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

by Caroline Stoessinger

  Many years after Alice moved in, a new tenant surprised Robin when she knocked at his door early one morning to thrust a paper in his hand. “Please sign this,” she said, “for the sake of the sanity of everyone who lives here. This terrible piano playing night and day must stop.”

  Robin invited her in and suggested that they talk in his garden. He read the typed page as they climbed the stairs to the roof. Once outside, Robin directed the woman to a chair. “Do sit down,” he ordered. A tall, well-built man, he towered over her as he remained standing. The paper the new tenant wanted him to sign and distribute to all the tenants was a petition to forbid Alice to practice.

  Furious, he took a slow, deep breath before speaking. “This is outrageous,” he began. He tore the paper in half as he spoke. “Do you know who Alice is? Have you no heart? Under no circumstances will I curtail her piano playing. Telling her that she cannot play in her own apartment would be tantamount to murder. No,” he said, his voice rising. “I will never circulate this ugly petition you are so proud of. Our tenants love Alice and they love hearing her play. The entire neighborhood loves her playing.”

  Years later Alice learned of this incident. She has never stopped thanking Robin, whom she considers her “very good friend.” And when asked how she likes her apartment house, Alice responds, “Extraordinary.” She repeats the word. “Wonderful people live in this building. I am very lucky.”

  Among the first questions Alice asks the pianists from New York City she meets are these: “How are your neighbors? Can you practice at home?”

  FIFTEEN

  Circle of Friends

  “I have always made friends easily,” Alice says. “When you love people, they love you too.”

  “My friend,” an endearment that Alice never uses lightly, is possibly the most supreme compliment a Czech of the twentieth century can pay to anyone. During the Nazi and Communist periods, friendships were tested and could have meant the difference between prison and freedom, or even between life and death. Friendship implies not only mutual understanding and mutual ideals but also unspoken trust. Alice knows the value of close human contact; she has forged deep connections through the bonds of shared memory. Her warmth and smile and inquisitive mind welcome others—people gather around her as if attracted by a magnet—while the joy she feels at being alive is contagious to those closest to her.

  Alice inspires the gift of friendship.

  ANITA LASKER-WALLFISCH

  Peter Wallfisch, a pianist and professor at the Royal Academy of Music, began visiting Alice after she settled in London. Peter had escaped from Germany to Palestine before the war and had many friends and endless topics of conversation in common with Alice. His wife, cellist and author Anita Lasker-Wallfisch, was a founding member of the English Chamber Orchestra.

  Anita arrived in London in 1946, after the British army liberated Bergen-Belsen. She had lost her parents in the camps and would later write a memoir called Inherit the Truth about her parents’ attempts to escape Germany and her own experiences in Auschwitz.

  Music was Alice and Anita’s most obvious bond, but the deeper understanding between them developed from their common backgrounds. Both Anita and her husband were from Breslau, a city known for its love of music. Alice herself was no stranger to Breslau, as she had received great acclaim for the several concerts she had played in this medieval city in the eastern corner of Germany. As it did in Alice’s family, music reigned in the Lasker household. Anita’s mother, Edith, was a beautiful violinist, and all three of her children took music lessons. One of Anita’s sisters, Marianne, managed to reach England shortly before the outbreak of the war, but her sister Renata was arrested by the Gestapo and deported to Auschwitz together with Anita.

  And much as the Herzes did, the Laskers would hold chamber music evenings nearly every week, as well as afternoon literary discussions over coffee and cake on Saturdays. Despite the fear and deprivation during their last months together before deportation, Anita’s father, Dr. Alfons Lasker, read Don Carlos aloud to his family and had begun Goethe’s Faust. In a letter addressed to Marianne in London in 1941 Anita’s mother wrote, “We never knew how marvelous everything was then!!! Well, perhaps, in spite of everything, we will all five of us sit down at a cozy round table again one day!”

