“We men,” he wrote, rather wittily when you consider that the “men” were sixteen, fourteen, and twelve. But his letters show that the Frank children were raised to be independent and responsible, and show how great the mutual trust between parents and children must have been.
In a letter to his mother from July 19, 1904, while she was enjoying a trip to Engelberg with the rest of the family, Robert wrote that he had worked all week at the store owned by Herr Ricard, who was doing better. He had gotten into the habit of sleeping with the shutters and windows open, and having his breakfast on the veranda, “and it’s so nice there that I can imagine I’m on a summer vacation in the country too.” He also reported on his visits to various people, a bicycle ride to Ginnheim, the fact that he had moved his “English conversation” from Wednesday to Tuesday, that Ricard had invited him over for Friday, and that he thought he might go with Arnold and Edgar Sonneberg to the Summer Theater in Bockenheim on Saturday.
Now you have my whole schedule, and you can see from it that I am making myself quite comfortable here. Nothing is lacking. Grandma feeds me very well […] Yesterday there were strawberries and cream, and today there’ll be diplomat pudding. Quelle embarras de richesses?! By the way, you can see that I’m also taking care of the housework, at least insofar as it affects me personally. About the rest I couldn’t care less. As far as I’m concerned the moths can devour the whole salon. In any case, Trauda runs around with a paddle every day in the salon, on the hunt. It’s amazing that she hasn’t yet managed to swat even one […] Tell Father that there’s nothing to report on the business front. What does he do to amuse himself all day? […] Anyway! I think the gift of the gab has given quite enough for today, don’t you? Enough for the next two weeks. You are hopefully satisfied with my eagerness to scribble. Best wishes to Father, Otto, Herbert, Leni, and Fräulein and kisses to you from Your, Robert Frank.
All the letters and other evidence attest to Alice being a happy wife and even happier mother, loved by her children. Buddy, her grandson, would later always stress how much he loved and admired her. Life offered her many comforts and amenities, and she presumably felt that it would always continue to do so, at least for many years.
But then, on September 17, 1909, fate struck a blow. Michael, just fifty-seven years old, died suddenly and without warning, just as her father had when she was twelve. His death hit Alice hard. She was only forty-three when she became a widow—a woman in the best years of her life, even in that era.
Michael Frank, circa 1908 (photo credit 3.13)
A rabbi who apparently knew Michael as a young man gave a moving eulogy at the funeral. Alice, sunk in her cares and sorrows, presumably did not catch much of the rabbi’s speech, but maybe she reread the eulogy later, for she always kept it with her. The rabbi said, among other things:
Two days ago he was happy still, and healthy, prepared to take another business trip, and now he has suddenly set off on a journey to the dark land from which no one returns. Before his loved ones could take their farewell, before they could think through what it would mean to lose him—he was gone. […] And when I call forth an image of the dearly departed before my eyes, there rises up a long-departed time as well—more than forty years past—images of happy days vanished long ago; I see the dignified figures of his good parents, and the dearly beloved street in the friendly hometown where he lived, right next to the ancient synagogue.[…] I see him as a half-grown youth, standing out already from the other boys his age due to his effervescent, lively spirit, his sunny good cheer, his intelligence, and his energy and initiative. And what the boy promised, the man delivered. From closefisted life he wrestled success upon success. He was a businessman of unusual ability, full of enterprising spirit, as cautious as he was adventurous, always sharp and practical. And he kept his sunny, golden good cheer as well, the bright and happy spirit of the Pfalz region he was from, the charm that won your heart and the happy natural confidence of his own, which offered itself to you as it was—direct, open, true, and unreserved. But those were only the outward characteristics of his nature. On the inside was a true, golden heart that was goodness itself. […] It was hard for him to turn down a request from anyone. […] Where was there a better, warmer, more selfless husband? A gentler, more loving, more devoted father? How his eyes shone whenever he spoke of his children! Where was there a more faithful brother? […] To all of us who were close to him, he was a dear friend, and it seems to me that each one of us must lament his passing like David that of Jonathan. […] Let us console ourselves with the thought that he is beyond all suffering now. Childlike—a young man despite his gray hair—and without pain, free from the torment of sickness and apprehension, he has been called back to his eternal home. […] In truth, we do not mourn for you—yours was the most beautiful possible death, at the height of your powers, without pain and struggle! May you gently rest in peace. The thought of you will live on, unforgotten, in the hearts of your loved ones, and your memory shall remain for them a peaceful, unclouded image, a rich and sacred blessing. Amen.
The Sterns wrote Alice a condolence letter from Zurich, where Alfred had become a professor. It is especially clear from Klär chen’s letter how well she knew her cousin, with whom she had had a sisterly bond since early childhood. She wrote that she could perfectly identify with Alice, whose soul felt that life would hold no further joys:
Even your closest ones must feel far away, since they (luckily for them) have not withdrawn from active, happy life as completely as you have, and that you feel even lonelier as a result, maybe even abandoned and misunderstood […] And the children have a lot of Michael’s personality, who even in his own times of greatest suffering was simply unable to let it totally and completely overwhelm him […] There were not many things he was proud of, but he was proudest of everything about his marriage to you. So you should be grateful if the children resemble him in their love of life and lively natures. When you’ve gotten past the worst of it, that will certainly be a consolation to you.
