The recollection of an experience I had in the fall of 1934 still fills me with chills of
apprehension. Mentally, I always refer to this event as the depot, and I wonder what would have
happened to me if, somehow, I had never come back.
I was a young girl. My husband was still my fiance and we lived in Chicago. We both were music
students and had been to an afternoon concert. Finding we had ample time before keeping a
dinner date with his family, we decided to brouse around in a nearby music store. We took the
elevator upwards and, once in the store, settled down on stools to study the latest scores and
literature. I was paging through a magazine when my fiance, Stan, nudged me, pointing to the
clock.