We do not err because truth is difficult to see. It is visible at a glance. We err because this is more comfortable. (Alexander Solzhenitsyn, novelist, Nobel laureate 1918-2008)
My husband and I are at airport number three of four; we have not yet grasped the seven hours returned on the trip back from Europe—don’t expect to find them yet, not since we have been awake since 4:00AM Austrian time, and it is after 4:30PM in Washington DC. Tired isn’t an adequate description. Adrenaline holds me together, the same way a plastic bag can carry heavy rocks. It works only as a temporary solution.
Our boarding time comes and goes, then we hear the announcement, clear despite the Indian speaker’s accent. Our plane is awaiting a maintenance crew. Another hour wait. My brain goes into its own holding pattern. I am a bear in hibernation, holding all energy within. Hoping. Praying. Home. A bed. It’s all I want right now. But that isn’t going to happen until our vehicle gets a part that helps navigate it through the clouds—certainly not an extra.
Boarding. Finally. Waiting. Again. It will take twenty minutes to install the part. This plane is small compared to the others we have taken on this trip through Germany and Austria. White walls enclose. Restrict. I’m thirsty. Our stewardess provides ice water. It tastes elegant.
I think of our visit to Dachau and realize I am entitled to no more than anyone else. Life is a gift. The German word brausebed (bathhouse) appears in my mind as if it were inside the plane. Behind that door thousands died. The rooms are empty now, but the horror remains.
So easy. So very easy for me to complain. It’s going to take time for this older woman’s body to recover. But it will. Take off has begun. Our son will be at the airport. He will greet us as if we had been gone a century instead of less than two weeks. He will grab our bags for us and offer to drive us to dinner.
I turn toward the dull white metal walls of the plane and allow a single tear to fall, for the nameless, for those who would have loved to have the privilege of waiting . . .