It took a long time before Alice found the consolation Klärchen wrote about, if indeed she ever found it at all. It must have felt to her as though all joy had left the once-carefree house for good. Her children had the worst of it behind them—even the two youngest, Herbert and Leni, were seventeen and sixteen.
The Frank siblings, circa 1907 (photo credit 3.14)
Robert was grown-up, had studied art history, and become an executive secretary in Ricard’s antiques business, which Michael had bought for him and then later sold. Otto, who had likewise chosen to study art history in the summer semester of 1908, broke off his studies to travel to New York and visit his schoolmate Charles Webster Straus, whose family owned Macy’s department store. Charles changed his name to Nathan Straus Jr., but for Otto he was always “Charley.” Otto wanted to “check out the business.” He was en route when his father died, and he heard the news only when the ship reached New York harbor. By then, Michael was already buried.
No letters from Michael remain today. Maybe the situation was so traumatic for Alice that she destroyed them all in a fit of melancholy after his death, so as not to have to be constantly reminded of him. But that is pure speculation. Buddy Elias says, in any case, that Alice practically never spoke of Michael—his name was never mentioned. Alice seems to have fallen into a kind of depression much like the melancholy of her childhood years. It was obviously hard for her to see the “good & beautiful things” in life anymore, just as it had been for her before.
Otto Frank’s university enrollment form, 1908 (photo credit 3.15)
A letter that Otto wrote to his mother on January 22, 1910, further elucidates her state of mind:
I think it is absolutely not right to want to withdraw further & further into yourself. You mustn’t, for your own sake & for your children’s sake. I know that you are reserved by nature & would rather take care of everything on your own, but you mustn’t let this natural characteristic override your will. I believe you
when you say that you find no distraction or enjoyment from your visitors, that it’s painful to let people see you in this state, and hard to see how they can get used to everything when you yourself can’t. You must know, though, that this is the way of the world & that it can’t be otherwise. The world must go on & people want to live and they have to work. It’s no wonder that you feel so empty & hollow, but if you crawl back into your suffering, that won’t bring you any peace. You mustn’t do it & you mustn’t want to do it. Don’t forget that you still have obligations; you’re not fulfilling them right now, but you do still have them. Did our dear father leave nothing behind on this earth entrusted to your care? He had 1000s of ideas & gave you a broad outlook on the world & got you used to real life, and even if all that is now dormant in you, Mother, it must be there, as a sacred inheritance from dear Father. You mustn’t let it all atrophy away & you need to fortify yourself & carry on. I keep reminding you again and again of Leni & the conversations you and I had about her. Don’t close yourself off, open your eyes again & make sure that at least some of all the experiences you’ve been holding back for a long time will live again & put down roots. Work on something, not mechanically but because you want to do something that has a purpose. How many people did Father help? Can’t you help too? Each according to his abilities! But everyone can help and support others & if you answer that you can’t help anyone, that you’re helpless yourself, then I say that it’s not true. If nothing else, the pain you feel lets you understand others’ pain better & help relieve it. Where there’s a will there’s a way. Be well. I’ll write again later about the rest of what you said in your letter.
Many loving kisses from
Your faithful son, Otto
It is clear from this letter how much has changed. Otto’s letters to his parents used to be dutiful, written because it was expected to write letters in his family; this letter shows that at only twenty he was extraordinarily mature with a deep understanding of his mother. It is as though he had stepped out from under the shadow of his older brother, Robert—the imaginative, gifted young man—and now was showing what he had in him. He obviously felt responsible for the family—had taken that responsibility upon himself. Unfortunately, the letter from his mother that Otto refers to has not been preserved. But presumably it had told him about the black pit into which she had fallen after Michael’s death, about her despair and failing courage.
The next year, on the anniversary of Michael’s death, Otto wrote to his mother:
As you can see from my letter of the 3rd, I remembered the date. I’m sure countless memories are rushing through you and we all have been amazed at how quietly you bear everything alone, without ever discussing anything with us or with Grandma. Amazed at it and sometimes regretting it too. We had a beautiful childhood and we all know it, I not the least, and my young life is also rich in memories, it’s probably from you that I got my inability to forget. It’s just that I have a happier nature & don’t brood so much—as of course I did before now.
I am also lucky enough to be able to express my thoughts freely to others, especially to you and my brothers and sister. I know that I have my parents to thank for my happy childhood and am always grateful for it. I hope we can talk more about this later in person, at greater length.
It was her children that gave Alice the strength and courage to bear the difficult years that lay ahead—the years without Michael, as a widow.