  When Anita speaks of the war, she says, “The cello saved my life. Literally.” She goes on to explain, “When prisoners first arrived in Auschwitz, they were immediately treated to a kind of initiation ceremony where their heads were shaved and their arms were tattooed with identification numbers. This work was done by female prisoners. I was expecting to go to the gas chambers, as that was Auschwitz. Then one of the prisoners asked me, ‘What do you do for work?’ The answer that fell out of my mouth, ‘I play the cello,’ was completely ridiculous. I had just turned seventeen, and I had no occupation other than student. That prisoner whispered, ‘Thank God, you will be saved.’ ” The Auschwitz-Birkenau women’s orchestra needed a cellist.

  Anita was taken to audition for the orchestra’s conductor, Alma Rosé, a well-known violinist from Vienna and a niece of Gustav Mahler. Although Anita had not played or even seen an instrument for more than a year, she was accepted as the orchestra’s only cellist. The all-girls ensemble was in no way a traditional symphonic orchestra. Rosé arranged music to accommodate the available instruments—violins, recorders, mandolins, guitars, accordions, a double-bass, a flute, and a cello—and the various abilities of the players. She rehearsed “her girls” with uncompromising discipline, trying to make each performance a musical experience. They would play at the gates of the camp as the masses of prisoners were marched off to work in the early morning, and again at nightfall as the prisoners were marched back inside the walls. They would play the marches in rain and snow, and they would play waltzes and incidental pieces for Nazi events. “Just as the Nazis liked things, orderly and neat,” Anita says.

  One day, after Anita had been in the orchestra for some time, the infamous Nazi physician Josef Mengele entered their barrack and asked to hear Schumann’s “Träumerei.” Anita sat down with her cello and played the piece.

  When typhus ran rampant in Auschwitz, Anita contracted the disease and was held in the so-called sick bay or infirmary. She was nearly delirious from high fever when she heard the Gestapo pointing out patients who were to receive immediate “special treatment”—the gas chamber. As soldiers were preparing to cart her off, she heard an officer yell, “No, not that one, she is the cellist.” In that moment Anita recognized that she still had an identity even though her name had been replaced with a number.

  In London, Anita was occupied with her orchestra and her growing family of distinguished musicians. Her grandson Benjamin Wallfisch is a noted conductor and composer, and her son, who bears the same name as Alice’s only child, Raphaël, is an internationally known cellist. Alice would often visit Anita and keep her company when she was babysitting one of her young grandchildren. The two women would discuss music and memory often over coffee and cake in Anita’s garden. Alice particularly loved those afternoons during the early summer when gentle breezes brushed the little white blossoms of Anita’s mock orange bushes. After Rafi’s death, Anita began a habit of driving across London on Saturday afternoons to spend a few hours with her friend. They did not talk much and rarely mentioned the past but would play Scrabble in English together. Alice looks forward to Saturdays with Anita.

  GENEVIÈVE TEULIÈRES-SOMMER

  Alice says effusively, “Geneviève is the best daughter-in-law in the world.” And for extra emphasis she adds, “Extraordinary!” Returning the compliment, Geneviève says, “But you are the best mother-in-law.” Friends agree that both must be true. More than ten years after Rafi’s death, Geneviève remains completely devoted to Alice. She has played a large role in protecting her mother-in-law’s independence. When anyone asks about Alice’s preferences, Geneviève usually answers very respectfully, “Why don’t you ask Alice?”

  In spi
te of her daily practice schedule and the responsibilities of teaching cello at the École Normale de Musique in Paris all week, Geneviève travels regularly to London for the weekend to spend time with Alice. She then teaches on Saturdays as well, at London’s Guildhall Junior School of Music. And whenever other commitments—running the summer music festival in Gex that she founded with her husband or serving on examination juries at the conservatory—keep her away from Alice, she stays in constant touch by phone. When in London, Geneviève often drives her own part-time housekeeper to Alice’s flat to do a thorough cleaning, for which Alice is grateful.

