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My paternal Aunt Mimi had keys to our home. She was asked by the authorities to empty the apartment immediately because it was being seized. She told me that she was sobbing uncontrollably while clearing out our possessions. We had furniture that was custom made. She also told me that she felt that the furniture reminded her of all of us—our smell, our touch was upon it. She loved us so much and she missed us even more. I assume caressing our belongings for one last time, she felt near to us. Most of her memories of us had been stolen. However, when I returned ten years later, I found my favorite teddy bear being held close by my aunt as she slept. She had hugged him so many times he had become ragged. She held my memory near her heart for a long time. When she held my bear, she saw my hands and my face touching her; my scent was emanating from the stuffed toy. Connection between the two of us began the moment I was born; she did not have children of her own; I was her girl. She shed tears for many years, yearning for her girl to return. This toy represented me; she could release her longing for me through my toy. My cactus plants were blooming at her balcony only to remind her that some day we would meet again. We did. It was a touching moment for both Aunt Mimi and Aunt Ketti when I returned for the first time after ten long years. Although they cried when it was time for me to head home to the States after a vacation, they were excited every time I would return for a visit. I still cry when I think of it all . . . Mimi passed away in 2010. Part of me still wishes I could hear her voice and hug her dearly; Ketti is still alive, thank God. We talk often; she is so grateful and so am I.

It took more than a year before we traveled to Austria. During this time every evening we would gather in front of a short-wave radio and listen to “The Voice of America.” This program included discussion about emigration and provided us with valuable details about the process. On occasion, we would listen to BBC and another program called “Freedom Europe.” From these programs, we were gathering information of what we could expect beyond the iron curtain.

The long-awaited day arrived; we drove in our automobile to the border, leaving our home in the early hours of the morning. Because my dad did not place the required sticker on the back windshield when we left our apartment, he needed to put it in place at the border. His hand trembled while he made small talk with the border officer. They agreed that when we came back, I would meet his son. This officer was not aware that such promises would never become a reality. We were silently waving our farewells to everyone and everything. The sun came up, but we kept driving; my parents were determined to get as close to the border as possible. We planned to cross the Austrian border the next day to be far enough from eventual forced return. We heard stories that Yugoslavian officials were trading runaways like ourselves for desirable cattle for meat. When we reached Zagreb, a point before crossing the Austrian border, we slept. Very early the next day we were at the border patrol of the Yugoslavian-Austrian border. Once we crossed and saw the first sign in German, we finally exhaled with relief.

When packing my belongings, I remember I decided to wear two pair of pants and four shirts underneath my coat because my tiny suitcase was filled to capacity. A sad memory lingers in my mind when I remember how I tore up a note book filled with my poetry. I knew I would not have space for it in my suitcase so I was reading every poem for one last time, and then tearing the sheet of paper with tears in my eyes knowing this could never be reproduced and will forever be lost in the trash. I filled my pockets with precious memorabilia, chunks of my past. I was clenching my fists just to feel them. It was a cold winter. Sleep deprivation and fear, combined with excitement, kept me shaking. The trees were passing by. I was half asleep, filled with memories going back and forth in my mind between the present and the past. "Is this a dream, or we really did make it?" I asked myself.

The car was humming monotonously; my mom and dad were silent. The journey we started from southeast had finished somewhere between stamping passports while leaving one country and stamping them back when entering the next. There were so many questions in my mind, begging to come out. I decided to read the signs instead. Tears from sun rays glistening in my eyes, the snow, the wet grass, my breath on the side window, all were so real . . . I was tired but joyous. Getting closer to the capital made me so impatient; I had never experienced a capitalist society where true freedom might be possible. I was absolutely curious—maybe somehow nostalgic, but content. "Will I meet some relatives of grandma here? I need to get my German in order." I was half talking and half thinking.

A new journey was started the moment we crossed the border of the long-awaited Austria, marked with our entrance into Vienna. The first two nights we slept in a very fancy hotel, and then we found reasonable accommodations. We decided to wait a week before we made any decision. A need to save our limited resources was inevitable. We were not going back; …