I had a most happy letter from Hanka, telling me of all the exciting wedding preparations and also that the wedding has been moved up, at the same time urging me to come even sooner. In order to achieve that I have to work a lot of overtime. I have already taken off from work so often because of my running to consulates and all that I don’t feel as if I’m earning my salary.
I had a stroke of good luck, due largely to your generosity and part of the contents of your package. Hanka implored me to wear a long evening dress for the stellar occasion. Sure, but under the circumstances, how do you go about that? I try to save most of my salary, spending very little. Still, fabric is extremely hard to obtain in stores. I made some inquiries as to whether I could possibly get some silk, explaining that I was going to a wedding. The woman wanted to know about my own marital status, so naturally I bragged that I was engaged to an American officer. She instantly perceived that I must have “connections.” “Cigarettes, perhaps?” “No.” “Chocolate, then?” When I admitted that, yes, you had sent some of that heavenly stuff recently, a length of exquisite light blue silk appeared miraculously. Enough for a long evening dress, and since I won’t be eating the chocolate, it required less material. I just tried it on, and it does look very elegant. It goes straight to the floor, and attached to my shoulder is a spray of spring flowers. I wish I could model it for you. Imagine, my first grown-up evening dress! My hair is quite long; it falls to my shoulders. I know that you like long hair and am sorry that it was still so short when you left. I’m told that there will be lots of dancing at the wedding. Unfortunately for me, the arms in which I would love to find myself are far away.
All my love,
Gerda
P.S. I don’t seem to be able to let this letter go. I forgot to take it along yesterday, and here I am again. Saw several of my camp companions tonight and came away feeling lonely and somehow bereft. We were in the camps together for years, and I find that as long as we talk about that experience there is a bond of understanding and similarity of attitude. As soon as we switch to the present, though, we face each other like distant strangers. It was different with Rita in Regensburg, but here I am painfully alone and again keep asking myself whether it’s they who are different or I? I had that same forlorn feeling in Volary right after liberation.
None of my closest friends survived the cataclysm. I cannot therefore claim to know how they would have reacted to the new postwar realities. In our minds we had associated survival with the restoration of the world we had known before, so it was especially difficult to realize that that world was gone forever. From what I could observe, it seemed to me that survivors who lacked great imagination, who rather faced this new world in a pragmatic way were far better off than the others. That was in sharp contrast to the war years, when the ability to let your imagination soar, thereby lifting yourself from the horror of daily existence, contributed considerably to your eventual survival—providing you were also blessed with a modicum of luck.
Just before the war I had immersed myself into the pages of Gone With the Wind, just published in Polish, a volume that had fascinated me to the degree that I reread it countless times, little realizing that my own world was about to be undone. Now, only a few months after the end of the war, I saw a number of Scarletts emerging from the ashes and seizing opportunities open to them. On the other side of the spectrum there were far more confused, gentle Melanies, clinging to the past and all it held for them. No one was there to give us direction or ease us back into normality. By and large the world around us was uncaring, even hostile; it was as though a whirlwind had deposited us onto a desert island, and the task of surviving in such a harsh climate was up to us.
I was more fortunate than others. From the outset I found an anchor in Kurt, one that allowed us to fashion a stable and meaningful life. Others made their way back, each in his or her own individual manner, some very successfully. But there were more who would never fully adjust to the new realities. So once the shackles of common slavery were cast off, we reverted to our original molds, much as (I gather) is the case with war veterans and their shared experience.
Munich, March 11, 1946
My dearest Kurt,
Again there’s no mail from you. I had a very nice letter, however, from your relative, Mr. Sigaloff, from Basel. Following your letter to him, he apparently initiated an application on my behalf for a transit visa through Switzerland to the United States. He writes that the papers are already in Bern and estimates that it should take about six to eight weeks. I dare not hope, but can hardly restrain my hopes. Mr. Sigaloff writes in such a nice, kind way, and his eagerness to help is deeply touching.
I had a very strange encounter this morning. While waiting for the streetcar, I noticed two men staring at me. It made me very uncomfortable, so I moved away, trying to avoid them, only to have them follow me. Finally one of them approached me, said that they had just gotten here from Poland, and asked if I knew the station where they should get off. Imagine the address he showed me: It was my office! I wasn’t sure whether I would handle their case, because I only deal with Polish nationals who have some sort of German connection.
Nevertheless, when we arrived at the agency, I asked them which camp they had been in. Their answer made my blood run cold. It was Janow, the same camp in which Artur was! That led to endless other questions, and yes, they seemed to remember an Artur Weissmann, but added that two of their friends who had come to Janow earlier would know him better. And those friends were now also in Munich.
Naturally I begged them to let me go see those people, and they gave me their solemn promise that I could do so the following day. They claimed not to have their address, but said they’d return with it to my office.* They did let on that, to their knowledge, nobody else got out of this hellish camp. The four of them had been in Janow until November 1943, then had escaped and spent the rest of the war with Russian partisans. The last news I had from Artur was dated May 1943.
Oh, if only it were tomorrow already. What will I learn?
