A Century of Wisdom: Lessons from the Life of Alice Herz-Sommer, the World's Oldest Living Holocaust Survivor

by Caroline Stoessinger

  Chaim remembers overhearing his mother and Alice talking about Mareš. “You are naïve, blind!” Mitzi insisted. “There is no future for you here.”

  “Mareš wants to adopt my son. We want to spend our lives together,” Alice told her sister.

  “Fine,” Mitzi said. “He can meet you in Israel when he is out of prison.”

  Mitzi argued that it would be far better for Rafi to grow up among his relatives, and that Alice could have a secure life teaching at the music academy. In the end, the strength of her twin’s argument won Alice over.

  Alice had little time to prepare for their departure. Luck came in the acquaintance of a young Czech pilot who was flying a plane packed with Czech-manufactured arms bound for Israel. As the Communists forbade Czechs from taking anything other than their clothes out of the country, Alice needed a creative way to ship the Toulouse-Lautrec painting, Rafi’s stamp collection, and her piano to Jerusalem. The pilot, who was also a musician, offered to help. Since the Communists approved of his arms cargo purchased by Israel, his flight would not be searched. During the flight, he lost power in two of his four engines, was low on fuel, and failed to make contact with the Israeli air control tower. He ditched his plane in the water. The crew survived uninjured, but the piano and the painting suffered serious damage from water and salt.

  After many debilitating years, Mareš was finally released from prison because of his poor health. Although the Communists had permitted him to write weekly letters to his mother, they had neglected to inform him that she had died three years earlier. Neither he nor Alice had known at the time of Alice’s emigration that travel for Czech citizens would come to be limited to trips to other Soviet Bloc countries. There would be no possibility of escape to the West or to Israel for Mareš. Had Alice stayed in Prague to be with Mareš, Rafi would have grown up without his adopted father and graduated from high school before Mareš was released from prison. Alice would have spent those years alone, and their relationship would have been unavoidably changed by the separation. And she would soon have been widowed for a second time.

  Mareš spent his final years pouring his thoughts and disappointments into an unfinished autobiography that was published posthumously. He confirmed his plan to adopt Rafi, and thus his love for Alice. Alice never had the chance to explain or even say goodbye to Mareš. According to the laws, prison visitation privileges were granted only to immediate family members. And in those years communication between Alice in Israel and Mareš in a country behind the Iron Curtain was impossible. In poverty and poor health, he died in 1971. In 1991, twenty years after his death, he was fully exonerated by Václav Havel’s democratic government.

  Alice still thinks of him today. During one interview in December 2010, she did not talk of her husband; rather, she smiled and spoke of her admiration for the heroic Michal Mareš. “He was a brave man. Brave!” she repeated. “I had no choice. If only for Rafi’s sake, in that moment I had to grab the chance to build our future in Israel. We could not wait to see what would happen. We had to leave Czechoslovakia quickly. The courage I had gained from all that had happened helped me to make that fateful decision to flee.”

  And as is Alice’s wont, one memory leads to the next, and she closes her eyes deep in thought and speaks of Michal Mareš. “He was a kind of genius of courage. He wrote the truth. Others were too scared. Fear makes us give up. Courage gives us a chance.” After a long pause she adds, “I would not be here today. Courage!”

  SIX

  The Tin Spoon

  Alice has only good memories of her husband, who died so long ago. “He was a learned man. An extraordinary fine character. I respected him. I learned from him. He respected me … who I was and what music meant to me. Mutual respect is the foundation of a happy marriage.”

  Alice was a born romantic, just like her mother. But Sofie Herz, forsaking the man she loved, had acquiesced to her parents, who had hired a marriage broker to find the “right” husband for their daughter. That husband, Alice’s father, was twenty years older than his bride-to-be and came from a country village. Friedrich Herz proved to be a worthy husband and father, although Sofie never warmed to him and always felt that she had married beneath herself intellectually because he was uneducated in literature, art, and music.

  Alice was determined to make her own decisions. Perhaps she had learned from her mother’s unhappiness, since Sofie had communicated clearly to her children her displeasure with her husband. As Alice grew up, she saw how her mother rarely talked with her father because, as Sofie made it known, his conversation was simply not worthwhile. Only at Friedrich’s funeral did Alice learn that her father had been much loved for his generous and helpful spirit.

