That’s about it for now. Good night, and all my love,
Gerda
What had swayed me to accept the job offer from the Bavarian Aid Society was the prospect of having some one-on-one dealings with people in need. I was glad to abandon the sterile world of agony and suffering, as observed from a distance at the Civilian Censorship Division, after reading what people had been compelled to commit to paper. It had often left me helpless and distraught at my inability to be of direct help to others, as would not be the case at the Aid Society. Included perhaps in my motivations was also a naive concept that all efforts would be directed toward the most expeditious way of alleviating the plight of the needy, some of them Jews or half-Jews, mostly refugees from countries that were at least in part German-speaking, such as Czechoslovakia and Hungary.
Thus it was my hope that I would be able to interact with a variety of people and be able to render them a measure of help.
The Fifth U.S. Infantry Division took the city of Frankfurt on March 30, 1945, at which point we did not move on as usual but were held in reserve. That afforded me the chance to search for a cousin of mine, a physician who had a German Christian wife, Leni, and two daughters, Wilma and Charlotte. Although contact had been lost with him for most of the war years, there was a slight chance that he had been allowed to live with his family, and I set out to see what I could find out about his fate.
Ludwig Reinheimer had served in the German army with distinction during World War I and had always been a fervent nationalist. On the occasion of my bar mitzvah in 1933, he had included in his congratulatory letter to me the admonishment, no matter what might lie ahead during these uncertain times, always to remain conscious of my German heritage. It had had a hollow ring at that point of the Nazi power seizure.
Now word had reached me that precisely such survivors of mixed marriages were in fact drifting back to the city and were gathering at what had once been a Jewish community center. This lead put me in touch with a handful of people, perhaps a dozen, but my inquiries initially yielded only blanks. However, one of the last women I spoke to immediately burst out, “Oh, yes, I can tell you how to find Leni and the girls!” And she proceeded to explain that Leni had moved in with a farmer and his family some forty kilometers outside Frankfurt, suggesting that I contact a friend of hers who knew the exact address.
I wasted no time getting that information and subsequently was able to locate the farmhouse, where, sure enough, I found Leni and her two pretty, blond daughters, aged thirteen and eleven. Remembering the dozens of photos I had seen of her during my formative years, she appeared much aged and did not look well. She soon brought me up-to-date on all that had transpired. Quite late during the war, Ludwig had been sent to Flossenbürg concentration camp, in northern Bavaria, and while she was without news of his whereabouts, she clung tenaciously to the hope of his survival. As for her the report was not good. She was suffering from cancer, needed better care, and very much wanted to move back to Frankfurt. As far as that desire was concerned, I was able to procure an apartment for her and the girls before I had to move on with my unit. When I returned once more in August, I found the Reinheimers doing as well as could be expected, but I was oblivious to the fact that Leni had only a few more months to live.
Although exact details remain obscure to this day, it appears that Ludwig died in Flossenbürg as late as March 1945, in all likelihood after having been taken to another camp, only to be marched back to Flossenbürg. The city of Frankfurt has recently named a street in his honor.
Wilma and Charlotte were initially sent to an orphanage, while their relatives in the States tried unsuccessfully to get them into this country. Later they were brought up by their mother’s family in Germany. Wilma followed in her father’s footsteps and became a physician with a practice in Frankfurt, and in the course of her medical studies spent some time at a university in West Virginia.
Charlotte married an Englishman and has been living not far from London ever since.
Buffalo, January 6, 1946
My beloved little Gerda,
A few hasty lines before I’m off to a cocktail party. It’s Sunday, and I slept till noon, as usual. Tell me how you’re going to like that habit once we’re married. Quite likely I’ll be torn from my slumbers around 6 A.M. by means of ice water. One thing I can promise you: During the summer it’s “up-and-at-’em,” into the green environs, regardless of whatever sacrifice that’ll require. It would be such a waste of time, after all, as long as the beach or tennis courts beckon.
Despite the fact that it’s only January, you can almost sense the first harbingers of spring. It’s warm enough so you can easily go outside in your shirtsleeves. No doubt there’ll be a terrible snowstorm by tomorrow, but that’s Buffalo. Totally crazy climate, and that’s why I fit so well into this milieu. And where two weeks ago there were mountains of pristine snow, all that remains is ice-encrusted dirt. Anything can be expected here.
Still no mail from you. I hear that there are raging storms in the Atlantic, so that various ships couldn’t dock. What a consolation! I’m so curious about what all happened on your end meanwhile. And I know how easily you jump to conclusions if nothing reaches you for a while. I can only hope all is well with you.
Do you remember the wife of my cousin, whom I found in the Frankfurt area when the Fifth Division took the city? She is Christian and remained inconspicuous for part of the war by staying on a farm. I visited her again later on my return trip from the Riviera. She had two very nice girls, ages eleven and thirteen, and had still not given up hope that her husband, a doctor, would turn up alive, because he was sent to the camps at a late stage. Inasmuch as she never got a sign of life from him, she had to assume the worst. What has come as a total surprise now is the blow that she too died in Frankfurt a short while ago. She was no longer very young, had various kinds of major surgery, and apparently succumbed to her afflictions. It’s very tragic for the kids, who had to be sent to an orphanage. The girls have an uncle and aunt here in the States, who want to find out whether their nieces can be brought to this country.
