As long as I could remember, I had always wished to learn to drive and, of course, to own a car. But I would be well into adulthood before this happened.
When I was 13 years old, we—my father, mother, sister, and I—settled in England. We had survived the Holocaust and were trying to restart our lives. England was very different from Poland, but we were free and looked forward to a better future.
My sister was just the right age for first grade, so she fit in much easier than I did. But I had my hobby, table tennis, which didn’t require too much conversation in English.
We arrived at the White Cliffs of Dover—the equivalent of seeing the Statue of Liberty in New York for those who immigrated to America—and were quickly put on a train to a refugee camp in Maghull, which was near Liverpool in the north of England. Everything was rationed at the time, and the version of English tea we drank would never have passed for the proper, famous, traditional British beverage. But they too had gone through the war.
We had all been homeless for many years, and many refugees in the camp chose London to find a permanent home and get their children into school. We found a house in the north of London in the neighborhood called West Hampstead. By sheer coincidence there was a Jewish youth club called Maccabi within walking distance from our house, which gave me the opportunity to find a community and get to know the English Jewish youth.
And while I continued to dream about driving, there were no cars parked outside any of the homes in our neighborhood. Nobody had cars. We had excellent bus service, and the London Underground was close by, so travel was easy, except when it was raining. Of course, it was always raining in England, so you didn’t leave your house without an umbrella.
Still, I had a dream to have a car. When my 21st birthday came along, I thought for sure I would get a car, but I got a record player instead. It was a lovely present but not what I wanted. Years passed. I moved to Israel. I got married and still had no car.
Then, in 1969, when I was 37 years old, we flew to America—missing the Statue of Liberty—and settled in Palo Alto, California, where there were lots of cars everywhere. And public transportation was completely inadequate, so we had to get a car. We bought a 1959 Ford Falcon, and my husband had to drive it since I hadn’t yet learned how.
To remedy this, I first attended evening driving classes, then passed the written test, and completed four lessons with an instructor in a car. During the first lesson I was given the ignition key to start the car and didn’t know where to put it. My fellow student told me I would never make it.
Of course I persevered and dragged friends along to help me get the driving hours I needed to pass the test. I passed on the second try. But I still didn’t have my own car—until one of our friends sold his Ford Galaxie to us. I could finally say I had a car of my own!
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