  At the Prague Conservatory, where Alice studied piano, a tall, dashing Hungarian student, Jeno Kacliz, was obsessively attracted to Alice and her passionate playing. Ten years older and far more experienced, he tried all of his well-rehearsed seductive tricks without the anticipated success. “Music is love, and love is music,” Jeno repeated endlessly. He and Alice were working on the same piece by Schumann, the C Major Fantasy, with the same teacher. They entered the same competitions, which Alice usually won easily. But nothing deterred Jeno from his pursuit of her. Alice finally dissuaded him, using their age difference as an excuse. During their last year together in the conservatory, she managed to keep him as a friend and colleague. Sometimes they played duets. She never heard from him again after he returned home to Hungary.

  Around the same time Alice fell for the brother of her friend Trude Kraus. Unlike Jeno, Rudolf Kraus was neither tall nor good-looking; he was fifteen years older than Alice, and a dentist. She was attracted to his aura of sophistication, the way he held a cigarette and uncorked a wine bottle, even the way he would ask a simple question. Although he knew next to nothing about classical music, Rudolf had been captivated, or so he said, by a recital she had given in his family home. Alice thought Rudolf understood her, and when he took her dancing several nights each week, she felt secure in his arms. She found his flaws and failings endearing. For the first time in her life Alice was madly in love.

  After several months they planned a skiing party with several friends at a hotel in the mountains. Although Alice and Rudolf took separate rooms, each had a different expectation of their holiday. Rudolf assumed that Alice’s room was for appearances only; because she had agreed to spend the country holiday with him, he had taken intimacy for granted.

  Alice resisted his advances. She was just getting to know him, and marriage had not been mentioned. And she had other doubts from the moment they left Prague. Rudolf seemed so different with his friends. Perhaps she did not know him at all, or the age difference was, in fact, too great. Did he truly love music, or was it a superficial interest? Maybe, like many Czech men, he had more than one girlfriend. He was, after all, a successful older man accustomed to getting his way. Instinctively Alice realized that, if he valued her, he would be patient rather than angry. On their return to the train station, the horse-drawn sleigh overturned, and while Alice was unhurt, Rudolf’s hand was broken.

  After their return to Prague his visits to her in her parents’ home in Prague’s seventh district grew less frequent. Alice thought that he might have blamed her for the accident but came to understand that he had rejected her for her sexual rebuff. Through the grapevine that was gossipy Prague at the time, Alice heard that Rudolf was seeing another woman; she knew she had been jilted. But when she learned from his sister that he was engaged, she was distraught. Knowing that he was the wrong man for her gave Alice little comfort. She told herself that Rudolf was far different from the imaginary Rudy who had conquered her heart. Yet for a time she could not bear to think of life without him.

  Then, as it would throughout her life, her optimism took hold and Alice began to practice her piano without looking back. If only were words she banished from her vocabulary. She turned her disappointment into generosity and sent the newlyweds a small antique vase of Czech
glass, with her congratulations. But the memory of her feelings for Rudolf never completely faded. Apparently his rejection deeply wounded her self-image. At 108 years of age, Alice still describes her sister Mitzi as a great beauty; “I was not at all pretty,” she says. Yet in photographs, it is nearly impossible to tell the sisters apart.

  Alice might never have met her future husband without another devastating loss. As a teenager she was inseparable from Trude Kraus and another friend, Daisy Klemperer. Only twenty years old, Daisy died suddenly of an infection, which later would have been easily cured with antibiotics. It was one of the few times in her life that Alice stopped playing the piano, and her parents and friends were worried.

  Several days after Daisy’s funeral, Trude mentioned to Alice that a good friend in Hamburg, Leopold Sommer, had sent her a comforting letter about the tragedy. “Listen to this,” Trude said as she opened the letter to read a few lines to Alice.

  Leopold wrote that while the young girl’s death was tragic for those who loved her, it was not so terrible for Daisy. He urged Trude and her friends to perceive the death as a warning to take the time to examine their own lives and to consider what is truly important. Cautioning against measuring the value of the individual in terms of money, public success, or other shallow standards, Leopold stressed the urgency of endeavoring to lead a purposeful life each and every day.

