Invisible Ink

by Guy Stern

  So I settled in New York, and when Fred returned from the war and to his room with his mother and stepfather, I found myself a cheap hotel. I had my union papers as a waiter transferred to the local chapter in New York, and I procured a job at a Broadway restaurant.

  I looked up my friends from my Ritchie Boy days, many of them living in New York. One of these friendships was to give direction to my life and my career. Karlie Frucht, a writer in civilian life, had joined our group toward the end of the war. Despite the brevity of our acquaintance, he became a close friend because the stories he had to tell fascinated me. In that brief period before Austria was also taken over by the pernicious Nazi government, many German writers and artists fled there. Karlie and his admired friend, the author Hertha Pauli, opened a literary agency and were able to place quite a few of the refugees into professional jobs. In New York Karlie discovered many of his old clients, and connected with their friends and acquaintances as well. He renewed his friendship with Pauli, who had become a close friend and then the wife of another refugee writer, E. B. Ashton.

  Meanwhile, I had met a prominent exile writer while training at Camp Ritchie. Stefan Heym had written his first American publication prior to being inducted. His novel Hostages became a bestseller. He started his second novel, The Crusaders, while a trainee at Ritchie. He frequently asked his fellow soldiers for an English vocabulary word. After the war, The Crusaders became a highly acclaimed semifictional war novel in both parts of divided Germany. One evening Karlie called me: “Hey, Guy, Pauli and Ashton are having their monthly open house in their apartment at the Park Plaza Hotel. Would you like to come along with me?” It was an irresistible invitation. As we arrived, I spotted a whole galaxy of the well-known German language writers Karlie had spoken of during our chats in the closing days of the war. Now they were engaged in fascinating conversations right before my eyes, and I, who had only reached the level of college sophomore, at least had the wisdom to listen rather than break into their remarks. At any rate I was completely ignored.

  Yet I was invited once again and I found a key to Hertha and Ashton’s hearts. Their relatively small apartment appeared even smaller because they shared it with their dog Bambi, who had recently whelped and increased the population of the apartment by seven puppies. When I was invited for the second time, I came prepared. I had tipped the dishwashers at the Broadway Lobster Pond, my place of employment, to make up a hefty bag of choice bits of leftover meat—fine steaks among them—and brought it along for the dog population of the Park Plaza Hotel. My hostess gift hit the mark. Such packages became my entre billet to the monthly get togethers, which became my education in contemporary German literature.

  So while I continued to hope that the New York Times might still be beckoning, I was by no means stranded in New York. Through my former Ritchie buddies I had a wonderful social network, enjoyed the heady atmosphere of those super intellects among the exiles, and could easily live on my earnings as a waiter at various Broadway restaurants. But of course, that was not what I pictured as my destiny in life. I needed to complete my education, arrested at the sophomore level. I started to apply to various New York–based universities. It did not take long to find out that the delayed quest for admission sought by veterans had already caused an overabundance of eligible applicants. All of us were encouraged by that wonderful gift of a grateful country, the GI Bill of Rights. But colleges were not looking for more enrollees and certainly not for transfer students who would only remain on their campus for two years or less and would then depart, causing under-enrollment in the foreseeable future at the upper-class and graduate level. The only positive response I received came from Fordham University. Since I was a former student at a fellow Jesuit university, the college was prepared to give me preferential treatment. But I thought that after studying at Saint Louis University, I should try a four-year liberal arts college. Not only did several ones in the East already have a very fine reputation, but also their surroundings seemed to evoke a sense of calm and an atmosphere of rigorous learning and, if movies were to be trusted, romantic opportunities.

