It's You

by Jane Porter

  January 26, 1942

  We are to start our official classes next week. It will be something new.

  During cards today, the newsmen casually mentioned that the British “bombed the hell out of Bremen” last night but said no more. I wish we all had access to news, not just propaganda.

  I write to F. asking for an update on Frieda and his family. Are they all well, and safe? This is how we write, he and I, masking our interest with inquiries for others. What I really want to know is where will he be going when they send him off this next time . . .

  January 29, 1942

  Kennan found me at the piano this morning and wanted a word with me. He expressed concern that I remain very close with some of my friends in Berlin, in particular F., as he isn’t just a member of the Nazi party, but an officer. I gently reminded Kennan that the US might be at war with Germany, but we are not at war with the people. My answer didn’t sit well with Kennan and he gave me a long look before walking away.

  I resumed playing but my hands were not as steady and I missed a few keys on one of the easier passages. I knew Kennan was aware I was “friendly” with F., but I hadn’t realized he was paying that much attention to me . . . or my correspondence.

  Which leads me to believe that Kennan isn’t the only one aware of my correspondence, either.

  February 4, 1942

  While I worry endlessly about F., some of the “students” and “instructors” at our new “university” are not happy with Laukhuf, saying he is too rigid and demanding. I personally quite like him and do not mind his approach, but then, my music classes have always been rigorous so I am not disturbed by his expectations or desire for structure and discipline.

  February 5, 1942

  Haven’t heard from F. in several days. Worried. Hope everything is fine. I hope his most recent letter hasn’t been lost or detained as he is usually a very reliable correspondent.

  February 7, 1942

  “Badheim University” has a new president. Poor Perry stepped down today (although he was quite good-natured about his dismissal) and Phillip Whitcomb is to take over. Phillip sought me out this afternoon to ask me to remain on as one of the instructors. He says he can’t imagine a successful language and music program at the “University” without me.

  February 8, 1942

  Have begun to get to know one of the American journalists, Ed Shanke, a younger newsman from Milwaukee. He was telling me during tea yesterday about the final press conference on December 10th where Paul Schmidt, Joachim von Ribbentrop’s press spokesman, ordered all the American journalists from the press conference that day, which the reporters had half expected.

  What was remarkable, though, was how the rest of the journalists in the room stood and formed a line to say good-bye to the Americans on the way out. Shanke said that unless one is a journalist it’s hard to understand the bonds—and respect—shared by members of the press.

  I admit to being rather envious of such a relationship. I don’t have that with anyone here. I think the fact that F. and I continue to correspond so frequently has raised some eyebrows, with him being a German, and an officer.

  February 13, 1942

  Shanke asked me about F. today. He wondered if it was true that I was “in love with a Nazi.” I didn’t know how to answer. I think my inability to answer said more than words ever could.

  It wasn’t until I was in my room—alone—that I could think of an appropriate response. I’m not in love with a Nazi.

  I’m in love with the most amazing man.

  February 14, 1942

  The newsmen have organized a newspaper. It is meant to be both amusing and informative, but no one knows if the stories in the paper are true or merely gossip.

  February 18, 1942

  Ash Wednesday. Dr. Herman conducted a non-denominational service. I accompanied for the hymns. Several of the German soldiers joined in. Complaints from a few but most aren’t bothered. Missing F. terribly but he wouldn’t enjoy the services like I do.

  February 19, 1942

  F. wrote today.

  He asked if I’d been playing as much lately with all my new “teaching responsibilities” and wondered if I’d played anything by Wagner recently, which puzzled me to no end as he knows I dislike Wagner and would never play Wagner.

  Then in the next line he wrote how Lohengrin was his favorite opera, but he supposed that was because of the “Bridal Chorus,” surely one of the most lovely pieces of music ever written, and did I agree?

  I had to stop reading. I put the letter down. I paced my room, my thoughts in a whirl.

  Why did F. labor on so about the bridal march? He says nothing by chance. Everything is coded, everything means something.

  He can’t possibly be asking me my thoughts on marriage . . . can he?

  February 20, 1942

  Discovered new sheet music waiting for me at the piano today. Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 1 in F Minor, Opus 2. The tension in the piece, the sense of agitation almost too perfectly reflects my mood, and yet I couldn’t feel anything as I played, my thoughts racing ahead of my fingers. I finished the piece without even remembering touching the keys . . .

  February 21, 1942

  Another letter from F. He has not yet received my response but is leaving for his new assignment and doesn’t expect to have received my letter before he goes this evening, flying out of Berlin to a location that promises to be much sunnier and drier.

  He said that he hoped he hadn’t surprised me with his passionate feelings for Wagner, but he is German after all and most devoted, and sincere, and he trusted that by now I knew that about him.

  He did add that should my tastes run more to Mozart (which he suspected was true given my background and all), he liked Mozart, too, in particular the Overture from The Marriage of Figaro.

  The bridal march.

  The Marriage of Figaro.

  For a moment I couldn’t breathe. He is saying what I thought he was saying.

  I finished reading the letter quickly at that point. His mail should be forwarded to him and he looks forward to hearing from me.