So you see there is much tragedy around. Apropos such unpleasant news, I can only ask you again and again not to hold back but to write me everything. Don’t think you ought to spare me certain things or that I want it that way.
From time to time my mail reaches me via my old army address, and I just received the enclosed money that an army friend of mine is putting at my disposal. He claims he found it among his things after leaving Germany, and says it’ll see its very best use in this manner. If anything else should be lacking, please let me know immediately at any time.
More soon, have to leave now. Keep well; it won’t be long before we’ll see each other again.
And here is an attack of kisses from your
Kurt
Munich, January 7, 1946
My dearest,
Rita is still here and I am delighted. Wouldn’t it be heavenly if she too came to Buffalo? I like her so much, and we have gone through all the nightmare years together. We both went to Nôtre Dame,* were in the ghetto together, then in the camps. She had two aunts with her (her mother’s younger sisters), while I had Ilse, Suse, and Liesl. Now that she is here, I can talk with her, really talk.
Though the time goes by slowly, it moves me toward my aim: May 7. I have it firmly fixed in my mind and heart. Captain Presser will be leaving in four to six weeks, and I shall miss her very much. It also means that your mail may be coming by “snail back.”
I must share something with you that has been troubling me a great deal. I thought I could resolve it without giving you concern, but I really don’t know what to do. Two days ago, the head of the housing commission called me to his office. He came right to the point, asking for my address, and when I gave it to him, he said, “Ah, I thought so.” Then he opened a ledger filled with lists of people who had been Nazis and whose homes were being confiscated in order to find accommodations for the masses of displaced persons wh
o arrive in Munich daily. I did not understand at first, then he pointed to my address and let me read it. I learned that my “kind” ailing landlord, who sees to it daily that my shoes are warmed next to the kitchen stove, has been a party member since 1933. I was assured, though, that he and his wife would not be thrown out as long as I continued to live there. That left me speechless for a few moments, and I guess my eyes filled with tears. He looked at me and said rather harshly, “Fraulein Weissmann, who had pity on your parents?”
I want to leave. How can I stay, Kurt? What am I to say to people who treated me civilly, no matter what their motives might be? I can hate Germany and all things German with a passion, but I can’t hate individuals. Am I too much of a coward? What is wrong with me? Or am I so comfortable that I am becoming complacent? I don’t know what to do. Rita is urging me to go with her to Regensburg for a few days. I long to go in order to sort myself out, but can’t leave just now. Thousands of DPs are arriving, coming back from their former homes where they found a bitter welcome awaiting them. Now they have no place to go. I have been working from 9:00 A.M. to 9:30 P.M., with only a ten-minute break for lunch. The misery is indescribable. I see two worlds here, a few figures dominating the arena. On the one hand, I can avail myself of the theater, the opera, art galleries, and restaurants, on the other, I see what goes on behind the scenes, where there is only misery, pain, despair, and sorrow.
I see dozens of people daily, and my card file is a virtual chronicle of agony. What am I to do? Please forgive me for burdening you with this. Is it wrong of me to want to escape? I want so much to go to you, where together we can build a new life.
Please write about you, what you think, what you feel, what makes you happy, what gives you pain. Let me share your joys, your sorrows, and the little daily disappointments. I want to be at your side for it all. Even if everyday cares should come knocking at our door, I am not worried. We are so young, we can face life with all it may bring. We’ll enjoy its beauty and treasure those small, seemingly insignificant moments, simply because we can share them together.
Sleep well, my love. I hope I will dream of you.
I love you,
Gerda
Rita turned up at my doorstep in Munich one day, after having scanned the lists of survivors at the German Museum, and we had a delirious reunion. She hailed from my hometown, and we both attended Nôtre Dame, a convent school a notch above high school level. It was only after we were forced to live in the Bielsko ghetto that we became close friends. That friendship was heightened further when we suffered the common fate of the Jews of Bielsko: deportation and, for our age group, slave labor in German weaving mills.
The last time I had seen her was one evening in April 1945 in what was the final stage of the death march we had been on since the end of January. She had looked for me to let me know that she had found a way out of the barn into which our SS guards had herded us, and that she and her young aunt, who was her constant companion, were about to make a break for freedom. I could not join her in this risky venture because my friend Ilse, from whom I had become inseparable, was no longer able to walk.
It was wonderful to know that Rita and her aunt had indeed made it to freedom, and on bringing her up-to-date on my recent engagement, I naturally spoke of nothing but Kurt and where he was living then. It turned out that she had just found some of her father’s relatives in Buffalo, and that is where she was to settle a year after my coming to that city. Later she met and married a German-Jewish young man who had lived underground in Berlin by his wits, resourcefulness, and daring during the war years. His brilliance stood him in good stead in the building of a career, and in time Steve and Rita moved to Detroit, where he eventually became executive vice president and a board member of the Chrysler Corporation.
