The Hours After

by Gerda Weissmann Klein

  Gerda

  New York City, May 22, 1946

  My dearest Gerda,

  By now I should be with you but instead can only report failure after failure. You wrote to Gerdi today in such a state of exhilaration, and now I can imagine you before me, the consequences of this latest delay engraved on your face. And what can I say about it? When I think of what these obstacles must be doing to you, I could jump out of my skin!

  As per my cable to you, I went to the French consulate once more today. Absolutely nothing to be achieved there, not even a transit visa (which incidentally would only be valid for a few days), inasmuch as my passport unfortunately shows my final destination as France. To have it changed over, such as to Switzerland, for example, would require more time than will the certificate you are trying to get, provided the authorities would even approve that. I received that information from the Passport Division here.

  Don’t ask how I’m spending my time here—or rather will still be spending it. It’s almost degenerated to a state of catatonia. The slightest provocation can make me flare up and brings out impossible behavior. I’d really be interested to know whether you consider me good-natured. If so, then be prepared for some unpleasant surprises that’ll serve you right.

  I do want you to know, though, that I can be receptive to the right attire. I will let the cat out of the bag by telling you that I recently acquired a dressing gown, typically American, like those screaming loud ties! One thing I can already predict at this point: Either you’ll adjust your taste or I’ll never take you to Fifth Avenue, where all the elegant stores and personalities can be seen. If you’re all riled up by now, I propose a state of truce. And I promise to completely smudge your carefully applied lipstick—okay?

  Kurt

  Paris, May 27, 1946

  My Beloved,

  I am at the Prefecture de Police and I got it! Must let you know without a minute’s delay that I got my residency permit for a two-month stay, with all the trimmings. Because we have excellent connections now, we will be able to obtain permission to marry as soon as you get here. I’m also cabling you the joyous news.

  Can’t put the document in the envelope without a few more words. Everyone here—especially me—is overjoyed that you are coming! You are coming, it’s true, it’s really true. I am trying to imagine when you will arrive. Will it be morning, afternoon, or evening? Where will we see each other first? My love, if you could only know how happy I am. I dream of our future: Paris, Istanbul, New York, Buffalo. But the most beautiful of all thoughts is the one that I will enter your beloved America with you, that we will go home together.

  I embrace you with all my love.

  Yours,

  Gerda

  New York City, May 27, 1946

  Gerda, my beloved,

  I’m trying to commit some thoughts to paper while Barby is wriggling around on my knees. I’m still in a state of ecstasy that nothing can diminish; in retrospect, not even your confirmation of our worst fears regarding any potential obstacles that were thrown across our path. All those complications are as if wiped away, hopefully forever, now that I’m in possession of your cabled joyful message!

  As you will have gathered from my various missives meanwhile, this is definitively the happiest solution to our problems. Everything else, even if it had been possible to achieve, would have used up more precious time.

  Although I can hardly contain my impatience, I’m gratefully awaiting receipt of the papers, and in that connection my guess is that, if all goes well, they’ll arrive two days from now, on Wednesday. After all those disappointments, I hardly dare express what shapes up as an enchanting image in my mind. Only one thing I can say with certainty: My peace of mind has been restored, thanks to your incomparably beautiful and brave words, penned with the selfless eloquence that only you can rise to. I read them over and over again, each time gaining new strength from them, because the spark of this tremendous fortitude is contagious and moved me profoundly and miraculously. I was able to sense your nearness and can hardly determine how such riches of feelings and emotions became a part of my life.

  Gerda, my beloved, you offer such manifold gifts, while at the same time demanding nothing for yourself. And yet you were spared nothing. What can I possibly do in order to compensate you? Even if it were possible to bring you the stars from the sky, it would be woefully inadequate.

