The Bus Driver, The Holocaust Survivor, Her Friend, and Me

Late last night, I boarded the shuttle to the rideshare area at LAX just as the young Black woman shuttle driver with long black hair hopped off the bus and assisted two tiny Jewish women into the seats across from me.

The women squeezed the driver’s hands and thanked her before the driver took her seat and drove us to the massive parking lot divided into pickup zones.

When we arrived, the driver grabbed the old ladies’ suitcases.

“I can take the suitcases and get them to their uber,” I said.

The bus driver nodded at me and hit a switch. The bus beeped and hissed as the front door lowered toward the curb. Then the bus driver got out and the old ladies moved toward her. The one with black hair wobbled. Her friend held her under the arm. I inched behind them with their suitcases.

“Put your arms around my neck like you’re giving me a hug.” The bus driver smiled encouragingly and the little lady with the black hair leaned forward and circled this stranger’s neck with her arms.

The bus driver wrapped her arms around the woman and hoisted her up off the bus floor and gently placed her on the sidewalk.

“Thank you,” both ladies said at once.

I got their suitcases off the bus and the four of us stood at the side of the bus.

The woman with the black hair took a step and swayed to the left. The bus driver steadied her, looked around, and said, “Let me find a wheelchair.”

I took one of the woman’s arms and her younger friend took the other. The bus driver dashed off and returned seconds later with a wheelchair. Then she seated the lady with black hair, looked at me and said, “Let’s go!”

I pulled their suitcase and walked beside the younger of the two ladies behind the bus driver pushing the wheelchair.

“Don’t you have to be somewhere?” the lady asked me.

“I’ll wait until you get in your car.”

“There are good people,” she said.

“Everywhere,” I replied.

“She’s 97 years old, you know.” The woman pointed at her friend in the wheelchair ahead of us, “She’s a Holocaust survivor.”

I sucked in my breath. I don’t know what to say, so I listened.

“She was speaking on Kaua’i. That’s why we’re here.”

“How wonderful that she’s sharing her story.” I was also on Kauai at a writers’ conference, sharing and absorbing stories all week. If I had known she was speaking, I would have gone.

“I’m Paulina. She’s Gabriella.”

When we arrived at the pickup spot, I told the bus driver, “Paulina just told me Gabriella is a Holocaust survivor.”

The bus driver’s jaw dropped.

“I’m a sculptor. I process my emotions through my art,” Gabriella said.

“Me too,” I thought.

“Where can I see your art?” The bus driver asked as she locked the wheelchair in place.

“Gabriella Karin dot com.”

The bus driver bent down to hug Gabriella.

“There are good people,” Paulina said again.

“You’re an angel,” I said to the bus driver.

“We have to help each other.” She hugged me before she dashed off to the unattended bus.

When the uber driver arrived and I got Paulina and Gabriella in the back seat, I told Gabriella, “I hope you get some rest.”

“Thank you for your help,” she said.

“No. Thank you. I was a privilege meeting you.”

Then I shut the car door, grabbed my own bags, and walked toward the lyft area so I could get myself a ride home. I spotted the bus driver as she was about to pull out. I waved and gave her two thumbs up.

She smiled and nodded at me.

There are good people everywhere. Thought you might enjoy this reminder.

Also, in case you want to check out Gabriella’s art: The Art of Gabriella Y. Karin