  And Frieda sends her love and many many kisses.

  I spend a long time holding his letter to my chest, cherishing the kisses and love, and aware that he is going to somewhere dangerous and sunny . . .

  Benghazi, Gazala, Sicily, Malta . . .

  But why? Why would an officer with the Reich’s Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda be sent to a front line?

  February 22, 1942

  A letter today from my parents. It’s been a long time since I heard from them. I almost cried when I went to my room to read the letter. I miss them. It seems like forever since I saw them. I suppose it has been forever, too.

  Mother said Father is anxious for me to come home. She adds that he is not comfortable with Ellie’s decision to go to California, either. This was news to me. Ellie has decided to follow in Jack London and Mark Twain’s footsteps and be a journalist in San Francisco with hopes of later becoming a “real writer.” Mother wrote that this isn’t the time for Ellie to take risks but Ellie won’t listen and Father suffers because of it.

  And because of me.

  He has regretted encouraging me to travel and study abroad and not insisting I return before the outbreak of war.

  I immediately sit down and write a letter in response. I am well, and I am to be home soon, and Father isn’t to worry. Ellie and I are intelligent young women, and yes, we are both ambitious and have a strong adventurous streak, but thankfully, we were not sheltered and so, wise to the world, we can at least attempt to protect ourselves. Father must take comfort in that.

  February 25, 1942

  Woke up in the middle of the night sweating even though the room was terribly cold.

  I had a dream I was at the embassy and translating for a (German) Jewish father who was begging us to get his wife and his five young children out of the country. He had money in his hand and he kept shoving it in f
ront of the clerk, Bill, saying, “Take it, take it, please take it, all of it and get my children out of here.”

  Bill shook his head. “It’s not enough. It’s too late. I am so terribly sorry, but there is nowhere to send them. There is no place for them to go.”

  The father was weeping.

  I was weeping.

  I woke up weeping and couldn’t fall back asleep because I dreamed it, yes, but it wasn’t a dream. It happened. Not just that one time, but over and over, every day for month after month. That dream was just a memory of an ordinary day at the embassy this last year.

  If the Jews hadn’t left by 1939, it was all but impossible to get them out. And tragically, so many waited to go, either because they didn’t have the money, or they had ties too deep to leave, and so they’d hoped to wait the madness out.

  February 26, 1942

  I finish my music and language lessons but cannot play cards today, can’t relax. Instead I sit at the piano and play to try to ease the intolerable ache in my chest, an ache that comes from knowing that we at the embassy did far too little, but our hands were tied by our government that didn’t want to be involved. They didn’t want to engage. They didn’t want to change the immigration numbers and policies.

  Living here, working at the embassy, surrounded at the Adlon by the press, I have heard what is happening in Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Romania. I have heard what the Germans and the fascists are doing as the soldiers and tanks roll through Lithuania and Latvia. All autumn we heard of the growing numbers sent to the concentration camps. We heard of the new camps being built. We heard of the relocation of Jews from their homes to ghettos, and from ghettos to camps. From the whispers that reach beyond the barbed wire camp walls we know what happens there . . . it is nothing short of murder. Massacres.

  But that is not our affair, the government says. It is not for us to intercede.

  If they were here, if they had sat in the embassy listening to the Jews beg for assistance and protection these past few years, perhaps they would have felt differently.

  Perhaps the ordinary American citizen would have responded differently—the mothers and fathers—if they had heard how these mothers and fathers begged for the lives of their children.

  Perhaps if America were here amidst the bombings and night raids, perhaps they would not have been so complacent these past few years.

  The world may very well shout condemnation at Germany now, but the world shall have to look at itself and ask—did we do enough when we could have?

  Did we care enough, when we should have?

  February 27, 1942

  A brief letter from F. He said Frieda misses me terribly.

  I read and read the letter. It is so short that it worries me. I want to know where he is. I want to know what he is doing. I want to know when this horrible war will end.

  March 1, 1942

  Romance is everywhere these days. Everyone discusses the most obvious romances, as well as the supposedly secret relationships. With so much free time and yet so little space and freedom, there is intense interest and speculation about who is with whom, and doing what to whom, and how this particular coupling will go once we are all sent home.

  I am part of the gossip. I am the beautiful, musical American that spends her time writing long anguished letters to her handsome Nazi.

  I can’t say anything, can’t defend myself as they all knew F. They met him when I did. They knew him in the same official capacity as I.

  But they can be smug and superior. They didn’t develop a personal relationship. They knew better than to admire someone in the Propaganda Ministry.

  March 6, 1942

  I’ve been asked to play proper dance music—anything by Artie Shaw, Jimmy Dorsey Orchestra, the Andrew Sisters, Sammy Kaye, Glenn Miller—for tonight’s dance. Thank God I don’t need sheet music for most of the popular stuff and can pick up almost any tune after hearing it once or twice.

