The following day, March 15, it continued to snow heavily in Prague; the city looked dreary and was abnormally quiet. With Beneš and members of the free Czech government working in exile in England, where Czech soldiers and paratroopers had joined the British forces, Czechoslovakia was undefended. Hitler’s troops, accompanied by Nazi tanks and trucks filled with soldiers waving their flags, marched into Prague unhindered. Czechoslovakia was no more. It had forcibly become a protectorate of greater Germany and was subjected to strict enforcement of the hostile racial laws imposed by the Nazi Reich.
In Prague, women allegedly lay down in the snow in a futile effort to stop the tanks. Others sang the stately Czech anthem, with tears streaming down their faces. Alice listened to the news on the radio. Later she watched from the windows of a friend’s house in the center of the city, near Wenceslas Square. The next day she stood in the crowd as Adolf Hitler himself entered her city. She quickly walked the two miles home to play with her two-year-old child.
Alice was now faced with people who were open enemies of all Jews; she could see even some of her gentile friends and neighbors turn away from her in fear for their own lives. By 1941, Leopold had been fired from his job in the import-export business because he was Jewish. Rafi was forbidden to attend a Czech nursery school or to play with non-Jewish children. Jews could not own telephones, radios, or bicycles. All Jews had to wear the yellow star stitched onto their clothing.
For a while many of Alice’s non-Jewish piano students ignored the Nazi regulations and continued their lessons. But with each passing week this defiance became increasingly dangerous for both students and their teacher. Sadly they parted. Alice’s meager income was reduced. The remaining Jewish pupils appeared at their usual times, finding comfort in the warmth of Alice’s encouragement until they were deported.
Several Nazi families had moved into Alice’s building. When Rafi was four years old he would play with Johann Hermann, who was five and lived in an apartment on the floor above. Both shared their best toys, books, and their mothers’ home-cooked soup. Both spoke German, dressed in short pants, and were on the chubby side. The children would play in the hallway, never in each other’s apartments.
Sometimes at midday, when no one was around, Mrs. Hermann, a subservient housewife who cooked wonderful smelling dishes with ingredients that were no longer available to ordinary Czechs, would watch over the two boys as they played hide-and-seek in the courtyard. On rainy days she would read to the boys in the stairwell as Alice practiced.
Mr. Hermann, a member of the Nazi Party, had been sent to Prague to work as a civil servant at Gestapo headquarters. He did not wear a uniform, but once Alice saw him giving the Nazi salute to an officer in front of their building. The neighbors rarely saw him. He seemed to travel only at night or in the early morning.
In 1941 Adolf Eichmann announced his plans for the “final solution” to his staff at a secret meeting in Prague. “The Jews of Bohemia and Moravia are being gathered in a transit camp for evacuation.… Theresienstadt can comfortably absorb 50–60,000 Jews [at one time]. From there they will be transported to the East.” Alice’s mother and Leopold’s parents were among the first Czech Jewish citizens to receive their deportation notices to Theresienstadt, early in 1942. Heartbroken, Alice walked with her mother to the deportation center. There they said goodbye. Alice watched as her mother disappeared into the massive crowd. “Never will I forget that sight of my disconsolate seventy-two-year-old mother walking away slowly without ever looking back. And I could do nothing. Nothing,” she whispered. “It was the lowest point of my life.”
Leopold in the meantime had been working for the Prague Jewish Council, which was under Nazi supervision. After his business had been forcibly closed in accordance with the new Nazi laws, Leopold had desperately tried to launch another firm in neutral Belgium. Once it was established, he had hoped to move his family to Brussels. His plan was aborted when Hitler’s troops occupied Belgium, on May 10, 1940. Leopold’s only option was to flee back to Prague. The Jewish Council offered the sole work open to him as a Jew. Leopold and his co-workers had no choice but to comply with the Gestapo’s orders to compile the lists of people for deportation. Although his work might have kept his and Alice’s names off the list for a time, there would come a day when the Jewish Council staff would be deported as well, and the office would be permanently closed. By 1943 Prague was nearly Judenfrei (free from Jews), and it was only a matter of time until Leopold and his family would be summoned. He kept the news from Alice for as long as possible.
