An Enchanted Evening

An Enchanted Evening

It was the fall of 1949. The college semester was well begun, and I was at a table in the University Commons with the usual group. The background music was from the then-popular musical, South Pacific.
The song was Some Enchanted Evening; I chanced to look up, and as the lyrics continued, I did “see a stranger, Across a crowded room”.
He saw me too, and “somehow we knew, we knew even then” that we would meet.
It was some weeks later, in fact, that we met, introduced by my then boyfriend. By Thanksgiving we were an item. He was from the Middle East and I was a dyed-in-the-wool Midwesterner; my parents weren’t thrilled that we were making future plans together. I was too young; they didn’t know his family, etc. He was meeting opposition from his distant family too, in that “Americans did not make good wives”, and anyway he was not to marry before his sister did.
We went blithely ahead, marrying the next summer. Happily both families became reconciled, no doubt partly because we produced four grandchildren for them. Now we have our own grandchildren, nine of them, and a great-grandchild.
We had just celebrated our 57th anniversary when he left this life. A poster for South Pacific graces the living room wall, and will always do so for all the memories it evokes.


If Only I Had Known


It was 1948, and I was a very young, very green college student. I was attending Indiana University, five blocks up Woodlawn Avenue, as it was too costly to go anywhere else. Mother and Dad, however, may have felt that some sort of experience away from home would be good for me; and if they felt that they would have been right. A more naive and unworldly eighteen-year-old would have been hard to find even then, and probably would be impossible now. Dad had acquired a brochure listing inexpensive student tours abroad, under the auspices of Columbia University. He and Mother selected for me a month-long stay in a small town in France, with a family who would travel a little with the participants and acquaint them with other families in various walks of life. I was to travel on an unconverted Marine troop ship, and this turned out to be a delight even in rough weather. There was a day of rolling and pitching when I was one of only two passengers on deck having fun.
On my arrival in France, the rendezvous with the two other American students and with our French hosts took place. Monsieur was a tall, imposing figure who was the pastor of a Protestant church; Madame his wife’s origins were Italian and Russian. They had several children, only one of whom, their daughter of about our age, was to spend time with us, We all piled into their aging Citroen and headed for the parsonage where we were to live for four weeks.
As described in the brochure, we partook of their family life; we met French doctors, farmers and shoemakers; we toured Roman ruins and VanGogh scenery; and we brushed up our French language skills. All in all, the experience lived well up to expectations.
Their names had of course been known to us from our first reading of the brochure. What we did not know, and I at least was not to learn for some years, was this: Andre Trocme was the pastor under whose guidance the entire village of Le Chambon had saved hundreds of Jews during the Nazi era. How recent a memory this must have been to them when we were there, but not a word did they say to us about their heroism.
Through the book by Philip Hallie, Lest Innocent Blood Be Shed; and the Pierre Sauvage film Weapons of the Spirit, the world now knows the Trocmes. What a privilege it would have been to hear their story as they would have told it.