  Friends told me of a newly founded college that seemed to approximate my expectations. Hofstra College, which had severed its connections to New York University, was conveniently located in nearby Long Island, and was still accepting applications. I took the train to Hempstead and was immediately given an interview by the chief academic officer, Dean William Hunter Beckwith, who accepted me on the spot. I was exuberant. The campus looked bucolic; only later did I learn that it also could evoke wartime memories. Some of the classes of an expanding campus were held in Quonset huts, resembling army installations. When a plane came in or took off from adjacent Mitchell Field, the professor simply stopped proceedings until a happy landing (or take off) had taken place. I met another Ritchie Boy within the first couple of weeks and had an immediate friend in former Staff Sergeant Felix Strauss.

  I loved Hofstra. I was able to pursue a fairly light academic program: the college helped by having some of my classes at Camp Ritchie counted as equivalence. For example, our army course on terrain intelligence was deftly turned into the college equivalent of geology. Hence I could keep up my residence in New York, my waiter’s job, and my expanding social ties, while making good progress toward graduation. Hofstra had much to offer. Its president, John Adams, was a Shakespeare scholar, and he had seen to it that our huge gymnasium could be quickly converted into a replica of the Globe Theater, if a Shakespearean play was to be performed within its walls. The performances, if not reaching the thespian heights of Stratford-on-Avon, were superb, with a beautiful leading lady and fellow student by the name of Aphrodite Stevens (optimistically bestowed by her parents). I also found myself suddenly catapulted into the chair of the features editor of the Hofstra Chronicle and the associate editor of the college yearbook.

  I have looked back on those two years at Hofstra, 1946–1948, both with pleasure and amazement. What drove me to that ceaseless activity both in Hempstead and New York? The answer was not hard to find. The news from Germany and the demise of my entire family was descending on me with disturbing frequency. All those campus activities, though valuable in themselves, also served to drive away the demons. I had a need to suppress my sense of loss. Many of the classes had been most imaginatively staffed. For art history the college had imported a scholar from Holland. He traveled both on his comprehensive knowledge of art and his imaginative assignments—he once sent his entire class to New York to see a highly praised exhibit on Hogarth, “Constable and Turner” at the New York Art Museum. But Professor Constant van de Wal also inserted his vivid memories of his homeland into his classroom lectures and made the campus aware of Holland’s cultural tradition. In short, he brought a projection of the Netherlands with him. This was much needed by a college (later to become a university) that prided itself on the Dutch origin of its founder and on the name of its athletic teams: “The Flying Dutchmen.”

  Then there was Doc (not doctor) Reynolds. President Adams, who made all the decisions for the college, had the insight to hire a superbly qualified teacher of political science, who had never gotten around to writing his dissertation. He gave me a most creative assignment for my term paper: “Explore the political workings of the counties on Long Island.” I asked him if I could write a paper in greater depth than expected, as a team effort with another student. He consented and I enlisted a classmate with the traditional US name of John Lee. We decided to delve into the political history of our county, Nassau. We asked ourselves by what means had a certain political machine managed to win every election ever held there? The coat of arms of Nassau County is a lion. So our paper, entitled “Lion Marries Elephant,” displayed the two animals embracing on its cover. It received a very good grade. I began to feel that a college campus fitted me like a tailor-made suit. During the next fifty years, I was able to verify that feeling.

  Another political science professor who was born in Czechoslovakia was, to put it mildl
y, a war monger. He would harangue his classes with the emotionally argued proposition that it was time to drop the atom bomb on the Soviet Union before our Cold War foe was going to hurl it at the United States. I felt a counter statement had to be made, especially since I had given myself the task of writing a column each week with the heading “Or Else.” Its underlying philosophy was implicit: unless we found a diplomatic solution to the Cold War, we might well have a third world war, with the weapons this time being chemical and atomic. So I unleashed my satiric barbs at the bellicose professor, of course, without revealing his name. That did not deter him from tearing down every administrative office door in his quest to silence his critic. His results were mild. The dean of students called me in and asked me whether I could not moderate my criticism, while the colleagues of Professor R. threw me knowing smiles when they passed me on the quad. At any rate, my journalistic crusade did not seem to have hurt me beyond redemption. Many years later my alma mater graced me with an honorary degree, as Doctor of Humane Letters.