Their letter was delivered by the regular postman. On July 3, 1943, the Sommer family was summoned to the collection center for deportation to Theresienstadt.
They had two days left in Prague. How could she explain this to Rafi? Yet even then Alice refused to give in to hopelessness and depression. The Prague Jewish Council, in early 1942, had told Alice about the concerts performed for fellow prisoners in Theresienstadt. She comforted herself with a question. “If we can play concerts, how bad can it be?” Over the following two days, Alice practiced as if she were preparing for a major European concert tour. Without stopping to eat, she worked on Beethoven sonatas and Chopin études until, drained, she lay on the Biedermeier sofa to consider her unknown future.
Word spread fast of their deportation, and by the next day, a few friends and acquaintances dropped in to say goodbye, their relief visible: it was she, and not they, who was being shipped off. Paul and his wife, Mary, spent a few private moments with Alice before a final hug. She offered them everything in the apartment, but it was no use. Their place was too small for extra furniture and besides, since Paul was Jewish, they had to be careful. No one asked Alice how she felt. No one brought goulash for supper. No one asked her to play. Like prospective buyers at an auction, they surveyed the apartment, wandering from room to room, opening closets and cupboards. The landlord joined the visitors as they began clearing things out. No one asked Alice if they could or should take this table or that set of dishes. One woman took a painting from the wall. Another grabbed an antique vase. A neighbor walked out of the bedroom with a gold necklace she found. Another neighbor from across the street grabbed it from her. “That is mine. Alice promised that I could take care of it.”
Alice watched as they took whatever they could carry out of her apartment—supposedly for safekeeping. While some were carting household goods down to the street, the landlord fought with others for the carpets and chairs. Alice knew she would never see her belongings again. The Nazis would confiscate her piano, her most valuable possession of all, when they investigated the apartment after she and her family were gone. By the next day the Sommers would have no name and no citizenship. They would henceforth be known by their deportation numbers: DE 166, DE 167, and DE 168. On July 5, 1943, they would be shipped to Theresienstadt.
Very late that evening, after most residents were safely asleep, the Hermanns knocked on the door. “We brought a cake for your journey,” Mrs. Hermann told Alice. It was an applesauce cake still warm from the oven and decorated with slices of sugary baked apples scented with cinnamon and cloves. Alice understood the exceptional wartime generosity of the cake rich with fresh eggs, butter, and precious sugar. Mr. Hermann could have been severely punished, for any kindness to Jews was strictly forbidden.
As Alice invited them into her apartment, Mr. Hermann glanced out the window to make certain no one was watching. Alice apologized that she had no chairs to offer. The Hermanns sat on the floor and asked her if she would play for them. Alice complied with Chopin’s Nocturne in B-flat Minor, the first movement of Beethoven’s sonata, opus 81a, titled Das Lebewohl—or Farewell—and, finally, the lyrical third étude of Chopin.
“Thank you, Mrs. Sommer,” Mrs. Hermann said. “We will miss your music. We’ve loved listening to you practice. You made life easier for us during these hard times. Please take care and come back safely. Maybe our son can study piano with you someday.” Then Mr. Hermann gave the soccer
ball the boys played with to Alice. “I heard that your Rafi is fond of ball games,” he said.
They did not shake hands, but Alice was nearly certain she saw a tear forming in Mrs. Hermann’s eye as they turned to leave.
At Theresienstadt, husbands and wives were separated at the gate, so Leopold was rushed off to the men’s section. As Alice was swept up in the crowds of displaced people, she told Rafi, “Hold my hand and don’t let go! And remember, speak only Czech. Pretend you don’t understand German.” For the first time in her life she was terrified—frightened of losing her rambunctious six-year-old boy. “How could this nightmare be happening to us?” she asked herself repeatedly.
