I guess sometime in 1978, I received a call from GB’s receptionist. She was taking belly dancing lessons and heard a story of a girl from Nicaragua who needed help. The receptionist suggested that GB and I would be the right people to do this since we were always rescuing animals and why not a little girl? She gave me the name of the girl’s sister, Mercedes and I called.
It seemed, long story short, that Alba had come to the US on a visitor visa, and it had expired. She was under threat of deportation. This was problematic as Nicaragua was in the throes of a revolution. I asked GB if he thought this was a good idea and he said no. Of course, I ignored him.
Alba was scheduled to land at Stapleton and we waited. She never appeared. At midnight, I received a call from Immigration in Brownsville, Texas. They had picked her up and were going to deport her. I said, “no you can’t. We have custody.” (We did have custody. Her parents had arranged for that). The officer and I went round and round and finally I said, “Call the Governor of Colorado. He’ll vouch for me. I have his private number.”
Now, to be clear, most of this was not true. The Governor, Dick Lamm, would not appreciate a phone call at midnight, nor would he think another immigrant would be a good idea, and I doubted if he knew me at all. I did have the private number because I was lobbying a bill his wife was supporting.
There was a silence from the immigration officer. “Ok, lady, I’m putting her on the next plane to Denver. I hope I’m never in a poker game with you.”
Alba was a bright, adorable girl but she was a teenager. As such, she didn’t appreciate much. Really, not her fault, was it? She came from a well-heeled family who had made the agonizing decision to send their daughter to a safe place, never knowing if they’d see her again. And, truth be told, how could they have known we’d protect her?
Alba was strong willed. So was I. (Oh, guess what? We still are!)
The two wills did not get along well. I was a horrible mother substitute, and she was understandably angry and frightened (something I failed to notice). After a few years, she returned to Nicaragua and then, promptly, arranged for a new visa and came back to the US. She began working as a nanny, then in retail. She put herself through college (University of Colorado at Denver), spending her junior year in France. Alba’s mom, Amalia, visited in Denver and took the time and effort to heal the rift between us. At some point, Alba became a US citizen. My mom, GB, and I attended the ceremony held in a courtroom.
In 1990, we went to Nicaragua. We stayed with Alba’s mother and met the extended family. We were treated like visiting royalty. Everyone we met knew the story of how the relationship came to be. Two friends of Amalia’s escorted us through the country. One day, GB, Alba and I met Alba’s father, Roberto, in his small town. We switched cars and got in his Jeep. This man was a maniacal driver and, I have to say, one who’s skills I admired. And, he reminded me of my grandfather: just a bit wild, unorthodox, and brilliant. We drove to his ranch to spend the day riding horses and mules and then lunch. Roberto’s ranch had no electricity or running water. But lunch was grilled, and Coke’s had been hauled in along with plenty of ice (no, we didn’t ask for ice, but they loved us and knew we’d appreciate it and, oh my God, we did). After lunch, hammocks were strung on the front porch of the hacienda and napped in the humid heat of the afternoon.
On the day before we were to leave, the Soviet Union disbanded. We were walking down the streets of Leon, peering into people’s houses. A tv was running the story of Gorbachev and our new friends translated the Spanish subtitles for us. Now, we were in a communist controlled country and Nicaragua had few friends in the world outside the USSR and Cuba. Within minutes, people literally run up to us and said, “Americans! Please invest in our country!”
Alba graduated from CU, met a man who was from Syria. Bassam was a Ph.D in Engineering. They got married and a year later, Alba gave birth to a son. They named him Mohammed Eyad.
She then gave GB and me an ultimatum: either Eyad is your grandson or nothing. No foster grandchild. Plain grandson. We agreed and we were awarded the monikers “Nana and Papa”.
Bassam got a job in San Antonio teaching engineering and, so, they moved there. Alba did not waste time. She picked up an M.A. in international relations, I think. GB and I attended the graduation and, quite honestly, it was one of the most wonderful moments ever. The child we had rescued was woman of intention. How had that teenager become so incredible?
A job opportunity arose in Milwaukee, and they moved. Another son, Omar, was born. Alba worked; Bassam taught. The boys began to grow.
In the late 90’s Eyad came out each summer. He would fly by himself because in those pre-911 days, kids could do that. We’d pick him up at Stapleton, go home and prepare for a week of grandson time.
After 911, I’d fly to Milwaukee, meet Eyad at the airport and fly back to Denver. A couple of times, Omar visited.
Throughout this time, Alba was adamant about improving her parents’ lives. She would arrange for them to visit and eventually become American citizens.
We’d talk. Not often, but often enough to keep a relationship. GB and I would fly out to Milwaukee on occasion for a visit.
Two years ago, Amalia died in Milwaukee. I came to see her one last time so I could hold her hand tell her “thank you” for entrusting Alba to us.
Last week, we all met in Riverside, California to celebrate Eyad’s graduation from Residency in Anaesthesiology. There we were. Alba and Bassam; Mercedes, and GB and me. Eyad’s family. He has one more year of a Fellowship in, ok, here I’m just bragging, Cardiac and Thorasic Anaesthesiology.
People have asked why I did this. It’s a simple answer. During WW2, I had family in Hungary. Some of them escaped the rural areas and went to Budapest. I had heard from my grandparents that my Hungarian cousins were rescued and hidden by the Swiss. I heard the whole story when I visited them in 1995.
There a man named Carl Lutz, who was the Swiss Consulate to Hungary. He managed to save 7,000-9,000 Jews by hiding them in caves and sometimes, in plain sight in buildings owned by the Swiss government. My cousins were among those Jews.
In 1979,I didn’t know the particulars of my cousins’ relationship with Wallenberg, but I always felt I owed someone a distant thank you. This was my version of reciprocity. My family was saved. We rescued a young girl who became a beautiful, industrious woman. A woman who had much to give the United Statess
That’s the answer.
Today, when I watch the news, I find it so deeply unsettling. The hatred towards immigrants is astounding. And I’m not just referring to the “worst of the worse”. The rise of antisemitism is frightening. We’ve become a country swathed in hate. I keep imagining if Alba had never come into our lives.
We would have missed that graduation and the ones before it. We would have missed a wedding last year. We would have missed the amazing, warm, big hugs. We would have missed the calls from Eyad, Omar, and Alba on Mother’s Day or my birthday. “Nana, happy birthday.”
We would have missed so much.
Air. 
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