Munich, January 8, 1946
My beloved Kurt,
Again there is so little mail from you. During the past three weeks I received only three letters. Please don’t take that as a rebuke. It’s so frustrating, because you report the same problem, yet I do write every day.
Fortunately Rita came to visit. Too bad that you were not here, or maybe it’s better, because you might have thought us completely crazy. Rita is a serious, composed, quiet girl, but when she gets into a silly mood, there is no stopping her. We really cut loose yesterday till two in the morning. First we had a fashion show and draped every conceivable type of fabric around us. Then we got into gymnastics (we had attended a gymnastics class as children). After that, we reconstructed a long-forgotten dance. We even managed a lively mazurka.
Rita declared that you are the only American she ever addressed as “Sie,” simply because she has not met any Americans who speak German.* Please don’t be angry that I have not done well in English, although I do know the most useful and important phrases, like “I love you,” “Okay,” and “Leave me alone; I am engaged.” You will have to be a very patient teacher. It does not seem all that difficult, even though you spell English in the most peculiar way, pronounce it differently, and think in it differently. Don’t construe the last statement as being arbitrary. Just one example: when I write “Darling,” I think “Kurt.” Well, I have had some much-needed fun, and if all else fails as far as work is concerned, I can always get a job in a circus.
Love,
Gerda
Munich, January 9, 1946
My dearest Kurt,
A red-letter day! Four of your letters arrived together. I shall answer each one in detail, but must first share some new developments with you. Apparently Switzerland does not look too good. There seems to be a chance that I might be leaving directly from Bremerhaven within a few weeks. So please don’t worry so much; it will work out for the best, I am sure.
Your bachelor days may be numbered, I warn you. I have so much to tell you. I looked at your photos before reading the letter and was startled, for I did not realize they were taken seven years ago. I like you better older and wiser! You must not worry so much. We are free and that is the greatest treasure on earth. What’s more, we’re also young and healthy. We’ll be able to take anything that comes along.
All my love always,
Gerda
Munich, January 13, 1946
My dearest Kurt,
I just got back from Regensburg and wouldn’t want you to think for a moment that a three-hour ride in a Jeep during a snowstorm can intimidate me. I had the choice between a private car or a Jeep, and which do you suppose I preferred? I’ll report in greater detail on last night’s magnificent party, where I met people from Bielsko in American uniform! For now, I only want you to know how overjoyed I was to get your five letters (with photos) of late December, along with a truly moving letter from Gerdi. I’ll answer that one right away. Kurt, I’m totally taken with Gerdi and can hardly say more. You can’t imagine how fortunate I consider myself that she is the type of human being I’ve always dreamed about as a big sister!
Now to your letters. My darling, I congratulate you on your—I mean our—position. May it be the right beginning of our lives. Do tell me every last detail about it. I do like you a lot in civilian get-up, Kurt. I might “almost” fall in love again!
Don’t worry about me as far as finances are concerned. I assure you that I have sufficient funds to manage easily. Does that calm your fears? Please don’t send anything; everything can wait until we’re together, okay?
I’m enclosing a snapshot, which I regard as very bad. As you can see from my hair in the enclosed photo, I got caught in a big snowstorm.
My dear counselor, I am following your advice. So it’s handicrafts and English! Good God, if you only knew how poorly I speak English. But you’ll teach me, won’t you? If only I had applied myself more while you were here, I wouldn’t have to disgrace you now. “Nix comprehend!” That’s about the extent of my proficiency at the moment. Much as I try, I can’t muster enough concentration to learn anything at present. Do tell me that I’ll master it one day!
Gerda
Buffalo, January 13, 1946
Hello Dimples,
The past two days have been most rewarding because they netted a total of seven long-awaited letters and an abundance of news. Your letter from before Christmas came a few days ago, while the others that reached me after that dated as far back as December 8. At last the missing pieces are now in place, even if they turned out gloomier than I had hoped.
I haven’t read anything as beautiful in a long time as your reflections on the walk through “our” woods, which I can hardly imagine draped in a garb of snow. What moved me especially was your symbolic interpretation of the “gate.” Only you can do it in that manner. I’m so glad that I could experience it with you. Life has a more transcendent meaning if one is capable of viewing it through the eyes of the soul. It requires a certain sensitivity. Joy in nature is part of it, but not the entire perception. I feel sorry for anybody who can’t feel that way.
I hesitated to send off papers this week because I’m expecting a raise next week. I’m fed up with all this waiting, and so I’ll send off the entire batch of papers in my possession, thinking they’ll do, even without the additional certification. At any rate it can always follow later; it’s not worth delaying the matter any longer.
I’m racking my brain to get an idea of what you look like with a loose hairdo. You’re well acquainted with my mania regarding the style and length of your hair, so it shouldn’t surprise you if I permit myself to say a word of two if I don’t like it that way.* Not that such expressions ever have any effect, coming from men; in the end we always dance to your tunes anyway. If Ulysses had encountered a siren like you, history would never have been written like that. In spite of that, a kiss from one who always—and gladly—succumbs to your siren songs.
Your Kurt
Munich, January 14, 1946
The Hours After Page 24