  With those words in mind, Alice began to practice. Later she asked Trude to introduce her to Leopold.

  A fine amateur violinist, Leopold Sommer had been raised in Prague, where his parents, highly educated and cultured, lived in the family’s villa. Their son had elected to study business, since he felt that he was not a good enough violinist to compete in the world of professional musicians. Speaking nearly flawless English, he took his first job in the Hamburg headquarters of a British import-export company. Several times each year he would return to Prague to visit his family. On one of these visits Trude arranged a concert in her home, with enough guests so that Leopold’s introduction to Alice would not be awkward. Leopold’s string quartet would perform the first half, while Alice would play after the intermission.

  Leopold and Alice talked at length over tea at the end of the concert, and Leopold invited her on a date the very next day. Alice was intrigued by this knowledgeable and wise young man, whose quiet good looks she found most attractive. His visits to Prague became more frequent. Confident that his parents would approve of Alice, Leopold wasted no time arranging for Alice to play a concert in their home. The Sommers welcomed her from the start as a daughter.

  When Alice’s father died suddenly of a massive heart attack, Leopold rushed from Hamburg to support her at the funeral and burial. It looked as if they were destined for each other. Leopold began to seek a new position in Prague. On one of these visits, following a romantic dinner and a glorious concert, they took the steep walk up to Prague Castle. Arm in arm they looked down at their brightly lit city. Suddenly Alice announced that she wanted him to know they would get married later that year. Obviously this had been on Leopold’s mind as well; he was not at all surprised at her outburst—he only asked how soon.

  Alice Herz was already a successful concert pianist when she married Leopold Sommer in 1931. “He was a kind man,” Alice says, and she continues to reminisce. “I was always afraid of the ways of Czech men. You know what I mean?” She is referring to the practice of married men flagrantly keeping mistresses. Alice adds, “On our wedding night I told him that I knew that I was not beautiful and that he would meet hundreds more lovely and that I would never complain. But,” she says pausing, “I was lucky with my husband. He was the faithful type.”

  They did not indulge in a formal wedding. Rather, Alice and Leopold legalized their union privately in a civil proceeding at the Prague city hall, which was a common practice for the city’s secular Jews. Alice’s brother Paul was their only guest. The other family members, including her mother, stayed behind to prepare the small, celebratory family dinner that would follow their signing of the marriage contract.

  Alice wore a tailored suit of periwinkle wool with white collar and trimmings. Her jacket was fashionably long; her leather high heels were ivory, as were her stockings. On her head she wore an off-white flapper-style hat. She carried a small fur muff for her white-gloved hands. The only traditional symbol of her wedding day was the bridal bouquet, of white calla lilies and roses.

  Back at home, before sitting down to dine, Alice and Leopold performed Beethoven’s Spring sonata for violin and piano, a fitting symbol of their union. Sofie had splurged on goose roasted with caraway seeds, wild mushrooms, fine French wine, and a cake from Prague’s most expensive bakery. She was dressed in her own mother’s most elegant black velvet, floor-length gown, fastened at the neck with an antique garnet brooch that Friedrich had given to her on their wedding day. As a widow and head of the house, Sofie toasted the couple. She seemed happy with her daughter’s choice of husband, and she presented Alice and Leopold with money that had been saved for Alice’s dowry over many years. The several thousand Czech crowns would be enough to furnish the newlyweds’ apartment, which would be in the same neighborhood as Alice’s mother and sister Irma. Leopold’s parents honored Alice with a new Förster grand piano.

  In 1937 Alice and Leopold were blessed with the birth of their son, whom they named Štěpán, after her beloved teacher. (In Israel he would change his name to the Hebrew Raphaël.) Alice practiced on her new piano and gave lessons to young students. Leopold went to the office and participated in chamber music sessions as an amateur. In the evenings they went to concerts or plays. On weekends they explored Prague’s art museums and spent time with friends. Their flat was cozy. They had each other, a cook, and a nanny. But the world they knew was soon to change forever.

