Marcell Sturnberger

The story is told of a man named Marcell Sturnberger who used to get into a train every day at 9:09 on the Long Island railroad. He would go to work every weekday, get into that train, and then later get into a subway train and continue on the way to work. One day he was in the middle of the first train ride when he thought of a friend of his who was rather ill, and he thought he should really not go to work that day and instead visit his sick friend. So he got off at another station, took another train and headed in the direction of his sick friend’s home. But as he entered that subway train, it was very crowded. He knew he wasn’t going to get a seat until a man suddenly realized that he had just missed his station and got up from his seat and Marcell Sturnberger made a beeline and sat down in that seat even though there was very little space.

The man next to him opened a Hungarian newspaper and started to read it, and Marcell Sturnberger could read Hungarian. So he looked at the man and said, “Are you looking for a job sir? Is that why you’re reading this newspaper?” And he said, “no. He said, “The truth of the matter is that I am looking for my wife.” He said, “You’re looking for your wife?” “Can you explain to me what you mean?” He said, “Yes sir, but you’re not going to believe why I still think there is a possibility that I might find her.” He said, “My hometown is in Debrecen in Hungary. And he said, “During the war I was taken away by the Russians to the Ukraine to bury the German dead. But while I was gone the Nazis invaded our town and when I returned, they told me my wife along with many others were taken to the concentration camps and probably to Auschwitz. But there is a small thread of hope in my heart that the Americans who came in may have rescued her. And if she was indeed rescued, my hope is that she came to the United States. So every day I’m looking in the newspapers to see if there may be an announcement of my wife wondering if I am still alive too.

All of a sudden Marcell Sturnberger’s heart began to beat faster. It beat very hard because he remembered that he’d been at a gathering some months ago where a woman sitting next to him said her name was Maria Paschan. She said she came from Debrecen and that her husband had been taken away to the Ukraine by the Russians to bury the German dead and that she’d been taken into Auschwitz and had been rescued by the American soldiers. And as he began to listen he began to wonder if there was a distinct possibility that they were talking about her. He put his hand into his wallet and took out the name because he had kept her name, planning to get together in the same gathering of people. And Marcell Sturnberger took out that card and saw the name Maria Paschan with the telephone number and put it back rather covertly and he looked at the man and said, “Sir, what is your name? He said, “My name is Bella Paschan.” He said, “What is your wife’s name?” He said, “My wife’s name is Maria Paschan.” He said, “Mr. Paschan, I do not know whether I should tell you any more than this, but I’d like you to get off at the next station with me, I think I may have some help for you.

They got off at the next station and Marcell Sturnberger began to dial the number while Bella Paschan stood outside. After several rings a voice responded and he said, “Is this Maria Paschan?” and she said, “Yes.” “Maria,” he said, “this is Marcell Sturnberger.” “Do you remember me?” She said, “Yes I do.” He said, “Maria, can you tell me the name of your husband?” She said, “My husband’s name is Bella Paschan.” He said, “Maria, just a moment.” He took the phone and gave it to Bella Paschan and said, “Sir, you are about to witness one of the greatest miracles of your life.” And he took that telephone and said, “Hello.” And it was not more than thirty seconds until he sobbed and sobbed uncontrollably. And all he could say was, “Maria, Maria, Maria, I don’t believe it, I don’t believe it.”

The article ends with these words by Maria: “Even now it is difficult to believe that it happened. We have both suffered so much. I have almost lost the capacity to be not afraid. Each time my husband goes from our house I say to myself,’Will anything happen to him before he comes home again?”‘ Skeptical persons may doubt the events of that memorable afternoon and attribute it to mere chance. But was it chance that made Marcell Sturnberger suddenly decide to visit his sick friend and hence take a subway line that he had never been on before? Was it chance that caused the man sitting by the door to rush out just as Sturnberger came in? Was it chance that caused Bella Paschan to be sitting by Sturnberger reading a Hungarian newspaper? Was it chance, or did God ride the Brooklyn subway that afternoon?