Pamela Kaye's mother, Anneliese, was seventeen years old when she left Germany, the Fatherland, the only place she had ever known, in 1956. She was anxious for the chance to reinvent herself in the United States after World War II had devastated her country. In this memoir, she tells of her journey to America and how she discovered the truth about her Russian-Jewish heritage. Broken Glass behind the China Cabinet narrates how she began her new life in the United States as a paid servant for a family in Kansas City, Missouri; how she struggled as a young immigrant girl to find her place in this new world; and how she became a citizen in 1961. She shares the story of the people who impacted her journey and how she accidentally discovered the real story about who she is. Based on the diary of Anneliese, Broken Glass behind the China Cabinet shares a story of perseverance and communicates how one woman's look into the past impacted her future.

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Fallout The whole family, all five of us, stood assembled at the railway platform. The smell of that day was filed with a cold ere of anticipation. Breath can be seen upon all of our faces, with each chilling intake. The train could only come from one direction and always punctual as common as German manor. It was a wet-cold morning, a bite was to the air, the dew was still to be seen on the rails. I buttoned my coat and rewrapped my scarf. Mother lent me her best hand gloves for the occasion. We were 30 minutes early. Punctual, as good Germans are. Mother looked fatigued. Her face was a stone with the dark shadows that came with pacing about the night. Was she now questioning her decision to send me at the young age of 17? I wondered what her 42-year-old thoughts had been at the time. Was there something she wanted to now tell me? Did she have a secret she now hoped to share? She had tears running down her face. This was something unusual to her calm reserved disposition that I had known. This made me feel uncomfortable and tense. She took me into her arms; I stiffen in her embrace, only now wishing for the train to arrive. My mother never had shown much tenderness before, especially during the war years. Now, all of a sudden, I was going to leave the Fatherland. The only place I had ever known. This thought was incomprehensible to my grandparents. I then believed my parents were only seeking to free themselves from from the chains of responsibility. I had told my neighbours, teachers, and classmates that I choose to go on my own to the States, this lie was easier to tell than the stone truth. To my surprise, none had envy for me. They were happy with their simple lives in Germany, even after the war had been lost. It was their homeland the only place they had ever known. I left the familiar to venture into the unknown, a dark strange place. In a way I was angry with them. This I would have toiled with over the coming years of my life. Wrestling with the truth verses lies. I expected a different response. I thought then I would be able to live my own desires, finally, and not do what was expected or told, but what I wanted. This would now become my chance for a fresh start. I could reinvent myself. I thought I could be anything and anyone. A new start I could make for myself without carrying the heavy burdens of others. My 13-year-old sister Margret seemed to be still sleepy. She was the most beautiful of us two girls. She was desired by all and wanted by many. She had skills that naturally came with beauty and charm. Something I had so obviously been lacking. We all had to get up that day at 5am. She without a doubt was looking forward to have her own bedroom. Our home had become a bit cramped due to the lack of housing after WWII. Our family was ordered to take in refugees as well as other homes in Germany. We converted the top floor of our home to an apartment for the new family. There never was much privacy in our three-bedroom home. And now even less would be so. My leaving would surely have been an improvement. My 11-year-old brother Kris was excited about me traveling so far away to America. He handed me his only pencil sharpener, a silver steel sharpener, knowing how much I love writing. It did not weigh much and would come in handy. This became my cherished companion throughout the years to come. I was scheduled to fly TWA (Trans World Airlines), and needed to watch my luggage allowance. I carried a dark brown overnight leather suitcase that smelled of moth balls, and a small handbag. This, had been all my life's possessions. In the last moment, before leaving for the railway, I sneaked a Sunday missal into my bag. It was in gold leaf, black leather bound and smelled like an old worn leather chair. This was an item I purchased from my small allowance. I had been eleven at the time and filled with such promise. The book was of a special significance to me. I walked to church every morning for then six years. This had been my only companion for I had few friends. My parents wanted to keep to themselves. Mom reminded earlier I would not need my prayer book in America. She desperately wanted me to get out of my parochial environment and expose me to a bigger world. I would soon forget any notion of wanting to become a nun. My mother and father had been displeased with the decision of following a Religious path. During the war years mother contracted Typhus while pregnant with my brother Kris. Dad was gone at the time and she was not able to care for my sister Margret and myself while still carrying a child. She thought at the time to place us in a Catholic run orphanage. This is where I grew and yearned for the devotion towards the religious path. I became close to my teachers, Catholic nuns, and siblings, the Totens. Funny, learning in English, Tote in German means dead, so they were caretakers for the dead, a fitting name for these two ladies. Caring for all the lost soles. They made sure your life in the hear after would be good. I loved these sisters. They inspired me to lead a religious life. They taught me how to be a good Catholic. Since dad had been gone for some time during the war years, upon his return the gossip would be known that Kris was the offspring of Herr Mannoff. Herr Mannoff had been a family friend of Mothers. They had known each other from school. The Mannoffs then lived just down the road from our home on Elisabeth Strasse. Herr Mannoff had been an SA officer during the war and was not able to find employment after the occupation. Dad upon his return after the war was walking up the path to our home on Parterweg. Margret, Kris, and myself were in the front of the home playing as children of our age at the time did. Kris in the infant sleeping in the stroller. Dad peered asking whom it was? I responded, this is our brother Kris. My memories are faint now, yet I clearly remember dad entering the house yelling. This yelling was heard from down the street. Dad from that moment on slept downstairs instead of with mother. He never would again return to Mutties bed. This subject became forbidden to discuss. We never dared to approach the subject. Dad and Kris had a volatile relationship. Dad would beat Kris often to his way of thinking. This was as constant as our clocks were in the home. Never would he ever be close to him as a father and son should be.