“Oh, dear!”

A tall, thin man crashed into me in the crowded airport; spilling me and my comic books across the floor. My chin throbbed from smashing it on the ground.

   “Are you ok, son?”

I didn’t understand a word as he lifted me off the floor and picked up my books. His voice had a lilt, like a glissando. I liked the sound, but stood there silently, noticing moist blue eyes under arched eyebrows. He reminded me of Opa. I already missed him. I missed everyone.

   “Are you ok?”

He kept standing there. I began worrying that he was angry, though his expression belied that. I dared not rub my chin, lest it set him off. He noticed my comic books weren’t English.

He pointed at me.

   “Dootch?”

I nodded. My mother returned from the carousel with our suitcases. I ran to her as he handed over my things, apologizing.

   “I knocked him over. I’m very sorry.”

My mother answered in halting English.

   “He iz ok.”

The man pulled a dollar out of his pocket and crouched down to hand it to me. I looked at the strange bill.

   “Zay sank you.”

I didn’t understand the instruction.

   “Sag danke.”

   “Danke.”

He patted my head then rushed off.

I rubbed my chin as I examined the bill. It was green and white and warm. I held it against my cheek. It smelled musty. My mother grabbed the suitcases and headed down the corridor to join my father, brother and sister in the customs office.

   “Komm schon, kindchen.”

I ran to keep pace.

            We entered a small office. A small aluminum tree with blinking colored lights sat atop a grey file cabinet. Two red paper bells in opposite corners and a gold garland connecting them framed an otherwise bare wall. Hardly cheery. The man talking to my father reminded me of the bald sidekick in The Great Race. I watched it with my uncles and aunts in Höchst, the week before we left. I laughed until tears rolled. Especially during the pie throwing scene. My father motioned to my mother.

   “Heer ees.”

My mother took over signing paperwork, while my father dealt with my fidgeting infant sister who’d just awoken and began crying. My brother stood next to his chair, with his arms wrapped around my father’s leg.

   “What is the nature of your visit?”

   “Ve arr nut visiteeng. Ve arr leeveeng heer.”

   “You’re leaving?”

   “No. Ve arr komming heer.”

   “You’re returning from a trip?”

   “Ach… Ve hov movet heer.”

   “You’re moving here?”

   “Ja!”

   “Customs gave me the wrong information.”

He ripped up the forms my mother had been signing and pulled new ones out of his desk. My father frowned.

   “Was ist loss?”

She shushed him.

   “Do you have your visas?”

   “Yes.”

She handed them over. He held up my mother’s and father’s while checking their faces against the pictures.

   “This man is your husband?”

   “Yes.”

   “How long have you been married?”

   “Ayt yeaz.”

He bent forward to fill in the forms. The blonde fuzz on top of his head looked like the fuzz on my sister’s head.

   “These are your children?”

   “Yes.”

He held up our visas to match our faces.

   “How old are they?”

   “Von, feif und zex yeaz oold.”

He winked at me as he handed the visas back. I clutched my comics close to my chest. My mother stroked my hair and whispered that I should tell the man what she taught me. I shook my head.

   “Bitte.”

   “I EM eh NAYSE BOYee.”

My cheeks burned. My mother beamed at her polyglot son.

   “I’m sure you are, kid.”

He handed me a candy from the same drawer in his desk. I put it in my mouth, then spat it out. Butterscotch. What a cruel trick. My father smacked my head.

            My head hurt. Not merely from the smack, or the fall. The unfamiliarity of everything; the bright lights made my temples throb… my eyes burn. The cacophony of beeping trams and rolling luggage and rushing travelers and staccato announcements over intercoms… I hated it here. I missed my uncles and aunts and Oma and Opa. I missed my friends. How was I going to make friends here when I couldn’t understand anyone? Everybody talked like they were chewing gum. Ngow, ngow… I bit my lip to keep from crying. I failed. Which set my sister off again. Which angered my father. My mother snatched my sister from him and sealed our fate with a flourish of her wrist. She slid the forms over to my father to countersign. It was then, with those signatures, that I realized that my parents wouldn’t look out for me. The packing, the goodbyes, even the flight- it all seemed reversible, but this action was indelible. The epiphany started me sobbing. My brother joined in, making it a trio.

            “Verdammt noch mal!”

My father picked up my brother and yanked me hard, towards the door. My mother apologized to the man as he handed back our visas.

   “Dey arr verry teyered.”

He nodded. The door closed. My father, brother and I stood in the bright hallway. I could still hear my sister crying over my own. My father jerked my arm and glowered down at me. I stopped crying immediately; though my shoulders still convulsed.

   “Halt’s maul!”

My brother stopped as well; knowing it was prudent. My father sighed angrily and lit a cigarette. He ran his hands through his hair as it dangled between his lips. It burned to the filter before the door opened and my mother came out with my sister. She’d stopped crying and was sucking her thumb.

   “Welcome to the United States.”

   “Sank you verry match.”

   “Vertig?”

My mother handed him the paperwork along with my sister, ignoring his question. She picked up my brother. I took her hand as we headed down the long hallway towards our connecting flight. I looked up at her as a tear hit my forehead.

Raffi Boyadjian emigrated from Frankfurt, Germany as a young child. He lived in Los Angeles with one very thoughtful dog and another that was pure id; both greatly loved and greatly missed. He now (still) lives (in L.A.) with his wife and young daughter. He’s a graphic designer by trade, a composer by heart, and a confounding writer. He was looking forward to getting a male dog to restore gender equanimity but somehow ended up with an amazing female dog.