As she participated in concert after concert, Alice began to notice Nazi soldiers standing at the back of the room or listening from outside the windows. She could not help but wonder about those young, sometimes beautiful men wearing the burnished black boots and gray jackets emblazoned with Nazi emblems that to her symbolized death. Who were their mothers and fathers? Why were they here? How could they love music and still wear the swastika and serve evil? Some of their faces bore the unfurrowed brows and obedient bewilderment of those young Czech boys who had fled to England to join the fight. They were barely beyond childhood. Did they really hate Jews? Were they volunteers, or had they been forced into service? Did they believe the propaganda? Or were they, as she was, just hoping to survive and return home?
As the months passed, several of those young faces became familiar; Alice even saw one applaud until he was poked by his colleague as a reminder that appreciation of anyone or anything Jewish was forbidden. Late one evening as she was leaving the Magdeburg Barracks to make her way back to her quarters, a young officer approached her. He was tall and remarkably thin. His straight blond hair was longer than most soldiers’. To Alice he had the look of an aspiring poet. “Please,” he told her, “I must say thank you. Your piano playing is magnificent.” Alice looked at him and nodded her gratitude. Both disappeared into the darkness.
Alice later chided herself for not thanking the young man for daring to speak to her. Fraternization was subject to severe punishment. Alice was also aware that her fellow prisoners would be bitter toward her if they observed her extending any civility to their Nazi captors. But that night she decided that she had to remain true to herself. She would treat all equally. If a Nazi gave her a word of praise, she would thank him just as she would anyone else.
Nearly a year after her first encounter with the Nazi soldier, Alice played an exceptionally inspired concert of works by Beethoven, and afterward, another young soldier waited for her in the darkness of a doorway. His voice startled her. “Are you Mrs. Sommer, the pianist?”
Continuing to walk, Alice answered, “Yes, I am Mrs. Sommer.”
“A moment please,” he commanded.
Alice stopped as a man nearly twice her height blocked her way. “I must speak to you. Do not be afraid.”
Alice looked him straight in the face and responded, “What do you want?”
“Frau Sommer,” he continued in German, “I come from a musical family. My mother was a fine pianist. She took me to many concerts. I understand very much about music. I only want to thank you for your concerts. They have meant much to me.”
Alice smiled as she whispered, “Thank you. I am glad that the music helps you.” In those few seconds she had seen a frightened young man who might have been her friend if they were not separated by the uniform he wore. “I must go.”
Looking around to see that they were not observed, he said, “Please, one more thing. You and your little son will not be on any deportation lists. You will stay in Theresienstadt until the war ends. Do not worry, you will be safe.” With those words he quickly disappeared.
Alice never saw him again. Nor does she know his name or rank. Was he sent to the front? Did he survive?
After the war the Nazi deportation lists to Auschwitz were discovered in the archives of war records. Neither Alice’s name nor the name of her child could be found on any of the final lists.
Alice has always wondered what the cost may have been to the young Nazi who she believes saved her life, and also what happened to the Hermanns—and, if they survived the war, what became of their son. More than half a century later, memories of these individuals continue to haunt her.
THREE
Peeling Potatoes
That Alice would become friendly with Golda Meir, the carpenter’s daughter from Milwaukee who became Israel’s prime minister, should not be surprising. Alice, like Golda, had no use for material or frivolous values, and they shared a disdain for pretension and a commitment to the moral life above ambition. The war years had proved what she could live without, having been robbed of everything except what was in her mind. “Only what is inside is important,” she often says.
With her socialist soul rooted in kibbutz life, Golda Meir did not seem to change as her political life gained momentum, from being ambassador to the Soviet Union to foreign minister to first female prime minister of Israel. Despite her reputation as a tough leader, Golda never suppressed her joy or her sadness. “It’s no accident many accuse me of conducting public affairs with my heart instead of my head,” she said in an interview with Oriana Fallaci. “Well, what if I do?… Those who don’t know how to weep with their whole heart don’t know how to laugh either,” she said. Many talk about the authentic life. Both Alice and Golda lived it.