  March 7, 1942

  Last night’s dance got a little out of hand. Too much drinking and singing and throwing of spittoons . . . the dance for next Saturday has been cancelled and no one is now allowed to drink in one’s bedroom. I am fine with the punishment as I wasn’t drinking, or throwing spittoons. In fact, I was in bed trying to sleep, and finding it impossible due to the wild drunken antics of my colleagues and newsmen friends.

  March 9, 1942

  Over ten days without a letter from F.

  But the mail brought a letter from Robert Best today. Robert left for Berlin six days ago but now he’s written to say he’s not returning. He’s choosing to go home, back to Vienna. Morris has forbidden us from communicating with Best, saying he is no longer stable, but I understand how pulled he is. Vienna has been his home for twenty-some years. He views himself as an Austrian now, not an American.

  He is not the only one. There are others here with deep ties to “our enemy.”

  Elfriede has a German fiancé, Joachim has a pregnant German wife (who is back in Berlin, and having to fend for herself during the air raids).

  And I have F.

  March 10, 1942

  Received a letter from Mother today. Father was hospitalized end of last month with congestive heart failure. He is home again and Mother said Father thinks he will be on his feet very soon. She isn’t so optimistic.

  I attempt to distract myself playing Schumann’s Concerto for the Piano.

  It doesn’t help.

  March 12, 1942

  Haven’t been able to eat or sleep since receiving Mother’s letter.

  I need to go home.

  I think he will recover better once I’m home. I’ll write Ellie, too. I’ll write Ellie and we’ll both go home.

  March 13, 1942

  I wrote F. today and told him I didn’t like Wagner’s bridal march or Mozart’s Figaro. I thought perhaps there were better choices for both of us.

  My heart is broken.

  Das ist alles.

  March 15, 1942

  Haven’t heard back from F. I don’t know when he’ll receive my letter, or if he has already received it.

  Haven’t heard from Mother since her last letter and am most anxious for an update on Father. Hoping Ellie will be home soon and can update me properly.

  Played what I could remember of Bach’s Piano Concerto in D Minor. I was surprised by how much I did remember and when I couldn’t recall a passage perfectly I improvised, and yet I couldn’t feel the music, not when every note conjured F. I could see us in Berlin, walking arm in arm beneath the big handsome lime trees on Unter den Linden. I could feel the warm light on our faces as we walked, the sunshine dappling the sidewalk. I could smell the air, sweet, fresh.

  We won’t ever have Berlin again. We won’t have the future. I cry as I play, filled with despair.

  I can see it all, remember it all, our trips to the country . . . the Sunday drives to Potsdam to stroll through the gardens at Sanssouci and then coffee and plum cake before returning home.

  I can’t play on. It’s too much.

  I feel too much.

  Music today just causes more pain.

  March 16, 1942

  Herr Zorn found a box of sheet music in the basement and brought it to me. He thought perhaps I would like some new music, but suggested I avoid anything “controversial,” which means I should focus on the Germans and Austrians.

  Spent the hour before dinner playing Robert Schumann’s Piano Sonata No. 2 in G Minor, Opus 22, and the first part is fast—schnell, noch schneller—and Doris complained at dinner that it gave her a headache as it was too loud, fast, and frantic, but it was good to play as quickly as my fingers could fly. Better to play than to pace or hide and cry.

  March 19, 1942

  Morris shared with all tonight at dinner that the Drottningholm departed New York for Lisbon two days ago. We should be sailing home soon.

  March 23, 1942

  A letter from Mother. Father died.

  I am inconsolable. I should have bee
n there.

  The piano is the only place I can find comfort. I play Mozart’s Requiem, tears falling, the keys wet.

  I hope he knows how much I love him.

  March 25, 1942

  Ellie wrote to tell me she was at the house with Father when he died.

  Mother is working on the funeral arrangements and has asked Ellie to select the readings so she can focus on the music selections. As expected, Mother is set on Handel’s “I Know that My Redeemer Liveth,” but hasn’t decided on the rest.

  March 26, 1942

  More devastating news.

  F. has been injured.

  I received a letter from him today—but not written by him. He dictated it to a nurse who was kind enough to assist him.

  He was injured a fortnight ago and is now at a hospital in Rome recovering. I am not to worry as he is receiving excellent care but he apologizes for not writing sooner.

  He promises to write more soon but he doesn’t want me to worry.

  I worry.

  He doesn’t sound as if he’s received my letter. I must write him back. I do not know how to tell him, not when he’s injured. Not when I don’t know how seriously he’s been wounded because whenever F. tells me “not to worry” it usually means the situation is very serious.

  March 29, 1942

  Not only is it Palm Sunday, but Morris shared with all today that yes, it is the Drottningholm that will take us back to New York. The ship is being prepared, and Herr Zorn and his staff will soon inspect the hotel rooms and shall begin invoicing us for damages and payment.

  I don’t know what to think, or feel.

  March 30, 1942

  Everyone remains very excited about the transfer home. Much speculation as to when this could be as Morris was advised by our Swiss contacts that it could be a while but that doesn’t dampen the enthusiasm in the least. All is ready to go.

  Received a letter from F. today, and it’s still not his handwriting. His injury must be more serious than he lets on.