  My rejoinder to the warmonger took yet another form. Or I may have used this form of response prophylactically. The United Nations, long before it took up residence along the East River, was housed in the Sperry Corporation’s offices in Lake Success, New York in Nassau County on Long Island. Without prior announcement visitors were welcomed into the stands overlooking the hall of the Security Council. One day my friend Lee and I ventured there without worrying much about what was on the agenda. Our spirited article published in the Hofstra Chronicle concentrated on US Delegate Warren R. Austin and on Andrei Gromyko, his Russian vis-à-vis. We described Gromyko as iron-willed, but not necessarily set on yet another war. We accompanied our text with pictures we had taken during the proceedings. In reading this, my audience may well ponder how fraught with security measures our attendance and picture taking would have been had we entered the holy halls of the United Nations twenty years later.

  Though academically I was thriving during this time, one expectation of my postwar college days did not come to pass. I had no romantic life to speak of. What I and many veterans had not taken into account is that we hit college campuses with, on the average, three years’ delay. Our female fellow students were three years younger, and separated from us by our war experience. They were not eager to hear our tales of combat and were thus disinterested in dating us old men. Laurie, a young lady in my fine arts class, found elaborate excuses for refusing my invitations for a date. We met again fifty years later at the fiftieth reunion of our graduating class. (A year behind me at Hofstra, she apparently had caught up by taking summer school courses.) We were both there with our spouses. “Laurie,” I said, “I have waited for this dance for fifty years. Will you give it a twirl?” If at first you don’t succeed. . . .

  Fortunately my quest for romance was eventually fulfilled from an outside source reaching back to my Ritchie days. While I had lingered in Saint Louis, my friends—at first three, then four Ritchie Boys—had lost no time in New York getting their romantic lives going. Kurt Jasen, he of the razorback pigs, had become engaged to his childhood friend Roe (for Rose); both came from well-to-do families. Karl Frucht was about to marry Lucy, a well-regarded film cutter. At an earlier stage of his life, she had been one of his rescuers when he was fleeing Europe and was attempting to gain passage from Lisbon to New York. Flamboyant Fred, who swelled our ranks upon his return from Europe, was matched up with a beautiful redhead named Fay; and Johnny Kirsners, our expert for Russian language and culture, with Sigrid, a serious student of psychiatry from Austria and Israel. Coming to New York I felt alone, even though Fred’s mother and his stepfather, Jim Ericson, had taken me under their wings while I stayed with them. And then Jim took more direct charge of my life. During the summer he was doing double duty at a hotel at Jones Beach, Long Island, beyond his steady job in Manhattan. He found an intelligent, attractive young lady among his hotel guests and invited me for a swim at the beach and a stay at the hotel to subtly introduce me to his discovery. He could have had a career as the manager of a dating service. The right sparks flew. We shared an interest in literature, theater, and modern dance, and together we attended one of the early appearances of Martha Graham at Hofstra. My Ritchie friends delighted in advancing our romance. Johnny and Sigrid had acquired a motor boat and took us along on a crossing from New York to Connecticut. Karl and Lucy invited us to their parties. My new girlfriend was impressed by the exiled writers who opened another world to her.

  Taking a lead from my fellow Ritchie Boys, all happily married within half a year, I proposed to Faye. “I thought you’d never ask,” she answered. But her parents vehemently disapproved. They liked me well enough, but because Faye was ten years older, they foresaw marital troubles when we reached our middle and older years. I suspect they projected upon Faye and me their own, quite similar marital issue based upon their significant age difference. Their arguments prevailed. I was crushed.

  Perhaps this disappointment and the loneliness that followed led to one of the most injudicious decisions in my life. I met Margith at a dinner party held by Fred and his new wife, Fay. Margith was a close friend of Fay’s and she praised Margith in exuberant terms, which I accepted at face value. But while Fred’s stepfather had led me to a fulfilling and exciting relationship with my girlfriend Faye, Fred’s wife would never have made it as a marriage broker.