Love,
Gerda
Munich, March 14, 1946
My dearest Kurt,
You describe Buffalo in such glowing colors and the fact that much Polish is spoken there gives me a great deal of pleasure. The other news contained in your letter has rekindled the hope that Mr. Louis† will soon be in Paris. I immediately went to the Polish Committee to see whether their representative in Paris could get in touch with him regarding my visa. Unfortunately they are closed for several days.
Now I must deal with a topic I’m reluctant to discuss, but I have to. You’ve asked me so many times about it, and in your last letter, dearest, you imply that I have become pessimistic concerning my emigration. You are quite wrong. You can’t imagine how it is when you go to the authorities here and they build up your hopes to the point where you want to turn cartwheels, only to find later that all their promises are really based on nothing. People are kind and tell you what you want to hear, only most of the time it’s baseless. I’ve had my hopes dashed too often and would prefer to be told the truth. Deep down I know that ultimately we will be reunited; it’s only a question of time. Unfortunately I don’t have anyone here who is close to me. Of course I could throw myself into a social whirl, but it’s all so superficial.
Perhaps I feel so blue tonight because it’s six months today that we spent our last evening together. Half a year, and I have absolutely no clue when I will see you again.
I remember the words you spoke at our parting: that I must believe, must remain strong and hopeful. I do believe in you and am strong, and I certainly have hope. I can cope with all that, as I did throughout the years in the camps. I was strong during the most trying times, and I can be again. But I’m vulnerable and weak when it comes to other obstacles. Bolstered by warmth and tenderness, I can go on. You do understand that for three long and bitter years no family member was near who might have spoken a kind word to me; no caring arms embraced me. After that, you came and gave
me the love I yearned for. And then you left.
Please don’t feel sorry for me; I couldn’t bear it. Just understand that I get a little low at times, particularly in this country that bears the guilt for all the misery suffered by so many millions. Having said all that, I feel much better. I really do believe in the happiness that lies ahead for us.
Eternally yours,
Gerda
Landsberg [near Munich], March 17, 1946
My dearest Kurt,
I arrived in Landsberg yesterday afternoon, and you can probably guess why I’m here: Yes, Mala is engaged. I rejoice for her and hope that she will be very happy. Michael is such an exceptionally nice guy! In the evening we went to a makeshift synagogue because it’s Purim now.
Landsberg seems like a mini—Jewish state, made up of six thousand survivors from camps all over Europe. All the houses and buildings are decorated with multicolored bunting in Polish, English, and Hebrew, and there are brightly illuminated Yiddish signs everywhere. Life-size straw effigies of Hitler and Goebbels in uniform hang from gallows, and music and songs are amplified over loudspeakers. Blue-and-white Jewish flags are everywhere, and I watch people embracing one another in a frenzy of unrestrained celebration. American flags are displayed in profusion, and they adorn the sports arena where last night the oldest Jewish survivor in this area, a seventy-five-year-old woman, burned a copy of Mein Kampf on a huge funeral pyre, right here in Landsberg where Hitler wrote it while imprisoned in the old fortress. It was that book that initiated the great tragedy, all the loss and pain. As it was being consumed by fire, there was an outburst of joy and jubilation from the masked, costumed crowd. It made me feel so strange, as if I were not a part of it at all. My mood is somber and detached. I keep thinking of all those who did not live to see this, who so desperately wanted to live.
Love,
Gerda
Munich, March 23, 1946
Darling,
Please don’t be angry with me—I say it without rancor—but I miss you so each day, and more each hour. Now that I have found the person who means everything to me, the desire to be with you is overwhelming. In your recent letters you depict our future life in such glowing colors that my impatience reaches its zenith. I promise you to remain brave, however difficult that may be.
I’ve been struggling for days about whether to tell you, but unfortunately I think it best to let you know that the information you received on your end has no basis in fact. There is no trace of a consulate, although the American consul appears to be here. But nothing functions as yet. I do call the Swiss consulate almost daily and unfortunately get no answer there either. I also phoned Paris, and that branch of the Joint Distribution Committee is going to get in touch with Mr. Louis. If I can obtain some documentation from him and the French police, it will allegedly become child’s play. Sorry to say I didn’t get an answer on that either.
My coworkers, who initially promised to be of such help, are turning lukewarm and openly declare that they are reluctant to see me go.
I’m going to devote myself to the Paris matter and will also try to obtain a permit for a one-day visit to Switzerland. I hope that my luck will hold and not let me down in this case either. It’s extremely difficult to tell you all this, but I hope I’ll have good news for you soon. If only I knew how long Mr. Louis plans to stay in Paris.
Oh, Kurt, I won’t permit you to shoulder all the troubles that life can bring. I don’t just want to be your wife but your partner as well. Just know that someone is here who will wait for you, with passion and tranquillity, that someone will be with you in every conceivable situation, that I have strength through the feelings I harbor for you. After liberation I believed that God had left me on this earth in order to punish me, but I never became alienated from my faith because of the loss of my dearest ones. Rather, they were given back to me in you. When I saw the name of my beloved mother connected with the phrase “of blessed memory,” in my uncle’s letter, it paralyzed me, and my mind refused to accept it. No, Kurt, we will never think of our parents in that manner. They live distant from us, but nevertheless within us. We will love and revere them, not mourn them, but make them happy with our own happiness. I want to come to you free of all mourning and pain, able to share your life joyfully. I can be resolute and strong if I have a goal. And my gift to you is my love.