  You’ve hinted variously at some of the dangers you were exposed to since our separation, and I don’t claim to be able to measure their full extent. I’ve refrained thus far from asking for further details, because I realize that the details may not be suitable for correspondence. But because I know you, I can picture even from what little you mention, and without knowing the full story, what the true extent of your physical and psychological torment must have been. Certainly it’s been my perception at times that in the light of the actual cruelties humans are capable of inflicting on others, my imagination fails me. I can only say that these experiences, even if I have had them indirectly, are less of a surprise than they are the cause of great pain. But we ought to go into that another time. Today your lines made me so happy that I feel like going up to the top of the Empire State Building and shouting to the world how magnificent it is to be connected with a human being like you!

  I will be able to show you my love soon.

  Kurt

  *A greeting that can mean either “hello” or “good-bye,” particularly popular in Austria.

  *She was among a group of young women sent from Auschwitz to join the death march. Gerda and Mala met in the hospital in Volary.

  *A capsule containing a parchment scroll or portions of Deuteronomy and the name of God, it is usually affixed to doorposts of Jewish homes in order to protect its occupants from evil.

  *The textile mill/camp, also located in Silesia, to which Gerda and Ilse were transferred after Bolkenhain.

  *Third Array insignia.

  *Jewish harvest festival.

  *Valerian drops.

  †By being constantly in transit, without a temporary forwarding address.

  *German proverb: “Work sweetens life, while laziness strengthens your limbs.”

  †Sweet idleness.

  *A member of Kurt’s team of intelligence specialists.

  *In German, Blätter means both “pages” and “leaves.”

  †Hanka and I had known each other since the Grünberg factory/camp, where both of us were slave laborers. Hanka was of immense help to me on the death march, giving me two potatoes when no food had been available for days. She also disobeyed an order by an SS guard to take my boots, thus probably saving my life.

  *An acquaintance who went back to Bielsko to find out who had survived the war.

  *Traffic signals that were “audiovisual” lent a truly novel touch to the Marseilles street scene.

  *Used of the ships bringing home the victorious U.S. troops. They were a category of ships designed mostly, but not exclusively, as troop carriers. Five hundred were built toward the end of the war.

  * Refers to a previous jesting remark that seasickness is merely a figment of the imagination.

  *From an army post in the American sector of Berlin.

  *A museum of science and technology, then serving as a clearinghouse for survivors, mainly Jewish. Lists of names were posted daily to facilitate searches for kin, along with all pertinent information regarding their respective camps, as well as news about their hometowns.

  *German hit of that era.

  *Gerda kept mailing her letters to my most recent APO address, and it took the Army Post Office some time to catch up with the records as they existed at the Fort Dix separation center.

  *Joint Distribution Committee, an organization dedicated to helping Jews in need overseas.

  *Possible attempts at encoded messages.

  *Joint Distribution Committee.

  *The United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration, an organization set up by forty-three nations,
was active during the years 1943–1947. As its name implied, its aim was to bring relief to war-ravaged Europe, and in that role it per-formed its greatest service during the two years after the end of World War II. Food was distributed to millions of starving people, and the agency provided livestock to devastated areas and helped revive agriculture.

  *Bavarian Aid Soceity.

  *Washington Heights, still a haven for immigrants today, has become home to many Dominicans.

  *Pancakes, German-style.

  *From Friedrich Schiller’s “Ode to Joy,” the text of the last movement of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.

  *We wanted nothing so much as to be reunited, and Hanukkah seemed like a good time to express our hopes for the future. After the unsettling and tragic period we had lived through for so many years, we craved stability and the freedom to build a life of our own choosing, which we hoped would be a fulfilling one. Our most ardent wish was to reestablish continuity, becoming links in the chain of family progression after the losses we had sustained.

  *Refers to Nazi boasts that their regime would last one thousand years and more. The clowns’ “joke” must be regarded with some skepticism as to its sincerity.

  *Refers to speculation that Gerda would be in the United States by her birthday.

  *Nets were meant to facilitate attachment of camouflage items, when needed.

  *Catholic girls’ high school in Bielsko.

