The Girl in the Cellar

by Gerda Krebs Seifer

  As appealing as the ship’s menus were, I lived on dry toast, bits of lettuce, and tomatoes for the duration of the trip. I spent a great deal of time on deck, breathing the salty air, but I stayed away from the dining room until our last night’s meal.

  That evening, my Irish dinner partners suggested I chance a drink to celebrate our arriving in the States. I asked them to recommend a true American cocktail and the response was a Manhattan or a Pink Lady. I drank not one but two Manhattans that evening—the first and only time during the crossing that I was able to eat and enjoy an entire meal.

  * * *

  12 An account based on the translated diary of Renia Spiegel, “The Unforgotten” was published in the November 2018 issue of Smithsonian, written by Robin Shulman.

  13 The Mantels moved to Munich before the war. With the rise of Nazism, they sent their oldest, Walter, to study in London. In 1938 they themselves decided to leave Germany, packing a single suitcase, claiming to the authorities that they were going to visit their son at the university in London. My aunt had brought her fur coat, but as the train reached the border, the German patrol took it, saying she wouldn’t need it in England during summer and that she could pick it up at the border on the way back, knowing full well she would not return to Germany.

  America

  Ellis Island was hot and humid the morning we arrived, August 1, 1951. The Atlantic looked like a molten mirror. People stood on deck, straining their necks to catch a glimpse of the iconic Statue of Liberty in the distance, shrouded in mist. It was very hard to describe my complex feelings about arriving in the United States of America. On the one hand, I was thrilled beyond measure to finally be in this great country. On the other hand, I had never experienced such heat and humidity and was miserably uncomfortable, wondering how long I’d be kept on the ship and whether or not Zygmunt would be there to meet me. I was thinking of neither the future nor the past; I was just happy to see America in the distance. I had fifty dollars in my pocket and I knew it wouldn’t last long. After all, Aunt Eveline had warned me that life in the States was expensive. My hopes and fears mixed with excitement, and I waited in a long line to process papers through customs. Unbeknownst to me, Zygmunt was waiting patiently, legally unable to meet me until I was standing on American soil.

  When the legalities were complete, I met my cousin Zygmunt. He took a long look at me, smiled, and embraced me. He claimed my trunk, and we set off for Brooklyn. I was thrilled to see my one surviving cousin. Zygmunt was working in the hospital as an intern, while his wife Jean had a job in the stockroom at B. Altman’s Department Store on Fifth Avenue; limited English prevented her from getting a sales clerk job. Because of their meager earnings, Jean didn’t think they could afford a taxi fare from Ellis Island. But Zygmunt told her that as the only other survivor in the family, I shouldn’t be schlepping luggage on several subways in such terrible heat, and he wasn’t going to scrimp on my first day in America. In our conversation, he didn’t talk about his own experiences or family losses in the camps. It was obviously too painful a subject for him to discuss.

  We drove through Manhattan and I twisted my neck every which way, looking up at the skyscrapers. He pointed out New York Hospital, a huge conglomeration of buildings on the East River. “That’s where I want to work,” I said, not realizing how many difficulties I would have to face before I could actually work there. Finally, we arrived at his home. Zygmunt and Jean lived in a tiny room with kitchenette on Hopkinson Avenue, its single window facing the street. Jean served lunch, telling me proudly that tuna salad was a very popular dish. I had never eaten tuna before and frankly didn’t much care for it.

  Zygmunt had rented a room for me at Mrs. Glicksman’s apartment on the street nearby. Mrs. Glicksman was a sweet old Jewish woman, who earned extra income by renting out a couple of rooms in her apartment. Her other lodger was a young Polish woman, older than I was, quite religious, and always looking for a husband. A person known as a Shadchan arranged dates for religious girls. Every so often a man would come to the apartment, wanting to meet her. They’d go on a date, and the next day we would have to listen to how the date had gone, blow by blow.14

  Many Jewish families occupied the section of Brooklyn where I lived. One advantage to my new location was that it was only a few blocks to the subway station. Gradually I learned my way around the town. I came to America with a great profession and little money to my name. I was optimistic that I was going to be successful and planned to buy a baby blue Cadillac since my salary would be much higher than it had been in England. Never mind that I didn’t know how to drive or the money to buy it! Nor did I know about buying a car or anything else with just a down payment and monthly payments. Nor did I realize that one had to park their car and have a garage space. I didn’t worry about these minutiae. All I wanted was a baby blue Cadillac and a convertible, to boot—like Hollywood actors had. A Cadillac carried a famous, poetic name that all foreigners were familiar with.