  WENDY

  At ninety-one years old Wendy, eccentric English Wendy—no one seems to know her last name—is known for her good heart. And no one knows whether she was ever married, divorced, or widowed, or if she is wealthy or struggling. In conversation she gives the impression of being a creation of her own imagination; in practice, however, Wendy is a caregiver and, at times, a lifesaver. Large-boned and tall, with long dark hair sprinkled with strands of white, she travels around the London neighborhoods on her bicycle in all kinds of weather. And she writes poems that she delivers aloud on birthdays to those who have the patience to listen.

  Wendy had been browsing in neighborhood bookstores for years and, like so many others, was curious about the source of the music emanating from the window of Alice’s building when she passed at the same time each morning. She began conducting her own investigation, asking everyone who emerged from the building if they knew the pianist. She learned that the music came from a European woman of a certain age, and one morning she waited for the music to stop. When a small lady appeared outside the front door, Wendy asked, “Are you, by chance, Mrs. Sommer?” True to her generous spirit, Alice invited Wendy to visit that afternoon for tea. Since that first meeting Wendy has come by nearly every day—often, like a doctor making rounds, stopping in for just five minutes to see if Alice needs anything. One day in early July, for example, Wendy just showed up—or “pitched up,” as the English say—at Alice’s apartment, wearing a long bright-colored flowing skirt with a strapless orange cotton top. She was making one of her several daily visits to check on her elderly friends, and Alice had the five o’clock slot. Alice introduced her to the other guests who happened to be visiting as “Wendy the poet” and incited her to recite from memory one of her lengthy verses.

  Several years back, when Alice was only 104, she fell when she was out for one of her long walks and was hospitalized for a few weeks because of the bruises. The day she returned to her apartment, Wendy paid her late afternoon visit and was astonished to find Alice alone; she felt strongly that Alice should not be left by herself at night after her ordeal. With little floor space in Alice’s one-room flat, Wendy slept in a chair at her friend’s side—that night, and every night over the following two weeks.

  During the early fall of 2010, only a few weeks before Alice’s 107th birthday, Wendy made her usual stop to find Alice lying on the floor unable to move. Wendy flew into action, alerting the paramedics, who rushed Alice to a hospital. She had had a mini-stroke and was treated and released a few days later. Since then Wendy has increased her visits to twice daily. Yet Wendy as a person remains a mystery; Alice has no idea where Wendy lives, and she does not have her telephone number.

  EDITH STEINER-KRAUS

  As much of an enigma as Wendy is to Alice, Edith Steiner-Kraus is the opposite. Alice has known Edith for more than seventy years. Not only did Alice know Edith in Prague before the war but they also survived Theresienstadt together and both immigrated to Israel. Alice exchanges regular telephone calls with Edith, who still lives in Israel. They never forget to call on each other’s birthday. And it is through Edith that Alice keeps up with Israeli politics and the prospects for peace.

  Born in Vienna to Czech parents, Edith is ten years younger than Alice. When she was six her family moved back to Karlovy Vary, known as Carlsbad, a small city in Bohemia famous for its spa. Shortly after beginning piano lessons, Edith was recognized as a child prodigy and invited to perform for celebrities. Alma Mahler happened to hear her and was so enchanted with the girl that she recommended her to her friend the pianist Artur Schnabel. At first suspicious of one so young, Schnabel, after listening to her audition, accepted her as the youngest student in his Berlin master class.

  Like Alice, Edith was forging an outstanding career in Prague and the surrounding area when the war began. Alice still remembers the first time she heard the pretty, slim woman play Smetana’s dances. “She was a great pianist,” Alice says admiringly. When she and her husband were deported to Theresienstadt, Edith continued to practice her piano one hour per day and to perform as much as she could. Viktor Ullmann persuaded Edith to play the premiere of his Sixth Piano Sonata, composed in Theresienstadt. Later in Israel, where she also concertized, Edith became recognized as an Ullmann expert, frequently performing all of his eight sonatas.