  *She was to get the chance to address Kurt in English in the course of a long-standing friendship that began when she moved to Buffalo as well.

  *Subsequent photos managed to calm my fears that Gerda might cut her hair because “it simply is too loose.”

  *I had only a temporary, personal certificate.

  *A printing course, interrupted by the war. that allowed me to become a journeyman typesetter.

  *Reference to popular operetta, The Gypsy Baron, written by Johann Strauss, Jr., in the late nineteenth century.

  *Produced by Billy Wilder.

  *Because of the curtailment of electricity during the winter of 1945-1946, I would usually try to stretch the daylight hours to the limit when dealing with my correspondence. Beyond a certain point I would write letters to Kurt by candlelight; in that way I could write in a more intimate manner and feel that it brought me closer to him.

  *Bund Deutscher Mädchen, a Nazi girls’ movement, equivalent to the Hitler Youth.

  *The march, which became a death march for all too many of the two thousand young women who were forced on it on January 29, 1945, began to take its toll almost from the start. Our inadequate clothes, especially the lack of proper shoes, decimated our numbers each day. Throughout there was the all-pervading hunger, and girls who could not go on under those conditions were shot or often died at night from exposure.

  *Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society.

  †Hearing of a chance to catch a car ride to Regensburg, approximately seventy-five miles from Munich, I decided to make a long weekend out of visiting two of my good friends from Bielsko and the camps, Rita and Ruth.

  *Psyche.

  *I never heard from them again.

  †My uncle’s father-in-law.

  *Gustav Mahler’s Das Lied von der Erde (“Song of the Earth”).

  †Hans Knappertsbusch, the well-known conductor in Munich, whom we had heard.

  *In it, he repeated the message he had wired to the address provided by the smuggler. It read: HAPPY TO KNOW YOU ARE IN PARIS. CONTACT [Leo’s banking connection]. HAVE GIVEN INSTRUCTIONS TO DO ALL NECESSARY. ARE ADVISING LOUIS IN LONDON. [He] WILL ARRIVE IN PARIS VERY SOON. WE EMBRACE YOU. CONFIRM RECEIPT. LEO

  *The first cable to me was never sent by the smuggler.

  *Instead of having to address it to an army go-between, because no international civilian mail service existed in Germany during that time.

  *Jewish memorial day of death anniversary.

  *May 7, 1945, our first meeting. May 8, Gerda’s birthday.

  *I was reluctant to accept a gift of such magnitude.

  * Don’t open before . . .

  *German proverb.

  *The European custom of posting notices of intent to many, giving others the chance to object to any impending marriage for valid reasons.

  Epilogue

  It was June 18, 1946, a glorious spring morning in Paris, the day of our wedding. I now have the luxury of looking back with joy on my happy marriage of more than half a century, but the memory of that particular day fills me with poignant sadness.

  I see myself alone in Madame Flore’s apartment, which had become my temporary abode. I dress slowly in my new, elegant, white Agnès Drécole suit, a generous gift from my uncle in Turkey. I place my small white straw hat on my dark curls with infinite care and adjust the short veil. My image in the mirror is wistful and forlorn. If only someone were here to tell me that I am a pretty bride, someone who cares and who loves me: Mama, Papa, my brother, relatives, and friends. But I am alone.

  The doorbell rings, and there is Kurt, looking very handsome in a dark suit and an elegant blue tie. With a smile he hands me a florist’s box that yields white orchids and lilies of the valley, his mother’s favorite flowers and—as he knows—mine as well. I too am clutching a small parcel.

  A taxi is waiting downstairs, ready to take us to a destination we had decided on a few days earlier. Before proceeding to the civil ceremony at the Ninth Arrondissement city hall, we plan to visit a synagogue. Once there, we have to make our way slowly over the debris that litters the courtyard, coming to a door that creaks as we open it. We see that although the interior is run-down and neglected, it somehow has survived the war intact. I unwrap my parcel and take out several memorial candles, which we proceed to light. We stand in silence, our hands linked. From my bowed head I can see swirls of dust floating on a few feeble rays of sunlight streaming through the stained-glass window, touching us as if in benediction. At that very same instant we turn to each other and embrace. We understand that we have just taken our vows.

