A few years later, during the sweltering summer of 1940, well into the war and the German occupation of Poland, an errand took me to the post office, the yellow Jewish star prominently affixed to my blouse, as decreed by the occupying Nazi forces. Just then, coming down the brown sandstone steps of the building, I spied Gerta. She was wearing a blue dress with a mushroom print pattern. Looking around furtively and finding no one in sight, I kept my voice to its lowest: “Gerta!” She looked straight at me. “Gerta!” I repeated, a note of urgency and trepidation creeping into my voice. Her eyes looked straight through me, and without stopping she said, “I don’t talk to Jews!”
Now I could hear Gerta avowing to someone that her best friend had been Jewish, and she would have been telling the absolute truth.
Pfarrkirchen [Bavaria], June 27, 1945
[to field hospital, Volary, Czechoslovakia]
Dear Gerda,
It’s not my intention to disappear from the face of the earth without any trace whatsoever. So I’m offering a few words of explanation, if not outright apology. Yes, the army has once again lived up to its reputation by removing me from the site of my weekly pilgrimage just as a new phase of our acquaintance was opening up. That’s how it happened that we each had to take our first real walk along separate roads. Actually, that may have had a beneficial effect on your state of health. Despite that, I consider myself deprived of a breathtaking event, your first attempt at mobility just now, when I could have reaped the fruit of weeks of patience—or was it impatience? Oh, well, matters must have run their course smoothly, even without the dubious pleasure of my company. In all likelihood I would soon have gasped for breath anyway.
I hope that I’ll be able to convince myself personally of your total recovery in the very near future. Unfortunately I didn’t remain in your area and presumably will not get a long-lasting assignment in these parts. Be assured that my occasional visits may be expected.
Meanwhile, please do pour out your heart and let me know how I can be of help. No answer yet to the letter I sent your uncle in Turkey, but it will come!
Kurt
P.S. As proof of my extraordinary mountaineering feats, permit me to enclose a flower (Alpenrose), which I plucked at an altitude of 2,500 m.
I have always been attracted to mountain scenery, and that love had its origin in an experience I had when I was thirteen. The summer of 1933 still allowed us some vestiges of a normal life because the anti-Jewish measures were then only in their incipient stages. For me those months held some pivotal events, starting with my bar mitzvah—in that place and time a low-key rite of passage—when, according to Jewish law, I attained the status of manhood. That milestone was a combination of solemn religious significance, along with a certain amount of fun with friends and family.
Among the largely simple gifts I received, one stood out. It was an invitation to visit with my relatives in Munich, “Uncle” Richard and “Aunt” Klärle, as I called them, although, to be exact, Richard Mayer was a cousin of Mother’s who had found his wife in my hometown. The Mayers had always held a certain fascination for me, part of which no doubt stemmed from the fact that Uncle Richard was a regional representative for one of the well-known brands of chocolate, Waldbaur, which made us the beneficiaries of generous samplings from his inventory. It was tremendously exciting for me to think that this would at last afford me the chance to break out beyond the confines of my environment, the realization of much that my dreams had centered on. At the same time I would be touring the scenic beauty of Bavaria, far beyond anything that had ever been open to me. Those were in fact some of the sights that had always lain so tantalizingly inaccessible in that other world I could only read about or see in books or movies.
The Mayers exuded a sophistication to which I aspired. Auto travel with Richard, in the course of which he would make the rounds of his clientele—and on weekends with Aunt Klärle—taking in spectacular mountain scenery and actually climbing some of those formidable peaks, represented the ultimate thrill to me. Along the way there would be advice on what books to read, what plays to see, or what classical music to listen to; pretty heady stuff for a small-town boy. It opened up vistas, spectacular and real, along with those of the mind. The experience was to trigger a lifelong love of high mountains, and an appreciation as well of the heights that could be reached by exploring classical music, to which Uncle Richard introduced me.
That summer I matured in many ways, and began to grasp some of the political realities that confronted us as Jews, which Uncle Richard would explain in an attempt to help me better understand them. At the end of that period I returned home, no longer the youngster inclined toward playful pursuits Mother had cautioned her cousin and his wife about before my visit. It was indeed a farewell to childhood that nourished me for much of my life.
A decade would elapse before I would see my relatives again, by which time there had been a change of scene. The locale: Cheltenham, England, in 1943, where the Mayers had found refuge just in the nick of time before the outbreak of war. I was stationed nearby, amid the gentle, rolling hills of the Cotswolds, in an army camp that held some of the ever-swelling ranks of American troops in the British Isles. As it happened, Klärle worked at the USO club, her name now being Clara. We mused over the events of the immediate past and the prevailing uncertainties as to the progress of the war. Richard’s predictions during the summer of 1933 had turned out to be all too accurate. Despite the fact that he had foreseen the situation as it in fact developed, frighteningly close to his conjecture, concerns about his mother, who was too old and ill to emigrate, had nearly made them miss the last exit from Germany. Nevertheless they had made their escape, although it meant that, once hostilities between England and Germany began—and despite the fact that they had just fled the Nazi horror—they were initially subjected to all the restrictions imposed on Britain’s “enemy aliens.” Richard would relate the bitter irony of being interned on the Isle of Man with German nationals caught by the outbreak of war in England. Most of them were outspoken anti-Semites who received better treatment than did the Jews in the camp.
