In 1993, my PR agency was launching a German company’s product. I was collecting the team at Montreal’s Dorval airport. Two men were arriving from Berlin. I spotted our Canadian distributor coming down the escalator. Seeing me, he gesticulated energetically, pointing out one of the Germans. The man was standing in front of me, his face in profile. For some reason, I reached out and touched his arm. He turned towards me and I instantly knew: he was The One I’d been waiting for my entire life.  But. I was 25 years married; he was on his third wife. I lived in Montreal; he in Berlin. I am the daughter of Holocaust survivors; he is a tall, handsome, debonair German. What a cruel cosmic joke! We spent most of that evening talking to each other. I learned...

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