  It was another beginning, but more struggles began, though I felt that all the new problems were surmountable; there was nothing I couldn’t overcome in this wonderful country. Zygmunt had generously paid thirty dollars for my first month’s rent. I had to find a job soon because my fifty dollars wouldn’t last long. Nevertheless, I couldn’t get a job in any hospital because I did not have a New York State license. There was no reciprocity between my British license and an American Registered Nurse (RN) diploma. I spent days trudging from small private hospitals in Brooklyn to large famous hospitals in Manhattan, but the answer was always the same. They wouldn’t hire me without the proper license. The only job I could get was a job as a cleaning lady. I told myself that I was a trained nurse and I was determined to practice my profession. I’d done enough cleaning for others and now I was ready to practice nursing.

  One day I tried another hospital, Brooklyn Jewish Hospital, where they offered me a job as an undergraduate RN. The nursing supervisor told me I needed to take certain classes in order to obtain a license and that I had to get it within one year. Until then, I’d work at the hospital as an undergraduate at a lower salary. I found this offer very satisfactory. But I immediately faced another problem when the supervisor asked if I had a high school diploma; without one, I couldn’t apply for a license. I told her that the war had interrupted my high school education. “Well,” she said, “You will have to take a high school equivalency exam in order to get a high school diploma.” I also had to take extra courses in E.R. work, gynecology and delivery that New York State required. And that wasn’t all. She said I must take English classes as well. I asked her why, since I could speak and understand English perfectly well. She said that I spoke with an accent and had to improve it. I didn’t want to spend any more time on schooling, because there were only twenty-four hours in a day. As we were talking, I mentioned that I even dreamed in English.

  That seemed to be the magic statement. “If you dream in English,” she said, “then you don’t have to take English classes.”

  A few months later, I took my high school equivalency exam at Erasmus Hall.15 Within a year after that, I got my New York State license. I was happy, had made many friends, liked my work, and even managed to do a bit of traveling.

  In the late fall of 1951, three girlfriends and I went on vacation to Florida for a couple of weeks. One of the girls was my cabin mate on S.S. Washington. We heard a lot about the fabulous Florida beaches but had little money; we certainly couldn’t afford to stay in famous air-conditioned hotels or eat in air-conditioned restaurants. We rented a room in a motel, spending most of the day on Miami beaches and visiting cool hotel lobbies in the afternoons and evenings. Nighttime we dealt with mosquitoes in our hot, stuffy room. Because we had to watch our expenses, at least once a day, we’d stop at a deli for coffee, where they had a selection of free assorted rolls, pickles, and sauerkraut on the counters. We made a meal of that free food, while sipping on our ten-cent coffee. It was a very new experience for all of us.
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br />   In my first winter in New York, I skated in Rockefeller Plaza. All it involved was renting a pair of boots and skates, and then stepping onto the ice to skate to music. I wasn’t sure I’d still remember how to skate, but it all came back to me after the first few minutes. Skating smack dab in the middle of Manhattan while the music was playing was an exhilarating experience. There I was, Gerda Krebs, a girl from Przemyśl, skating in Manhattan, like any other young American girl, skating while people watched! A strange young man skated up to me and asked me to skate with him. Imagine! I never in my wildest dreams could have imagined actually being in New York and skating and having so much fun.

