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Weekly Contest #367
September 1938 We met on Swiss-France border, in a rural spot near Geneva. There was a white line that separated the border. Set against the rolling hills of the Jura mountains in the background, my mother and I embraced — she on the Swiss border, me on the French. She’d traveled from our family home in Durlach, on the foothills of the Black Forest, where my family had lived for centuries. If we had planned it better, she would’ve been able to request a visa to cross the border. But that was a luxury. Time. I’d just graduated from univ...
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