Alice Frank, circa 1910 (photo credit 3.16)
* * *
1 Rosalie Loewi née Frank, a sister of Rebekka and Michael Frank, married to Ottmar Loewi in Frankfurt.
4.
The Siblings
Otto was grown up, and now it was clear how close he was to his family, how tied to them, with bonds that would shape his whole life.
His relationship to Leni, which had always been good, grew more intense after Michael’s death. He all but took over the father’s role for his little sister. In 1909 he wrote a letter containing these wise, almost precocious sentences: “For every person is different & the more people you meet, the more different lines of thought you get to know & that is how you form your own thoughts. You know how I always like people, just because they are people & so they show me how life is. And life interests me. You are now also at an age when the friendships you form will last & maybe for life.”
His comments on Leni’s reading are in the true style of an older brother: “Keep writing to me diligently & even if you’ve read novels you’re not supposed to read. But don’t go too far with such things, they really are pointless & can only harm you. They work you up and get you excited, but you have to be reasonable & know what you’re doing. Mörike is very good. I have his complete works on my shelf. If you read them, please don’t get them dirty because the covers are white & in good shape.”
The special affection between Otto and Leni would last their whole lives. Leni’s relationship with Robert, on the other hand, seems to have been more difficult. Leni wasn’t the sweet, spoiled little sister anymore; she had grown up into her own independent person, and Robert seems to have had problems with that. Unfortunately, there are no letters from this period except from Otto, though there must have been a many-sided correspondence at the time.
A melancholy poem that Alice wrote in early June 1912 has been preserved:
Oh, Mother, how it felt to spy
Our garden, after the years gone by,
Where once we were so full of cheer,—
The time so far, the place so near.
I walked right by the little cabin, where
The lilac bloomed on the wall, just there.
My eyes were already dimmed with pain:
My turbulent feelings sought it, in vain.
Still, the apple tree’s branches spread
Out even more sturdily than they had,
And near the trellis on that ground
We so often walked past, gazes down,
I saw your roses, red and round.
Instead of the nearby pathways, though,
Snaking through the meadows twain,
(Our meadows! so well tended, oh!
So closely mowed and well maintained!)
Where a child’s foot barely dared to go
Now weedy wildernesses grow!
But back behind the garden house
It’s almost the same as it was before:
The red steps where we used to carouse,
Jump up and down in days of yore;
The brown gate so oft opened wide;
And greeting us like well-known eyes
The flashing windows look down at us all
Under shoots of old ivy on the wall.
Overhead and arching free,
Was the dome of the mighty chestnut tree.
The days and years a many-linked chain
Winding gratefully, painfully back again
To the dearest places of the past,
I stood a long time brooding, lost.
I felt the overflowing pleasures
Of youth, I felt the quiet treasures
Of an easy heart in my breast, I was
So blissfully touched, so enveloped in
The peace you and father made for us
Which held us like the vault of heaven.
The riches of our childhood were
Like paradise lost, but we had to endure;
On the gate the angel’s word did burn:
“Never again will you return.”
Slowly, my eyes dim with tears and sadness,
I wandered back through the wilderness.
I greeted the old swing, with a thousand
Happy memories wound around it.
I saw the basin of the fountain,
The tender slope of the Bergelchen mountain,
Looking back down, my gaze passed by
The castle wall where the white trees were
That stretched their branches in days gone by
Over festivals in the open
air.
They came to my mind, I don’t know how.
Longing backward, I walked ahead
And all the treasures that once were ours
They silently filled my heart and head,
They came without bitterness, they were pure
More joy and sorrow than I could endure.
And then I walked through the garden gate,
Turned the old key with gentle care,
Stood there remembering till it grew late,
And thought: at home I would find you there.
This poem shows the gloomy, melancholy mood that Alice was sunk in after Michael’s death and only with difficulty ever emerged from. But life went on. Alice had inherited the bank and was now responsible for supporting the family—she had to manage to find new routines, a new life not only for her children and her mother but for herself.
Robert had no interest in the banking business, only in being an art dealer. Otto returned home from America, but he apprenticed with a businessman and then got a job at a Düsseldorf metalworks company. An attorney was in charge of running the bank, and Alice took on a supervisory role. Michael had apparently always discussed his business activities with her. Still, the new role must have been difficult for her. And yet she filled it well, because the bank continued to succeed, suffering setbacks only as a result of World War I and later the worldwide economic crisis of the 1920s.
In 1904, France and England resolved the conflicts stemming from their colonial endeavors and reached an entente, while Russia and England too had come to an agreement with respect to their interests in Asia. Germany felt surrounded. The conflict flared up when the Balkan peoples tried to complete their unification into nation-states by breaking off parts of the Austro-Hungarian Empire that had been conquered from Turkey centuries before. These efforts collided with the economic and geopolitical interests of the European Great Powers, and the Balkan situation developed into what was soon called the fuse on the “powder keg of Europe.”
Anne Frank's Family Page 8