Photographs lined the walls: her husband, long gone; a garden she had tended in her youth; smiling friends, distant relatives, memories that spanned continents.
I made her a sandwich in her tiny kitchen while she sat at the table, legs crossed neatly beneath her. Not yet did she speak of the camps, of the war.
She first spoke of ordinary joys: her husband, the garden she loved, Felix the cat, cautiously observing me from his perch atop the refrigerator.
When she finally began to speak of the past, it was matter-of-fact, delivered without bitterness.
She told me how, as a child, she had been taken from her home, losing her parents and her brother.
She survived because another prisoner had shared scraps of food with her.
“That was the first time I understood that kindness can be stronger than cruelty,” she said simply, her voice unwavering, like she was talking about the weather.
I listened, barely breathing, as if taking a breath might break the spell. That night, she hugged me like we had known each other all our lives.
Week after week, I came back. Sometimes I brought groceries. Other times, small tools to fix a leaky faucet, a broken light, or a wobbly chair.
Over time, my biker friends began joining me: large men in leather jackets, arms covered in tattoos, faces lined by years of the road and hardship.
People who might scare you just by standing still—they became her “scary grandsons.”
We repaired her apartment together, often while she brewed tea in the background, the smell of bergamot and chamomile filling the air.
Each visit brought laughter, warmth, and stories, and the apartment itself seemed to glow from the simple human kindness shared there.
Eva had a gift for perspective. Sitting quietly in her armchair, hands folded neatly in her lap, she would say, “You cannot control what others do.
In her, I rediscovered the man I had been before life’s losses had dulled me.
Before Eva, I had drifted. My wife passed ten years earlier. My daughter and I had slowly retreated into silence, lives parallel but never touching.
The road had been my sanctuary—the motorcycle and the wind my only companions. After meeting Eva, that clarity returned, transformed into a purpose far beyond the open road.
One Sunday, as the sun filtered through lace curtains, she looked at me and asked, “You have a daughter, yes? Call her.” I hesitated. She smiled.
“Then uncomplicate it. You don’t have forever.” That night, I called.
Our conversation began awkwardly, hesitant, full of stumbles and pauses—but by the end, it flowed.
We agreed to meet for lunch. When I told Eva the next week, she clapped her hands with delight, as if I had just won a medal.
Weeks turned into months. We spent afternoons drinking tea, listening to her stories.Continue reading…