  Arriving at the mairie, we find the air charged with noisy exuberance, a hubbub of voices rising from the crowd of young couples, their families, and well-wishers. Mr. Louis, quite formal in a homburg, has been trans-formed back into his English lord guise. The other witness is Mario Sarino, playboy son of one of Uncle Leo’s friends, a bit pudgy, with bright, fun-loving eyes and a weak chin.

  The presiding official, in a formal black suit and tricolors sash, looks daunting and officious. A stream of words issues from his lips, a litany he must have recited hundreds of times before, very little of which I manage to comprehend. My mind is not on his words, but suddenly it is our turn to appear before him. Addressing me as mademoiselle, he poses a few questions I understand sufficiently to breathe a low oui. After Kurt’s more audible affirmation, it is “félicitations, madame et monsieur,” and now, as far as the French authorities are concerned, this is it. For good measure the justice hands us a license, accompanied by a livrette de famille,* with sufficient room for the names of twelve children and a wealth of advice, including breast-feeding instructions.

  After kisses and warm embraces from Mr. Louis and an embrace and a hand kiss from Mario Sarino, we repair to the Café de la Paix, but Kurt and I scarcely touch our lunch. After a while it is clear that Mario is eager to get away to watch his horse running an important race at Longchamps, while Mr. Louis is obviously tired, exhausted after the days and weeks of endless bouts with French officialdom. We plead with him to go back to the George V, his first priority presumably to cable Uncle Leo the successful accomplishment of his mission.

  That leaves Kurt and me to walk back to his hotel. He asks for the guest register, properly bringing it up-to-date as “Monsieur et Madame.” I hold on to the reality of Kurt and think: I’m married, I’m really married! Yes, it’s true: The agony of waiting, the dashed hopes, and the uncertainty of that long, fateful year are over.

  In our desperation we had conjured up a host of diverse plans in case all else failed.
The most romantic; of those—which I loved—hardly mattered now. We would somehow get to Scotland, to Gretna Green, and be married in an ancient smithy, lucky horseshoes scattered all around. The famed blacksmith who had the authority to marry lovers in distress would hear our vows. We would emerge in a shower of apple blossoms: a fairy-tale ending.

  But I had my fairy-tale ending. I was just married here, in romantic Paris in the springtime, and would be able to stay with Kurt forever! The plain golden circlet on my finger is more precious to me than a crown.

  Now that we were married everything seemed possible, and the trip to Istanbul became our first priority. However, we hadn’t counted on the rigidity of the Turkish authorities. We found ourselves in limbo for weeks on end while the consulate awaited a decision from Ankara. When it finally came two months later, Kurt’s visa for Turkey was approved because he was an American citizen, while mine was rejected despite the fact that I was now his wife. Kurt consoled me that there would be other opportunities later. I suspect that he felt a measure of relief, because he had been somewhat reluctant to accept the offered hospitality. I did not know then, however, that Kurt and my uncle would never meet.

  In the months ahead Uncle Leo’s life would change dramatically. I was to find out that he had concealed the disastrous state of his marriage from me. Then it became clear why he so desperately wanted us to come to Turkey right away. He was to go through a bitter divorce, in the course of which he sustained great financial losses, and ultimately settled in Paris with his children in 1949. But a greater catastrophe was to befall him. Even then he was ill with throat cancer, and I was with him in Paris in 1950, when it became obvious that no cure was possible. I was able to be at his side at his death in April 1951. Once again I saw Paris, this time through the rain-washed window of the hearse that took my last remaining close relative to his final resting place. Summing up the bitter irony, the undertaker told me that Père Lachaise Cemetery was plus chic than another that had been suggested by Uncle Leo’s staff.