  Edith immigrated to Palestine with her second husband and baby girl in 1946. After working in a tie factory, she was eventually given an appointment as a professor of piano in the Music Academy of Tel Aviv. She was well settled and able to help when Alice arrived, in 1949. Together again, they continued their personal and musical friendship. Before Alice left Israel for England, however, Edith suffered a stroke that left her unable to play. For some time she continued to lecture even though her sight was failing. Today she is nearly blind.

  Their deep, unbroken connection to music continues to be life-sustaining for these two women. And they both understand the importance of solitude. For them, solitude is not lonely. It is the quiet that is essential for listening. In solitude we call up from the depths of our souls those insights and memories that are beyond the visible or the verbal. It is in the stillness of solitude that an artist may become most creative. As artists, Alice and Edith have recognized that the world can be a lonely place. But when there is someone—even one person—who shares our background, our perspective, thoughts, and feelings, that loneliness is shattered. For Alice one of those rare persons is Edith.

  VALERIE REUBEN

  “The English don’t ask questions,” Alice observes. “They are very polite, but they don’t ask questions. Everyone said that Valerie was British. She speaks perfect English.” But one day Alice asked her where she was born. Valerie explained that her ancestors were from Romania and Poland, but that she and her parents had escaped Hitler’s grasp because they were all born in England.

  A slim, elegantly dressed and coiffed woman of indeterminate age, Valerie Reuben, a leading member of the tenants’ committee of their apartment building, has watched over Alice and helped her in myriad ways since Alice moved to London. Valerie made an enormous difference in Alice’s routine when she introduced her to the University of the Third Age. They would travel together to classes and continue their discussions at home.

  “I have never known anyone like Alice,” says Valerie. “She has such a strong character and always pulls through. I try to help her but find that I get much more just by being in her remarkable presence.” Valerie adds that Alice surprises her sometimes with a touch of mischievous humor. “Once when I told her I was packing for my holiday she came to my flat to see what I would be wearing and commented on all the items I was taking.

  “Now that she is well past one hundred, I do worry about her and look in more often than before. It is not just a pleasure but a privilege to know her.”

  ZDENKA FANTLOVA

  Alice describes Zdenka Fantlova as “my very good Sunday friend. She comes every Sunday and stays with me all afternoon.” A youngster of only ninety years, Zdenka looks like a beautiful middle-aged Czech woman. She finds all possible shortcuts through the maze of London’s narrow, winding streets to drive from her apartment facing Hyde Park to Alice’s home in Hampstead every week.

  Zdenka is Alice’s closest Czech friend in London. Born in a midsize city some distance from Prague, Zdenka too is a survivor. Only through luck, youth, and good health
did she manage to survive first Theresienstadt, then Auschwitz, Gross Rosen Mauthausen, and Bergen-Belsen. She later wrote a memoir about her life under the Nazis called The Tin Ring.

  In Theresienstadt, Zdenka heard Alice play all of the Chopin études at a concert. She remembers being transported out of time and place by the music. “For the duration of the concert I could imagine that life was normal and that we would soon go home again to our familiar life. It meant much to me, but as I was a teenager I did not dare to approach Frau Sommer,” Zdenka recalls.

  “After the war, when I was recuperating in Sweden, I noticed in the paper that Alice was going to play a concert in Stockholm. Nothing could stop me from going to that concert. Alice opened with Beethoven’s Appassionata Sonata. Once again I was mesmerized by her playing and longed to meet her.” Although Zdenka waited for a while after the concert in a crowd of well-wishers, she was ultimately too shy to greet the pianist. Forty years would pass—Zdenka became a well-known actress in Australia, married, and had a daughter—before she would meet Alice face-to-face in the 1980s.

  Zdenka and her husband decided to make London their home, moving into a spacious apartment in the city’s West End. She had missed Europe and wanted to be closer to pieces of her past. At the same time, she had spent so many years in an English-speaking country that it seemed more comfortable to live in Britain, within a short flight or overnight train trip to the Continent. She finally met Alice through a mutual Czech friend who took her to visit one afternoon soon after Alice arrived in London. Alice played a Chopin waltz for her that day. Zdenka was enraptured with the music and the memories.