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morning of our arrival in Milan was bleak, the air saturated by fog so dense it was hard to see anything. Our tenminute ride from the train station passed in total silence. The only details visible through the darkened air were some neon signs and the hazy form of the policemen directing traffic. The taxi dropped us off at an address written on a small piece of paper that my father had handed the driver.
    Only after we got out of the cab did I dare say something. “Did you see the funny hats the policemen were wearing?”
    Inside the building, where the driver had placed our two suitcases, we looked to see what to do next when il portinaio peeked his head from behind a door and asked us what we wanted: “Cosa desidera?” Papa handed the man the wrinkled piece of paper.
    “ Un momento, ” the janitor said, then lifted a receiver and pushed one of the many buttons on the instrument. When he hung up, he turned to us. “ Piano secondo ,” he said, which would have meant nothing to me had he not shown two fingers and pointed up. The man helped place the suitcases in the small elevator, inserted a coin in the coin box, slid the gate closed, and sent the elevator up with Papa in it. Mutti and I were left to climb the stairs.
    Standing on the landing we found Signora Rina Gigli wearing a full-length housecoat, slippers, and more makeup than I had seen on any face before. A gray cat rested in her arms. With a big smile lighting up her face, our new landlady welcomed us to her home. “ Buon giorno e benvenuti! ”
    I did not understand a word of the melodic sounds, but in the first few moments the warmth of her voice introduced me to the romantic Italian language and to a new friend, her cat. Soon I was in love with the cat and infatuated with the landlady.

    Eric holding Rina's cat on the balcony in Milan, Italy, 1938.
    With enthusiasm we settled into our new home, a single bedroom with limited kitchen use. Gone were the Nazi soldiers, gone were the menacing sounds coming from the radio, gone was Millie with her change of heart. The first days I spent making the acquaintance of Rina's pets, the gray cat and a cute mutt that kept running from room to room. The events that had frightened me only days before seemed far away.
    I was not old enough to understand how all the pieces had fallen into place — the slip of paper with the address, Signora Gigli waiting for us. It had all been prearranged. That was the beginning of what my parents called “the Jewish underground.”
    “What is the Jewish ‘under something’?” I asked.
    My mother tried to explain. “There are many good, decent people out there who try to help people like us, who have been forced to leave their homes and go to live in a foreign land. Don't forget, Erich, one day, when you get to be a man, you may be called upon to help someone less fortunate. I want you to remember what total strangers are doing for us now.”
    Because of my parents' Polish citizenship, we were allowed to leave Vienna but were permitted only two suitcases and very little money.
    “Would you believe that they let us take out only two hundred Schilling per person? That would be enough to live one week. We weren't permitted to take our valuables or any of my jewelry,” Mother said to an acquaintance.
    At that time, the son of a wealthy Turkish merchant who was studying medicine in Vienna had taken up residence at our hotel. My father sent a letter to him and, luck being on our side, the young student received our plea for help. Through his parents, who lived in Turkey, my father bartered Italian lire for hotel lodging. Thus we received needed funds in Italy, and the Turkish student received paid accommodations at the Hotel Continental.
    With the help of the same student, who passed through Milan once or twice, Mother was able to retrieve much of her cherished jewelry. She sold pieces one by one to help us survive in our new country. Parting with a ring or bracelet or earrings caused