Letters From the Lost

by Helen Waldstein Wilkes

  Having always imagined that I would have the ferocity of a tiger when it came to defending my children, I have often wondered how bad things would have to be before I would send my children to another country to be parented by strangers. I have been unable to imagine it, that sending away of my children. Other horrors I can imagine easily, and these are seldom far from my thoughts. The fear of persecution is with me always.

  With the birth of each child, I bought gold coins that I planned to sew into the hem of their clothing should we ever need to flee. If my children risked being separated from me, I wanted whoever found them to have the means to provide food and shelter. Even today, each new world crisis fans the flames of my paranoia. Old fears may lie buried, but they do not vanish.

  I still have the gold.

  ————

  THE NEXT FAMILY MEMBER who adds a few lines to the April 2 letter is Else’s husband, Dr. Emil Urbach. He addresses his words only to my father, and they are a mixture of sensible advice and unvarnished facts.

  I was very pleased that things went relatively well en route, and I hope that you will also have good weather at sea. In your present situation, you need to consume a rich diet in order to build up strength for farming.

  Emil gives no indication of wanting to come to Canada, but he is arranging to send his daughter to safety in England.

  For us, nothing has changed. We intend to send Marianne to a family in England, and we have had her registered for this. On Friday the 14th of this month, we will find out whether and under what circumstances it may come to pass.

  It was Emil’s wording that led me to think of Kindertransport, a word I vaguely remembered. Now, I looked up the specifics.

  Between 1938 and 1940, Britain eased its immigration restrictions to allow at least 7500 Jewish children from Austria, Germany, and Czechoslovakia into the country. Although Britain’s altruism was tempered by a hefty dose of practicality—private citizens or organizations had to guarantee to pay for not only the care and education of these children but also for their eventual emigration from Britain—Britain did reach out.

  Canada and the U.S. opted instead to prevent such emigration to their shores. In 1940, the Canadian embassy in Washington informed the Prime Minister that the American government opposed the admission of Jewish children to Canada, fearing that these children might somehow slip across the border into the United States. However, even as it closed its doors to Jewish children, Canada granted both temporary and permanent residence to British-born children, and to children born in France, the Netherlands, Belgium, and Scandinavia.1 It shocked me deeply to discover that anti-Semitism had put down such strong roots both in both Canada and in the United States.

  It was with thoughts of the Urbach letter still freshly in my mind that I watched Nicolas Winton: The Power of Good, a documentary film in the cbc-tv Witness series. The program features reporter Joseph Schlesinger spotlighting “Nicky,” a very modest Englishman who single-handedly saved over six hundred Czech children, including himself. On the off chance that he might have seen the program, I emailed my only Canadian relative, a cousin thrice removed on my mother’s side.

  Now in his eighties, Cousin Herbert had indeed seen the program. More remarkably, he had been among the tearful Czech children peering from the train windows, waving a last farewell to their parents. I have kept Herbert’s email.

  Schlesinger is excellent and the film is almost a fairy tale come true. At one point, I was moved to sobbing. And of course, the moments of parting from my parents at our small town railway station are etched into my memory. The things said and swallowed, the thoughts held in check. …

  Once again, I was tongue-tied by another’s pain. I could not ask Herbert to relive that departure from Prague. Seeking to know more, however, I attended a local workshop where “child survivors” told their story. Particularly moving was the saga of a man exactly my age. His parents had put him aboard a train to England, but the German invasion trapped that train in the Netherlands. A kind family opened its doors to a child from the train. Just as I had forgotten ever knowing my relatives, he too quickly forgot the people of his earliest years. He never questioned the blond hair or blue eyes of his siblings. His memory of another family vanished. Shortly after war’s end, there was a knock at the door. The young boy was greeted by a distraught stranger, a haggard, wild-eyed woman who claimed to be his mother. Decades later, his wounds are still fresh.

  ————

  FOLLOWING CLOSELY UPON Emil Urbach’s words is the handwriting of my father’s sister Martha. Her words carry a noticeable whiff of fear, perhaps wondering if the goodbyes were forever.

  We miss you terribly, yet you are “the chosen” for blessed are those who can move far away. May God grant that you arrive safely and well at your destination. As you step onto the new earth, we wish you every imaginable good thing. May the air of your new homeland give you the strength to regain a good foothold and may you earn your daily bread in peaceful work.

  There is an unexpected poetry and grandeur to Martha’s words. Where did this village girl with minimum schooling acquire such language skills?

  As if in counterbalance, Martha wraps herself in the love that binds the family together. She addresses us playfully, using terms of endearment. My mother is “Greterl,”and my father is “Ederle.” I am “Helly-child.” To my surprise, I discover that I also had a name for Martha.

  I believe that little Helly-child will have it easiest. She will make herself at home and feel happy everywhere. Does she still remember Matie? I send her many thousands of kisses.