  I hadn’t been on skis from 1938 until 1952. In England, there wasn’t much snow and the mountains weren’t suitable for skiing; besides, skiing was the last thing that I’d thought about and I couldn’t afford the price of ski equipment or expensive resorts. In 1953, I had the chance to go to the Laurentian Mountains near Montréal, Canada, with a nurse friend of mine called Frances. The mountains were cold and the snow could be icy in a time before down parkas were obtainable. My jacket was thin and despite the fact that I wore a warm sweater and layered it with warm underwear, I was still quite cold. Skiing down the mountain for the first time was really thrilling, as I thought I might have forgotten how to ski. But I could schuss, slalom, and stop in the middle of the run as I wished. It was like the old days, except that instead of climbing or using a rope tow to get to the top of the mountain, there were T-bars and ski lifts. Frances took lessons since she’d never skied before.

  We went to ski in Canada several times and made new friends. Though she and I had different personalities, we complemented each other, so much so that we later became roommates, renting a one-bedroom apartment in a Manhattan brownstone. I did most of the cooking. When she got married, I had to find another roommate. Frances’s husband suggested a girl as a new roommate for me, but we turned out to be incompatible. The girl’s mother kept calling, asking me to find dates for her daughter. I tried at first and arranged for double dates, but the guys never called her again. I felt sorry for her, but after trying a few times, I had to give up. Then there was sickness in her family and she had to go back home. I started looking for a less expensive apartment and decided against looking for another roommate. I was ready for more privacy and for being my own boss in my own place. I found a one-room apartment on York Avenue at 99th Street. I purchased a sleeping couch, a table and chairs, a chest of drawers, pots, pans, dishes, as well as linens. I was in business.

  Life was wonderful. I rarely talked about my past or my family. No one wanted to hear about it, and I just wanted to get on with life. No one could understand how the Nazis had brutalized and murdered Jews. Perhaps they were not ready to hear the stories of survivors. I saw Jean and Zygmunt when they came to Manhattan. Zygmunt had finally completed all the medical requirements and opened a pediatric practice in his new home in Queens. He became a successful doctor, trusted and liked by his patients.

  I worked in many hospitals. I also did private duty and worked on the staff at the New York Hospital and Mount Sinai Hospital on Fifth Avenue and 105th Street.

  It was at Mount Sinai that I met Harold Seifer, a resident physician who was completing his medical training. One day he overheard me speaking, liked my accent, and asked me out for a date. At that time, I was dating a few young men and I had to juggle everyone’s personality and whims, finding it rather trying.

  Within a single week, Harold and I had three dates. Our first date was a walk around the governor’s mansion, close to where I lived. Afterwards, we had coffee and cake in my apartment. Harold lived on a very tight budget and not knowing if he’d like me, he didn’t want to spend or perhaps waste any of his cash. On our second date, we went to the movies. When I told Harold that I’d like to go upstairs to watch the film, he asked why. I answered that I could smoke upstairs. He then asked if I was addicted to cigarettes. “ Oh no,” I said, so we sat downstairs. During the course of the film, though, I went to the bathroom twice for a few puffs of a cigarette. I realized that I was unable to sit for two hours straight without lighting a cigarette. Harold was probably right—smoking had become an addiction, but it didn’t stop him from dating me.16

  We went out to dinner on our third date. In those days, the residents got a very measly salary of $60 a month, which had to cover car expenses, entertainment, and clothing. Once or twice a month, we went to a restaurant; other times, I was delighted to cook dinner for both of us. I loved cooking different dishes, and Harold enjoyed loved almost everything I prepared. The old adage turned out to be true: the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach! Since I had more money than he did, I’d buy tickets for a theater, concert, or an opera. For one thing, he was the first person since I’d left Poland who wanted to know what happened during the war. Not only was he interested in history, but he also wanted to hear information from someone who had survived. Soon I was dating Harold exclusively. It all happened quickly and effortlessly. He was willing to try a lot of new experiences, including eating snails, attending opera, and skiing. After I gave him his first skiing lesson, I told him to take private lessons, since my instructions didn’t carry much weight. On the other hand, Harold taught me to drive. I can’t say that was a fun experience either, but I did learn, becoming a good and confident driver, and I wasn’t afraid of freeways.

