Sallie Satterthwaite
Lifestyle Columnist
Mothers worry. It's what they do best. But I'll jeopardize any maternal reputation I may have by admitting that I don't worry a lot.

Never did, not even when the girls were young. We tried to teach them the things that would keep them safe, and as they got older, the things that would protect them from heartbreak.

Now that they are grown, and live so very far away, there's not much point to worrying, is there? I think I prefer not to know when they are in harm's way, physically or emotionally. What can I do anyhow?

At least that was the rule until this spring. Until this spring, if I'd had reason to worry, I could satisfy myself as to my daughters' well-being with one phone call, then get on with life.

That was before the train wreck.

Mary told us late last winter that she was probably going to get her vacation early this year, in June. While almost everyone in Germany takes vacation in August, the opera schedule determines when the rehearsal pianist for the company gets to take time off. (I think she gets five weeks total, typical in Germany.)

This year a new production of La Boheme premiers in September, and since that will make August hectic, she and Rainer planned to take off early.

Prior to leaving, they were so busy, I was pleased just to have a phone call in May, on Mother's Day.

When news came of the horrific derailment on the Munich-Hamburg line on June 3, my instincts kicked in just long enough to placate any need to worry. Mary and Rainer live in the western part of Germany, and the wreck was in an eastern corridor. Besides, I thought they'd be taking Rainer's car.

But they had spoken of traveling to Sweden again, and Mary has an occasional job in Berlin. And the time was right....

She calls or faxes to check on us when German television is full of our tornadoes, and town-names familiar to her appear in German newspapers.

Surely she'll realize that a wreck with 100 dead would appear on our TV screens, and call to reassure me.

No point my calling her, since I expected her to be gone. Leaving a message or a fax that she wouldn't retrieve for a month was not going to hearten me.

She didn't call.

Silly to worry. What are the odds? During the day, at least, I put the carnage at Eschede out of my mind.

After a week, friends who dared, asked if I had heard from Mary. No, I said, but I wasn't worried. She wouldn't have had any reason to be in eastern Germany, I told them. Still....

Besides, if something happened, someone would have let us know. Wouldn't they? Reservations are needed for InterCity trains, but I don't know that they include any more identification than just a name. How would those in charge know whom to notify?

Rainer is probably the only person who would know immediately to contact us if anything happened to Mary in Germany. But they were traveling together. And since they were on vacation, they would not be missed at work, so no one there would pull her file and call us.

The news reports continued to tell us that some bodies were beyond identification, that I.D. and personal belongings were scattered. How awful, I'd think in the sleepless pre-dawn hours, for those families who did have good reason to think their loved one was on that doomed train, and still haven't heard.

How awful for them -- but what about us? How awful for us.

One evening, tormenting myself, I did an Internet search and found a Berlin news article that said the dead had been identified and a list of names available. I didn't know if the list was actually on the Web or if there'd be just a phone number to call.

Still, to click on that last link that might have brought up on a screen in my home, an ocean away, a list of names that included my own -- I couldn't do it, and went off-line.

I mentioned my pre-dawn worries to only a few, apologetically. How silly of me, I'd say, and change the subject. Still....

Father's Day was in June. There was no call. Silly me, they don't make much of Father's Day in Europe. She probably forgot.

She's good about sending postcards from the wonderful places they visit. I awaited the arrival of mail each day.

No postcard. I comforted myself that they'd be home in Gelsenkirchen in July. That she would call for her father's birthday on the third. June ticked away slowly, and on the 27th, a padded envelope arrived. It contained a Glenn Miller CD for Dave, and a note.

He began to read it and I interrupted: "What's the date on it?"

When he was too slow, I snatched it from his hand. The date, in handwriting as familiar as my daughter's face: June 21. She was OK.

"Hello and Happy Birthday!" she began....

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