  Hitler’s troops occupied Czechoslovakia on March 15, 1939. The last known letter Leopold wrote from Prague to Palestine in 1941 attests to the Czech Jews’ efforts to live normally without complaint. He tells his brother-in-law Felix Weltsch, that, as he is writing, Alice is in the next room practicing Beethoven’s Sonata no. 31 in preparation for a concert. Much of the letter includes stories about Rafi, who has turned three. “We are all well except Štěpán who has a slight cold. He talks like a waterfall and climbs on everything. He has broken two violins. We can’t keep him away from the piano, which he wants to try constantly.”

  In 1943, when Alice and Leopold were deported to Theresienstadt, where they were forced to live separately, sometimes after work Leopold found a way to briefly visit his wife and son, and they would talk in whispers. Occasionally he was able to sneak Rafi an extra bit of bread. Rafi would be overjoyed to catch a glimpse of his father.

  Alice last saw her husband on September 28, 1944, when he was shoved into a train bound for Auschwitz. “Putzi—that was his nickname,” she says as she thinks of the man she had grown to love during their brief eleven years of marriage. She touches her plain wedding band, which survived the Nazis; she folds her hands and brings them close to her chest. “He was still so young.”

  Leopold survived Auschwitz, but as the Allies were approaching he was one of the many who were sent on to Dachau. There he died from starvation and exposure on March 28, 1945, one month and one day before Dachau was liberated, on April 29.

  As a musician Alice had been trained from childhood to listen carefully when she practiced or performed. Her ability to listen to Leopold’s instructions literally saved her life. During the few moments she and her husband had together before he was sent to Auschwitz, Leopold whispered, “Regardless of what the Gestapo might offer, you must never, never volunteer for anything. Never believe anything they say. Promise me this.” Leopold was consumed with concern for Alice’s and Rafi’s survival rather than with fear of his own fate. With a final squeeze of his hand, she answered, “Yes, I promise.”

  Alice had to restrain six-year-old Rafi that day as he tried to run after Leopold. He told her that he wanted to take the train trip with hi
s father. A few weeks later the Nazis offered transportation for all who wished to join their husbands. Alice heeded Leopold’s advice, but many eager women and children crowded into the next transport. Neither the husbands nor their families were ever seen again.

  After the war a man who had been with Leopold when he died visited Alice. He had come to bring her a small tin spoon that Leopold had used in the camps.

  Today, as she sifts through a handful of mementos in a shoe box, she remembers the tin spoon and studies a photograph of her young husband. “We were good friends. We had a wonderful togetherness that could only have grown with the years. I think that Saint-Exupéry gave the best advice when he wrote, ‘Love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction.’ Everyone wants to know why I did not marry again after the war,” she continues. “When it might have been possible, I was focused on earning a living and raising my child.

  “Respect leads to love,” Alice says. “In marriage respect is even more important than romantic love.”

  SEVEN

  Never Too Old

  Once Alice reaches a decision she rarely looks back. And so it was when the day came to leave Israel to join her son in England for a new chapter in her saga. Since both of Alice’s sisters had died, Rafi argued that she was free to leave her second home. Her apartment in Jerusalem had been sold. Her bags were packed.

  For some time the news of her departure had been spreading among her friends, colleagues, and students. For days she had received a constant stream of visitors who were saddened to learn that she was moving. “My last day in Jerusalem felt like an all-day open house,” she recalls. “No one had been invited, but my empty apartment was filled with friends until late night. They brought food, photographs, and presents, little things they thought I would need. Israelis are so thoughtful, so giving.” She comforted their tears with her smile. “Visit me in London. It is not so far away,” she told them. Alice was particularly sad to leave her closest friend, the pianist Edith Steiner-Kraus. They had sustained each other throughout their imprisonment in Theresienstadt and shared the joys of their new life in the nascent Israeli nation. Edith asked, “Will I ever see you again? Do you remember that first time I rang your doorbell in Prague and asked if you would hear me play the Smetana dances?” Alice added, “You were a magnificent pianist. I was so impressed. You instinctively felt the Czech rhythms. We will always be friends.” That final evening they promised to telephone each other every week.