  I linger over the word “Matie.” The childish nickname tells me that Aunt Martha was a beloved fixture in my life. How can I have no memory of her? I am taken aback to learn that before we left Europe, I could speak and understand. I had never thought of myself as talking to this aunt, as running to embrace her, as smelling her perfume and feeling her arms around me. Through her letter, Martha moves from the abstract shadows to a concrete reality. For the first time, I realize that I was young but I was not unaware.

  Matie. The word touches me deeply. Having no memory of Martha’s presence, I am taken by surprise at the impact of her absence.

  I am surprised too by the level of her anxiety. It is palpable. She makes no pretence of reassuring my father that all is well, and there is no escaping the directness of her words.

  Unfortunately, the situation is getting more serious with each passing day. We rack our brains day and night, and if possible, we would leave tomorrow. If we survive this new test of nerves, more trials await us. And yet, if one has no choice, one must, that is, if one can.

  And going to Palestine? Well then, what happens to the children? You know the situation only too well! It’s just that it’s getting sadder by the day. It’s totally impossible to get the blue cards now.

  Dearest Ederle, I don’t need to repeat to you our urgent plea, but nevertheless, should the matter be totally hopeless, then write to us as soon as possible, even though it would pain us terribly. Perhaps fate will still grant us some nice hours together. After all, we spent our youth together. Perhaps there will also be time together for us as adults?

  There is much in Martha’s letter that begins to haunt me. I begin with her question about going to Palestine. Why is this not an obvious solution, and why does she seem to imply that this would be without the children? Once again, I head for the library, trying to understand the circumstances in 1939.

  I knew that the state of Israel had not been founded until 1948, and that its creation had been an effort by the nations of the world to make amends. I knew that Israel had not been founded without a struggle, but the details had blurred. I wondered why the Fränkels did not simply board the next ship heading across the Mediterranean to Palestine.

  Now, I discovered that after World War I, the League of Nations had approved and signed the British Mandate giving Britain the power to rule Palestine. Between 1920 and 1948, Britain placed severe limits on Jewi
sh emigration to Palestine. The greater the pressure from those seeking to escape the Nazis, the more strictly the British enforced the regulations.

  To break the bottleneck, some Zionist groups organized illegal “transports,” mostly of able-bodied adults who could work the land and fight for freedom. This knowledge provided the answer to a translation problem I was having with a later part of the letter, a part where Martha’s husband uses the word transport, which is not a German word. The only time I ever heard my parents use the word was later, after the war, and only in reference to the trains that took Jews to the concentration camps. I was afraid that I had misunderstood.

  I found my answer in the words of novelist Arthur Koestler who draws a parallel between the locked boxcars carrying Jews to their death and the ships headed for Palestine. He calls them “the little death ships.”

  The story of Palestine from May 1939 to the end of the war is essentially the story of Jews trying to save their skins, and of the effects of the Mandatory power to prevent this through an immigration blockade. … It is essential… to bear in mind that the Jews in immediate danger of life were those in German-occupied territory; that precisely these people’s escape had been declared “illegal”. …

  The practical consequences of this policy were… that in Palestine, over half a million Jews waited with open arms for their tormented kin… while over the Mediterranean and Black Sea, unclean and unseaworthy little cargo boats… tossed about in open waters, waiting in vain for permission to discharge their crowded human cargoes. Hunger, thirst, disease and unspeakable living conditions reigned on those floating coffins.

  In March and April 1939, three-refugee ships… packed with Jews reached Palestine and were refused permission to land.

  In the British House of Commons, Mr. Noel-Baker asked what would happen to these people. The Colonial Secretary, Mr Malcolm MacDonald said that they had been sent back to where they came from.

  Mr. Noel-Baker: “Does that mean to concentration camps?”

  Mr. MacDonald: “The responsibility rests with those responsible for organizing illegal immigration.”2

  I did not know that Dachau and other concentration camps had been established even before the outbreak of war, and that the Allies had been aware of the existence of these camps. I thought the horror stories had only become known after the liberation. Perhaps that is what I needed to believe.

  ————

  WHEN I CLOSED THE HISTORY books and returned again to Martha’s letter, the narrowness of my father’s escape leapt out at me.

  You know the situation only too well. It’s just that it’s getting worse by the day. It’s totally impossible now to get the blue cards.

  I telephoned Mimi with new questions. She confirmed what I suspected. The blue cards were exit visas requiring authorization stamps from both the bank and the Gestapo. It must have been a blue card that my father took to the bank, along with his other documents, on the morning that a sleepy teller gave him the last exit visa to be issued in Prague.

  Small wonder that Martha is overwhelmed by their plight. In begging my father for help, I note that twice she has underlined the words “urgent plea.” She switches to other topics, but her pretence of a normal life is quickly shattered.

  Yesterday we visited our friend Wally. Wherever we go, people are talking about the same topic.

  Only when Martha is talking about her children do the shadows lift. The baby provides flickering glimpses of happiness.

  Our dear Dorothy is very cute, but for the last week, she has been getting up on her knees in the baby carriage. We have to strap her in so that she can’t fall out. We are going to have to put up a little bed for her. Ilserl is very good.

