapped down, not necessarily in their assigned seats. In the process, he kept yelling, in Portuguese and in English, You could have brought down this airplane! We could have all been killed! The pilot maintained a stern face for the duration of the trip, and we kids—after that scary confrontation—behaved like little angels. Later on, I had one more encounter with the pilot. He briefly joined us at the airport and laughingly described the ball incident to my parents.

I was all smiles but for a different reason: my first airplane trip had reconnected me with my parents. So, according to our family’s calendar, World War II finally came to an end on December 20, 1945. We were a family again, and I was ecstatic. I was a very happy eight-year old.

Backward March

My first days in America were busy as I got reacquainted with my parents, went sightseeing, and Christmas shopping. It was a fun time. Everything was new to me, and I liked what I saw. Eventually though, the holidays ended, and it was time to go to school. But an unexpected situation delayed my scholastic plans.

I contracted whooping cough, which lasted four months. It was so severe that I had to enter the doctor’s office via the back door. Naturally, I was not allowed to attend school. It was mid-April when my parents finally enrolled me. Normally, as an eight-year old, I would have been placed in the third grade, but since I did not speak English, the school authorities stuck me in the first grade. I did not like that at all.

Unfortunately, when school was out a month and a half later, I still had not mastered the English language. And so the backward march continued—I was demoted to kindergarten for the entire summer. As awful as that was, in kindergarten I learned to express myself in English to the point where others understood me. Thus, the move to America cost me two school years. However, since I was shorter than my classmates--throughout my schooling in America--few knew that I was the oldest student in class.

Not much has changed since my days in kindergarten: today, I am still a student of the English language.

Ice Breaker

My beloved dad passed away when I was twelve. But, widowhood did not stop Mother from traveling. We continued to go to Brazil, every other year, to visit the family. When I was sixteen, we went to South America for two weeks. Shortly after my arrival in Brazil, my cousins and I were invited to a family barbecue. The interesting thing was that no adults were invited. It was going to be a social for the younger members of the family. Our hostess, who was a distant cousin—and the mother of two teenagers—explained that she wanted to meet her younger relatives. The barbecue was going to be held at her ranch, and she was expecting twenty