Alice no longer remembers where she first met Golda, but she thinks it must have been at the Jerusalem Academy of Music, years before Golda became prime minister. Alice recalls a tall, strong-looking woman in a print dress buttoned up to her neck who complimented her in Yiddish after a concert. Never would she forget that woman’s description, “ravishingly beautiful,” of Schumann’s Fantasy in C Major, Opus 17, that Alice had just performed, and that more than once she would ask Alice to play it for her. Alice was strongly drawn to the piece as well. “There were moments in that piece so achingly beautiful that they simply broke my heart,” she says. Their first meeting probably occurred in late 1949, after Golda returned from Moscow, where she had served as Israel’s first ambassador to the Soviet Union. Golda had undoubtedly heard about Alice Herz-Sommer because of the many concerts she had played in the concentration camp.
When Alice arrived in Israel in March 1949 with her son, she moved in with her sister Mitzi, but soon she was able to find her own apartment in Jerusalem. It was there she began a tradition of hosting Sunday afternoon musicales. This was a sure way to bring together not only her new friends but also her relatives and old friends—a way to revive her memories of her life in Prague. A psychiatrist had suggested to Alice that a home frequently filled with family and friends was a helpful antidote to the strangeness of a new country and the inevitable loneliness of her only child. An adept page turner, Rafi could always be found in the middle of the entertainment, extending his services during the performances of chamber music.
Alice had no telephone and no time to write invitations, but in those years in Jerusalem word of mouth was more than sufficient. In addition to the core group of her two sisters and their husbands, Max Brod and Edith Kraus—a pianist who had survived Theresienstadt and Auschwitz—were nearly always present. If enough players for chamber music did not show up, Edith or Alice would offer solo piano works. And if too many people found their way to Alice’s “Sundays,” the door to the apartment would be left open to accommodate the latecomers in the hallway. Seated on the floor, they would still be able to listen to the music. Alice’s only caveat was that her visitors must never ask her questions about or speak of the Holocaust in her home. The years from the time they were deported by the Nazis until they arrived in Israel were not topics for conversation.
Golda Meir lived nearby in the friendly neighborhood. Frequently, Alice’s students reported seeing her when they were on their way to classes. Having learned about the weekly gatherings from Brod, one winter Sunday in the early 1950s, Golda appeared a quarte
r of an hour early, curious to get better acquainted with the self-effacing pianist from Czechoslovakia.
The night before, Alice had prepared a huge pot of goulash soup, a dish that she could assemble quickly and that would cook slowly while she slept. When Golda walked in, Alice was hurrying to peel a mountain of potatoes. At first Alice noticed only the feet clad in heavy, black orthopedic shoes making tracks in the water that had dripped onto the kitchen floor. In the same moment that she said “Shalom,” Golda grabbed a towel and wiped up the mess she had made. Without missing a beat Alice pointed down to her own canvas sneakers. “It seems that we have happy feet,” she said. Both women laughed, knowing how most women’s feet hurt from their fashionable high heels, unaware then that “Golda’s shoes” would one day become a euphemism for all that was ugly and old-fashioned. Then, without asking, Golda grabbed a knife from the counter and began to peel the potatoes like a professional sous-chef. Alice did not protest.
Neither woman wore makeup, and both were dressed in simple cotton skirts and blouses. Both lived in the Rechavia district near the Old City. Their first bits of conversation sounded as if they had taken up from where they last left off. “I hope you don’t mind that I am early. I love to help.” “Don’t you want something to drink, coffee?” “Did you see the article in today’s paper about Yehudi Menuhin?” “Of course, did you hear the concert?”
Golda had been instrumental in providing major government assistance to the refugees, and she inquired if she could help Alice in any way. Alice responded with grateful appreciation for their safe haven. “Do you have children, did they survive?” Golda asked. Alice offered to introduce Golda to her teenage son, who played both cello and piano. Golda, who was five years older than Alice, talked of raising her two children on the kibbutz and how helpful the community had been for working mothers. “What happened to your child, where was he during the Holocaust? Was he hidden?” she asked.
A Century of Wisdom: Lessons from the Life of Alice Herz-Sommer, the World's Oldest Living Holocaust Survivor Page 3