Your Gerda
Landsberg, March 24, 1946
My dearest Kurt,
Mala is celebrating her engagement, and there is additional cause for rejoicing. I got to Landsberg this morning in order to help prepare for Mala’s party. Because she is working, her fiancé, Michael, is helping me with the arrangements. We expect between twenty-five and thirty guests, so I will have my hands full.
Shortly after my arrival this morning, Mala’s friend, Franka, came to us for a “consultation.” It seems that the chief of the hospital has been pursuing her for several weeks. I had met him before, and Mala knows him well. Knowing that, Franka approached us to help her make up her mind. Pointing out my limited acquaintance with him, I gave her a very positive picture of him, and Mala, knowing him better, really sang his praises. “Okay, then,” Franka declared, “I’ll get engaged to him this afternoon at three.”
While I was preparing little sandwiches, the unsuspecting suitor happened to come into the room, just as Franka appeared through the kitchen door. I stretched out my hand to him. “Congratulations on your engagement and much happiness to you!”
“My engagement?” He did a double take.
That’s when Franka chimed in, “Yes, yours and mine.”
The poor man looked from me to her in consternation, as she flung herself into his arms. Obviously she had not told him he was her intended, and all I could do was to beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen to give them a chance to be alone. You know, I have witnessed any number of engagements by now. It seems that everyone is rushing toward some union to run away from loneliness, to start a new life with a partner. But I have not heard of or seen any engagement as peculiar as this one between Franka and her startled beau.
I leave on the early train for Munich, and what awaits me there is a renewed search for a consul: American, Swiss, or French. But instead of getting into my complaining mode, I must share with you my thoughts about a concert I attended last week.
I don’t recall the composer, but the music was very strange. It consisted of a series of Chinese songs. The beginning of it set a strange, disquieting, haunting mood, but unfortunately the woman singer, a contralto, was about as wonderful as spinach with cold tea. What was supposed to be the song of a nightingale sounded much more like the growling of a bear! There was an incredible song by a male singer, rendered briskly, in a clear, pearl-like voice. The lyrics went like this: “In a small pavilion stands a castle of green and white porcelain /And toward the castle arches, like the back of a tiger, a bridge of jade.”* Do you know it? I’m sure you do, because you know everything when it comes to music. You know what happens to me? When I hear music, I put some of my own words to it, my own rhymes and stories.
Oh, I forgot to tell you: Have you heard that Knappertsbusch† committed suicide? Seems his Nazi past was brought to light, and he didn’t want to deal with the consequences.
It just occurred to me that none of those newly married and engaged people here have to send their kisses on such a long journey as we do ours.
Gerda
Paris, March 27, 1946
My beloved Kurt,
What do you think of me now? I wanted to surprise you, dearest, but unfortunately, it did not turn out as I thought it would. Nothing was happening in Germany, and no information was available about the opening of the American consulate. On top of that, the Swiss had refused my transit visa. When you wrote that Mr. Louis would be in Paris, I foolishly took the first opportunity that presented itself to join him, and here I am. How? Don’t even ask! I hope to be able to tell you about it in person. I got here in two days, but Mr. Louis is still not here and th
e banker, whose name and address Uncle Leo had given me, didn’t know whether or when he would arrive.
Kurt, I must tell you the entire truth; the situation I find myself in is terrible. I was told in Munich that there is a way of going to Paris, provided you have the right connections. So, based on my uncle’s offer to put his Swiss bank account at my disposal, I promised a man who was allegedly a friend of the French consul that if he would take me to Paris, as promised, I would pay him once we got there. What I did not know, or maybe in my desperate state of mind did not want to know, was that this individual was not honest. He and his sister told me that the money they were requesting was needed to speed up the granting of a visa.
Please don’t be angry with me. I was so euphoric for a little while to see my most ardent wish fulfilled and to have Germany disappear behind me that I paid scant attention to the “how” of my journey. Now I’m almost sorry that I didn’t stay in Munich to wait it out longer. Please forgive me. Why were we told that Mr. Louis would be in Paris? The people who took me here promised to cable you and Uncle Leo, so I am writing this letter in order to explain the situation more fully.
I wanted only the best for both of us but could not foresee the consequences of my folly. I am beside myself, irrational, after days of sleeplessness and remorse. If only I will get word from you soon. Please think of me, so that I won’t feel so alone.
Yours,
Gerda
Paris, March 28, 1946
Dearest,
This is my second letter to you from Paris. I’m sure you don’t understand what has happened and why I am here. I hardly know it myself. All I can say is, please understand that I wanted to come to you as soon as I could and to leave that inferno behind. I cabled Uncle Leo in the hope that he would travel here or send Mr. Louis to my rescue. Imagine my disappointment at not finding him here. I am without direction, without advice. What shall I do?
The Hours After Page 28