  In 1948, my attention was divided between our courtship and final exams prior to the graduation exercise. It was probably the last time that the majority of graduates didn’t march to the leisurely steps of, say, Elgar’s “Pomp and Circumstance.” Since so many of us were veterans, we assumed once more our military strides. One or two of us graduates responded to President Adams, who was handing us our diplomas, with a snappy salute. It was apparently easier to get us out of the army than to get the army out of us. When Hofstra presented me with an honorary doctorate in 1998, I could finally approach a college president with the customary grave gait of a senior academic.

  One month after receiving my degree as a bachelor of arts, I lost my bachelor status by marrying Margith. Perhaps the example of my wartime buddies motivated my rush into marriage. Today I ask myself where was my astute ability to correctly assess people. Margith turned out to be, in time, the most difficult person I had ever encountered. But “De mortuis nil nisi bonum,” so I will largely confine myself to her redeeming virtues.

  We married in June, 1948. Our wedding was a dismal affair. The completely Orthodox rabbi picked by my in-laws wasn’t at all to our liking and our antipathy for him grew during the wedding day when he showed up two hours late for the ceremony (he had squeezed in another wedding prior to attending to ours), trying the patience of our guests, to our utter dismay. My usually mild manners gave way to insulting barbs thrown at the rabbi. I greeted him by observing that he had arrived with an unwashed neck. My aunt and uncle, who had taken the train to New York, said they hadn’t thought such an outburst of temper dwelled within their nephew.

  Within a week of our wedding, I also entered upon my career as a graduate student by attending summer school classes at Columbia. I still felt I needed to catch up on my education. As Andrew Marvel expressed it in a poem, “But at my back I always hear Time’s winged chariot hurrying near.” I had applied to Columbia during my senior year at Hofstra and found out that I hadn’t handicapped myself by only applying to one institution. Today such single-mindedness would appear almost reckless.

  When I was getting ready to plan my professional career, I could not suddenly erase the past, certainly not the most immediate past: the Normandy Invasion, the liberation of France, the freeing of the surviving inmates of Buchenwald, and the fall of Nazi Germany. I felt conflicting impulses. My affinity for the cultural heritage of Germany was in conflict with the warning of friends and my own instincts that to enter the field of German Studies would, inevitably, reopen my German past—and very deep old wounds. Hence, I thought of a compromise. During my graduate studies, I would a
cquire an MA in Germanic languages, followed by to a Ph.D. and (I hoped) a professorship in comparative literature. But matters turned out differently. I discovered—or rather rediscovered—my affinity for German literature and culture, which was over the years, nurtured by a committed and inspiring department. With a position in German possibly attainable after the doctorate, I stayed with Germanistics. That sounds straightforward and uncomplicated. But it wasn’t.

  The chronicle of my years at Columbia, 1948–1955, plus five more years as a guest instructor or professor in summer school, inextricably (if modestly) parallels the history of its German Department. They were years of transition both for me and for the unit—a facile statement, as it applies to all but the most hidebound years in history. But those postwar years were anything but hidebound. For me they meant the growth of a conviction concerning Germany, and for the department, a gradual sea of change.

  Shortly before my graduation from Hofstra, I made my first foray to Philosophy Hall, then the seat of the German Department’s graduate division. In the hallway I met an incredibly youthful looking gentleman. He turned out to be Henry Hatfield, who by his personal appearance and professional outlook embodied the transition from an emphasis on the literature of earlier centuries to up-to-date treatment of postwar German authors. He was the son of a respected but utterly conservative Germanist, James Taft Hatfield. Having served during the war in the Office of War Information side by side with Klaus Mann, Henry had become the champion not only of Thomas Mann but also of his far more “socialist” brother, Heinrich. Hatfield spearheaded a counterforce to the entrenched old guard, which coalesced around Frederick W. J. Heuser, the director of the German House.