  On May 29, 1955, in a rabbi’s study in Manhattan, Harold and I were married. Since neither of us had the money for a big wedding, we kept it small and simple. I wore a blue suit with a matching hat. After the ceremony, we hosted a dinner at Tavern on the Green. Present were Harold’s family, cousin Zygmunt and his wife, Jean. I was quite nervous, as the people who surrounded me were mostly strangers. There was no pomp or excitement, no wedding toasts or speeches, no dancing or photographer.

  The next night we went to the theater, because I’d bought tickets for a Broadway show long before I knew we’d set a date to be married. The following day, we borrowed Harold’s father’s old Chevy and drove north to Canada. We spent a few days in Montréal.

  The most memorable meal on our first evening in Montréal was at a French restaurant recommended by the hotel. The waiter suggested a rather expensive wine, and since neither of us was terribly knowledgeable or sophisticated about wines, we ordered it. The dinner was great and I was so full that I couldn’t consider eating another bite, but then I saw Napoleons on the menu. I said to Harold, “I’ve got to have one.” I couldn’t resist my favorite pastry, so I ordered it.

  The fluffy square arrived, covered with powdered sugar, layers of thin pastries and the most delicate vanilla crème filling in the middle. It was the first time since my childhood that I’d tasted anything that began to resemble my mother’s kremówki. Eating something so familiar on my honeymoon gave that evening a special meaning. Since then, when I talk or compare this pastry with the Canadian Napoleon, I think of Mamusia and our honeymoon. I know I’ll never taste this pastry as delicious as my mother’s or the one in Montréal, but thinking about it brings a warm memory.

  After several days in Montréal visiting museums, parks, and sights of interest, we drove north and then it was time to return to New York. I packed my belongings on York Avenue, and our life in Boston began in a one-room apartment in Brookline. Harold scheduled a residency at the V.A. Hospital. Once again, I had to work as an undergraduate nurse, because the state of Massachusetts claimed that their standard of nursing was higher than that of New York State and, therefore, my New York State license would not be recognized. Nurses who’d trained in the United States received reciprocity from one state to another, but my New York state license was only good in the state of New York. I worked mostly at Boston Lying Inn Hospital and Massachusetts General Hospital, again at a lower salary, since I was treated as an undergraduate.

  Boston was hit hard by the polio epidemic in the summer of 1955. I was working at Mass General Hospital, taking care of polio patients during that hot, humid summer;
there was no air-conditioning then. Nurses were required to wear double coats over uniforms and masks. When we left the ward, we took off both coats so as not to spread the disease to other parts of the hospital. Putting in eight hours in a polio ward was the hardest work I’d done in a hospital since nurse’s training. My supervisors did not trust my judgment and looked down on me because I hadn’t been trained in Massachusetts, a prejudice that extended to anyone who hadn’t trained there. And yet, there were many Boston-trained nurses who refused to work with polio patients, fearful of catching the disease. Some evenings when I went home, my neck ached, and I was sure I had early symptoms of polio. Luckily, I avoided catching the disease despite helping those who were very ill.

  Living in Boston gave me a chance to know Harold’s parents and some of his relatives. His father, Joe, was a nice man, quiet and non-argumentative. His mother, Esther, was the matriarch who made all the decisions. She and Joe hadn’t had an easy life, but they raised four boys, and always stressed education for their children. Melvin, the oldest, was charming and kind. Both he and Harold had attended Boston Latin High School and Harvard College. After college, Mel attended Harvard Law School, while Harold went to Tuft’s Medical School. Twin boys followed. Maurice went to Lowell Technical School to study chemicals and textiles, and Frank died at the age of twenty, while still in college.

  Harold’s family didn’t seem interested in learning about what happened to my family. I think that his parents and other people were uncomfortable to ask about my accent, where I’d come from, and why I’d emigrated. Perhaps they didn’t want to hear gruesome tales about living through the Holocaust or yet another “far-fetched” account of what happened in Europe during the war.