Volary, July 6, 1945
Dear Kurt,
Thanks for your letter, which finally confirmed that all is well with you. In all honesty, I was very concerned and could not imagine what had happened. I diligently practiced my walking, and by Sunday my hopes were totally dashed, for I had anticipated celebrating your birthday with you. But please accept my belated congratulations and wishes for all that is good and happy and for the fulfillment of all your hopes.
I gather that you spent the day happily in the breathtaking surroundings of the Alps. It fills me with envy—only your lovely rose brings forgiveness. As I held it it opened up new vistas, and I felt that I too shared the magic of nature’s beauty.
Not only am I walking now, but I am able to run. So I take long walks in the fields and think of the future. I’ve had the good fortune to learn something that is beautiful as well as practical, and am very excited about it. Frau von Gamier (Herr Knäbel’s daughter) is a talented artist; she fashions jewelry in fine metals and is letting me try my hand at it. It is exhilarating to work with my hands, giving my imagination free rein. My first “masterpiece” is a tiny star meant for you. I will send it to you at the first opportunity that presents itself. Please forgive the primitive form and, without a doubt, the many mistakes, but I pray it brings you good luck.
At your urging, I must report that there were several false alarms concerning the duration of our stay here. At one point we were told that we’d have to leave, and then that was rescinded. In light of our immediate past, this does not seem tragic, and I feel that in the end all will turn out well. Of late some people surfaced from the vicinity of my hometown, but so far I have remained firm in my resolve not to go back. I don’t understand my ironclad aversion to it, especially when you consider that during all those years my dreams were of nothing but going home. But I have made some inquiries and have some contacts
in case I were to go. May God grant me my most fervent wish to find Artur there. If only word would come from Turkey soon.
It is good of you to console me. Yes, I do hope that we will get news soon. That should be enough for today, at least about me. I am delighted by your promise that we will see each other soon.
Please continue to write and describe the beauty of your surroundings. Nature can bring much solace. Do you believe that it was as beautiful there when the bloodthirsty monster prevailed? Or is everything doubly beautiful and fragrant now that it is relieved of the oppressive presence?
Stay well—I look forward with renewed joy to seeing you again.
Gerda
The following day, Saturday, July 7, I was invited to the Knäbels’ and spent the afternoon in their pleasant garden, so reminiscent of my own. Just as I was about to leave, torrents of rain came down, which kept me from returning to the hospital. At that moment the doorbell rang. The maid opened the door—and there stood Kurt! Not even in my wildest dreams had I dared to think I would see him on this day. He had quite obviously made the journey from his army post in an open Jeep, for his uniform was completely drenched. He had used his free time over the weekend to undertake this long trip and had to be back at his base by Sunday evening. Meanwhile he gladly accepted the Knäbels’ invitation to stay the night.
While he was being shown to his room, I stood alone at the living room window watching the diminishing rain. The room felt cool and comfortable, the furniture, although from another era, was well caredfor. I noticed that the curtains were freshly starched, the drapes a bit shabby. It all was so much like my living room at home, only this home had survived the onslaught of war. I felt so alone, so longing to go someplace I could call my own.
Kurt came back into the room, standing next to me in silence for a while. Could he sense my thoughts? Then, in a reassuring gesture, he put his arm around me. I shivered at the first protective touch I had experienced in years, and the tears came. Without words he kissed me gently, giving free rein to the flow of my emotions.
It was time to return to the hospital, and we walked through the deserted streets of the picturesque town in Bohemia, the scent of grass and flowers sweetening the air after the rain. The dilemma I was facing about the next step I should take once I was released from the hospital dominated my thoughts. I resolved to ask Kurt’s advice in the morning; there would be time then. When we said our good nights, my mind was a tangle of emotions.
Kurt promptly presented himself at the hospital the following morning, and I suggested that we take a walk in the fields and up a gentle hill that had intrigued me for days. After some easy banter, I posed the question that had occupied me the night before. His tone changed instantly. Should I try to go back to Bielsko? No, he didn’t think I was ready for that physically and emotionally. Why not await an answer from my uncle in Turkey? Quite probably that would give me some guidance. I listened to him, infinitely glad that he was confirming what had been in the back of my mind all along: that I really feared what I might not find at home. In that way he relieved me of the burden of an imminent decision.
Although I had promised to visit Gerda, still convalescing in the hospital in Volary on my birthday, July 2, my duties delayed that trip by several days. Arriving there I found her much improved, if somewhat disappointed by my failure to show up on the day she had so anticipated. She couldn’t wait to present the gift she had crafted with great care: a group of essays reflecting her musings on her happy childhood, overshadowed by subsequent events, pages bound between two beautifully finished wooden covers. The dedication read: “A few episodes from my life, to Kurt.” I had time to glance at the opening sentence: “It is perhaps a daring venture to take note of a life such as mine, knowing that a life can, after all, never be fully explored. . . .”