  The bed seems symbolic. If they put up a bed for her, it means that they will not be leaving just yet. The bed also leads me to another question. How and where is this family of four living? They must have left everything behind in Nazi-controlled Austria and made their way from their home in Linz to Prague, where Arnold and Vera would have reached out. I scan carefully, but this first letter offers no clues.

  My eyes are drawn to the very short sentence, “Ilserl is very good.” It is another bond between me and my nine-year old cousin, for I too was a good child. Raised in a country where self-assertion and rebellion against parental control seemed to be the norm, I wrestled with being so different from my peers. As an adult, I have learned that “goodness” is an issue for every child whose family has stared death in the face. How does one imagine Anne Frank misbehaving? When life and death are at stake, children learn quickly to “be good.”

  ————

  MANY DAYS PASSED BEFORE I again picked up Martha’s letter. I welcomed every excuse to procrastinate. She had touched a nerve, and I did not want to feel the intense emotions that her words evoked.

  . . . should the matter be totally hopeless, then write to us as soon as possible, even though it would pain us terribly. Perhaps fate will still grant us some nice hours together. After all, we spent our youth together. Perhaps there will also be time together for us as adults?

  Written on the back of this photo:

  To my dear Uncle Edi, a souvenir of my second birthday,

  January 23, 1933. Ilserl.

  How heavy Martha’s heart must have been when she penned those words. From my own childhood, I have retained the perspective that a heavy heart is the norm. My parents always seemed to be walking under a cloud, and their conversation always focused on problems. Equipment that malfunctioned. People who disappointed. Expenses. “Life is not easy,” my mother would often say with a sigh.

  But my mother and father tried to make me happy. Although they did without themselves, they managed to buy a special gift for each of my birthdays. My first watch. A ring with a small green chip marketed as my birthstone. I knew that the gift was an expression of their love, and was supposed to make me happy.

  In return, I tried to make my parents happy. I was always a good girl. I succeeded in making them proud of my achievements. School was an easy route to that pride. I earned good grades while hiding my social struggles and the many ways in which I knew myself to be a major misfit. As a teenager lacking in Saturday night dates, this became a difficult challenge, but in the early years, my parents were easy to fool.

  Their childhood in Europe had been so very different from my early years in Canada. My father had been part of a large, bustling family. My mother had lived with a sister almost her own age and a bevy of friends in a small town in Bavaria. I grew up as an only child on an isolated farm in Southern Ontario where I attended a one-room schoolhouse. My first years in school were so traumatic that I have almost completely erased them from conscious memory. My classmates made it clear that I would never attain social acceptance.

  My first sin was that I spoke no English in a school where we were taught to sing “Rule Britannia! Britannia, rule the waves!” My second sin was that I spoke German, the language of the enemy. My third sin was that I was a Jew when that was still a dirty word.

  For years, I blamed myself for being a social outcast. After we left the farm, I did try to make Jewish friends, but the relationships never gelled. In the late 1940s and early 1950s, the young Jews that I met seemed either materialistic or caught up in a pro-Israeli world of which I knew nothing. I was as baffled by those who sought to fight for a homeland far from Canadian shores as I was by those who thought only of what to wear to the next party.

  For a while, I thought that if non-Jews got to know me first as a person, then the fact of my having been born Jewish would not matter. Life taught me otherwise. The girls in my high school formed a “sorority” from which I alone was excluded. The few boys who tried to date me backed out after their parents asked, “Helen who?” and heard my last name.

  Slowly, I began to understand my parents a little, and to notice the deep scars left by a world that had totally rejected them. I spent much time trying to imagine what it had been like for them. How could they trust agai
n, after their former classmates and the friends with whom they had once played soccer or hopscotch turned against them? What new meaning did they attach to the word “neighbour” after watching those who had always lived next door hide behind drawn curtains and avert their eyes on the street? For my part, I became both reluctant to trust and eager to trust, knowing well that a diet of suspicion corrodes the soul.

  As I think back, not once during those years on the farm or even during our time in the city did my parents connect with what they called “real” Canadians. All the visitors to our home who sat down for tea or a meal spoke with that same Germanic accent that set them apart, no matter what their degree of fluency.

  I do not believe that my parents ever lost that sense of alienation, of “otherness” imposed by the outside world. They often mentioned being “foreigners” or “greenhorns,” and there were audible quotation marks around their use of these words. While my mother partly mastered the art of sour grapes, claiming not to want what she could not have, my father was more complex. It was difficult for me to grasp that he had once been a carefree soul who strummed the ukulele and played piano at family gatherings in Europe. I saw him as quiet, thoughtful, sensitive, and shadowed by loneliness.

  Although he often thought aloud during our Sunday morning walks, seeming to forget that I was just a child, the concerns my father voiced were always about the present. About his adult years in Europe, he rarely spoke. Now, as I began reading the letters, I also began looking for the roots of that lingering sadness even my best efforts could not dissolve.

  I found a clue to that sadness in Emil Fränkel’s first letter. His handwriting follows closely that of his wife Martha’s in that letter of April 2,1939. Emil’s words seem to leave the page and reverberate in the silence of my morning.

  My dear ones,