In time to come I would have the opportunity to explore other aspects of that life in great detail, but for the moment I was immensely moved by the thoughtfulness of the gift and what it revealed to me about her. In retrospect I realize that much of it was meant to assuage the pain of my own losses, just one of the many selfless gestures on her part that I was to experience.
In the essays Gerda recaptured her sheltered upbringing and those reflections turned into a moving paean to her parents and her brother for having provided everything that helped her to weather the storm and instilled the values that saw her through her trials. There also were her recollections of camp life; her interaction with others; a dialogue with the moon during a sleepless night; a poem, written to bolster morale in the camp on the occasion of Hanukkah, in which she expressed a simple, childlike faith that, just as the Maccabees had prevailed over a much stronger enemy, so she and her companions would in the end overcome their suffering at the hands of their adversaries. Finally, thoughts on the coming of spring ended this way: “Winter was a bad dream . . . but spring restores. . . . God metes out suffering. . . . God grants consolation . . . life is beautiful!”
Absorbing it, I could only marvel with increasing admiration how she had retained her indomitable spirit in the face of insuperable odds, always keeping restoration in her heart and poetry in her soul. I felt singled out and especially privileged to be allowed this insight into the mind of a rare and sensitive human being.
Pfarrkirchen [Bavaria], July 10, 1945
Dear Gerda,
You must be in suspense about how our all-too-early return trip went: Actually it was pretty unexciting, considering the reluctant start by the old jalopy. In spite of that, the confounded Jeep insisted on getting itself a flat hind leg on the way. Oh, well, the damage was easily fixed, and some of the other bugs are out of its system as well. So you see, everything is okay; only, to be candid, my thoughts are not yet directed at my work. I wonder if this will be a week of decisions for you? I believe that if you let your choice be guided by impulse, the right decision will present itself.
You know, I’m immensely grateful for the profound insights that you gave me in your gift of the essays. They made for a most meaningful postbirthday contemplation. In the assembly of the fragments of your life, even the darkest shadows seem to reflect a wonderfully bright childhood. Love of people and nature are so evident that they force out all the loathsome events that happened subsequently. At the same time the enjoyment of everyday occurrences comes across so genuinely that things one has overlooked or taken for granted appear in an entirely new light. How often we avoid what is really important or look at it from the wrong perspective. Now I found it here, distilled in its crystal clear purity. So what I owe you is that I can reexamine all that appears halfhearted or insipid, only to find it bathed in rich, vivid colors. I value your creed all the more, inasmuch as your unshakable faith in the purely ideal, which my skeptical indecision considered nearly nonexistent, has brought it to the fore again. That is why it is I who have gained the most benefits from this friendship, without the hope of ever coming close to balancing the scale in any way.
How quickly the hours fled, and how little we could tell each other. But that will have to be made up soon, don’t you agree? Incidentally, it will interest you that the army postal service has conspired against me; your letter has not yet arrived. The suspense is mounting, and if that should sufficiently stimulate your empathy, then do write to
Kurt
Before the end of July, orders came through that transferred me from Pfarrkirchen to an army base in Freising, approximately twenty-five miles north of Munich. Two months earlier, before leaving Volary, I had made arrangements that would assure Gerda’s and her friends’ safety. Because we had heard rumors that this part of Czechoslovakia would be ceded to the Russians in the future, I had tried to provide for just such a contingency. That meant that I had extracted a promise from the captain of the military government that replaced our unit that, in the event of an American pullout, he would facilitate the young women’s evacuation—in Gerda’s case to wherever I was stationed. During one of several trips back to Volary, I had been able to inf
orm the captain of my latest transfer to Freising, and that was how Gerda and Mala* turned up in that town in due time.
My work in Freising consisted of interrogating key Nazi personnel and collaborators caught in the American net at the end of the war. While some cases could spell drudgery, there were others of immense fascination, such as when a tall, handsome man came to our lines because, as he said, he didn’t want to fall into the hands of the Russians. His name was Erich Kempka, and he had been Hitler’s private chauffeur.
The story he told was one of historical proportions, which came across all the more astounding for the matter-of-fact manner in which he recited it. As I saw it he had been a participant in a great drama, played out in true Wagnerian style. He had been in the Fülhrer bunker in Berlin, and toward the end of the Russian siege had been called in by Hitler and told that his leader and his eleventh-hour wife, Eva Braun, were about to commit suicide. Fearing that their remains would be found by the Russians, Hitler had given explicit orders how to dispose of their bodies.
Kempka went on to describe how he had indeed helped carry the two bodies to the bunker courtyard, had doused them with what the British had dubbed “jerricans” of gasoline—the equivalent of five-gallon cans, used by the German army—then had ignited them. Here was an immolation scene right out of Wagner’s Ring cycle, which Hitler had so greatly admired. Only this Gotterdammerung should have been renamed Twilight of the Self-styled Gods. It made me shudder to have this brush with history, and raised the obvious question: How many millions of people had to die before the cause of their deaths vanished from the field of human endeavor?
The Hours After Page 7